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| "AS MR. BOGGLE WOULD SAY: 'WTF!' |
23 :“DEMONS.”
Rain crashed down and long, staggering strips of lightening tore jagged lines in the dark sky, thunder rolled with evil menace, and the wind howled like a dog with diarrhoea and large haemorrhoids who would give his last cherished bone for a tube of ‘Preparation H’.
The Chateau was silhouetted against the full moon and I saw at once it appeared derelict and in ruins, the great gateway was rubble and smashed bits of wood and metal. The Chateau had returned to its real condition – what the hell had happened?
I pulled my jacket around me and held firmly onto my beret and managed to climb through the half open, broken door. The place was in utter ruin and strange birds flew around the grand ceilings, nesting on rotten furniture and sad portraits. Their bitter, high screeches ran up my spine like a blunt knife.
I called out MR. Death’s name several times, but just received a chilling and mocking echo in return. That’s when I realised the coin had gone; I rummaged through every pocket to no avail, then the awful realisation that I was now trapped crept into my thoughts and I noticed that the ring was gone too.
I sat quietly on the steps of the Grand staircase and a strong and irresistible feeling of impending doom swept over me. But what the hell! I was all ready dead! I nervously laughed and that’s when movement in the old fireplace caught my eye. There was a light grey mist forming in its mouth and swirling about the chimney, almost dancing in the moonlight streaming through the shattered windows.
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| "THE CHATEAU NOW LOOKED LIKE A STUDENT'S BEDSIT!" |
I started to back away, like a child climbing its first stairs; I was ascending backwards on my bottom, slowly and deliberately. The smoke now had a definite shape and I watched in horror as the headless woman started to appear from the swirling mist. It was that ghost who had pursued me so restlessly; the angry head now boasted an evil smile. She began to float towards me, calling out my name repeatedly.
I had backed myself against the wall of the upper hall. The spectre floated a few feet from me and the detached head finally spoke, speaking with a hiss and strangely enough, a lisp. She appeared to be pronouncing her ‘R’s as ‘W’s.
I could just make out what she was saying. From what I could understand, she was threatening me with a fate worse than death or even the ‘Outer Domain’. I had to ask her several times to repeat the evil threat before I understood.
Trust me to get a malevolent spirit that can’t talk properly!
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| "TOM'S GHOST!" |
“Bollocks!” I replied, and asked who the hell she was and why pick on me?
The ghost became quite agitated and now bloody started to stutter as well! “Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed: “How the hell can you go about terrorising people if you can’t speak properly, and who the hell are you?” I was now quite angry myself and she seemed taken aback by my attitude.
“Your time has come Tom P, you must pay for your evil crimes!” She declared, cleverly avoiding words with ‘R’ at the beginning, and floated within inches of me, that’s when I saw that the demon had a ‘Robbie Williams’ tee-shirt on, under her robe!
Some how a Demon, who liked Robbie Williams, didn’t seem that frightening!
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| "HE WILL BE IMPRESSED WITH A DEMON FOR A FAN!" |
The apparition appeared quite sad, and sat on the top of the stairs, placing the unhappy head back upon her shoulders, hands tucked under the chin.
It took me a couple of minutes to explain to the dopey spirit, that I was NOT the Tom P (whoever that twat was) she was searching for, but I also happened to be bloody dead myself!
“Since when does the dead flipping haunt each other?” I asked with some resignation in my voice, but I actually felt sorry for her, and I sat next to the now very sad apparition, and offered her some advice on haunting.
“I’ve buggered up again! Wuddy Hell, I can’t get a bloody thing Wight!” She said sadly.
Then looking up at me added: “You were my first case, I’ve just got my Licence and I’m still on probation, I’m just a Level 5 at the moment.” She produced her Licence which was stamped with a big red ‘P’ and was only valid for a Century.
“It’s not valid for possession, but I’m allowed some poltergeist activity, throwing chairs about and switching lights on or off, you know, mild stuff at the moment, but I hope to get the next level up when I wesit the exam. My mentor Wobin, the mad axe murderer of Wichmond Town wekons I should wecieve a Level 4 next time.”
“So Angel Peter/Betty Jean had finally got his Licensing
idea to fruition, hopefully it will raise the standard of haunting, possessions
and poltergeist activity for you ‘lifer’s’ to enjoy more.”
Tom.
Her mortal remains were then dumped down a disused mine shaft.
She only knew his name was Tom and his surname started with a ‘P’, having spent the last hours of her short life blindfolded and chained in his cellar, that’s the only clues she had to go on: “You’re the 33rd ‘Tom & P’, I tried.” She admitted with some embarrassment that she didn’t know if he was dead or not, so she had hedged her bets by haunting both the living and dead.
I pointed out that if he was dead, he would be in Hell now and she need not worry any more. “Stick to the living sweetheart, that’s really good advice.” I patted her shoulder and she smiled.
According to Doris, he had killed three times previously, but all his other victims had been collected. She started to cry and complain about how unfair death was. I tried to comfort her, but finally we sat in silence and after some time, she thanked me and was gone.
That’s when I saw the figure in the large cracked mirror, which hung above the Grand Staircase; it was a mixture of human and animal, with little red eyes, black fur and a long snout filled with sharp, yellow teeth. The body was that of a wolf I believe, he stood on two legs, the sharp yellow claws of its hands scratched frantically at the class, the noise produced was the same as running fingernails down a chalkboard. I realised it was a bloody werewolf!
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| "ERIC THE WEREWOLF." |
“Will you frigging stop that, you furry git!” I was now quite angry, bloody demons, couldn’t they find some other bugger to terrorise or go frigging practise on the ‘Lifer’s who might appreciate their talents.
I had clearly hurt the creature’s feelings, it howled like someone had taken its favourite rubber toy and slapped its love spuds with a crow-bar.
I found out that his name was Eric Du Pont (1674 – 1721) and he had been the victim of a werewolf. Once bitten, he had become one himself and terrorised the local villages until a ten year old virgin girl had shot him with a pistol loaded with a silver bullet. Dying, he had dragged himself into the Chateau and hid his soul in the mirror, to avoid a one way ticket to Hell - Where it remains trapped to this day.
“Apparently there were few grown up virgins around the
local area in the 1800’s, and so it fell to a ten year old to take out Eric the
werewolf! He was really embarrassed about that and admitted other werewolves
would take the piss out of him if they ever found out.”
Tom.
Well readers, it appears that the ‘G-Men’ had got their man!
MR. Death’s luxury Chateau had been raided by the ‘G-Men’s elite squad called ‘G-Force’ under the personal command of the Angel Peter/Betty Jean (the operation’s codename being ‘G-Spot’) since only an Angel would have the power and authority to command a figure such as MR. Death.
But typical of Channel 666, they mainly concentrated on the pretty floral dress with matching hat and bag that the Angel wore during this major crime-busting police operation! (Well, it was a Saturday……) Thus MR. Death was now languishing in a large bottle, on a shelf in Big G’s spare bedroom, awaiting his trial. I understand his Lawyer, Judas Iscariot, (3 BC – 33 AD) is trying to get him bail……..
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| "HONESTLY BIG-G, I'M INNOCENT!" |
The somewhat senile Arch-Angel Arthur who ran the ‘Collectors’ Department had been retired and nothing was said about his conversations with his eldest son regarding who had been refused entry to Heaven or Hell; that son just happened to be MR. Death!
“Apparently MR. Death’s real name was Stanley Dibble,
since the Arch-Angel Arthur’s family name was Dibble!”
Tom.
He now assumed the title MR. Death and appeared to love a job in which he was so important, but didn’t actually have to do anything; nice work if you can get it………
Mind you, all this good news didn’t help me. I was still stuck in some kind of limbo, possibly trapped between the world of the living and the world of the dead.
No, not an Afterlife, something worse; bugger!
This half world was quite strange, no daylight and the storm continued unabated. ‘Hammer Studios’ would have paid a fortune for this place! When I wasn’t chatting to Eric, I wandered about the ruined Chateau and saw it contained loads of rotting paintings, frayed tapestries and crumbling furniture; what a Shithole!
But I did find a sofa in reasonable condition and made myself quite comfortable and drifted off to sleep. The noise from the TV awoke me. I stared in amazement as a large old fashioned, television flickered into life, standing in the corner of the derelict room, it was showing the old BBC test card.
I examined the set and found it wasn’t even plugged in!
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| "WE'RE ON THE TELLY!" |
I sat back on the sofa and watched with real interest and total bewilderment.
There were police cordons everywhere and in the background was a large white tent, with various people passing through it, dressed in strange white suits with face masks. I realised that the tent had been pitched near the clump of old Sycamore trees, at the rear of the cemetery, where there should be no burials.
The captivating young lady had acquired a serious look and was duly reporting:
“Since the discovery of the body by Surveyors working for the local council early this afternoon, there has been intense police activity at this normally quiet and restful place. From what we can ascertain through the police spokesman, they believe the body has laid here for some thirty or forty years, in a shallow grave within those lovely old trees you can see protruding above the white forensic tent.
Police believe they will soon discover the victim’s identity by trawling through the missing persons reports of the last forty years. This is Laura McDonald reporting for the BBC at Prospect Hill Cemetery, Edinburgh.”
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| "I REALISED THAT THE REPORTER WAS AS DEAD AS US!" |
The pretty young lady also reported that the old Jewish Cemetery had recently been designated as a ‘site of significant heritage’ and plans to transform it into a slip road for the new motorway had been shelved.
The News Reporter also added that the graveyard was of real importance, since it contained an elaborate mausoleum for that well known and famous acting family of the last century, the Stephens.
Further good news was the local council had sent a team of surveyors to determine how much work was required to restore and maintain the new ‘heritage’ site.
Odd that, I don’t ever remember seeing such an elaborate edifice in the graveyard and that name certainly wasn’t familiar. But I laughed and smiled, our Angel was something else!
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| "DEADOGRAM FOR TOM PRATT!" |
I never thought I would be happy to see a six foot skeleton riding a bike!
“Tom old mate, what the hell are you doing here?” he said, but I just shrugged my shoulders and asked how he found me. With great pride in his voice, he pointed out that the Messengers of the ‘Afterlife Postal Service’ ALWAYS found their customers!
From his little leather bag he pulled a yellowing envelope and thrust it my hand: “See, we deliver everywhere.” He said and patted my shoulder. “Even in bloody limbo!”
I tore open the letter and read the ‘Deadogram’ out loud:
“Tom you dirtbag. Stop. Quit messing about and get back here.
Stop. I am to be rewound and we need
you. Stop. You jerk hurry up. Stop. Maude. Stop.”
I crumbled up the paper and stuffed it into my pocket, with a shrug of the shoulders I said to Reg “Fat chance; how the hell do I get out of here?”
Reg looked about and smiled broadly; “Hop on Tom, my steel steed can carry two you know!” He winked and I climbed aboard and, after saying farewell to Eric, we disappeared.
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| "TOM AND REG HEAD FOR HOME!" |
No.23 OF A 'SKELETON'S LIFE SERIES:
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| "DEAR DIARY......I'M STILL BLOODY DEAD!" |
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| FORWARD TO EPISODE 24. "WALPOLE ALEXANDER SALAD." |
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| RETURN TO EPISODE 22. "THE ANGEL." |
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| "THE GHOST WRITER." |