‘Ghost Translation Service’

As it is with life, so it is with death. If you were unable to speak a certain language when you were alive, there’s no magical adaptation in the afterlife which facilitates that ability. Such are the commonalities of the two realms. ‘Ghost Translation Service’ and its international software affiliates offer consumers handy solutions, to what might otherwise be a tense situation.

Let’s say you and your spouse book a dream vacation to Tuscany or Venice. Your deluxe accommodations for the week are a quaint, five hundred year old villa with stunning, picturesque views of the exotic countryside and the lavish waterfront. You anticipate an unforgettable period of adventure and peaceful relaxation. That’s exactly what the tour package and website promises; but as with any sincere plans there can be unseen complications.

It’s just common sense that many people have lived and died within those crumbling plaster walls, right? Ancient dwellings are incredibly rich in human history, both good AND bad. Countless memories were made, and some of those experiences linger after their bodies have turned to dust. Call it a ‘spook’, ‘specter’, or the corporeal manifestation of one whom once was. However you label the otherworldly entity is your choice. It really doesn’t matter. This is where things get unpredictable.

Of the dozens, or even hundreds of ordinary souls who came and went since that dwelling was constructed, it’s reasonable to assume that at least a few of them died under unfortunate circumstances, right? Jealous lovers. Wars. Crime. Lost love. Betrayal. Etc. Those are just a few textbook recipes for a villa haunting misadventure, my friend. Trust me, you don’t want to deal with that uncomfortable vacation scenario, completely unprepared.

Having a ‘resident ghost’ is never a positive selling point for the rental. Paranormal activity isn’t something travel agencies or brokers wish to divulge in their brochures or online listings. They are in the business of renting units. Not admitting you will be sharing the property with an angry apparition who throws around the furniture, or leers at you while you bathe, while shouting Italian curses. That’s precisely where we come in.

Our convenient, inexpensive, easy-to-use smartphone program is available on all app stores. It offers invaluable linguistic assistance between you and your frustrated peasant poltergeist. Not only does our software translate renaissance-era Italian to English (or other languages of your choice), it also provides highly relevant contextual information of verbal expressions which have long since fallen out of the popular lexicon.

Our powerful program also offers needed advice on how to sooth the immense frustration of a jilted lover who died long before the American Revolution, or counseling services to deal with the grief of having passed away before they were ready.

With our helpful online tools to bridge the communication gap between the living and the dead (and no common tongue), you can learn to cohabitate with your unexpected villa-mate, and make the most out of the highly unique experience. Who knows? You may even come to be unlikely friends! Download the Ghost Translation App today and please share your positive experiences in the review and comments section!

‘Bliss’

“Think of the mind as a massive, organic ‘computer’. The outside surface of your brain, otherwise known as ‘gray matter’; is like the individual sectors of a ‘personal hard disk’. Your eyes, ears, nose and tactile receptors record all of your sensory experiences. Billions of these unique, chemical-based memory cells reflect a lifetime of good, bad, or neutral events. Some are positively charged, some are negatively charged, and the remainder typically go unused.”

The audience sought to absorb the speaker’s carefully crafted speech. The analogies made sense and kept their attention.

“Unfortunately, no person is immune to unpleasant experiences. We’ve all suffered pain and disappointment at one point or another in the past. While that’s true, some negatively-charged memories are so potent they render the recipient unable to function in society. Our enterprising company offers a revolutionary means of targeting and removing mental roadblocks through advanced technology. The treatment service we offer scientifically pinpoints these affected memory allocations in the physical tissue and reverses the damage. It leaves the patient feeling healthy, happy, and fully rejuvenated. We refer to our patented rehabilitation program as ‘Bliss!’; because once the person’s malignant memories are eradicated, the patient has nothing but joy and contentment in their life.”

An assertive voice from the audience addressed the spokesperson directly. Several of the onlookers suspected he was a paid ‘plant’ to ‘shill the pitch’ and reinforce the futuristic narrative. Heavy-handed marketing tactics are often employed to magnify interest when there was no substance to the unbelievable claims. Those suspicions quickly dissipated. The disruptive nature of the man’s commentary and the lingering promise of a disgruntled testimony did not appear to support the company strategy.

“I was an early patient of your treatment program six years ago at the Minneapolis clinical trials, Dr.
Margate. Admittedly, I was a prime candidate for your experimental ideas; and I under those unique circumstances, I volunteered of my own free will. Frankly, my life was an unmitigated mess. With the horrible background of unconscionable abuse I suffered from in my upbringing, I checked all your boxes. Personally, I was desperate and would’ve agreed to anything at the time.

From the beginning of day one, if felt amazing to erase those traumatic events. The closest I could describe having the burdens lifted would be pure euphoria. At the time, your staff hadn’t yet coined the ‘Bliss’ moniker, but I must admit, it’s a perfect name to describe the overall sensation. It was intoxicating to feel ‘normal’. For taking away those childhood scars, I’d like to thank you.”

Dr. Margate’s uncomfortable smile confirmed to the attendees that the abrupt interruption was definitely not part of the official presentation. He fidgeted with the microphone and sought to seize back the focus again. Unfortunately for him, the outspoken heckler in the audience was not even close to done. Everyone present knew there was a very uncomfortable ‘but’, coming soon from the way he spoke.

“Having my crippling pain ‘zapped’ did exactly what your program promised it would, INITIALLY.”; The agitator hinted. The strong emphasis on the last word confirmed his story wasn’t going to end with a positive conclusion. “I was floating on air. I didn’t have a care in the world for the first few weeks. Your revolutionary treatment gave me and hundreds of others in the trials, a newfound lease on life. My friends and loved ones cheered my dramatic turnaround. I happen to know for a fact, many of your other patients also experienced parallel metamorphoses initially. If our stories ended there, your technique would be an undeniable success story.”

Dr. Margate’s polite expression had long since faded. He motioned insistently for security to silence and remove the disruptor before he could add any fuel to his damning remarks. Interestingly, the once-receptive audience formed an unofficial barrier around the passionate man, so he could speak his peace. The guards were temporarily unable to penetrate the unified personal barricade, but it was clear, the protester’s time was limited. He continued his attack on the ‘Bliss!’ Program, with greater urgency.

“A few months after my treatment ended, I was mugged by violent, career criminals preying on anyone they could find. They took all my valuables and beat me savagely. That might’ve been the end of the ordeal but for baffling reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, I enthusiastically thanked them for their merciless beating! Can you believe it? Then, I senselessly volunteered my savings and retirement account information! They sadistically mocked and stabbed me a dozen times. I was left for dead in the alley. Luckily I was found and taken to the hospital.”

Scrambling to retake control, the flustered doctor made the critical error of addressing his critic’s points directly. “Surely you don’t blame me for any of that, do you?”

“Directly, no. You didn’t personally wield the knife that tore my flesh, nor did you cheat on me, as my ex wife did afterward in her series of cruel affairs. You didn’t directly cause any of the pain your patients encountered after your team treated them. I believe your sincere intention was to help people, doctor. I genuinely do, but you’ve inadvertently caused more harm than you’ve cured by failing to understand a universal truth about the point of pain.”

“How so?”; The frustrated Doctor and CEO of ‘Bliss! Enterprises’ demanded.

“As lofty of a goal as eliminating patient misery might appear, it also eliminates a patient’s ability to learn from the negative experiences and recognize future situations to avoid. Through all of our experiences we develop healthy precautions and better awareness of the malicious intent some evil souls have in mind for us. Sadly, some pain is necessary to learn from. It teaches human beings to avoid being victims in the future. Erasing bad memories for thousands of patients like me has ironically created more trauma, and an artificial state of helpless innocence in those you intended to cure. I implore you. Please cease your memory erasure program immediately.”

‘Feedback from the abyss’

Philosophically I ask, why would a person awakened in the darkness call out for a response, if they believed they were safe and completely alone? Based upon their understood ‘facts’ and possessing a rational mind, why then would they still question if there is something lurking nearby in their presence? What would prompt a baseless solicitation for feedback from the void?

The answer to this is both simple and complex. There’s a two-tier system of belief in most people. The rational, educated brain is couched in science and technology. Cold, hard facts dictate the behavior of the conscious self. On the other hand, the murky, primordial brain refuses to dispel its superstitious fears. It hangs onto the bogeyman hiding in the shadows and prepares for the absolute worst.

These two diametrically-opposed mindsets are always at war with each other. In the reassuring light of day, rationalization rules our actions and dispels the uncomfortable darkness as it tries to seep in. Anything else would be ridiculous, right? Lingering fear and paranoia retreats to the shadowed edges of the subconscious. Later on when we are vulnerable or anxious again, it creeps back out.

The enchanted state of irrational flux gains strength in the absence of reason and daylight. It convinces us that impossible things are possible. Nightmares then spark into fruition and somehow manifest themselves into the flesh. Once opportunistic darkness reigns, we suspect a verbal reply might come when calling out to the nothingness. As a matter of fact, we expect it. Lingering dread doesn’t stop suspicion in the superstitious mind. It confirms it.

———-

I received such unwanted feedback not that long ago; and if I’m being completely candid, I’ll never be the same again. I’d heard strange and unfamiliar ruminations outside, as I tried to sleep for several nights in a row. It wasn’t a neighbor’s dog or a known nocturnal wildlife wandering my back yard. While I couldn’t place the large aggressive-sounding animal, I knew what it wasn’t. It would’ve been a huge relief if it was ONLY a bear.

From the heavy footfall, it sounded to be at least as large as of our region’s largest predator, but the primal growls of ‘Ursus Americanus’ are well documented. This definitely wasn’t that. I didn’t dare peer out the window at the time. I feared ‘it’ would see me pull back the curtain. I hid in my bed, as if clutching my bedsheets would magically render me safe from the creaking behemoth circling my home.

Was it patrolling the area? Marking its territory? Or was it seeking a way into my unfortified home? None of those possibilities appealed to me. They say: ‘Doors and windows are only meant to keep out honest folk’. This wasn’t a human being, and I had significant doubts if it was a natural, biological animal of any known zoological species. Remember my initial essay about how the human imagination is very fruitful in the absence of light or logic? In the heat of the heart-pounding experience, I was fresh out of both reality-based weapons.

I heard a series of repetitive ‘bone-snapping’ clicks and feral, animalistic hisses as it circled my house. I’d tried to ignore the distressing ‘joint flexing’ sound for the first couple nights but you can only live in denial for so long. Whatever it was, it didn’t try to hide itself or ‘lay low’. That was telling in itself. A dominant predator doesn’t need to slink around or be quiet. It was obvious I was dealing with an ‘alpha’. What wasn’t obvious was, what sort of diabolical monster lumbers around while making a ‘snapping bones’ noise?

Call it a fool’s courage or an act of illogical madness, I propelled myself out of bed to gaze upon the unknown entity stalking my property. Right there and then I knew wasn’t ‘of this Earth’ and no amount of scientific hand-wringing was going to change that. I witnessed a gangly, red-eyed abomination skulking about the yard and sniffing the leaves of my shrubs. The disquieting ‘flex’ and sloshing was again present as it scurried along like a massive spider crab. Perhaps the hideous sounds were a subconscious warning to other predators, to avoid tangling with it.

My skin tingled seeing the cryptid nightmare. It crept close to the ground while raising up occasionally, with an unnatural flexibility which defied mammalian anatomy. My eyes widened in expanding disbelief as this alien-looking creature prowled around and haunted the night. What did it want, and where did it come from? I dared not make a peep from my voyeuristic vantage point, lest I draw its creepy gaze up toward me.

With immense relief, I witnessed it scuttle away until I couldn’t see or hear it any longer. You’d think a terrifying encounter like that would cause permanent insomnia but the psyche has an upper limit to what it can handle. Adrenaline is the body’s protective stress hormone. It floods the bloodstream to make the person alert during a severe crisis. This evolutionary process prepares us for battle but as soon as the danger subsides, the shock to the system causes the body to collapse from nervous exhaustion.

Thats precisely what happened to me. I fell asleep and my subconscious was hard at work convincing me the entire thing was merely a maddening dream. I wasn’t able to process that level of ‘impossible’ any longer so similar to a protection valve or safety fuse, my brain just shut off. I wish it had been successful and I’d awakened to the reassuring warmth of sunshine, but that was not to be.

I don’t know how long I remained in unconscious peace but eventually that had to end, I suppose. I couldn’t ignore the gut-wrenching racket any longer. The ‘snapping bones’ was back and echoed close by. Too close! It grew more prominent until I realized the source of the manifestation was now in my own hallway! That’s something I’ll never forget. I felt its slithering, serpentine appendages shake my hardwood floor.

While I couldn’t see my unworldly visitor at that point, I was awake enough to know I wasn’t alone. An acrid, unfamiliar scent filled the air of my bedroom to confirm its proximity. That’s when my personal ‘call to the abyss’ occurred. Intellectually, I knew it was ‘impossible’. I was sequestered in the relative safety of my own home, but the troubling weight of everything I had witnessed, tipped the scales toward begrudging acceptance.

It was a disarming reflex. If I was truly by myself, then addressing the otherwise empty room wouldn’t harm a thing. If my primordial instincts were correct however, I hoped it would be taken as a benevolent sign of open communication and non aggression. Realistically, it was illogical to address an otherwise vacant bedroom, but reality had long since ‘checked out’. The creaking joints, slug-like sloshing, and ugly snapping was impossible to ignore. As much as my logical brain sought to dismiss the surreal event as a hallucination, its feral presence and odor was undeniable.

“Helllllooooo?”

Even as the cowardly greeting slipped past my quivering lips, I cringed and silently cursed myself. I’d just acknowledged I wasn’t alone, to both the ‘imaginary’ thing, and I. Despite the obvious breach of my front door that must have transpired, there was a part of me which hoped we could go back to pretending the other didn’t exist. For me to speak out loud as I had, was to deny the possibility. I’d initiated mutual contact. There was no reversing my request for feedback from an impossible, yet absolutely happening scenario.

Its jarring, insectoid response confirmed conclusively that I had an ‘uninvited guest’ of the cryptid variety.

“Iiiiii dooooo nooottttt eeeeattt huuuuumans….

For the briefest of moments my mind-numbing apprehension dissipated.

Uuussuuuaaallltyy.”; It slowly added after an unnaturally long delay.

Any level of temporary relief I felt from the hair-raising encounter spiked back immediately to maximum terror, after its clarification to the sentence.

Its luminescent eyes bore through the darkness like two unnaturally-tinted flashlights. I thought my vision finally adjusted to the darkness but in truth, my eyelids had been tightly shut in a sanity protective stance. ‘Cowards are gonna coward’.

I waited for more poorly-timed, follow up communication. Apparently none was forthcoming. The next course of action fell to me. My mind raced with providing an appropriate, yet de-escalating response. I realized that the mortifying invader and I were in a sensitive negotiation of sorts. Without clarifying the details, I was bargaining for my life. A good negotiator asks the right questions and determines what the other party desires.

“What is it you want?”; I stammered unconvincingly. Any pretense of me being fully confident of a mutually beneficial outcome was nonexistent.

It was obviously for a country mile that ours was an uneven stalemate.

My gangly ‘guest’ was waiting for me to offer some gesture of respect or goodwill. Asking about the source of its grievance was apparently the right thing to do. It replied: “Doooo nottttt placccccceeee poooooiiiissonnn onnn the plllllaaaannntttssss.”

The snapping bone and creaking joint sound apparently escalated when the creature was angry or highly agitated. I listened to the inhuman delivery of phonetic words with a renewed sense of fascination. Witnessing its earlier facial scowl after sniffing my shrubs finally made sense. The simple act of spraying pesticides on my lawn and ornamental bushes was the principle source of its displeasure.

Perhaps it was a herbivore and my routine properly maintenance ruined its grazing. Either that, or it consumed the pests themselves that my poisons eliminated. Either way, its reasons were its own. I didn’t have to know the specific details in order to put an end to the terse conflict. I immediately offered an enthusiastic and clear answer.

“I will stop spraying the yard and bushes with the chemical poisons right now. Forgive me. I didn’t know it was an issue for ‘you’.”

I decided to avoid acknowledging that I was wholly unaware of its existence. Maybe that was obvious. Either way, the barrage of clicks and creaks lessened until I only heard its raspy breathing. Seemingly satisfied by our verbal agreement, it turned around and slithered back out of my home. I didn’t bother to watch through my window to determine which way it crept into the darkness.

It’s out there and can come back at the drop of a hat. That’s all that really matters. Reality, logic, and scientific facts be damned. I know the truth. My symbiotic relationship and conditional truce with a pesticide-hating cryptid began with an illogical but necessary call into the void.

‘The Hobbled Man’

I first noticed him one night while stumbling home from the pub. It was actually in the early morning hours and not many souls were out and about. Fewer still, had a pronounced limp and heavy footfall as he did. Despite his physical infirmity, the dour gent limping behind me managed to traverse the well-worn cobblestones with no issues. The progress he made toward his unknown destination was roughly at the same pace as my own. We continued on, in uncomfortable silence. Neither of us addressed or acknowledged the other.

Besides the odd coincidence of us both wandering the streets at the ungodly hour of three AM, I didn’t place much thought to the hobbling gentleman, fifteen paces behind me. I assumed we were just two random fools making our way home in the predawn hours, in a walk of shame. He kept to his side of the roadway, and I stayed on mine. In my hazy stupor, I was too preoccupied with preventing myself from falling face-down to engage in pleasantries. Walking required my full attention.

A few nights later I hurried to the market on Huxton Row to buy some fresh groceries. The proprietor closes precisely at Nine PM, without fail. The stoic merchant was standing right beside his doorway waiting to lock up shop. I assured him I would only be a moment. I told him what I needed, handed him the money and thanked him for his patience. Off I went, back toward me humble home. He locked the door and departed in the other direction.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked down the boulevard in the flickering glow of the streetlights. The missus would have her rolling pin waiting on yours truly If I’d failed to pick up the goods. All was well until I heard that ungraceful footfall behind me again. I didn’t want to face him but my curiosity got the best of me. I felt compelled to make eye contact with the stumbling codger. I glanced over my shoulder; as much to reassure myself, as for him. I wish I hadn’t. His features were stark and his eyes were lifeless and cold. It chilled me to the marrow. Worse, he completely failed to acknowledge my startled gaze! As before in our previous encounter, we walked separately.

This time however, I was stone-cold sober and more aware of my solitary situation. I felt vulnerable walking in front, and began to doubt we were headed to different places. The labored presence directly behind me was very unnerving. I felt it wasn’t a coincidence I kept running into ‘the hobbled man’. His distinctive, uneven cadence somehow married up with my own natural gait. We were in full lockstep until it was difficult to tell them apart. Our footfalls echoed in the cold winter air. ‘Clip, clip, Clunk’. Clip, clip CLUNK’. It was just out of sync enough to remind me I was being followed by a catatonic looking ghoul with an asymmetrical shuffle and heaving breath. The hair on me head stood right up in prickles.

I clutched my grocery sack tightly as if it was a defensive shield against an imminent attack. My eyes were full open and a-fright. Then his pace seemed to quicken. Why was he trailing me? I thought I even felt hot, homicidal breath bearing down me goose-pimpled neck! I was practically sprinting in the pitch dark, having long since left behind the helpful torches of town. Right there, I had a full-blown panic attack. I tossed down my little sack of groceries and raced home empty-handed. I was hyperventilating uncontrollably like a terrified child when I bolted up the front door.

The missus was waiting impatiently in the kitchen with an ever-present scowl of disappointment on her face. As soon as she saw my sheer fright, she dropped the rolling pin. I pulled back the curtain to determine if the stumbling cretin with the hollow, expressionless eyes was still in full pursuit. My betrothed could tell I was deathly afraid of something dire, and did her best to console the blubbering fool she married. I calmed down a bit after a few sips of ‘liquid courage’ and tried to recount the cause for my extreme anxiety.

She was genuinely concerned until I explained I was being followed by a handicapped cripple who hadn’t made any aggressive moves against me at all. Hearing it expressed in that oversimplified, dismissive way, I realized it sounded ridiculous. Clearly she agreed. Her matrimonial disgust returned with a vengeance. She ordered me to go back out immediately and retrieve our abandoned items. Already being a drunkard and inattentive lout, I’d just added ‘coward’ to my long list of undesirable traits.

I backtracked until I found our discarded food lying on the ground. Thankfully there was no sign of my menacing shadow looming about anymore, and I hurried back home with my tail tucked between my legs. The missus hadn’t experienced his callous sneer or felt the unshakable sense of doom surrounding him when he followed. I tried to explain that in greater detail but she had absolutely no interest in hearing any sniveling from me.

I shut my mouth and gave up. She was never going to understand. How could she? It didn’t even make sense to me. This ominous shadow in dark clothes haunted my thoughts in ways which didn’t appear to be justified. On the surface, he was simply a disfigured wretch with a prominent hobble who always seemed to wander the streets exactly when I did.

My mysterious tormentor hadn’t uttered a harsh word, nor raised a finger in malice toward me. His somber profile and disturbing demeanor alone created the irrational suspicions I held. In the clear light of day, I felt like a right silly git for being so spooked. He was merely an unfortunate, ghastly stranger as far as I, or anyone else knew. As night fell however, I wasn’t nearly as sure of his coincidental benevolence.

Over the next few evenings I avoided the downtown area like the plague. In the back of my mind I hoped my lame boogeyman with an aura of evil only came out at night. Sadly, I was wrong about that bit. I caught sight of ‘ol’ stumblin’ gruesome’ on a couple of occasions which was neither night time, nor was I alone. Regardless, every subsequent encounter served to magnify my paralyzing apprehension.

I dared not point him out to my disappointed love. Either she’d mock me mercilessly for being so mortified by the mere sight of a harmless unfortunate figure, or worse yet, she might not see him at all! In the back of my mind, that would’ve been enough to pack me in, square away.

If he was just a miserable sot like me who I’d created a fanciful mythology about him being an evildoer, that would be bad enough. But if no one else could see the innocent bugger, then me own mind was gone. There’s no cure for that! It would’ve been the ol’ straight jacket and loonie bin for Mr. Ian McTaskin. I didn’t want to know if no one else could see ‘em. The cunning way he always seemed to be closing in behind me, but then would disappear into thin air, worried me far more than potential bodily harm by a ‘lurking simpleton with a bum leg’.

Sunday morning, the vicar delivered his ‘fire and brimstone’ sermon from the pulpit, as he always does. A broken record orator he is. My bride glared at me sideways, while listening to the repetitive lecture on the dire evils of drinking a few pints down at the pub. She was trying to decide if his holy words of wisdom might finally be sinking in, or if I’d always be a worthless drunkard who disappointed her, daily.

Truthfully, I hadn’t been to the pub all week thanks to the creepy old sot who I kept running into. I played the part of the pious, repentant spouse, and she seemed temporarily satisfied that maybe there was some hope yet for my wayward soul, after all. It’s a game as old as time itself. We both play it to make her feel good.

Sadly, any tally marks I’d erased in her black book of marital mistakes were quickly replaced when I dared to ask the vicar about ‘the hobbled man’ who was stalking me thoughts, night and day. The wife was beyond furious I’d shamed us publicly by admitting the tale I’d told her. She assumed it was merely alcohol-fueled nonsense and excuses from my ‘forked tongue’. That was before she saw the look on the preacher’s solemn, weathered mug. It immediately changed her tune.

“You saw a disgruntled looking, lame fellow in a dark suit? Did he follow you for any distance at all, McTaskin? Oh merciful Lord! ‘The hobbled man’ evil spirit must have attached himself to your endangered soul. Has he stalked you more than once?”

I nodded nervously at his volley of accusatory sounding questions, as my ball and chain looked on in a rising tide of trepidation. Both their faces were aghast in widening mortal dread. While I wanted her to believe me about my stumbling shadow, I certainly didn’t want to bring a heightened sense of despair into the process. They acted as if I had attracted a demon from the fiery pits of hell to lurk directly behind me. All to snatch up my inebriated soul.

I’ll be deathly honest. Their fear was contagious. I was already straddling the fence about my expressionless stalker being a diabolical spirit of the worst and most evil sort. But the vicar’s marked awareness of this malicious entity and his aim for me, was all the convincing I needed. I’ve been guilty in the past of the sin of pride, among many other well-documented failures, but I was lightning quick to beg for his holy guidance. I was down on me knees with fingers clasped to get shed of ‘ol Beelzebub.

Most of the things I was directed to do were no real sacrifice. I had to attend church services every Sunday and pay my tithes to fund the lord’s work in combating evil throughout the world. I had to say me prayers each night and confess my dirty sins, to gain the Lords absolution. I was commanded to be more respectful to my sweet Connie McTaskin, and to strive to be more of an honest man. That really paid off since she stopped hitting me with the rolling pin and frying pan and gave me lovin’ on a regular basis.

The only item I really struggled with was to give up the Devil’s medicine. The vicar demanded I stop going to the pub. That’s the God’s honest truth from my lips to your ears. I missed fellowship with the lads and throwing back a pint or two but to his credit, not once did I run into ‘the hobbled man’ again after I changed my ways and turned to the church. Eventually I came to accept that noble sacrifice for the benefit of saving my mortal soul, and making sweet Connie love me again.

That was, until a decade later when I was introduced to ‘M Emmett Greene’, the vicar’s crippled nephew! There’s no telling how many errant husbands and bawdy hell raisers ‘the hobbled man’ cleverly spooked with their creative ruse. Obviously it worked masterfully on me to give up the bottle, and I realized immediately when I laid eyes on him that my wife knew the vicar’s tricky plan, all along.

I’ll admit, their sly deception inspired me to straighten up my life, and I’m a better man for it. No doubt about it! You’d quit drinkin’ too if you were followed by ‘the hobbled man’ when you let the pub. It’s probably what they mean when they say: ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways.’

‘Every night I die’

Last night I batted a festering army of the undead as they gnashed their decaying teeth. I fought valiantly but succumbed to my mortal wounds in the end. There were just too many of them and they could reanimate at will. It’s impossible to kill what’s already deceased. Eventually I had no more fight left to give. I consoled myself that, at least it was a noble death.

The night before, I braved an airborne siege with a dozen crimson-winged avian devils. They attacked from all directions, and offered no mercy or quarter. Even the ground beneath my feet wasn’t a sanctuary from their merciless assault. They crept out of the shifting soil and congregated in their skyward citadel, overhead. The ugly specter of my defeat swooped down upon me from above.

Three nights ago my opponent was the unified legion of an insect plague. Their fierce, dive-bomb raids left me gasping for breath until I could feel nothing inside my fluttering chest. I suffered a hundred stinging jabs of paralyzing pain. Their injected poison insured there was no hope of survival.

With every approaching sundown comes a formidable new adversary to hasten my expiration. No two have been alike, nor had my experience fighting them led to a unified solution of how to vanquish their successors. It appeared I was doomed to implement new strategies each time I sparred with upcoming foes. Adapt or die.

From enormous vampiric tadpoles, to smothering snowmen, or poisonous shadows that choke the life from your weary soul, I’ve battled an impressive lineup of malevolent enemies in my sleep. Not knowing what my next adversary would be, was overwhelming. Sadly, my strength was fading because of these nightly reoccurring struggles with doom. Without rest and resolution, a person’s heart and mind will eventually cease to function.

Every morning I rose up from my bed with a violent start. It was as if I awoke from a particularly vivid fever-dream, but these savage battles were not nightmares. At least not in the traditional sense. I believed in my heart they were genuine spiritual conflicts with the evolving forces of evil. These unexplained sagas served to prepare me for the next one. If not in personal combat strategy, then at least to keep up my motivation and strength to continue fighting back.

This morning I finally saw the truth. The bleak revelation shook me to the core. I came to realize that the only common element between them was my own fertile imagination. I’ve been the unwitting architect of this destructive warfare, as it distracted me and drained my will to keep living. I have vowed to no longer provide the spark for the unnecessary demons.

Tonight, I shall yield to no more of these psychological nightmares and internal struggles. If I die in my sleep tonight, it will be from the fulfilling tranquility of old age. Goodnight.

‘Purveyors of Sin’

Into our nightmares they creep,
slithering in one-by-one.

When darkness ends they slumber,
to be protected from the sun.

The feral cabal huddles together,
within their iniquity den.

Carefully biding the time to strike.
Rabid purveyors of sin.

‘Arachnid Cavern’

The situation started in an unusual way and evolved from there. I was asked to help out a dear friend with a delicate family issue. She sheepishly admitted she needed my assistance cleaning out her grandmother’s home. With undeserved embarrassment, she confessed that she was a ‘hoarder’.

I’d watched the shows. The range of those cleanup projects runs from slightly cluttered, to fully impassable and hideous. I wasn’t sure how bad her grandmother’s place was inside, but none of that bore any effect on how I felt about my friend herself or her family. Her reluctance to ask for my help was unnecessary. Friends help out their friends.

I met her at the location for an initial walkthrough to access what we would need for the cleanup. I’ll admit, it was pretty bad but I’m not afraid to suit up in protective gear and get things done. With her, myself, and her brother tacking the project one room at a time, you could see the progress as we made it. Starting in the garage, we sifted through thigh-deep piles of clothing, assorted boxes, unopened items from a discount clearance store, and thousands of other miscellaneous things.

I suggested we spray our clothes with insect repellent and wrap our pants legs and sleeves with duct tape to prevent being bitten by any creepy-crawlies we encountered, but none of us has any idea what we were getting into. The black widow spiders stood out because they have a distinctive look. I was much more worried about brown recluses. They aren’t easy to spot and offer a far-worse bite.

Obviously there were many other undesirable creatures inside the piles of things. We wore gloves and face masks but there were small gaps occasionally between our long sleeve shirts or protective clothing. Rodent droppings, random webs, silverfish, and untold insects were everywhere. In all, we witnessed dozens of black widows and unidentified egg sacks. It made us hesitant to even reach into dark corners or to pick up items to discard, but we had a job to do.

After finishing up for the afternoon, I bade my fellow cleanup workers adieu and drove home in haste. The whole time, I envisioned the glory of the hot water from my shower blasting away the gross, filthy residue off my skin and grimy body. I disrobed, tossed my grungy clothes and hat in the washing machine, and stepped in to finally ‘decontaminate’.

It felt so good to wash all that away. I stepped out and dried off. In my mind, I was clean again and free of anything lurking in that garage. My clothes had been washed, and so had my external body. I felt relaxed and fantastic, until a pervasive tingling inside my left ear erased that fleeting feeling of calm. After that, I could focus on nothing else. I cursed myself for driving home while wearing my work hat and coat. In the morbid theater of my mind, I imagined what must’ve happened.

The random, fluttering ‘tickle’ inside my ear canal demanded I address it immediately; and to the inclusion of all else. My probing index finger would involuntarily explore the fleshy folds of my external ear, hoping to discover and extricate a gnat, or beetle, or flea. ANYTHING but a harry little spider; but no matter how often or faithfully I addressed the uncomfortable sensation plaguing me, I could find no relief. It persisted, while my fear and paranoia grew.

As unpleasant as it was to consider, if there was a spider of any breed hiding in my ear canal, I didn’t want to cause it to retreat deeper inside my head, to evade my attempts to remove it. I also didn’t want to kill it and leave parts of its smushed body in me. As grotesque as that idea might be, the thought of a foreign eight-legged menace nesting in my head pressed me to push past my queasiness to ‘evict the unwanted tenant’.

A cotton swab was delicately worked into my ear canal. Understandably, urgency precipitated a balance between ‘safe’, and: “My god! There’s a freaking spider crawling around in my damn ear!” The shaft of the swab was straight. The canal was not. It failed to strike pay-dirt. At times I would feel distinctive movement. It was enough to make a person want to faint or scream in full-blown heebie-jeebies. Other times there would be nothing whatsoever to indicate the likelihood of a foreign organism living inside my ear, like an arachnid cavern.

I wanted to believe it was in my imagination. I really did but the horrific tingling sensation was too frequent to ignore. I didn’t have any ear drops and was too frantic and distracted to drive. For the longest time, I couldn’t even bring myself to call someone for help because I’d have to say the words. In my fragile state, I deluded myself into thinking if I didn’t articulate the terrifying truth, it wouldn’t be real.

Just when I’d finally calm down and my heart would quit racing, the incessant itch would start back up again! To make matters worse, my sadistic imagination conjured up the dreadful idea that an egg sac inside me would soon rupture and hundreds of tiny offspring would spring out! I wanted to violently jam a butcher knife directly into my ear and gouge it out, but I had to remain rational and hope for the best. It was unimaginable torture.

Finally, I’d had enough. I called a neighbor for help but asked that I be allowed to avoid explaining why I needed emergency medical attention. They were obviously curious but to their credit, they honored my request and drove me to the ER in discreet silence. The ride was uncomfortable but honestly, nothing comes to mind as being worse than having a living spider recused in my ear canal.

Was it a Black Widow? A Recluse? An ordinary ‘harmless’ spider? At that point I obviously didn’t care. I just wanted it out, as every one of you would. They flushed out my ear canal with a special wash station and extracted my personal eight-legged tormentor. As a precaution, the doctor ran a scope down into my ear to look for bite marks, egg sacs, and body parts that failed to be flushed out. Having the scope down there just triggered me again but it had to be done. Then they wrote a prescription for antibiotics and discharged me.

Has reading this testament of terror made your ears tingle or itch? Maybe you felt something crawling on you. Arachnids are never more than six feet away at any time from us. That’s true. Maybe they are even closer, right now. Perhaps they are curious about the tiny little holes on the side of your head and wonder about investigating them. Goodnight.

‘Alone’

The world was already a bleak and highly disconnected place; long before everyone suddenly vanished; late one February evening.

It’s just more-so, now.

Initially I spent my idle hours roaming abandoned city streets and the rural countryside looking for answers to the horrifying enigma. Where did they all go? Is this Hell? ‘Desolate’ doesn’t begin to describe the depressing reality of life for me since that horrific day. Biologically or emotionally, no one was meant to live by themselves. It’s a pale, hermetic existence, being completely isolated and abandoned in a colorless world like the one I wander through now.

I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, yet here I am.

In my methodical exploration of the vacant landscape, I discovered an ugly, undeniable truth I didn’t want to know. Dusty, yellowed journal pages of others just like me were filled with strikingly similar experiences. Their familiar, parallel testimonies perfectly mirrored and aligned with my own. Those long-dead predecessors spoke at great length about how they too were alone and never found another living soul.

Now, they are also gone and withered to dust, as I will be eventually.

It’s as if every single human being was transported to a different period in history and abandoned there, one-by-one. Separated by individual windows in time, each person serves a merciless death sentence of unendurable solitude. For what capital crime against God or humanity, I am unsure! The only thing I can be certain of, is that I will never again lay eyes upon another person, for as long as I live. This is apparently my personal turn to suffer.

That pangs and grieves my heart but bitterness is its own poison. Don’t drink from that glass.

Finding these decaying testimonies has brought a small sense of comfort to ease the desperation. Through my predecessor’s written account, their flesh and blood is reanimated, albeit only in my mind’s eye and emaciated imagination. I’ve shared in a half dozen lifetimes of joys and sorrows through these enduring pages.

As you are reading this journal entry, you’ve undoubtedly found yourself wandering the same barren existence I discovered in my lifetime. I regret being the bearer of such depressing facts. There is no escape from this hell of solitude. It’s human nature to try, but I’d advise you to not waste your time looking for a way back to the life you had with others, before. That’s gone forever.

The sooner you accept this unjust truth, the faster you can morn your lost happiness and began to heal. Instead, share your thoughts and remaining experiences here in this survivor’s account, so that it may ease the pain of those unfortunate souls who come after us. They too will need comfort, understanding, and guidance when they find the book. Enjoy your remaining time. Perhaps we will all be together again in the next realm, once this heavy, unexplained debt is paid in full.

‘I discovered an unknown manuscript by Aleister Crowley’

The Ordo Templi Orientis or O.T.O; was a hermetic Freemason organization associated with Aleister Crowley, Carl Kellner, Theodor Reuss, and other 19th century occultists. Their underground society was closely connected with the rich and powerful academic elite. In the early 1900’s, the Los Angeles chapter was quite active and caused frequent controversy in the news. This brief history lesson is highly pertinent to what I’m about to reveal.

I became interested in secret societies as a teenager after reading a number of compelling tales about Crowley’s infamous adventures and lurid sex debauchery. As a non-believer, I was never interested in the occult or black magic myself. What did fascinate me were the unusual characters through history who intentionally involved themselves with arcane mysticism and the supernatural. What drew them to that lifestyle?

News stories from the era speculated wildly about O.T.O necromancy and paranormal rites conducted behind their closed doors. It was engrossing but I took most of it with a grain of salt. It seemed like fanciful fodder to sell newspapers. While not believing the extreme, fanciful hype, I rabidly consumed numerous biographies about the man’s legendary antics and the wide assortment of underground organizations he was associated with. One thing was clear. Aleister Crowley unapologetically courted controversy and wore it like a badge of honor.

As the years passed, my overall interest in the subject dissipated. I started a family and crafted a career as a graphic artist and digital image manipulator. Those old fascinations were all but lost until one day, several decades later, when I found myself on a working vacation in Los Angeles. It was my first time visiting the fabled ‘city of angels’. Fearing it might be my only chance to sightsee and explore the region, I decided to explore as many places of interest as I could.

I visited the intersection of 39th and Norton where the ‘Black Dahlia’ was found bisected in 1947. That was a bit anticlimactic, seeing the sanitized site so many years after the events, but it was still something I could mark off my quirky bucket list of true crime. Then I toured various other infamous locations of mysteries and historical events. After knocking out my entire itinerary, I realized I had almost a full day of sightseeing time left. It was then I remembered the tantalizing headlines from the L.A. newspapers and tabloids about the secretive O.T.O. Headquarters.

I decided to look up the address.

Good or bad, depending on your perspective and the circumstances, you can find anything if you search the right way. The address was only a few miles from my current location. With that serendipity, it seemed like an obvious ‘yes’. I figured the building itself would be long gone, but to my surprise it was dilapidated, but still there. I matched the location with old photos in the city archives.

Initially I was going to take a selfie in front of the crumbling walls for my social media profile, then move on to the next adventure. Being fueled by risk-taking and adrenaline-charged stupidity, I had the incredibly poor idea to walk around to the back and ‘explore’ a little more. By the look of things, the forgotten place hadn’t been occupied for a long time. It was fully abandoned and boarded up. I’ll admit, those lascivious stories about sex orgies and sacrificial black magic got the better of me.

I had to know what was inside.

I looked around nervously before crossing the line from ‘harmless but morbid’; to actually breaking the law. All of those legal concerns however, were unnecessary. The property was definitely abandoned. There were no ‘caution’ warnings or ‘no trespassing’ signs. No one was around to protest, and no one cared. Still, I felt like a robber on a thrilling bank heist, as I pulled back one of the barricade planks to creep inside.

I used my phone’s flashlight to guide my way. The old stories didn’t offer any inside photos because the O.T.O. was so private and secretive. I was touring the hidden premises of what very few others ever witnessed. The remaining decor was elegant, but perhaps a little bit mundane. The building was basically empty with mostly bare walls. I was genuinely disappointed there weren’t lascivious nude statues and goat-headed altars all around to confirm the diabolical motif I expected.

I figured the mystique about what they did behind closed doors was shameless self-promotion to attract attention and money for their coffers. By appearances, it was an ordinary office building. I realized the human imagination can produce far more of a mysterious legacy than reality does. Regardless, I took lots of pictures and video to document my findings.

Just when I was about to wrap up my titillating little foray into ‘cat-burgling’, I realized a thin sliver of light was shining under an empty bookshelf along the back wall! If the windows hadn’t been boarded up and lights were on inside, it would be easy to see. The building had no source of power, so it had to be coming from BEHIND the bookcase. That really piqued my curiosity.

Could there be a secret room?

My imagination went full ‘nuclear’. I set my phone down and pulled hard on the shelf. Nothing. It was as if it was anchored to the wall with heavy duty bolts. It made no sense. I tried the other side. It felt equally secure. I was stumped. Then it occurred to me to try the opposite of what I’d been doing. I pushed firmly on both sides and something audibly clicked. The entire shelving unit pushed forward past a threshold into the wall, and then it glided on a roller track, back out of the way. I was breathless! Before me was a hidden staircase leading down to a subterranean room.

I don’t mind admitting I was afraid. My initial perception of the upstairs was underwhelming to say the least, and downright dull. I realized that sterile facade was by design, in case they were raided by the authorities. For that clever level of misdirection and security, it meant they genuinely had something significant to hide down below. Holy Hell! I was perched upon the stairway to the dark legacy of whatever those secrets were.

With shaky knees, I descended the dusty steps. The secret lair of this infamous O.T.O. black lodge had been unvisited for perhaps 70 years. Let me tell you folks, their sinister reputation was deserved and real! Whatever you might’ve expected me to find wouldn’t even come close to the terrifying things I actually discovered there. It looked like an exaggerated Hollywood movie set of what a film studio would expect from an hidden occult temple.

There was a menacing-looking altar, a large pentagram marked on the floor, black candles still in the wall sconces, and cryptic, indecipherable inscriptions graced the dark walls. I couldn’t be sure what the arcane sigils themselves said, but I assumed they were written in Enocian or other secret languages. It was the whole nine yards of occult clichés.

It truly was a devilish, satanic ‘haven’.

I was a fly on the wall in a brooding abyss never meant to be seen by unauthorized spectators. I was so stunned and creeped out by the pervasive aura of evil, that I committed THE cardinal sin. I failed to document it! Honestly, it’s all I could do to not immediately tear out of that creepy den in murderous iniquity and run for my life. The more I surveyed the forbidden surroundings, the more I desperately needed to ‘scram’. I feared the upstairs bookcase might snap shut like a boobytrap inside a Pharaoh’s protective tomb, and seal my fate forever.

As a foolhardy parting gesture to doom us all, I impulsively grabbed a large leather-bound volume laying on the sacrificial altar on the way out. At the time, I figured there would be no harm in taking an old book which no one alive even knew was there, in the long-abandoned derelict building. In lieu of photographic evidence, that book was going to be my ‘proof of the existence’ of the hidden room. That is, if I summoned the courage to admit my ‘unauthorized exploration’ of the shuttered location in the first place.

Back outside in the relative safety of my rental car, I could finally breathe again. I’d escaped the horrid temple where God knows what transpired! It really seemed like a vivid nightmare, but the hand-bound leather tome felt real enough in the soothing light of the southern California sunshine. My fear and trepidation rapidly dissipated. I actually felt silly being so spooked exploring the defunct lodge’s hidden room. It had been literally abandoned for decades, for heaven’s sake. I let my imagination run wild over a long-abandoned room and superstitions I didn’t believe in.

Depending on what the manuscript contained, I might be able to convince others of its authenticity and historic importance. I didn’t look inside the cover until I drove back to my hotel. There, I discovered two significant details.

First of all, it was actually handwritten by ‘Frater Perdurabo’, which I knew to be Aleister Crowley’s pseudonym! I could hardly believe my stroke of luck. It had an incredible pedigree and was probably worth a pretty penny to book collectors. The second fact, however was less engrossing. Almost all the text had been manually redacted until it was virtually unreadable.

For what reason, I couldn’t imagine at the time.

Everything afterward was a blur. I flew home the next day and told my family about my other California adventures, while carefully omitting the part about my unlawful entry and ‘innocent little souvenir’ taken from the O.T.O ruins. There was nothing wise to gain by mentioning that illicit detail. I kept his handwritten lodge journal a closely-guarded secret and studied it after my family went to bed each night.

It occurred to me I could scan the pages and isolate the redaction ink from Crowley’s own handwriting since they were slightly different shades. My photo editing software could separate and ‘erase’ the redaction overlay. Once I programmed the correct isolation threshold, it was like digital magic. Poof. I was able to read the eccentric man’s elegant, ornate writing perfectly. As a gentleman who existed long before computers, he obviously learned the importance of a steady hand and carefully formed letters.

As soon as I removed the redaction from each page scan, I ‘saved as’ and curated the adjusted versions in my database. In just a few days I had all 127 pages cleaned up and organized. A careful cross-examination of his published works confirmed what I had in my greedy hands was a completely unknown and unprinted composition! Considering the incredible rarity of such an unbelievable find by a person who many consider to be the father of the modern new age of the occult, I was shocked and thrilled. This ‘lost volume’ could be worth millions to the right bidder through auction; and later, publishing rights.

The honest truth was, I spent so much time manipulating the scanned pages deciphering them, I completely failed to pay any attention to the substance of his words themselves. Remember, I wasn’t a believer, or enthusiast of the occult or dark arts. That aspect of his well documented life was just hocus-pocus and mumbo-jumbo. It was his charismatic personality and colorful antics I found fascinating. Once I started paying closer attention to what he wrote in the unpublished manuscript however, I couldn’t stop reading. It was his personal ‘how to’ journal or ‘grand grimoire’, on the secret rituals necessary to summon the mythical supernatural beings he’d often spoke of.

The book was going to be my ‘golden ticket’, as soon as I proved official provenance. I couldn’t stop dreaming of the pile of money it would bring me. Never once did I believe a word of it. Acknowledge that huge failure in judgment, I know my most deadly mistake in the spiraling series of bad decisions was in obtaining it. The second was to render it readable again. As I ignorantly quoted the diabolical incantations aloud, it was purely from curiosity. I might as well have been reading Shakespearean prose. I felt it was goofy, spell-casting nonsense and demonology fiction.

Without meaning to, or even realizing it was actually possible, I have freed the trapped (and intensely angry) supernatural deities Crowley referred to as ‘Aiwass’ and ‘Choronzon’. This unholy work has taught a disbelieving fool like me how to release two hellish demons from their long-held bonds, deep within the abyss. It is a horrible tragedy I’ve brought upon myself and the entire world through misguided greed. Sadly, I lack the knowledge or ritual understanding of how to defend myself, or to send them back to the netherworld from whence they came.

The moment I rattled off the detailed invocations, my entire home began to shake and vibrate. My wife pounded on the door, thinking I’d fallen asleep during a persistent earthquake. I was too startled to answer for several moments. Two ethereal wraiths materialized at opposite ends of my office and cast a malevolent aura of pure dread. The potent stench they brought with them reminded me of a festering slaughterhouse.

All I can say about their appearance is, it was beyond human articulation to adequately describe. It was as if I was trapped between two billowing storm clouds. They were ‘electrified genies’ hoping to escape to a slightly larger ‘bottle’ than the one they’d been trapped inside. They violently bounced around my office like feral, rampaging beasts trying to breach the tiny enclosure. Their obvious contempt for human beings paled in comparison to their polarized distain for each other.

While I fear my life will become collateral damage in their ferocious rampage to escape, I worry infinitely more they will be successful! I alone bear full responsibility for my stupidity if they ever get out of here but we will all pay the price! I believe they are spiritually bound to the walls of the temple where they were summoned. In this case, my office is ‘the temple’. As a lowly human of no interest to them, I was initially ignored, but that changed as their frustration grew.

Frequently they mock and pummel me with fierce blows I don’t see coming, nor can I defend myself against. I shouted through the door for my wife to take our children and flee. She protested briefly, but heard the urgency in my voice and thankfully complied. I was relieved. At least they were able to escape the unholy mess l’ve made. I haven’t dared open my door to follow them to safety, for fear the charnel devils I’d unwittingly unleashed will use that clear opening to bypass the invocation field.

Only after carelessly summoning two prater-human spirits have I finally comprehended the reason for the redaction of his powerful words. I thought the manuscript was simply bogeyman nonsense and witchcraft posturing to intimidate and impress the impressionable. Why didn’t they just burn the damn tome and spare the world this plague? Were they too greedy to fully destroy the master’s work? Did they really believe it could be controlled and harnessed?

I’m definitely a true believer now, but the damage is done. I’m desperately hoping a sympathetic soul reading this testimony will come forward and help me re-cage the wrathful, furious spirits I’ve set free. Does anyone know how to send them back to Hell?

‘In the service of others’

“What loftier goal or higher calling could a person ascribe to, than in aiding his fellow man? Being in the loving service of others in their time of need, should be the sacred duty of every conscientious soul. It’s a core tenet in every major belief system. That’s why the humble subject of this legal inquiry diligently gathered up things to eat and delivered them to the hungry. With this purposeful, kind-hearted gesture, hollow belies were filled, and their ravenous anger and mindless frustration were abated.

Every single day he endeavored to this necessary task. Often times, at great risk to himself. Let’s face it, it’s a jungle out there. Mortal danger lurks around every corner. We’ve all seen it. Mr. Ignatius cleverly navigated the unique perils of modern society to help out the disadvantaged. I don’t throw out accolades like ‘selfless’, or ‘hero’ very often, but in this case, it’s richly deserved. Harvey Ignatius is… quite frankly, a saint.

No more statements, your honor.”

The jury and audience sat in dutiful silence while the defense attorney painted a glossy, almost messianic version of the accused. A few of them had bemused grins on their faces by the thick, insincere layer of ‘horse-hockey’ they’d just heard. Others were infuriated, offended, or outraged by the creative characterization of the defendant as anything other than the piece of human excrement that he was.

Sensing the potential for angry outbursts in his courtroom, the judge reminded those in attendance to remain silent. The district attorney stood to begin his closing arguments. He turned to directly face the jurors and inhaled deeply. His eyes remained tightly closed a moment; as if hearing the fanciful defense narrative had been painful to experience. Both the defense and prosecution lawyers had promising back-up careers in acting, if their regular vocations fell through. Drama and courtroom theatrics were frequently employed as a creative facet of jurisprudence.

“Let me remind the audience and jury members that the ‘things to eat’ Mr. Ignatius ’gathered up’ were PEOPLE. The ‘hungry’ with ‘hollow bellies, filled with ravenous anger and mindless frustration’ were the DEAD. Despite the creative framing Mr. Skoll just entertained us with in his closing statements, Harvey Ignatius didn’t volunteer at a soup kitchen or work in a leper colony. Not by a country mile. The accused man in the courtroom actively conspired with flesh-eating CORPSES to procure LIVING VICTIMS, for them to EAT!

He did these abominable things for the most selfish of reasons. That is, to save his own cowardly skin. There’s no absolute way of knowing how many innocent victims he lured to their deaths with his cunning ruses but the evidence points to dozens, if not hundreds. If forming an unholy alliance with the dead roaming the countryside to be spared from their bloodthirsty hunger isn’t grounds for the harshest of punishments, I don’t know what is! Every person on the jury today has the sworn duty to find this detestable human being guilty in the first degree.

I rest my case.”

(Four minutes later)

“Your honor. By unanimous decision, we the jury, find the defendant guilty of all charges.”

Judge Wyndcott tried to maintain his composure as the verdict was read but had to stifle a smirk of pleased satisfaction. Frankly, he was surprised it took them that long. All that was left, was to hand down the sentence. The bailiff ordered the now convicted procurer of living victims, to rise.

“Harvey Ignatius, for your heinous crimes against humanity, I sentence you to permanent confinement in ‘the maze of the undead’. Your internment will be simulcast on Pay-Per-View. As the hungriest and more ferocious of the dead, let’s see if you can strike a deal with them. We’ll all be munching our popcorn.”

The entire courtroom gasped at the severity and incredible rarity of Judge Wyndcott handing down the Mount Everest of undesirable punishments.

‘Bang’, went the gavel.