The Terror Tree

Trees.

They are our giant, wooden friends, providing us with the very air we breathe, our shelter and our firewood. There is nothing at all BAD about trees, is there?

Or is there?

For Janet Hotpoint, a housewife from Dorchester, a tree was to prove to be something altogether more sinister...

Janet Hotpoint was a receptionist at a busy PR firm, a job which kept her terribly busy during the day, and which left here exhausted by the time the evening set in. Suffice to say, Miss Hotpoint was eager to collapse into her bed after a hard day's receptioning, and drift off to a peaceful slumber.

On this occasion, however, peaceful was the very thing her slumber would not be. For, at around midnight, she was suddenly awoken by a tapping upon the bedroom window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Janet Hotpoint sat bolt upright, her heart pounding in her chest. What was that awful noise? Was there someone at her window, trying to break in? Was it a phantom, trying to drive her from her home? Or, worse still, could it be a murderous, zombie woodpecker, attempting to break in and feast on her flesh?

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Janet Hotpoint began to panic, her mind racing with awful thoughts. What was that noise?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The noise was occurring more frequently now, building to a frantic cacophony as if someone - or something - was desperately trying to gain entrance.

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.

Janet flung back her duvet, and picked up a baseball bat next to her bed. The bat had been a gift from an ex-boyfriend, despite the fact she hated the game and had not expressed any interest in learning the sport. Now, however, she was grateful for it, as she grasped it firmly with both hands and advanced towards the window, ready to smash in the face of whatever demonic entity was trying to force entry into her bedroom.

Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.

Janet Hotpoint braced herself as she neared the source of the terrifying taping. She took a deep breath, held the bat up, and flung open the curtains.

She gasped.

There, on the other side of the window, was a tree. Just a tree.

Just a tree?

For Janet Hotpoint, there was no such thing as 'just a tree', for she suffered from dendrophobia, a crippling fear of trees. As the tree continued to sway in the breeze, its long, dark branches reaching out and tapping the glass of the window, Janet screamed, turned and ran from her room in terror.

She never did venture back into her room, until she got the tree cut down a week later by a gardener. But some nights, when she was alone in the dark, she could swear that she could still the gnarled form of that tree, clawing at the window with it's fearsome wooden fingers....

A fear of trees? You may scoff, dear reader, but fear can take many forms. Some people are even afraid of words...

Sleep well, dear readers...if you can.

Hahahahahahaahahahahaha!

- The Book-Keeper.

The Cookie Crumbles

Cookies.

We all love cookies, don't we? Yummy cookies. Yum yum yum yum. Yummy yummy cookies!

Or do we?

For Jonathan Petridish, the humble cookie was far from being a satisfying snack, instead leaving him traumatised for the rest of his life.

Jonathan Petridish worked full-time as a human resources manager at a large insurance firm. It was a job he didn't particularly enjoy, except for the half hour break he got mid-morning which he looked forward to with fevered excitement.

On one such break, Jonathan Petridish decided to enjoy a cup of tea and a couple of cookies, while he took some time out to fill in a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.

Nothing wrong with that, was there?

So you would think. But the tea plus cookie plus crossword equation was to prove to be Jonathan's undoing.

While puzzling over the clue for twelve across in his crossword, Jonathan Petridish decided to dunk his cookie in his tea.

Cookies are normally quite resilient to dunking, and hold their form far better than your common or garden Rich Tea, or Digestive biscuits. But so preoccupied with the crossword was Jonathan Petridish, that he left the cookie dunked in his tea for slightly too long.

Then it happened.

The cookie, now soggy with tea, broke apart, crumbling into poor Jonathan Petridish's tea.

Jonathan heard the gentle splash as the biscuit collapsed into his drink, but it was too late. Not only had Jonathan Petridish lost half a cookie, but by now his delicious cup of tea was ruined as well, awash with tiny, squelchy chunks of cookie.

Jonathan Petridish cursed himself loudly. Then, to add further insult to biscuit-based injury, Jonathan realised that his break was now over, so he could not even make himself a fresh cup of tea.

Thirsty, hungry and dejected, Jonathan Petridish left the staff-room and returned to work, having had his break well and truly ruined by the humble cookie. He never did find out what the answer to twelve across was, that fiendish crossword clue that had played such an important role in this whole, terrible tragedy.

The cryptic clue read, "12 across: This biscuit will save you on the internet."

Do you know what the answer was, dear reader? Are you ready for the big, chilling reveal?

The answer was...cookie.

A desperate warning to Jonathan Petridish, sent by unknown forces from the other side to warn Jonathan about his imminent cookie-related calamity, or a mere coincidence?

You decide.

Sleep well, readers. If you can!

- The Book-Keepr.

Restroom in peace, Jeremy.

Toilets.

We all like to use them, to dispose of our effluence that would otherwise mount up around our ears, don't we?

Or do we?

For Jeremy Pinecone, one simple trip to the lavatory almost wound up being a trip...to HELL.

Jeremy Pinecone (age 23, but that is of little to no relevance to the following tale) had been enjoying a nice night out with friends. They had drank beers together, watched a stripper, punched out a couple of headlights and gone for a curry at their local French-Indian restaurant, The Taj Mange-All.

Ravished after a hard night's leering and shouting, the friends ordered a plentiful spread of food, and gorged upon it hungrily.

For Jeremy Pinecone, the twelfth plate of Korma du Poulet was to prove too much for his digestive system to handle, and so he left the table and headed to the restaurant's toilets.

The toilet was located at the back of the establishment, down a rather dark and dismal corridor that bore none of the tasteful decor of the restaurant itself. Nevertheless, Jeremy locked himself in the dank restroom, and prepared to evacuate his bowels.

The bowel motion was fast and furious, the explosive mixture of curries and lagers causing poor Jeremy Pinecone's colon to almost combust under the strain.

But that was the least of Jeremy's problems.

Having successfully performed his task, leaving his hindquarters splattered with feces, Jeremy reached for the toilet roll to clean himself up.

He paused, frozen in terror.

There was no toilet roll.

An empty, cardboard tube hung on the holder, silently mocking him.

Jeremy panicked. What would he do? He was pretty certain it was a rather sizable social faux-pas to return to dinner reeking of excrement.

Luckily for Jeremy Pinecone, a passing ghost appeared in the toilet, so Jeremy simply used the apparition to wipe his anus clean of all the crap.

A close call for Jeremy Pinecone, then, readers. But still, you have to agree, that was some spooky shit.

Sleep well, readers.

- The Book-Keeper.

The Haunting of Linda Thimbles

Ghosts.

The spirits of the departed, returned from the grave to haunt the living?

Maybe.

Or maybe...something more...sinister?

For 29 year-old accounting assistant Linda Thimbles, it was to be the latter.

One night, Linda Thimbles was preparing for bed, having had an exhausting day assisting accountants with their accounting duties.

She fell gratefully into her bed, turned off her bedside lamp, and drifted into a much-needed sleep.

Hours later, Linda Thimbles snapped awake, and immediately sensed something was deeply wrong. Her room was freezing cold, and she felt she was being watched by eyes that were not of this world.

She glanced up at her alarm clock, and noticed it was 3:30am. She sighed, remembering that in less than three hours, she would have to get up again, for another day of assisting accountants.

Linda Thimbles groaned, and decided to put aside her apprehensions, and go back to sleep. However, as she turned over in her bed, something caught her eye.

Something that made her quite literally freeze in fear, although not in a literal sense.

There, at the foot of the bed, was the unmistakable white figure of a GHOST.

The spirit flapped about gently, but made no other motion and did not advance upon Linda Thimbles. Yet she remained uneasy, sensing that, although the apparition had no eyes, it was carefully WATCHING her.

Then she noticed something else.

The ghoul seemed to be patterned, with dozens of little pink bunny-rabbits adorning its body.

Then Linda Thimbles realised - this was no ghost. This was just one of her duvet covers, gently flapping in the breeze from the open window.

Just a duvet cover...

Just?

Oh, dear readers, had it been a simple ghoul we could have all rested. We know where we are with ghouls, and many of us can go a lifetime without ever meeting one.

But knowing that it was, in fact, a duvet cover - like the ones you or I own, means that we too could be startled by a piece of linen, at any time. Night or day, today or tomorrow. We will not know when to expect it, but when it occurs, and the sheet carries out it's terrifying duty, we will shit ourselves for a few, agonizing seconds.

And that is the terrifying truth.

Sleep well.

- The Book-Keeper.

TERROR dog

Little dogs.

We love them, don't we? With their little fuzzy faces, their small black noses and tiny paws.

Or do we?

Maybe not, after you hear about the horror that befell one Martin Windpipe...

Martin Windpipe was a lonely man, who lived alone in a small, one-bedroom flat in London. He wanted some company, and so decided to get himself a dog.

He scoured the local pet shops, looking for the perfect canine companion. But he just couldn't seem to find a dog he liked. That is until, quite by accident, Martin Windpipe stumbled across a small shop tucked away in the back streets. He had never seen this particular store before, so decided to give it a shot.

Inside, he found a small, wizened, Chinese man. The Chinese man seemed affable and friendly enough, and set about helping Martin Windpipe find the dog of his dreams. After a short time spent browsing, Martin Windpipe clapped eyes upon the adorable figure of a small hound in a cage. The dog leapt up at the bars, and wagged it's little tail furiously.

Martin Windpipe was overjoyed, and quickly a deal was struck and the dog was his.

"I must warn you," said the shop-keeper as Martin Windpipe left, "do not overfeed this dog, or spoil it with sickly treats...or else...you will come to regret it."

Martin Windpipe smiled, nodded and left, little knowing how important that warning would be...

The pair arrived at Martin's small flat later that afternoon, the little dog having been christened 'Shorty' during the bus-ride home.

"Well, I don't know about you, Shorty, but I could really use a bite to eat," said Martin, rummaging through the cupboards. Shorty wagged his tail in agreement.

Martin Windpipe made Shorty a bowl of dog-food, while he sat down to a meal of steak and chips. As he ate, Shorty finished his meal and padded over to Martin. The little dog sat down, and looked up hungrily at his owner.

"Still hungry, huh, little fellah?" said Martin. "Guess they didn't feed you so well at the shop, huh? Well, here you go."

Martin tossed Shorty some morsels of steak, and a few chips. Shorty eagerly chomped them down.

Later, Martin decided to get some dessert, and so went back to the kitchen and grabbed himself a slice of chocolate cake. As he sat down to enjoy his sweet treat, Shorty scampered across, and eyed the cake with longing eyes.

"My my," said Martin Windpipe. "We are a hungry little doggy tonight, aren't we? Hey, I don't suppose it'll matter if you just have a little bit of cake..." He passed Shorty a small slice of cake, which the dog happily ate.

It would be a slice of cake too far.

Martin Windpipe went to bed, after ensuring Shorty was comfortable and asleep in his new basket. "Goodnight, little pal," said Martin, and retired to his room.

The next morning, Martin Windpipe awoke and blearily staggered into his lounge. He wiped the sleep out of his eyes, and looked around for Shorty.

What he saw HORRIFIED and SICKENED him.

There, in the middle of the lounge, was a pile of dog-poop.

But it gets worse, dear readers. It was not the firm, solid poop. Oh, if only it was that simple. No, readers...it was slightly gooey, and runny.

"Sh-Shorty..." said Martin, as Shorty innocently wandered into the room. "What...what have you done?"

The little dog stared up at his master, and Martin Windpipe swore he could hear the far-off laughter of a Chinaman...

Terrifying, isn't it readers? That's what happens when Man's Best Friend....shits on Man's Best Carpet.

Sleep well.

- The Book-Keeper.

The Disappearing Comments

Comments.

We all like to make them. Whether saying someone's shoes are nice, or whether giving our verdict on Rob Schneider's latest masterpiece, we all like to speak up and share our thoughts.

Or do we?

After posting our first TERRIFYING tale, we noticed something that CHILLED us to our BONES.

The 'comments' button had VANISHED.

Where did it go? Why did it disappear?

Was it the work of dark, sinister forces, putting an age-old curse upon this very blog that damned everyone who read it to live in SILENCE?

Or was it a technical cock-up on Blogger's part?

No-one knows.

Makes you think though, doesn't it?

Or does it?

- The Book-Keeper.

Cake of TERROR

Cakes.

We all like a nice cake, now and again, don't we?

Don't we?

Of course we do. But like anything, only in moderation. Too much cake, and you would become a hideous, fat freak.

Take young Timothy Rinds. An ordinary boy, perhaps. He had his own hair, two legs, a nose. But he was also the kind of boy who just didn't know when to stop, dear reader.

Timothy Rinds loved cake. Barely a moment passed when he wasn't gorging on some Battenburg, or forcing a tart into his gaping gob.

He just loved to eat cake. But little did Timothy Rinds know where his cake-lust was leading him.

"Oh, Timothy," his mother despaired, as young Timothy Rinds shovelled some chocolate cake into his mouth. "You know, sometimes I think you eat so much cake, that one of these days you'll turn into one."

Timothy laughed, and continued eating.

Of course, he did go on to turn into a cake, with frosting and everything. You probably saw that coming, didn't you?

But it's still horrible. I mean, he turned into a freakin' cake! Imagine that! He was all cake-y!

TERRIFYING.

Sleep well, readers...if you CAN.

Hahahahahahahaha!

- The Book-Keeper.

Welcome friends of the foul

Welcome, friends!

I do hope you are sitting comfortably. Or if not sitting, at least lying comfortably. Or maybe crouching, or kneeling comfortably.

The main thing is that you're there, and are comfortable.

For soon, dear readers...soon this place will play host to some of the most SHOCKING and TERRIFYING tales ever placed into a blog bearing this particular name.

Stories so VILE, you may wish to vomit all over yourself, and then kill yourself with a knife and set your corpse alight so you cannot remember the details of the horrors you were witness to.

They'll shit you up something rotten, man.

So stay tuned, you poor saps, as we prepare to open...

THE ANTHOLOGY OF AWFUL!

Sleep well, my pretties.

All the best,

The Book-Keeper.