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.