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.