The Bones of Daniel Hamish: Chapter 2

[foolish_m0rtal]

Title: The Bones of Daniel Hamish: A Macabre Romance
Genre: Horror
Rating: PG-13, some disturbing themes
Summary:  Daniel Hamish is a visiting scholar conducting research on the lands owned by the old family of Windlow manor. Most of the family is gone, and their surviving descendants are, in a word, peculiar.
Notes: I sort of imagine Mr. Ghastly looking like Boris Karloff with James Nesbitt's teeth. Try picturing that. Good lord. 
Hamish is, of course, David Manners.

"Windlow is a large house," Mr. Ghastly said as Hamish followed him through the dimly-lit mud room. Mr. Ghastly had offered to carry one of his bags, and he swung it easily in one hand as he walked. Mr. Ghastly wasn't particularly bulky, but he had a powerful sweeping gait that made Hamish think he could have carried both of bags alone and barely paused for breath. "It is difficult to care for it, so we have closed many of the unused rooms. Yours has been prepared."

They took a set of stairs in the mud room foyer to the second storey, where the passageway split in two. Hamish followed one passage down as far as he could. The floors were wine-coloured carpet, and the wallpaper was dark old-fashioned damask with ornate bronze embellishments. The windows were all covered with heavy drapes, and the electric sconces were filmy. Some of the bulbs had burned out, and they stood black and irregular in the rows.

Mr. Ghastly took him down the other passage, which was narrower and had a sombre line of paintings lining the whitewashed walls on either side. The silence here was eerie, and Hamish's own breath sounded like thunder.

"This is the gallery," Mr. Ghastly murmured. "Where the family portraits are on display."

The people in the portraits glared down at them as they passed. Their clothes and surroundings were all done in dark oils, but their skin glowed pale and unmarked. Hamish stopped in front of a full sized-portrait that depicted a woman rising from a chair. Her face was pulled pack in a contemptuous grimace, and her fingers were claw-like on the arms of the chair.

Hamish took an involuntary step back. "Oh," he breathed, but Mr. Ghastly mistook his tone.

"It is peaceful here," he said. "I walk this hall when I wish to be alone in my thoughts."

Hamish didn't think he could ever feel alone here, and he tried to keep his gaze to the backs of Mr. Ghastly's shoes. He could feel the prickle of painted eyes at the back of his neck, and it made him quicken his pace. The door at the end opened onto a large rotunda with a hallway that turned into a descending staircase.

"Your room is here in the loft." Mr. Ghastly opened one of the hallway doors, and to Hamish's relief, the loft was covered in beautiful dark panelling and had large glass double doors that opened to a balcony overlooking the side gardens. The loft had two bedrooms that faced each other, and Mr. Ghastly said one of them had been boarded up long ago.

"This is lovely," Hamish said and meant it.

"Thank you," Mr. Ghastly replied with a twist of his mouth that spoke of some joke he was enjoying at Hamish's expense. It made the space between Hamish's shoulder blades itch.

Hamish's bedroom was the smaller of the two, but it was still larger than any room he had ever lived in. It had an enormous four-poster bed, an elegant study desk, and bookcases filled with encyclopaedias and reference manuals. Hamish bent to run his fingers across a few titles on reptiles and amphibians that must have been at least twenty years out of date. The whole room had the fusty smell of old papers and withered potpourri, and Hamish wondered if this had once been a scholar's room. He jumped and turned away from the bookshelves as Mr. Ghastly put down his bag.

"I will leave you to refresh yourself, Mr. Hamish. Dinner is at eight in the formal dining room."

"Ah, very good," Hamish replied. He rubbed a hand up and down the goosebumps on his arm. "I, er…is there another way downstairs?" He did not relish the thought of walking back through the gallery.

Mr. Ghastly's mouth twisted up again in a fiendish smirk as if he knew exactly what Hamish was asking. "You may take the rotunda steps down to the kitchen."

"Thank you," Hamish replied and turned away to unpack his bags so Mr. Ghastly would leave. Nonetheless, he felt Mr. Ghastly linger at the door for a moment before shutting it.

Hamish let out a long breath and knuckled his eyes. He supposed Mr. Ghastly was…eccentric, but he had been unfailingly polite and generous; his meagre room and board did not merit such a grand room, and he had granted Hamish unfettered access to the family's woods, where Hamish would be conducting his research. He had been very lucky to make Mr. Ghastly's acquaintance. None of it could explain why he had the sudden and horrible notion that he should have never come to Windlow at all. He put it down to nerves.

Hamish left off unpacking to inspect the washroom, which had its own private attached bath. He surveyed the large claw-footed porcelain tub and thought again that Mr. Ghastly had vastly undercharged him for the room. The water in the basin was rusty, and he waited till it ran clear and hot so he could wash his face and neck.

There wardrobe smelled of pine and mothballs and had more than enough room to hang his small supply of jackets and trousers. He realised he had never asked Mr. Ghastly about the attire for dinner. After some deliberation, he decided to wear one of his better suits because the Windlow residents seemed like an old family that took their dinner in full formal style.

A chill prickled across his chest as he left his room. He did up the buttons of his jacket and pressed on. Large old houses were difficult to keep warm, after all, and Mr. Ghastly was only one man. He counted the doors in the rotunda as he walked down the steps; Annie Liveton had referred to a 'they,' and he wondered who else lived in Windlow. He stared up at the rings of faceted glass windows set into the domed roof and thought that this portion of the house surely looked beautiful on a bright sunny day.

The sweeping staircase led down to the main floor, and Hamish heard the sound of pots and pans coming from beyond a heavy metal door with an impressive bolt lock that looked like it required two hands to operate. The metal was probably to ensure fire did not spread if a kitchen fire broke out, but Hamish wondered why the lock was on the outside, effectively trapping anyone in the kitchen inside with the fire.

He knocked on the door and then opened it a crack to peer inside. "Mr. Ghastly?"

He jumped as something shot past like a dart, missing his shoulder by inches. Hamish looked down and found a butcher's knife embedded in the woodwork beside his neck. Its handle was quivering.

"Mr. Hamish," Mr. Ghastly said from the door, and Hamish startled again.

Mr. Ghastly was wearing a white apron and had his dark sleeves rolled to his elbows. He might have looked quite domestic if not for the dried brown stains on the apron. "I apologise," he said and raised his hands. They were smeared with dark blood down to his wrists. "Slippery hands. You are unharmed?"

"Y-Yes," Hamish replied and tried to slow his thundering heartbeat. "I didn't realise you did all the cooking."

"My own hobby," Mr. Ghastly replied. He clenched and unclenched his hands with a faint squelching of blood. "I enjoy it, and there are only two of us. Now three, with you here."

"Three?" Hamish said.

"Yes," Mr. Ghastly replied. Hamish froze as he reached out to retrieve the knife. Ghastly pulled it out of the wood and wiped it on his apron, where it left a long bright red smear. "Allow me to introduce you to my sister."

The delicious smell of slow roasted pork and potatoes rose to meet him as he followed Ghastly into the kitchen. The kitchen itself was a large full-service and had a breakfast nook with large bay windows. Unlike the rest of the house, everything in the kitchen looked relatively new. There was a rocking chair next to the oven. It was moving back and forth in a strong steady rhythm and filled with what Hamish first thought was a tall bundle of sheets until he came closer.

It was a woman. Or, at least, Hamish supposed it was a woman. She was wearing a pale heavy gown and a thick veil that fell to her knees. She was clutching the arms of the chair with both hands, and her lacy gloves ran under the closely cut sleeves of her gown. Her cuffs had a tiny row of pearl buttons running up the sides.

"This is my sister, Opelika," Mr. Ghastly said and bent to drop a kiss on top of her head. "Opelika, this is Mr. Hamish, the new border who will be staying with us for a while."

Opelika kept rocking as if she hadn't heard him. Mr. Ghastly shook his head and went back to wash his hands. "Please excuse her, Mr. Hamish. She gets so excitable around strangers."

Hamish barked out a laugh but then realised it hadn't been a joke, so he turned it into a cough. "Er, it's quite alright. Miss…ah, Miss Opelika. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Opelika didn’t even turn her head. He couldn't see her face through the veil.

"Opelika," Mr. Ghastly said. "The plates and silverware need setting." She didn't move. Mr. Ghastly drummed his fingers against the butcher's block. "Opelika."

"I would be glad to help," Hamish cut in. Ghastly's sister seemed to be in a mood.

Ghastly stared at his sister and then nodded slowly. "We will use the good plates tonight," he said set Hamish to fetching them off the shelves. Hamish was glad to have something to do while Mr. Ghastly finished preparing dinner; at the very least, it saved him from having to stand next to Opelika and try to make small talk. Ghastly served the meat and potatoes into a dish, and Hamish followed him out of the kitchen with a stack of plates and cutlery.

"These are unusual plates," Hamish remarked. The chargers were dark red and had skeletons dancing in a circle all around the edge. Each skeleton was unique and had its own embellishments: a shepherd's crook, a noblewoman's headdress, a priest's cowl.

"It's the danse macabre," Mr. Ghastly replied. "The dance of death. Very popular in the late-mediaeval times. It was meant to illustrate how death unites us all, no matter our stations."

"It's very…intricate," Hamish replied, unsure of what to say. It really was a wonderful piece of artistry, no matter how morbid.

"Yes," Ghastly replied. "One of my ancestors painted it to match the formal dining room."

"I beg your pardon?" Hamish replied, but then Ghastly pushed open the door to the dining room.

The painting here was done in lurid colours and even more gruesome than the plates. The dancers were all life-sized and dressed according to their station. A priest, a peasant, an emperor. They were holding hands and interspersed with emaciated brown corpses that had bits of burial shroud swirling around their bodies. The corpses were all leaping gracefully and grinning with awful toothy smiles at the human dancers, who looked stiff and reluctant to join the dance. Hamish followed the gruesome parade of dancers down the room and back.

"It's a replica of the Lübecker Totentanz," Ghastly said. "A perfect replica. The old one, as you know, was destroyed in the war."

"Do…do you dine here often?" Hamish asked. He wondered who in the family had decided to put the painting here to put as many people off their dinners as possible.

Mr. Ghastly shook his head. "No. We are very informal here, Mr. Hamish. Though I'm honoured you dressed for the occasion." His eyes ran up and down Hamish's suit, and Hamish felt distinctly uncomfortable. "There are only two of us, and we usually eat in the breakfast nook. But tonight is your first evening here, so we wanted to indulge you."

"That's very kind of you," Hamish replied and hoped he would never eat in the dining room ever again.

By the time they had finished setting out the food and silverware, Opelika appeared at the door. The dining table was long and built to seat many generations of family. Hamish and Ghastly had set up a very respectable spread at one end of the table near the door, but she floated past them to sit far away near the middle.

"Opelika, come here," Ghastly said and gestured for Hamish to sit down. After a moment, Opelika rose to sit across from Hamish, and Ghastly took his place at the head of the table. Ghastly picked up the carving knife and gestured to Hamish's plate. "We serve our guests the first cut."

"Shouldn't we say grace first, Mr. Ghastly?" Hamish asked, and a brief look of genuine alarm passed over Ghastly's face.

He recovered a moment later and put the carving knife back down. "Ah, thank you. Would you lead us, Mr. Hamish?"

It was Hamish's turn to be alarmed. He had only suggested grace because it was the proper thing to do. He lived alone now and usually forgot about it, though his mother had always insisted they observe the tradition at home.

Hamish reached out for Ghastly's hand and instantly regretted it because Ghastly's hands were as cold as ice, and he had a powerful grip. Opelika didn't offer her hand, so Mr. Ghastly had to reach out and take it. Hamish didn't want to take such liberties as a guest and let it be. The three of them reminded him too much of the images on the plates and the walls, people from all stations joining in the danse macabre.

Instead, he bowed his head and blurted out the only thing he could remember, the old prayer from his days in boarding school. "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen."

"Amen," Ghastly said almost inaudibly, and Opelika said nothing at all. Hamish dropped his hand as fast as he could, and it might have been his imagination, but he thought that Mr. Ghastly's fingers lingered against his palm for a few seconds more than custom warranted.

But then he forgot all about it as Mr. Ghastly served a round of mashed potatoes and succulent beef pressed with rosemary. Hamish's stomach suddenly reminded him he'd had nothing all day except rolls and tea at the station for breakfast, and he ate without reserve. Instead of being offended, Ghastly seemed amused, and he didn't attempt any conversation, seemingly content to sit back and watch Hamish eat. That should have unnerved Hamish if he had spared any thought to anything but his plate.

By the time he polished off his first helping, Hamish's stomach had quieted, and he was feeling embarrassed about his earlier behaviour. Ghastly was still only halfway through the potatoes.

"Oh no," Mr. Ghastly replied when Hamish tried to apologise. "It's good to see someone enjoying my food. Cream of parsnip soup?"

"Er, thank you," Hamish said and let Ghastly fill his bowl. He eyed the soup bowl with equal parts horror and fascination. It was in the shape of a man's upturned head. The man's mouth was open in a scream, and Ghastly dipped the tureen into it for the soup. Hamish nevertheless took a tentative sip of the soup and then a more enthusiastic one. "Your food is excellent. Thank you for arranging all this."

"It's my pleasure," Mr. Ghastly replied. He licked a bead of soup from the corner of his mouth, and for the first time Hamish noticed that his tongue was very red. "It is the first time we've had a boarder in months. In your letter you told me you were interested in our woods?"

"Yes," Hamish replied and took a sip of wine to quell his stomach. "I've found accounts of them in the archives, and they appear to date back to the twelfth century."

"Fascinating," Mr. Ghastly said. "Though I confess, I don't see why the royal society is interested."

"We'll see in the soil sampling," Hamish said and then realised a moment later how silly that sounded. Ghastly at least hadn't started laughing at him. "My speciality is in chemistry, but I work for the department to test ground quality. The archives indicate that your woods are…different. I'm not certain how."

"I look forward to your conclusions," Mr. Ghastly replied. "But what about you, Mr. Hamish?"

Their knees knocked together, and Hamish realised Ghastly had been moving his chair closer and closer. "I-I beg your pardon?" he managed.

"I'm curious how a man like you chooses to go into the natural sciences after your background in…"

"Chemistry," Hamish said. "Biochemistry, actually." His throat was suddenly dry, and he reached for his wineglass but found it empty. Ghastly took it without taking his eyes from Hamish's face and refilled it. The smell of wine was dark and bitter.

Ghastly returned the glass and when Hamish closed his hands around it, he wrapped his cold fingers around one of Hamish's wrists. "Bio-chemistry," he pronounced as if it were a foreign word to savour. "A new field? Prestigious?"

"Yes." Hamish twisted his wrist to break free because Ghastly was only using his forefinger and thumb, but his grip was like stone. "I was one of the first to apply for the degree."

Mr. Ghastly tightened his grip. It sent a shock of numbness up Hamish's arm. "Top of your class, I'd wager."

"Y-Yes, I…" Hamish cleared his throat. He wasn't sure how to free his wrist without being impolite. "I was." Ghastly was leaning much too far into his space, and Hamish darted a look at Opelika, silently urging her to speak. She was sitting with her hands folded on top of each other, and the food on her plate was untouched. She didn't move.

"Hm," Ghastly said and ran his thumb against the underside of Hamish' wrist. "And yet, here you are in my house, studying soil samples." Ghastly gave him a ghoulish smile, and swiped his red tongue over his row of teeth. "Not that I have any objections, of course."

"Sir," Hamish finally said. "I believe you are cutting off the circulation to my hand."

Ghastly finally released him, and Hamish pulled back and rubbed his wrist. It was tingling as if he'd just knocked his elbow.

"I apologise," Mr. Ghastly said. "Mr. Hamish, I deeply apologise."

"It's alright," Hamish replied. He felt flustered and too warm except for the place around his wrist that burned with cold. The entire dining room was chilly, and he pulled his jacket closer. The material chaffed his wrist like burlap.

Ghastly shrank back into his role as genial host. "More soup?" he asked and dunked the tureen into the screaming man's mouth. Steam rose from it in a cloud.

"Thank you, I'm not hungry," Hamish replied and tried to stop his hands from shaking. He nodded to Opelika. "But Miss Opelika, would you like a bowl?"

"She usually eats later," Ghastly said. "She just joins us at dinner to be polite, and I keep a plate warm for her in the oven."

"I see," Hamish replied and tried to relax back into his chair. Annie Livton had told him that the people in Windlow were peculiar but good people. Perhaps Ghastly had only wanted to be friendly. Certainly, he wasn't looking at Hamish now as if he were a particularly tasty potato to be gobbled up. "Did your family always have dinners here?"

"Always," Mr. Ghastly replied. "But that was when I was a boy."

"Yet you said there are only two of you now," Hamish said. The soup in his bowl had grown cold, but he finished it anyway.

"There was an accident," Mr. Ghastly said. His eyes had gone half-lidded. "A most extraordinary set of circumstances. They've all passed. Only Opelika and I are left."

"I'm sorry," Hamish replied. He imagined the house felt quite empty now.

"What does your family think of you living here, Mr. Hamish?" Ghastly asked, and Hamish was glad for the change of subject.

"Why, they're quite close to Lonee, actually," Hamish replied. "They live in Davro."

"On the contrary, Davro is very far away," Ghastly said.

"Not when compared to Æfts," Hamish replied. "That's where I live. I'm close to the university there. My mother is likely to ask me to visit while I'm here."

"I apologise for the convenience," Mr. Ghastly replied drily.

"I'm the convenient son," Hamish said. "One of my brothers is in the embassy in Paris and the other does business in America. I'm the only one still in the country."

"You're the youngest," Ghastly said.

"Yes, I am. But however did you know?"

"You have that air about you," Mr. Ghastly replied. "One of my distant cousins had three elder brothers. You remind me of him. His brothers are ex-patriots living in Italy now."

"Oh? And where is he?"

Ghastly cocked his head to one side. "They chopped him up and baked him into a pie."

Hamish sucked in a breath and then burst out laughing.

Mr. Ghastly grinned too, a smile reminiscent of the corpses dancing along the walls. He raised the bottle of wine. "Would you care for more?"

"Yes, thank you," Hamish said and pushed his glass forward.

For dessert Ghastly presented a beautiful pear crumble that made Hamish forget his manners again and take seconds. Ghastly obliged him with a smile that Hamish imagined the witch must have given Hansel and Gretel while they feasted on her house. He made a point to thank Mr. Ghastly again for the meal, which had been very welcome after his long day.

"I'm just fattening you up," Ghastly replied, and Hamish choked on a pear.

Later, they retired to the music room with glasses of very good port. Opelika didn't seem to care for food or drink, and she immediately ensconced herself in the chair closest to the window.

The music room had glass cabinets with rows of violins and flutes on display, but Hamish's eyes went to the piano in the centre of the room. It was panelled with dark wood and had carvings of vines and flowers running across it. The lid was propped open, and Hamish could see the underside had been painted in thunderous browns and yellows. He bent closer to study it.

"Painting of hell by Bosch," Mr. Ghastly said.

Hamish wondered whether the portrait was somehow supposed to inspire piano students to practice. "It's a very faithful reproduction."

"You've seen the original?" Ghastly asked. He pulled out the piano bench and they sat down.

"In a museum when we were on holiday in the Netherlands," Hamish replied. "My mother is an avid art lover."

"And you?"

Hamish shrugged. "My forte is the sciences."

"Yes." Mr. Ghastly sipped his wine and then placed it next to him on the bench. "Mr. Hamish, I've forgotten to ask you if you require any space for your experiments."

There was a rustle of fabric from the corner as Opelika unfolded her arms and sat up.

"No," Hamish replied. "Thank you, but I would rather gather samples and notes now and do my experiments in the department laboratories." Opelika leaned back into her chair. Hamish watched her out of the corner of his eye and wondered what had inspired her earlier interest. He ran a finger across the piano's dark fallboard. "Besides, I rather doubt you have the equipment I would need."

"Do you play?" Mr. Ghastly asked with a nod to the piano. He pushed back the fallboard.

Hamish licked his lips. The white keys reminded him unsettlingly of Ghastly's teeth. He cleared his throat. "I did. My cousin and I used to play together, but I'm afraid I'm out of practice."

"Opelika is a dancer," Mr. Ghastly said. "The two of you must entertain us sometime."

He dropped a heavy hand upon Hamish's shoulder, and the words stuck in his throat. "Yes, of course," he found himself saying and did not recognize his own voice. "It is a beautiful instrument."

Mr. Ghastly looked pleased. "Thank you. It has been in the family for many generations. The keys are made of bone."

"Really." Hamish ran over the keys in a flowing scale. They were warm against his fingertips. "What kind?"

"My great-great-grandfather's."

Hamish snatched his hands back. "Your what?"

"He was very fond of music, so he gave his bones to make the piano. So he could always hear music, he said." Ghastly's eyes went expectedly to the piano. "Will you play something?"

Hamish stood without touching the keys. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit tired."

Thankfully, Mr. Ghastly seemed to agree. "You've been travelling all day, I expect," he said. "You should rest."

It was all the dismissal Hamish needed. He fled the music room and its horrible piano, not stopping till he'd run up the rotunda stairs and shut the door to his room. He paced the room a few times and revelled in its normalcy. This was a place filled with his sensible tweed suits and his papers. It had plain white towels next to the wash basin and books on history and science. He felt safer here than anywhere else in the house then wondered when he had begun to think of parts of Windlow as unsafe. Surely not earlier in the evening with Ghastly. Hamish rubbed his eyes and longed for the wine that was sitting half-finished in the music room.

The dinner must have made him sleepy, because Hamish changed directly into his pyjamas and climbed into bed. He pulled down the outdated book on reptiles from the shelves and began to read, but it must have been boring or he must have been more tired than he realised, because he fell into a deep sleep by the end of the preface with the book still balanced on his stomach.

A clap of thunder jolted Hamish awake, and he was disoriented for a moment before his mind realigned itself with his surroundings. He was in Windlow, in one of the spare rooms. It was still dark, and the weight of the book on his stomach was gone. Then the lighting flashed through his window and highlighted a dark figure standing over him with a candle that cast a pool of light over the blankets.

Hamish recoiled against the sheets with a cry and then lay there gasping with a hand over his heart. "Mr. Ghastly?" he said and winced as his voice cracked. "You startled me."

Ghastly didn't move. Hamish struggled to sit up, but his movements were heavy and sluggish.

Mr. Ghastly moved the candle higher so that its light cast a halo around his hair, and then he extinguished the wick with a twist of his fingers. The room went dark, much darker than it should have from a single candle, and the curling smoke drifted towards him. It smelled dank like still water. Hamish shivered. Thunder rumbled across the gardens outside.

"Mr. Ghastly, is something the matter?" he tried again. He froze as one of Mr. Ghastly's hands descended onto his hair and then along his jaw. Hamish caught his breath. He should have expected this, because he had seen the way Mr. Ghastly had stared at him over dinner with his blank eyes and red tongue.

Mr. Ghastly caught his chin and tipped it up, and Hamish was already leaning up towards him when Mr. Ghastly met him halfway and pressed a cold kiss to the corner of his mouth. He knelt to sit on the bed and then leaned forward till Hamish was pressed against the headboard. Ghastly braced himself on his arms, his hands bracketing Hamish's thighs. Hamish felt a chill chase through his bones, not the crisp snap of winter but a dull ache that glowed like a bruise. The more he pressed against Mr. Ghastly, the more he shivered, until he thought he would never feel his fingers and toes again.

He put his arms around Mr. Ghastly's shoulders, and they felt cold and immutable like marble. He hissed as Mr. Ghastly touched their lips together in another cold kiss. God, and he had wondered why he had been so flustered when Ghastly had seized his wrist and interrogated him at dinner.

"Mr. Ghastly," he started, but Ghastly suddenly pressed into Hamish's mouth, and his hungry tongue was hot, almost scalding. Hamish shuddered and let himself be burned. Lightning flashed across his room again, and it was the edge of the butcher knife that had whistled past his neck and embedded itself into the woodwork. Hamish felt himself falling and reached out to grab onto the edge, but it cut his hands and made them slip away. His mouth sang with the hot prickliness of a burn, and he tumbled back into blackness.

Comments

[obseletevulture.livejournal.com]

My dear, you know that I love what you do to the gothic.

It's like a breath of fresh air after sitting in a horror/sci-fi section on the floor, sighing for most of the summer. It has such a lovely classical feel, in the almost-over-the-top DEATH EVERYWHERE, but more in the details of the rooms.

(We will of course assume that the reason a hugely promising scientist like mister Hamish prefers to stay on his own is perhaps due to potential scandal which does not make Mister Ghastly's advances at all unwelcome.)

Of course, over-the-top ghastly seductions are a staple of the classic gothic, too. (DOHOHOHOHOHO. BADPUN. *BUTCHERKNIF'D*)

I look forward to seeing what you do with this. ^^ (As always.)

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

BADPUNWIN LOLOLOL.

Thanks very much for your support!! I'm behind on chapters and graphics hw is due on Monday. (It took two weeks to get 3 points, and I need 27 more in two days. That's a genuine scary story)

I think I'm falling behind with the story, but it's still alive!

[obseletevulture.livejournal.com]

PUNS LIKE THESE ARE WHY WE ARE TREMENDOUSLY OLD FRIENDS.

Aaaaah. That IS a genuinely scary story. o_o Goodness.

Is it now? XD I forgot to mention how much I love the "pork" thing there when they have beef for dinner. I know, granted, that beef is probably more repulsive to you, personally, but it's that whole thing about "long pork" and all the rest...
She eats off a special dish, indeed. You didn't need that leg, did you? Didn't think so.

Jeez. You aren't doing nanowrimo, right? That would just make this all the more frightening...

[foolish-m0rtal.livejournal.com]

Oh, dammit. That was a slip up on my part. That part about pork should be beef. What is this thing with pork that you're talking about?