It is only during the whole of a dark, dreary, night, as the clouds of wind most foul hang oppressively about my deathbed that I dare pen this confession. And yet in spite of the insufferable torments that I presently endure as my wretched soul and tottering frame await expiration from this earthly domain, where the very air I breathe is permeated by the stench of rotting cabbage, the result of an ever-present flatulence which burns the hair from my nostrils and drives my servants with utmost haste from my bed, I still do not pine for the days of my youth, for they were rife with tragedy.
If the reader of this tale is of sound mind, he might surely mistake the following passages as the delusions of an old man beset by the ravages of senility, or, at worst, the ravings of a madman. Before judging me as either senile or mad, I must implore you to think twice before making such simple assumptions, for to do so would thwart my very motives in relating to you this awful tale in the first place. I reveal these ghastly details to you, dear reader, as a warning, lest you too should fall prey to the evils that have haunted me for the greater part of my days. Hear me now and take heed, for it is only by the grace of God that you are spared such horrors as I have witnessed in my lifetime.
At the age of five, my brother Thomas was taken from us on the moors, consumed by the black depths of mire; a very nasty death to which I bore witness but was ill-equip to prevent for lack of a branch to pull him free. Not soon after, my dear sister, Agnes, was to meet her untimely demise, trampled under hoof and ground into a soft pile of bloody porridge by her own beloved horse, Frostbite. Father, distraught and horrified, had taken his hunting rifle in hand and shot Frostbite between the eyes that same terrible afternoon. A fortnight thereafter my dear mother, cast deep into the throws of depression over the loss of her two children, had leapt to her death from the attic window of our estate on the moors. One year later, on the anniversary of my mother’s suicide, my father, now inconsolable with grief, chopped himself to pieces with an axe.
It was in the year 1879 that I found myself orphaned, a frail child plagued by ill health, now to be taken under the protective wing of my eccentric uncle, Gaylord Rothschild, Esquire. A solicitor possessed of a somewhat shady reputation, my uncle was more than happy to take up residence in the palatial home of his late sister, my mother, Victoria, and, in turn, raise me, her only surviving child.
My uncle was soon summoned to the estate with the provision that he be paid a stipend for his troubles, to be deducted monthly from my sizeable inheritance until I was to reach eighteen years of age. It was under the care of my uncle that I was to first learn of the Lancashire family curse.
This first encounter with my Uncle Gaylord has been forever emblazoned upon my memory due to the bizarre circumstances which preceded it. The fog on the moors was as thick as pea soup on that fateful morning. I had been forbidden by my doting nanny, Miss Prickwick, to venture out onto the moors, lest I suffer the same unfortunate fate as my brother, Thomas, or contract pneumonia from the damp and chill which seemed to hover over the estate for the entire four seasons of every year since my first recollection of childhood. But, the mind of a child can scarcely grasp the weight of such impending dangers. Quiet as a church mouse I crept, down the stairwell from my bedroom and through the great entrance hall of the estate, determined to meet my uncle upon his arrival without the inevitably formal introduction that would be presided over by my overly-protective and ever-cautious house staff. Wrapped from head to toe in woolen cloak, scarf, suit, socks and cap, I ventured out onto the fog-shrouded moors. I well understood the ever-present threat of my ill health, for I had suffered greatly in the early years of my life due to a weak immunity to all things phlegm, vomit, cough, rash, puss, boil or diarrhea-related. My woolen scarf was wrapped tightly in cocoon-like fashion about my face and neck, leaving only tiny crevices from which I could see and breathe. Venturing several yards beyond the stone gates of the estate, I treaded with great caution upon the rocky terrain of the moors, ever careful to leap over the deadly pools of black mire which lay before me in a vast expanse, a labyrinth of impending doom, seemingly eager to drag me to my death at the first opportunity provided.
At length I wandered a great distance from the estate, far from the safety of its stone walls. Breathless, I paused briefly and sat upon a decaying tree stump to rest. My eyes fell upon a thicket of twisted, fog-enshrouded trees adjacent to where I now sat. As I peered into the dense fog I spied what appeared to be two red eyes staring back in my direction. Like hellish balls of fire, they seemed to pierce my very soul! I could just make out the vague shadow of some hideous, misshapen figure clad in tattered rags, which held these eyes within the sockets of its large, pumpkin-shaped skull. The thing did not move, but simply stood, frozen, gazing at me. A frightful chill ran up my spine as I was held transfixed by the crimson glow of its hideous stare. Suddenly the confoundedly stationary creature winced as if in great discomfort, shifted its weight to the left and broke wind, loudly, and for what seemed an eternity. At great length the gaseous excretion concluded with a quick series of stuttering anal pops, not unlike a steam propelled engine grinding slowly to a halt. The air around me seemed to sour within seconds, as if a thousand rotten eggs had been trodden upon by the foot of a giant who possessed questionable personal hygiene. It was not unlike having a pair of soiled diapers rammed up one’s nostrils with a forked twig basted in pig excrement. Before this hideous creature, I stood frozen in mortal terror.
Finally the monster spoke, in a gurgling rasp spat from black and blistered lips that I could not see, but rather sensed with fearful intuition.
“The curse!” it hissed. “The curse is upon thee, boy! Hear these words and mark them well, for your destiny lies at the gates of Hell! I know of your…existence-impaired parents and sibling…for the curse of our house has no mercy…what with the incessant farting and demons and death and demonic forces which now hold us at their wicked whims…bound are we for all eternity! You are the last of our bloodline, and your destiny is now at hand, my son! Son of the House of Lancashire!”
Taken aback by the foulness of its anal emissions and foreboding words, I was stirred from my frozen state with a jarring shock. With utmost haste I turned from the beast, fleeing blindly back to the sanctuary of my estate, sprinting clumsily over the jagged terrain of the moors, now unconcerned with the threat of the deadly pools of slime which threatened to pull me down into their black depths, should I make a wrong step.
“You are bound to me by birth, as my own flesh and blood! In my fate so shall ye find your own!” the thing shrieked at me in the distance. “Wait, boy!...Pay no heed to the bad “hear me well…gates of Hell” rhyme! I was never good at rhyming! And I may need to borrow your scarf as I seemed to have had a slight accident...as the flatulent prerequisite stipulations of our family curse seem to bare little respect for one’s trousers!”
I am forever grateful that the monster did not give chase, or, on that fateful day, I too would have surely met my doom at the twisted hands of the foul creature. My haste was made all the more urgent for want of a clean change of underwear, as my current pair had been soiled beyond salvage in both directions. In this respect it did seem, for the time being, the Monster of the Moors and myself were bound by fate.
After making my precarious journey back to the estate I hastened to my bedroom to remove the soiled trousers from my person. Following a quick visit to my wash basin I fell prostrate upon my bed and was immediately consumed by a death-like sleep plagued by terrible visions of the horrible creature and numerous repulsive scatological incidents that I would scarce mention for fear that uttering their repulsive details might bring about their grim reality in waking life. I was thankfully awakened from my horrible visions by the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones of the courtyard. It was my uncle Gaylord arrived by coach from London. I gazed from my bedroom window down onto the courtyard, where, for the first time, I was to lay eyes on my uncle in the flesh. The man was of a gangly build of nearly comical proportions; he was thin as a rail, his towering height made all the more remarkable by the beaver pelt top hat resting atop his skeletal frame. Creeping wildly from beneath the hat were spidery wisps of hair as black as a raven’s feathers which floated loosely around a face possessing both cadaverous features and a ghostly pallor. As he took his bags from the coachman, my face, peering from the window above the courtyard, caught his wild, piercing black eyes and, for a long, awkward moment, we gazed curiously at one another, each of us silently appraising his new-begotten upholder. Almost absently, I raised my hand in a half-hearted wave, as if seeking his acknowledgement of my presence, to which my uncle responded with a slight nod of his head. For reasons unknown to me, perhaps brought about by some dreadful instinct entombed deeply within my soul or, I suspect, formulated by an even more horrid preconception of events that had yet come to pass, a terrible chill ran up my spine at that fortuitous moment. I backed quickly away from the window, seeking solace in the shadows beyond my uncle’s unnerving gaze.
Our more formal introduction took place in my father’s drawing room later that evening. A fire was lit and we conversed over tea. Uncle Gaylord professed his profound condolences for my great loss, but informed me that pity would play no part in his stern plans for my future. I was then told that I was to be severely beaten on a daily basis with a silver tipped walking stick for no particular reason. Next my uncle produced a list of demands so lengthy and bizarre that I can scarcely recall them all. Firstly, I wasn’t to make what my uncle referred to as “that face”.
“It will never do, young Nathaniel. You look as though you’d trodden in dog excrement. One must never give the impression of a sour demeanor”, he informed me. Next was the requirement that I shove a potato up my bottom to prove to my uncle that when assigned a task, no matter how outlandish, I would not waver in my dedication to its completion. I was forbidden to either mention or think of tropical fruit, and my pants were to be ill-tailored in the crotch to keep me in a constant state of discomfort. After my morning beating I was to soak my head in a bucket of gruel, and then be beaten again about the face and neck with a sock full of putrefied kippers. If I dared to complain, I was to suffer yet another beating with a cricket bat studded with carpet tacks and shards of broken glass that would have been previously lacquered with a thick layer of arsenic.
After my uncle had finished listing the tortures I was to endure while in his care, I was quick to remind him that, while I did respect his efforts and was indeed grateful for his sacrifices on my behalf, I was, in fact, his benefactor and that I would not submit to such insane and sadistic demands. My insolence was rewarded with a severe beating with the aforementioned walking stick, after which my head was shaved down to the scalp and forcibly submerged into a chamber pot filled with what I could only hope was vinegar.
“You will learn your place, young Nathaniel, for these punishments are laid forth by the cross you bear as the sole heir to the House of Lancashire. There is a pestilence upon this house, a curse to which your suffering acts as restitution for the black deeds of your forefathers.” my uncle proclaimed after pulling my head from the potty.
Following this first of what my uncle proposed as an ongoing series of vicious and degrading assaults, I was propped precariously upright in a chair opposite my newfound mentor and unenthusiastically offered the use of a conveniently handy doily to dry my sodden brow. After a few moments of dabbing futilely at my damp skin with the small, decorative cloth, Uncle Gaylord leaned forward and, with a gravely serious tone, presented me with an ominous and dreadful question. Was I not aware of the curse upon the Lancashire bloodline?
“No” I answered. I was in no way aware of a family curse.
“Oh my, my, my” he said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a meerschaum pipe, slowly drawing one thick puff after another and seemingly relishing my piqued interest and mounting horror. For several moments he sat, nearly motionless, glaring at me with a bemused grin, puffing at the pipe with a morbid twinkle in his black eyes. Finally he resumed his foreboding lecture.
“Well lad it seems you have much to learn…things of a distinctly unpleasant nature, I’m afraid”.
This dire warning was then followed by the tale of the Curse of the House of Lancashire. And so it was that at the tender age of eight years that I was to learn of the legacy of horrors that my ancestors had unleashed upon this world. Deeds so foul and repugnant that, even now, lain to waste by the ravages of old age, I am ashamed to confess them.
As related to me by my uncle, the curse was set into motion by my great, great grandfather, Ephraim Lancashire, an aspiring warlock who fully submerged himself into the black art of witchcraft following his excommunication from the Church for his bizarre request that his marriage to a goat named, Gertrude Jackson III be legally binding. Now bereft of faith in all things holy, my great, great grandfather thereafter sought his revenge in all things blasphemous and impure. My ancestral home was rumored to have become a veritable house of horrors. Satanic worship, black magic and even acts of human sacrifice were believed to have taken place in the house of my upbringing as well as some perverse ritual involving the employment of several pork sausages, the use of a polyamorous Albanian sex midget, and a box of moldy hand puppets. Later, when a number of children from the hamlets surrounding my ancestral home disappeared without explanation, the families of the children blamed Ephraim Lancashire. A blood-thirsty mob hell-bent on the destruction of my infamous ancestor was assembled, but was soon disbanded for lack of enthusiasm. Twenty minutes later a quick-thinking charwoman whose daughter had mysteriously vanished tempted the mob back into action with the promise of a reward of hot chocolate and sweets. The angry throng thus fortified with the aforementioned confectionary delights and delicious, steaming hot chocolate then laid siege to the estate, dragging Ephraim from his home and into the courtyard, where he was burned alive with great enthusiasm.
Before his last breath was taken it was said that he did curse his assassins with demonic incantations and that from the flames did arise creatures from the blackest pits of hell, which did wreak havoc upon the villages that lay beyond the moors. A small army of archbishops was said to have been summoned to the area, who then dispatched the demonic forces through ancient religious rites of exorcism employing the use of several sets of false buck teeth, a wooden effigy of Jesus Christ, painted purple with a plum fastened to its nose, which the archbishops referred to as “Magic Bobby”, and a collection of rat tails tied to a stick. Why my ancestral home was not burned to the ground is a matter of some conjecture, but it was said have a great deal to do with the fact that the hot chocolate had run out.
Scarcely had my grandfather’s ashes scattered into the blustering winds of that black winter, than arose terrible mutterings amongst the villagers that Ephraim Lancashire had fathered a son, birthed by some unholy succubus, a twisted monster, sealed alive within the walls of the estate in the very chamber in which my great, great grandfather had performed his horrible deeds of sacrifice, goat-fucking and demonic worship. There the creature would remain for eternity, standing sentinel at the portal to Hell, which had been conjured into this world by Ephraim Lancashire.
Henceforth, the monster was referred to as, “The Beast of Lancashire Moor” by the indigenous population who passed the horrible tale from generation to generation in cautious, fearful whispers. It was this dreadful creature who would continue the Lancashire bloodline by escaping his subterranean prison and subsequently raping a young maiden who had become lost on the moors. This unfortunate young lass was none other than Elizabeth Kelly, my grandmother, who, finding herself with child and out of wedlock, fled her father’s farm to seek residence in the House of Lancashire. Elizabeth, having learned of the monster’s legacy, sought him out so that he might take up the responsibilities of fatherhood.
My grandmother was a woman of uncommonly strong will and foul mouth and was not about to let her rapist shirk from his obligations as the father of what would be her only child. The fact that he happened to be a grotesque, deformed monster of unholy origin was of little consequence, as she had no intention of raising the child alone.
She confronted the beast in the great hall of the estate. The creature was apparently dumfounded by my grandmother’s boldness, but after much deliberation and threats of castration of my grandfather’s monstrous genitalia, the matter was settled. My grandmother and her unborn child, the unholy spawn of this devilish creature, were to take up residence in the House of Lancashire for a period not to be determined by legal intervention. And so it was that nine months later my grandmother gave birth to the child.
Much to their surprise, my father appeared normal in all respects, save for his monstrous claw-like feet and spiked tail, deformities that my parents had apparently kept hidden from their children, as this was the first I’d learned of them.
Finally, my uncle paused, sitting back in his chair and lighting his pipe. He puffed deeply, blowing a thick cloud of aromatic smoke into my face, and then continued as I coughed.
“This of course was your father, Lionel” he continued.
“But my father’s name was Alfred” I corrected, receiving a harsh clot on the side of my head for my interruption.
“And of course everyone had enormous private parts” he added. “Private parts should always be enormous, nearly bursting from the trousers of their monstrously endowed masters in search of random, shady sexual encounters! Thrusting! Thrusting! Finally ejaculating with white-hot sexual desire!”
Here my uncle paused yet again, his eyes wild, his body quivering from head to toe. He emitted a deep, lengthy groan and finally relaxed, sitting back in his chair.
“So the creature on the moors, the vulgar beast dressed in rags with the hideous, red eyes, this monster is actually my grandfather?” I questioned, nearly numb from shock.
“The very same” my uncle answered. “You have seen the creature then?” he asked.
“Yes, only this morning, shrouded in fog, eyes like balls of Hellfire.” I answered.
“That’s him alright. Monstrous genitals I expect” he pondered.
“I could not make out his features that clearly, Uncle. I was frightened and yet he did not harm me.” I said.
“No, no I shouldn’t think he would. Probably plans to have you baby sit those gates of Hell of his while he’s out raping virgins” He ventured.
“But how would I do that?” I asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. It’s your family curse not mine. I’m sure you’ll sort it out. I suppose you’d just sit in a chair and make sure no demons or slithering, multi-tentacled monsters escape and wreak havoc on mankind, that sort of thing. I hear the incubi are the worst. Randy sods, running around rodgering everything in sight! Gargantuan private parts on that lot! Absolutely huge! Dongs as thick as your forearm, two feet long and testicles the size of grapefruits. Can you imagine?! I know I can!”
My uncle’s fascination with enormous private parts aside, this horrible saga was nothing short of terrifying to my frail, young mind. I became faint at the very thought of the fate that awaited me and suffered a dizzy spell as I rose from my chair, attempting yet another pathetic protest. My vision blurred as the room began to spin around me.
“There’s that awful face of yours again” were the last words I heard before I fainted dead away in shock.
I awoke the next morning tucked uncomfortably into what I had so previously considered to be the welcoming sanctuary of my own bedclothes, my head throbbing and wrapped in bandages. Immediately I detected a rank, foul odor about the room. As my vision came into focus I spotted a large, disemboweled rat which lay upon my chest. The decaying carcass fluttered to and fro sickeningly, teaming with a squirming sea of bloated and hungry maggots. In utter disgust, I attempted to propel the odious rodent from my person, only to realize that my hands had been bound tightly to the posts of my bed frame and that my frantic cries of protest were muffled by the handkerchief knotted tightly across my mouth. Not two minutes after my rude awakening, my Uncle Gaylord entered the room with a tray laid out with my breakfast.
“Good Lord, boy! What a stench! I say, you’ve got a disemboweled rodent upon your chest!” he roared, visibly repulsed.
I pulled at my restraints and slobbered more cries of protest and disgust.
“What sort of sick mischief is this, laddie?”
I could not answer, though I tried desperately to make myself understood through the gag.
“Well have you nothing to say for yourself?” he asked.
I was helpless to defend myself from his accusatory tone.
“Right then, just for that you’ll get no breakfast! And you can expect a very severe beating indeed this morning, young sir! Simply outrageous!” and with that he left the room with my breakfast in tow, slamming the door behind him. Later that morning I was violently beaten with a horse whip and then physically forced to eat an entire box of my father’s stale cigars, after which my bottom was boiled in a pot of water and my head painted back with Indian ink. After this most recent degradation, I decided I would flee my ancestral home, never to return again.
Confined to my bedroom until supper, I hastily packed my clothes into a small traveling bag. I dressed myself in my warmest wool, much as I had on my previous venture out onto the moors, this time packing several changes of underwear. With this task complete, I quickly jotted my uncle a note which simply read “Fuck you”. I then crawled out of my window, lowering myself onto the courtyard with a makeshift rope fashioned from knotted bed sheets. At dusk I crept onto the moors and into the dense fog. The journey was wrought with danger, but it was certainly less daunting than the prospect of remaining in the care of my uncle, ever to suffer his psychotic whims and sadistic beatings.
As I made my way across the moors, guided only by the light of the full moon, I suddenly heard footsteps approaching rapidly behind me. Throwing caution to the wind, I charged blindly into the fog. My heart pounded, my chest heaved as my weak lungs attempted to take in air. The footsteps grew ever closer as my short legs attempted in vain to outrun them. Suddenly the ground disappeared beneath my feet and I found myself cast into the black, cloying slime of mire. Panic overcame me as I struggled to find purchase in the damp grass which surrounded this pool of death. With each struggling spasm of my limbs, I was sucked deeper into the pool. A scream of terror leapt from my throat as the black death swallowed my torso and closed around my neck. With only my head and right hand still free, I gasped for air, remembering the terror-stricken face of my brother as he met the same terrible fate. There was a flash of red in the corner of my eye. I felt a bony hand close around my wrist and suddenly, with inhuman strength, I was lifted free of the slime and tossed like a rag doll to the soggy earth of the moors. I rolled onto my back to face my savior, only to find myself staring once more at the twisted monster that was my grandfather. He stood before me, a hulking, skeletal beast. His gray, dead flesh hung loosely to his deformed bones, his wicked, red eyes sunken deep into the sockets of his large misshapen skull. Malevolence seemed to emanate from every pore of his slimy flesh. His stench was nearly unbearable. He drew back his thin, black lips to reveal pointed, yellow/black fangs which sprouted from green gums in random orthodontic chaos.
“Where do you run to accursed child?” he questioned.
“I…I was”, I stuttered, too overcome with shock to form a coherent thought.
“You shall not leave these grounds…You shall fulfill your destiny as determined by the Curse of the House of Lancashire...an unfortunate but legally-binding circumstance of your bloodline” He warned, feeling about his rags. “I have the notification…signed in human blood” he muttered, still searching for the documentation about his person. “It’s very impressive…printed on a scroll fashioned of human flesh…I’ve got it here somewhere…all legally-binding, and bloody and fleshy…and Satanic…it would look great in the appropriate frame…above the fireplace mantle in the great hall…I was saving it just for you…for family curse nostalgia memorabilia”. Finally the beast’s voice trailed off, as he stood on the moors looking distraught.
“I was running away. Away from this place! Away from my Uncle Gaylord! Away from the hellish legacy! Away from you, Grandfather.” I said, my voice quivering with fear.
“I know what must have happened!” the monster suddenly interjected, as if he hadn’t heard me. “I left the scroll in my other rags in my cave! It gets so bloody damp out here on the moors…I wanted to keep it safe…as a gift for my grandson!” he exclaimed. “Yes that’s it…it’s in my other pants!” A nervous grin played about his putrid, blackened lips. “Now what’s all this about running away from your gay uncle?” he questioned.
“My sadistic and perverted uncle who daily beats me about the face and head with putrid kippers and tailors the inseam of my trousers so that my genitals are forever pinched uncomfortably within the tight woolen folds” I answered.
The creature simply stared at me, incredulous, for a few moments and then finally spoke. “Well now, little Billy, or whatever your name is...let’s go find that curse scroll” he mumbled with a chuckle in his voice, seemingly amused by what he obviously assumed to be some laudanum-induced diatribe.
“He told me that you were spawned of a succubus through some awful black magic and that you were bound to guard the gates of Hell for all eternity” I said.
“Well, now it sounds like someone’s discipline-happy uncle is given to tall tales…In his rather flowery way he simply meant that I need to give you this little scroll as a present…that you willfully accept as your legacy, thereby releasing me from my satanic bondage…it’s all a bit complicated…I’m sure it can all be sorted out with a bit of physical violence” he assured me with a rotten-toothed grin and a rather disturbing wink.
I rose to my feet, filled with dread. I had escaped death only to suffer a fate much worse. The monster took me in his arms and carried me back toward our family estate. Overcome with horror, I began to sob.
“Mind yourself, child. A vagina becomes wet when stimulated…let us not react to the situation as if we were a vagina” my monstrous grandfather scolded. Being of such young and innocent age, the insinuation of being a “vagina” did indeed horrify me, as I had no idea what the word meant, and so I did my best to stifle my tears. It would not be the first time my beastly mentor would take full advantage of my youthful ignorance.
We entered the great hall of the estate with tremendous bravado, my grandfather kicking the front doors from their hinges with his ghastly, talon-like feet. Fog wafted in behind us, blown by the chilling wind off of the moors, engulfing our figures almost entirely. We stood awaiting Uncle Gaylord’s inevitable appearance, shrouded in swirling gray mist, my grandfather’s glowing, red eyes piercing through the dense fog like hot coals. Uncle Gaylord stormed to the banister of the steps leading down into the great hall, alarmed and infuriated by our rather dramatic entrance.
“What the bloody hell is all of this ruckus?!” he nearly shrieked.
As he gazed down at the pair of us and met the stare of my grandfather’s blazing, crimson eyes Uncle Gaylord froze in terror.
“I assume I am in no need of an introduction” the beast announced. “And seeing as how my grandson will soon be taking up his post as my surrogate as the guardian to the gates of Hell, a rather daunting and weighty task, I hardly appreciate you distracting the unfortunate lad with socks full of rotten kippers, ill-fitting pants and potatoes up his bottom” he continued.
“My God!” was all Uncle Gaylord could manage before the monster charged up the stairwell, my small body clutched in his arms like a featherweight rag doll. My uncle, stunned, simply stood frozen, white-knuckled, clutching the banister as the monster stalked forward, baring his rotting teeth.
“Sweet mother of Christ!” my uncle muttered, his bladder letting lose a flood of urine down the front of his trousers.
I cannot deny the relish I felt at that moment upon seeing the palpable fear that seemed to burst from every pour of my sadistic guardian’s body at that moment. The man was utterly terrified, and rightfully so.
“Being familiar with the Lancashire family curse, you are no doubt aware of my inclination for raping virgins, a hobby that has been neglected as of late, due to my all-consuming, portal to Hell-related obligations” my grandfather informed Uncle Gaylord, matter-of-factly.
“I…I…” my uncle muttered, fumbling to explain himself.
“You what?” the monster hissed.
“I was attempting to explain the lad’s unfortunate lineage” Uncle Gaylord pleaded.
“You possess a singularly disagreeable method of explaining yourself, Mr. Rothschild, and are, in my best estimation, what could commonly be referred to as-”. Here my grandfather paused. His eyes shifted to and fro, as if searching for the suitable turn of phrase to complete his train of thought. “Adenoid Jackson has a magic sex chicken!” he finally blurted out, seizing my uncle by the neck and jerking him a foot off the floor with his sheer, brute strength.
“What?!” my uncle asked, terrified. “What’s a magic sex chicken?!”
“I guess you’ll never know!”
And with that epitaph, my uncle was flung effortlessly through the doors of my late father’s study, his body cascading end over end as he burst through the doors and landed, semi-conscious, before the blazing fireplace. Broken and battered, the man raised his head and gazed into my eyes, coughing blood.
“You are a disgraceful abomination, boy…and you deserve to share the fate of this… monster…and his magic sex chicken!” He spat, concluding his cold-hearted revelation with a sinister cackle. Seconds later he lay dead. Overcome by this violent turn of events I, yet again, fainted dead away.
I awoke sometime later, once again cradled in my grandfather’s arms. My vision cleared as we crossed the courtyard and veered to the right of the estate. Rounding the stone wall, we approached an ancient wooden door covered with a thick layer of moss, which, when opened, revealed a dark, damp stairwell leading into pitch darkness. We descended into the cloying, musty depths. After what seemed like an eternity the stairwell met a slimy limestone floor which led us through a corridor lined with painting of hellish landscapes. The corridor led to a cavernous, subterranean hall that flickered with torchlight. The great hall seemed permeated with some ancient evil, a nearly palpable doom that seemed to emanate from each stone which formed its awe-inspiring interior.
In what appeared to be the center of the hall there stood a great, black altar lined with candles, before which was situated a pulpit carved of onyx. Sculpted upon the altar and pulpit were intricate depictions of every manifestation of malignant horror conceivable. Winged demons mingled with the tentacles of ancient, behemoth monstrosities and the clawed talons of gargoyles. Succubae were portrayed in graphically lewd depictions of fornication with their human victims in the throws of some satanic ecstasy. Upon the pulpit was situated a thick, leather-bound grimoire of demonic incantations that my grandfather presented to me as “The Necronomicon”.
Hastily following my introduction to this vast document of demonic malice, the monster presented me with a tattered scroll on which was printed, in some ancient tongue, a ghastly crimson text penned in what appeared to be blood. I did suspect the leathery scroll to be the document of which my beastly grandfather had alluded to in our earlier conversation, none other than the inherited legal document to be signed by me as an assurance that I was to be fully compensated for something ordained to me by my birthright as sole heir to the Lancashire estate ad nauseum, etcetera and so on. At the insistence of my grandfather I signed the document, in my own blood…taken from a small flesh wound sustained during the course events of the past days.
Directly following these events and immediately after my signing of this nefarious deed, my grandfather quickly vanished, never to been heard from again, save for a rude postcard that I received not long after his disappearance that bore a postmark from the Tahitian Islands and simply read: “ Don’t let the gates of Hell hit you in the ass, Fuckface! Regards, Grandpa”
In the ensuing months and subsequent years that followed my initiation into the dark passages of the cryptic grimoire, I was to submerge myself whole-heartedly into the study of the malign mysteries and awesome powers of the Necronomicon, and of the horrid nature of the incantations printed upon its pages. It was a volume assembled by those bereft of Christian sensibilities, focused solely upon the manifestation of evil forces that would wreak unholy havoc upon this world. Unfettered by the boundaries of morality and human decency, it was a tome of perverse horror. Its pages revealed every black-hearted source of depravity known to human kind. Yet it did enchant me, and I found myself consumed by a rapt interest beyond my control, intrigued, as if some unholy destiny had taken hold of me, despite my revulsion at the prospect. Thus, in time, I became so intimately familiar with the monstrous perversions presented within its pages that I began to feel as if I had penned its debauched horrors myself.
Only now do I dare confess that I did conjure many a voluptuous harlot, and that I did partake of my darkest sexual desires. In fact, on many a night I did conjure two to six of them and did engage in the most sinful pleasures of the flesh. They did sit upon my face and fellate me simultaneously. My lust for these creatures was boundless and unquenchable. Heed my words when I say that the Whore of Babylon was one sweet piece of ass, who did lick my engorged sex saber with forked tongue, bringing me to unbelievable heights of glorious ecstasy. And beware the Demon, Lucritcia, winged she beast of Gothor, whose breasts were of perfect shape and whose supple ass could give a corpse an erection, for she is the one who puts the “Suc” in “Succubus”. The vaginal juices of these ancient harlots did taste of fine red wine, their erect nipple seemed to whisper, “Go ahead, suck me you fuckin’ pervert! Lick me you fucker!”
I did engage in these vile acts for fifty odd years, unconcerned with my predestined obligation to guard the gates of Hell. Unwittingly I did unleash every manner of monster and demon upon this world. In my negligence, I scarcely noticed that some clever manifestation of evil had, somewhere along the line, picked the lock which did secure these gates, freeing every last beast from the blackest pits of Hell to wander freely on this Earth. And so to those of you who have survived this plague of evil and may one day read this confession, I now offer my most sincere apologies. My subsequent efforts to employ the Necronomicon to banish these monsters from our world proved to be in vain, for my eyesight had grown faint and my speech became slurred due to a weakened jaw brought on by fifty years of hot, non-stop cunnilingus.
To those of you with a strong will and weak libido, I implore you, use the Necronomicon and its powers for better purpose than I have done, for in its pages may be hidden the secrets of human salvation.
(Note: Many thanks to Elisabeth Fogli for her invaluable help on getting this story into shape)
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