Hanged soul sans body

“My pretty’s…………………………….” the ghoulish, graveyard voice regales.


Slight fear begins to gnaw at the inner you.  


“Best you cease now in your reading, put this parchment back within the hellish vessel from which it was found, lest you cower lifelong at the tale that unfolds within these words beneath.  Beware the Angels, for that is what they are. Angels of Damnation that will hound you through the petty scrap of life you treasure so, yet a life that means ever so little to me, and to them.  Terror and foreboding will snare all that you are, that you will ever be. Sleep will next find you only in death, as the ghouls of the ether enter your blackened soul, turning your mind to a stew fit only for the maggots of the grave.”  This speech, elicited by the foul breath of a long dead corpse as it breathes the stench of ages over you. You reel from this.

“You.  Yes ‘You’,” continues your ghoul. “Still sitting there with that pathetically human half smirk on a face given to you in the image of your creator, ‘You’.”

“I have paid you this service, offering the idiocy that you and humanity are, in the form of salvation.  You. Yes ‘You’ have been warned.”

“This path ends here dearest of readers, stop now.”

The passing of ages occurs, yet man remains the same.  Curiosity did not kill the cat. Your personal ghoul and man did.

“You are still there I see dear reader? Oh well.”  It enunciates these few words through grinning ivories the colour of truth, relishing every syllable as though it were a breath.

“Close your eyes’ and listen to the sound of the dice cast for the owning of your soul in a game of chance played by the angels above………and below”

“Now that I start this tale, tremble, there is no way out now, for you at least.”  Says the cowl clad fiend of despair with a voice not far from laughter.

The old Gods, the Gods of the woods, of the spring and the winter, of the hunter and its prey.  The Gods of man when man was yet to dress himself in little more than the skins he tore from the backs of unfortunate beasts’.  The Gods that were the flint for the fire. The Gods that created frozen wastes further than man could walk for a season in any direction.  The Gods who caused the thaw; the Gods of terror and power, fear and love; Gods of the sun. The Gods of man.

Man has never inhabited this place.  This place of darkness and hopelessness; this place without spirit or joy.  The old Gods didn’t come here; neither would those that were to follow. They didn’t visit.

They didn’t visit because without belief, there is no God.  And without man there is no belief. There was no man because there was, simply, a beast.  

“Now dear readers, you have a feel, not yet an understanding, but a feel nonetheless of what horror must have lurked for man and men to avoid this place so.”

“Dear reader, picture midnight.  Not some happy midnight involving joyous celebrations and the good will of men to all.  The other kind. Tales of fantastic horror; of headless horsemen; of wolves lurking in forests.  Tales such as that with the monster, ‘Grendel’ hidden in folds of its story. Of terrors as Herod inspired, and the babies slain under his name.”  The ghoul draws a rasping breath into its dead chest.

“So dear reader, let us cast our minds back further to midnights before they were named.  The night’s ‘dark’ inspiration for original sin. Night’s inky blackness, and the ultimate cause of all fears.  Unseen things of cloaked darkness scramble out of eyeshot, but tantalisingly within shot of the ear. That place where clouds veil a frozen sky, preparing for the late night kill of all caught beneath it.  Chilled wind courses through the trees’, a confederate in the freezing death of all lying before it. Snow, the final in this trilogy, laying its blanket of white death on all as lovingly as a mother throwing a skin rug over her child.

Midnight blacker than tar.”

There is a lesser valley where water after the thaw was captured, yet never released from her bonds.  A valley permanently wreathed in shadow. Be it the shadow of night, or under the shadow of crags and hills and mountains escaping the suns’ of eternity.  

It is always black, and it is not a particularly large pool, but a pool nonetheless.  The wind cannot reach it, and as nothing runs either in or away from it, this pool remains always without ripple, and as black as the sins of man.  


There is one marginally larger than lesser exception.  A terrifying and ghastly exception one would not, nay, could not inflict on another.

The pool reaches down to Hades, but does not enter.  It fills the Styx, and the Acheron, and the other tributaries; but it does not cross over as such.

Occasionally, yet always, it is at night.  Oft it is during the turning of the solstice or in the midst of an eclipse of the moon.  These are fine examples; it is not unknown for a gentle rippling in the water to result from some unseen turmoil unleashed in the very depths below. Slowly, the ripples will gain height and number in this black and viscous oil like pool.

Bubbles will soon begin to rise, and so will a glow.  ‘tis the glow that is the key here, as it means the beast is rising, and will begin to rise, gaining speed whilst it is at it.

“Oh poor sweet dear reader, how you should have done as I had bid and halted this damning endeavour.  Why ‘You’ have read this far is proof of that that is humanity, and your inability to take note and notice of those in place to give it.  Do you not feel the butterfly wings of damnation flitting around your face and soul? Does that not chill you enough?”

The bubbles increase and the glow, shifting from insipid white, to a brilliant and blinding light breaking the surface of the black and midnight pool.

After the light, hair, dark, lank, long and unruly cascades in tumbling curls of flat fat black weed over her head and face.  The face is white, white as the light emanating from it. Deeply sunken eyes of smouldering black coal blink away its face covering hair of misfortune.  Her body, more in line with ill matching lumps of clay, than of the slender body of feminine youth.

She breaches the water, and walks heavy footed across the pools surface to the shore where she finds a handy, yet buttock warn, rock and sits heavily shaking the ground and hills that surround her.

“Hmmm, now dear reader, none of this sound’s particularly scary does it?  No? Nothing more than some femininesque white beast escaping the depths of some enlarged puddle or the like?  Nothing more than a wench post bath who has decided to sit on a rock perhaps? Ha ha!!! You poor stupid things that have gambled and lost.  Oh dear, oh dear……..”

Surrounding everything in a light, blindingly white.  Remember the light? That light? Yes? That my friends’ is the light of ignorance.  The all encapsulating horror of ignorance and the ignorant. Covering all it touches with its stupidity, sucking the intelligence from all it sees, all it feels, all it liaises with.  Huge and unattractive as only the ‘Masters of the Obtuse’ can be.  Those ‘Masters’ who languish in places akin to those select united and allied states within North America are found to be.  The light of ignorance pollinating the globe and all within it in unblemished, intellect draining, idiocy.

A blink of an eye. One, two, three centuries pass her unnoticed.  She sits, pendulous breasts’ rest upon the rolls of her gut. Her light of ignorance ever so slowly, tenaciously, slides around the blue dot as seen in the skies by Orion and Cetus.  Ignorance seeps into the earth’s every pore. Pollinating, breed ignorance of depth and purity never before encountered by those sad pathetic inhabitants. They drink it like wine the fools. The Fools!!” Sad and humourless laughter of the crypt is injected by ‘Your’ ghoul here.

Painfully grotesque; wobbling, wallowing, returning to her black and midnight realm beneath the water, taking the light of ignorance with her, not realising the scope of ignorance she has forced upon the world around her.

“Now reader, are you still able to read this piece?  Are you now limited in counting to the amount of digits you possess?  Ha ha!! You stupid fool’s!! Do not try to go back to reread this, the horror of illiteracy will devour you.  Ignorance has pollinated your mind, and its softening has begun dear reader. Dear Reader. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!!!!!”     


I wrote that years ago, while trying out different approaches to writing. Anyway, click the picture above, I love the lady dancing, she appears gloriously alive, to me at least.





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5 Comments Add yours

  1. So… I’ve been cursed with illiteracy by a fat, white woman from The Pond of Styx?

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Ahhhh……….yes? I think I was trying to use her as a metaphor for a particular country when I wrote it. It’s pretty dodgy isn’t it?

      Liked by 1 person

      1. A bit erratic, perhaps. 🙂 I enjoyed the skull constantly warning against reading further.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Audrey says:

    The picture at the top is from Warrior Cats

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Fantastic! Thank you. I had wondered where that quote was from. Do you know who the author is?


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