Tomb It May Concern

Spooktacular, Spooktacular, Not Unless Your Name is Dracula

When Ghosts and Ghouls are out to Play... things go Bump in the Night

You know how they say that the dark isn't scary? That's not true. Things lurk in the dark, twisted, strange and scary things that blink out at you with invisible eyes. And they all come out to play in the days round All Hallows Eve. There are monsters, red-eyed, white-eyed, fanged and incorporeal monsters prowling, stalking, waiting for the right moment... 

In the topmost flat on Thirl-blood-stained Road, five such monsters live - R.I.P-ecca Tombstone, - a corpsebride looking for her next husband, Scare Reaperts - a white-eyed hag, Ghostephine Gone-athan - last living relative of the White Witch, Jekyll Ox-slayer - whose name says enough and their pet Death Hound, Ghoul-ivia Rabid-y. They sent out an in-fright, calling all the other ghosties and ghoulies and beasties and horrible things to their Den of Horrors. Note the dripping candles and the smell of lillies over embalming fluid, note the blood that's stained even the mugs on their table - more often than not, stained by the tiny hands of children. 

The wizards were there, smirking in the knowledge that there wasn't a chance of safe hex when it came to the end of their wands. The vampires slunk out from the shadows, licking their teeth in anticipation. A broken doll stared with china blue eyes from the corner of the room, an ogre thudded up the stairs and smacked her chops whilst thinking of all the young things that would foolishly be walking home through the Meadows later that night. Dr Jekyll tipped his hat to his immortal companions, welcoming the new bloodless to his city and Mr Snowman smirked dementedly from beneath his tophat. 

Carving out memories to the beating bass, they chanted and cursed, drank and ate, cackled and frolicked all the way through the witching hour and into the wee hours of the morning. The pet Hound rubbed up against everyone, mentally noting that everyone was already dead and that it couldn't kill anyone who carried the smell of carrion upon their cold flesh. The bloodless shimmied with the skeletons, remembering their deathdays and in-frighting each other to their next big Hunt. 

Even the most ancient witches from downstairs were incapable of a sufficient silencing charm to block out the ruckus as the undead partied on and on.... 

Until the cock crowed. Then silence, stillness descended. Every last one of them... gone into the ether. And all this on the eve before the eve before the eve before the eve before All Hallows Eve. Just imagine what comes next.

 Be afraid, Edinburgh, be very very afraid. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER