“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!” Part 10 (LAST PART)

by Catherine Malone | Dec 8, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

Part 10: Rescue!!!

Meanwhile, the concerned subjects of Britain had appealed to His Royal Majesty the King of England himself to make Cosy Airways® send a rescue squad to Arcnardia. At last, with him opposing them, Cosy Airways® had reluctantly agreed to do so. A representative of the king, Sir Endelmont Brashton, Bart., came with the rescue squad to make certain they would fulfill their duty completely. He was a handsome, noble individual, with bluish black hair and a countenance, excepting the slender margins of which reserved for the remaining features, composed of one inexhaustible, undeniable Nose, of immense and splendid proportions. With this he sniffed frequently, for all the world to hear.

    Seven bee-yellow rescue helicopters, one containing Sir Endelmont, hovered over a vast expanse of sapphire ocean, dotted with millions of white-caps.

    “Ho, there, pilot. When shall we reach Arcnardia?” the baronet asked stiffly, for the twentieth time, for he was an impatient man.

    “It’s still going to be some hours, Sir,” the pilot answered, then snarled to himself, “A great, fat waste of time, too.”

    “Silence, churl. I never asked you how you felt about the matter.” Sir Endelmont Brashton, hearing the last remark, declared imperiously. Ordinarily, the baronet was not this disagreeable, but he had forgotten to bring tea for the journey to Arcnardia, and this upset him sorely. Besides, the disrespectful pilot really got on his nerves.

    Ah, Sir Scrooge is asleep now, the spiteful pilot thought, some hours later, What a stiff prig he is.

    “How long now!?” Sir Endelmont shouted abruptly, making the other jump in his seat.

    “We’ll reach our destination in a matter of half-an-hour, I’d say, Sir,” the pilot hastily informed the other.

    “Good,” said the baronet, smiling his stunning smile.

    “Here we are, Sir,” said the pilot, later on, “the Land of Moss-Gathering Cannibals. I wonder how and where we are going to land.”

    “Just hover around low,” Sir Endelmont advised, “And we’ll look about for those missing people. And don’t hit any trees like the last one did. Ah-hah-hah.” He gave a charming, aristocratic little laugh. He was greatly cheered by the thought that they had at last reached Arcnardia.

    “Oh, you are a wit, sir!” said the pilot with sardonic poisonousness.

    Sir Endelmont looked airily about, counting the helicopters to make certain none of the pilots were attempting to evade their course and escape.   

    Mr. Percy and Miss Toots stood together in the Vrenord’s oddly tidy attic, which smelt of lavender and old books, enjoying some time alone together. Miss Toots raised her pretty, rosy face to her fiancé. Her expression was sorrowful.

    “Percy, how are we ever to reach home again?” she inquired mournfully, knowing full well the answer.

    “Helicopters,” said Mr. Percy blankly, taking no notice of her, but goggling out the window which was coated with a light layer of dust.

    “What?” Miss Toots asked, then the word’s meaning dawned on her. Her cheeks glowed even rosier with optimism, and her liquid eyes shone with hope. There were seven bee-yellow helicopters hovering about low over the trees, quite a distance away, but visible.

    “O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Mr. Percy cried blissfully, taking Miss Toots’ hands. They fell into a wheeling dance of joy, all around the room, skipping lightly over old picture frames and boxes and mirrors and books, books, books! Mr. Percy very nearly shot down through the trap door of the attic in his mad mirth. After this, they scrabbled down the ladder onto the top floor and went capering down the stairs, singing hugely.

    “What on earth…?” Mr. William met them at the bottom of the stairs, “Percy, I haven’t seen you this happy since you first shot a golf ball out of a sandpit in one stroke.”

    “Yes you have, Uncle!” sang Miss Toots gaily, “You saw the look on his face the first time he and I met, didn’t you?”

    “Of course.” Mr. William smiled.

    “Helicopters! Helicopters!” was all Mr. Percy could utter.

    “Whad?” Mr. Vrenord appeared. “Whad is an heligopder? Oh, yi, now I remember. Dis is wonterful, I guess, bud whad tuz id mean do you?” Though they had really not stayed long at all, he had gotten used to the travelers’ being around the house and had already accepted them practically as members of the family.

    “What does it mean? We’re going home, sir!” Mr. Percy cried joyously. Mr. Vrenord was perplexed.

    “‘Home’?” he queried, and it took some calculating before he could figure out what the young Englishman meant. He tapped the tail of his pipe against his nose, as was his wont when steeped in thought. At last, he said,

    “Oh, yes, I forgod. You to nod live here.” He hung his head, looking a little forlorn that the travelers were going to leave. His mouth went down at the corners, and no dimples showed themselves. Miss Toots, seeing this, began to pat him on the back and offer him words of comfort.

    “Dere were so many dings zdill I wanded do show you,” Mr. Vrenord buzzed softly, “You are such, such goot gompany.”

    “Percy,” Mr. William asked that gentleman, “how are we to be rescued if the pilots can’t see where we are?”

    “Oh,” said the other, blinking confusedly.

    “We must act, act fast! What can we use to procure their attention? I’ve got it: Groobe!”

    “What?”

    “Haven’t you seen the ensemble he’s attired in today? Get him on the roof! He’s the tawdriest thing he have on hand! He could be seen for miles.”

    A little later, a gawdy figure was protruding through the rooftop of the mansion, waving a bright blanket tied to a walking stick. “Operation: Mr. Groobe” was being carried out.

    “Egad, a house in the woods. And what in the world is that chromatic tropical bird doing perched on the roof?” Sir Endelmont Brashton, Bart., boredly soliloquized, squinting down through his monocle on the roof below, “It’s cruel on my eyes, is that bird. A veritable ornithological spectacle. Ought to be outlawed.”

    “Can’t you see anything? That’s a man down there!” the pilot corrected.

    “I know it’s a man. I’m just pretending it’s not,” Sir Endelmont said in mournful tones, “How can anyone dress like that, and live? I, on my part, would die of shame if I were so garbed!” And he sniffed loudly in disgust and dismay of the fact that even though this world is already beset by war, famine, drought and disease, that Earth must additionally suffer the worldwide pestilence of Mr. Groobes.

    “He appears to be signaling. Shall we land, Sir?” the pilot asked.

    “I don’t want to with him down there, but I think we should. Down, Rover. Ah-hah-hah. And inform the other pilots that we are going to touch down too.”

    Down drifted the aircrafts, into the Vrenords’ yard. Mr. Vrenord, viewing the landings through a window, brightened a bit, even in his sorrow. He found such advanced vehicles fascinating.

    “Gome do de wintow,” said Mr. Vrenord, “Gome, my tear Marcilia-wife, and see the heligopders.”

    “Whad?” asked the dear Marcilia-wife, “Whad is an heligopder? Oh, yi, I remember now. Ooh, preddy golor dey are! Bud why are dey here?” She was a little mentally quicker than her husband, and the realization that the travelers were going to leave her came more swiftly on her.

    “Oh tear!” she cried, “You leave us now? I will miss you tear people so! Even,” she added, more quietly, “even Mr. Groobe and Miss Grelvis. All of you we will miss you.”

    A muffly bawling was then heard after she had spoken, and Lich and Lizchee, having feared bad news, were found to have been listening in on Mrs. Vrenord from the interior of a nearby closet. They were leaning on each other, weeping freely, bitter enemies rendered friends by their sharing in the selfsame sorrow.

    “Id is due bat! Due bat! Dey are leaving us! Whad a piddy!” they sobbed.

    They were so miserable, that Mrs. Vrenord did not admonish them for eavesdropping on her.

    Sir Endelmont Brashton, one eyebrow raised in wonder, exited his helicopter with stately, aristocratic strides. The pilot also got out, and they approached the house. The travelers and the Vrenords went out to meet them. Lich and Lizchee peeped out the door.

     “Boy, am I glad ta see you guys!” Mr. Groobe swanked over to Sir Endelmont and shook—no, joggled—his hand.

     “I see you are not Arcnardian,” Sir Endelmont remarked, striving to conceal his revulsion at the sartorial horror scene taking place before him, “Are you, by any chance, the missing baseball player Mr. Logan Groobe?”

    “Yeah, that’s me! Sreenie and I were going to England, and—”

    “Excuse me; ‘Sreenie’?

    “Yup.”

    “ugh,” said Sir Endelmont Brashton quietly, and, while the other travelers gathered round, went on to say, “How do you do? I am Sir Brashton, Bart., His Majesty’s representative for this expedition.” His low, bored, aristocratic manner of speech suddenly altered in his confused wonder. “I say,” he asked, “are you all here? All the stranded passengers I was sent out to look for?”

    “I was sent out to look for,” the pilot muttered.

    “Yes, Sir,” Mr. William answered the baronet, “But I fear our pilot is still lost. He ran away somewhere into the woods when we encountered a group of bears, and we’ve not seen him since.”

    “Id is lygely he mate his way do de village Nuich,” Mr. Vrenord put in.

    “Hmm… coward,” the baronet mumbled, raising an eyebrow again, “Well, we’ve found you,” he addressed the travelers, “and we’ve five pilots waiting to take you to Britain. The remainder of our party will search for this poltroon of whom you speak.”

    “Gootbye! Oh, gootbye!” Mrs. Vrenord cried again and again, almost in tears, hugging and kissing each of the five; like a mother at an airport bidding fond farewell to her children who would soon leave her; even Mr. Groobe, to his everlasting shame, for he prided himself on being a tough guy. Then Lizchee and Lich came out, laden with orate suitcases, which Mrs. Vrenord, one by one, handed out to the five.

    “Your olt glothes,” she explained, “are in here. Lizchee washt dem ant figzed de deres, goot-lyge-new. No dime do pud dem on. De pilods are waiding. I to nod mynt you geeping de ones you are wearing. Id is goot do see dem pud do use.” The travelers thanked her heartily, and she smiled fondly on them, especially on Mr. Percy.

    The Ivertons courteously kissed Mrs. Vrenord’s hand, and the threatening looks they turned on Mr. Groobe motivated the baseball player to follow suit. Mr. Vrenord shook the men’s hands and gave Miss Toots and Miss Crelvis a little wave.

    At last, after everyone was out of breath from saying goodbye, the travelers entered the helicopters.

    As they mounted the pink and blue-white sunset sky, Nuema and Neima were seen hanging essentially by their feet out of a fourth-story window, waving arms and handkerchiefs to the travelers, and straining to catch a glimpse of the Ivertons as they ascended.

    “Gootbye!” they screamed, “Gootbye!”

    Mr. Percy had the unique opportunity to see two great, brawny arms reach out behind the two shrieking girls, and two firm hands grab their apron-strings and haul them back into the window.

    But he did not hear what Lizchee said to the girls after she had pulled them in:

    “Why you dwo liddle glowns! You gonna be drapeze ardizds when you grow up? Whadda zdupid ding da to! You coult have falled do your teths ant breaged your silly little negs! Den where woult I be?! Gooking and gleaning all by myself, widdowte anyone do help me! Is dat your plan? Fall oud de window, breage negs, no more gitchen work for you! Well, no more life either!”

     Mr. Groobe stared down at the vast, high expanse of the Vrenord’s roof. He gulped to think he had been up that high while signaling to the rescue squad. But, what was that sitting on top of it? Oh no, it was the Listener, that little goblin who had given him the new ears! He seemed to be waving goodbye… to Mr. Groobe!!! The baseball player shrank unmanfully into his seat, hoping to escape the goblin’s gaze.

    The five eventually arrived safely in Britain. Mr. Percy and Miss Toots were wed soon after. Mr. William had the honor of being godfather to their child, Charles Iverton.

    Mr. Groobe and Miss Crelvis had a major argument, but finally reconciled, and were also bound in holy matrimony. They lived in a very interesting home, when they returned to America: the right half of the house was decorated in Bohemian fashion, to please Miss Crelvis, or rather Mrs. Groobe. The rest was more of a baseball theme, to suit Mr. Groobe’s tastes. One visitor to their house said afterwards,

    “It was like walking out of one world into another, without ever leaving the first. It was like seeing the inside of one house without stepping outside the other.”

    And another said,

    “It was indescribable. One moment, you feel the awful sensation that you’re stuck in a Picasso painting, and that the ceiling is just made of paint and is gonna just suddenly belly out into one big drop and plop onto the floor, drowning you to death! Then you go mad, because the other half of the house is too white. The walls, baseballs, baseball uniforms, everything’s too white. You go crazy. You just wanna jump out a window into a green bush or something. Just no more white!”  

    Although Sir Endelmont and the pilots made a thorough search, it was impossible to locate the missing pilot, who seemed to have made the Pig and Butterball, an Arcnardian pub renowned for its whisky, his permanent home, and would often be seen sleeping deeply and peacefully there after his surfeiteous elevenses of liquor. And so, unable to find him, the rescue party had to leave without him.

     On finding all his assets spent, it was to the pilot’s eternal mortification that he should serve as bar boy, in order to satisfy his debts to the pub’s innkeeper. Then Arcnardia, for him, seemed to lose its flavor. He escaped the island, at last, on a rickety little boat, suffering many hardships. Bits of the boat seemed to drop off each day. He was found one day by the crew of a luxury liner, clinging like a rat to his boat (practically a plank of wood by now). The crew rescued him, and he, in turn, drank (far more than was good for him) the fine wines they had for the passengers. On being confronted with his inability to pay for his liberal guzzlings, he protested, saying that he drank so much for ‘medicinal purposes only’, for he had endured ‘shocking experiences, complete with a shark’. It was true about the shark, or rather, so it seemed. He had seen something sticking pointily into the air about half a mile away, a shark, assuredly, or, imagining the far less probable, and even well-nigh impossible, conjecture, a rock. When the tired captain of the luxury liner, whose hair was white (not because of age, but because he had much experience with passengers like the pilot) suggested this Far-Less-Improbable-Well-Nigh-Impossible, the pilot scoffed. All the same, the pilot was forced most cruelly to swab the decks, to pay off his new debts, which he had built up into rather a tall edifice, until they reached England again.

    Mr. Vrenord’s coach was finally repaired. When Fleece the horse was fully healed of the injury she had received in the bear attack, he began to take rides through the woods as he used to do. One fine, crisp morning, he came upon the wreck of the areoplane that the travelers crash-landed in. He visited the wreck each week from then on, taking note of its every detail, and climbing into the cockpit and pretending he was a pilot streaking through the sky in his own personal flying vehicle. He was quite the child in many respects, but in a good way.

“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!” Part 9

by Catherine Malone | Dec 3, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

Part 9: Tanta Argentia [Only Silver]

      He [Mr. Percy] had run a goodly length fearlessly through the woods, when he saw, several yards away, two figures. His keen eyes discerned one to be his uncle, and the other a little old wo—no! How could he have thought it?! It was a bear, a goliath of a bear!

     Time seemed to slog for Mr. William, though it was really not so. Why doesn’t the beast just get it over? he wondered dazedly. Then, he and the bear heard yells, war-cries, and Mr. Percy, wielding a rifle, came galloping towards them…  

Mr. Percy was afraid to shoot at the bear for fear of hitting his uncle, who was breathtakingly close to the beast, so he tried to frighten it away by indirect shooting. The reports were earsplitting, but the beast only turned round to glower contemptuously at him. It then swung a dense, fatal paw to strike Mr. William down quickly, so it would be free to contend with this newcomer.

    Many things happened at once in the next few tense seconds: with no time to think, Mr. Percy set down the gun and leaped up, wrapping his arms around the thick neck of the bear. He flailed, using all the weight of his body to make the surprised bear tilt back a bit as it swung at Mr. William. Mr. William, who had been sickened and paralyzed by the bear’s breath, had been jolted into life again by the war cries of his nephew. He twisted away from the bear, and the strike went wide. But he only did so at the last minute. Mr. William caught four hot lashes from the edges of the claws across the side of his head.

   He fell heavily to earth, the trophy falling unassertively out of his breast pocket. Dimly, he watched it roll slowly away from him. Suddenly, like a bright flash, inspiration came. Mr. William knew what to do. Like a man in a dream, he groped for the trophy. His fingers curled round it lovingly.

    The bear was half-beating, half-rubbing Mr. Percy, still clinging to its back as if he were a flea, against a tree, concentrated entirely on removing him from its person. It was fortunately not using its full weight in these efforts, or Mr. Percy would have been smashed to pulp under the strength of its back. He felt the bristling fur on the neck, which was like a barrel! He saw the beast’s head from the back, and how huge it was! Yet, he did not falter but hugged like a limpet, trying in vain to press his oxfords against the tree to lessen his injuries.

    Mr. William dizzily crawled to where his nephew had dropped the gun. Pain cried out in his wounds. He opened the weapon to put the silver piece into the barrel. Would it fit? Yes. Yes! He closed the rifle with a sharp clack and rose clumsily to his feet.  

    “Run, Uncle! Run!” Mr. Percy, bruised and cut, yet still clinging stoically to the bear, moaned.

    “Get off, Percy!” Mr. William ordered, training the rifle unsteadily on the bear. Mr. Percy obediently dropped to the foot of the tree, luckily just as the bear had begun to claw at his arms. He had cracked his head badly against the tree and was now only semi-conscious.

    Mr. William hesitated. Could he shoot true?

    The bear lumbered towards him, but this time not to attack, but to defy. Mr. William, who was six feet tall and of fine build, looked very small and frail compared to the bear, which was taller by a good six inches and enormously broad. It stood before him, willingly exposing its body to the rifle, as if daring him to shoot. It gave a low, evil, inward chuckling sound, which seemed to mean, It will not kill me. You cannot kill me.

    He aimed directly at the bear’s heart and pulled the trigger. The beast did not seem to feel the bullet. Again, he pulled the trigger, but the result was the same. The bear began to grow weary of this game. It advanced towards him, snarling. Mr. William backed away. He fired again, and again. Once more! To no avail.

    Meanwhile, inside the rifle, precisely as soldiers each succeeding bullet pushed, with each shot, into the chamber. Nearer and nearer the trophy pushed to the chamber and then…

     …arrived.

     Yet another shot rang out in the woods.

     With a moan, almost like the moan of a despairing woman, the immense beast sagged, and pitched over backward, to land with all its awful weight upon the forest floor, causing the earth to quake, as if it, too, feared the bear. The great bristly head fell right between the knees of partially stunned Mr. Percy, which greatly alarmed him. For one instant, as it lay there, Mr. William thought he saw, in its place, a smaller figure, that of a wretched, decrepit creature, its face covered in a shawl. An instant later, the bear was back. Mr. William shuddered. When he had seen the trophy roll out of his pocket, he had remembered something that Mr. Vrenord had told him about Greicha: “She gan taege on de form of a bea. To nod azge me how. I tid nod maege up the folgtales abard her. Maybe begause she somedimes tlinks bea bloot, or lives in de woots. I have no itea.” Now that it was all over, Mr. William realized how impossible and ridiculous that the bear could have been Greicha and that it only the silver trophy had killed the bear. It must, he thought, have been the number of bullets fired into it that killed it. It couldn’t possibly have been killed only by silver, like—like a vampire…

     He and his nephew looked at each other. Mr. William then felt the blood running down his face and realized with horror that it was probably staining his collar!!! He hastily wiped himself and stopped up the blood with a giant handkerchief hemmed with lacework. He then heaved a sigh of relief. Now he probably looked more presentable.

    “We’d better return to the house,” Mr. William said quietly. There seemed to be nothing more to say than that. Mr. Percy got painfully to his feet and they helped each other back to that haven. They fortunately did not encounter any other bears on the way back.

    “Eek!” Mrs. Vrenord screamed solicitously. The rest of the group, woken by the shots and finding the Ivertons missing, with lantern and ‘bea’ gun, had gone out in search of them. They now found the two Englishmen plodding over the leaves and leaning upon each other.

   “We hert shods! Whad are you doing oud here?! Whaddas happent to you!?” Mr. Vrenord’s voice unintentionally came out like squeals as from an hamster, to his great humiliation. 

    “We merely ran into spot of trouble, sir,” Mr. William explained with ludicrous understatement, “Everything’s alright now.”

   “Ooh, Heaven help us! Whad has happent do your face!?” Mrs. Vrenord mothered the Ivertons, “And you, young Mr. Iverdon, your wrizd look perfegtly nazdy! Here, led us help you home. I will dent do you dere.”

    “Your wount is nod as bat as id loogte, when all blooty,” said Mrs. Vrenord to Mr. William while bandaging his injury, “Id is nod gonna leave inderezding scar.”

    “That’s just something I will have to do without,” he laughed, “Thank you, madam.”

    “Whad happent do you?!” inquired poor Mr. Vrenord for the eighth time, when his wife had finished. She had not allowed the Ivertons to tell their story while she tended to them (“In gase,” she said, “dey lose more bloot explaining”).

    “It was all so very strange…” the Ivertons began and went on to each tell of their parts of the story. But Mr. William left out the fact that the woman he saw was Greicha and the sections about the trophy. He decided he would only tell his nephew those things.

    While they spoke, each of the listeners reacted in a different way. Mr. Vrenord’s eyes were as round and shiny as coins with awe. Mrs. Vrenord’s face registered a silent maternal horror. Miss Toots bit into a sofa cushion to keep from crying out with the drama of the story, gazing at the Ivertons and realizing with inexpressible bliss that she was going to marry into a family of heroes. Miss Crelvis made sarcastic faces, not believing a word of it. Mr. Groobe laughed unrestrainedly at every sentence, whereupon Mrs. Vrenord looked sharply at him with the rancor of a broody hen whose babies are being mocked, and Mr. Groobe would immediately stop up his noises of gleeful scorn and assume an angelic expression as well as he could under the circumstances of his face.

    “I gan hartly believe id,” Mr. Vrenord said in a little, subdued voice of wonder, staring blankly into space, when the Ivertons had finished.

    “Tell us another one, grampas!” Miss Crelvis sent up a lazy whoop from the corner where she sat, languid and boneless like a cat, waving an arm in lethargic cheer and salutation. In fact, from where the Ivertons were sitting, only the swaying arm of the slumping Miss Crelvis could be seen, as the armrest of their couch was blocking their vision.

    “Yeah, she’s right!” Mr. Groobe wheezed, choking on laughter. He clutched his sides and doubled up. Mrs. Vrenord glared at the unruly couple.

    “Really!” she said under her breath, exasperated.

    When the excitement had died down a bit, they retired to their sleeping chambers, except Mr. William, who first went into his nephew’s to talk.

    “May I speak with you, Percy old lad?” he asked sheepishly.

    “Yes, Uncle?” Mr. Percy said, turning bright, expectant green eyes on the other.

    Mr. William played his fingers together self-consciously.

    “It’s about your little silver golf trophy… er…” he began.

    “Oh, yes. Please go on.”

    “I really don’t know how to say this,” his uncle began again, his voice rupturing unharmoniously in his nervousness, “but I used your trophy… to kill that blasted bear.”

    “What???” Mr. Percy queried in utter perplexity, “Uncle, you’ll have to be clearer than that.”

    “Well, you see…” Mr. William inhaled deeply, “I put it in the gun and shot it into the bear, because I (oh-you’ll-think-this-silly) … You know when I told you about the woman I fancied I saw. I thought I saw Greicha, that vampire. How do I know? She tried to bite me. Really, it must have been she, for her face was deplorably malformed. Then, when I suddenly saw a bear in her place… I say, Mr. Vrenord forgot to mention it during supper, the first time we came here, but he told me later—about Greicha—that she could change into a bear? Well—I actually thought the bear was still Greicha and that—that the only way I could kill it was with something… silver, because, you know… Dracula? You understand? You can laugh if you want to.”

    “Really and truly? You thought that, Uncle? You, the most sensible person I know?!” Mr. Percy asked, utterly astonished, staring wide-eyed at the other. Mr. William, with an expression as of being on the breaking point of laughter, looked into his nephew’s eyes and nodded. The next minute they were laughing fit to burst, but as quietly as they could, so as not to disturb the others.

    “Frankly, though, I understand perfectly, Uncle,” Mr. Percy chuckled, when their merriment had subsided a little, “I would have done exactly the same thing as you. But why did you have the trophy in the first place?”

    “I don’t know…” Mr. William thoughtfully rolled his eyes as if trying to see into his mind for the answer, “I suppose I just put it in my pocket without a smidgen of cognitive awareness. But I’m frightfully sorry,” he looked sadly as his nephew, “for being an ass and throwing away your well-earned trophy like that. I feel terrible about it.”

    “Oh, that’s alright, Uncle,” Mr. Percy replied, smiling, “As I said before, I understand perfectly. I say, though, why was it so difficult to kill the thing? The fool bear was just waiting to receive the bullets. It endured the lead and copper bullets but only keeled over when you shot it with a soft piece of silver.”

    “I suppose it was a matter of quantity. One bullet wasn’t enough to kill it. It was a mammoth of a bruin.”

    “Euoh.”

    “I beg your pardon?” Mr. William said.

    The odd noise had issued from his nephew. He was staring before him, blunt, naked horror clear-cut on his features.

    “Uncle,” he explained in a low, grave, faraway voice, “when I first saw you with the bear, I too fancied I saw an old woman instead of a bear, at first, a tiny old woman. How can a huge bear look to two people like a tiny old woman?”

    “How can a tiny old woman look like a huge bear to one person?” Mr. William said.

    “But I also had a dream,” his nephew went on tonelessly, “about a woman with teeth and eyes.”

    “Well, what’s so peculiar about that?” Mr. William wondered.

    “They were teeth, Uncle!” Mr. Percy shouted, glancing quickly at him, “Sharp yellow teeth! And the eyes…!!!”

    “Light blue-yellow, snake-like?” Mr. William breathed hoarsely. Mr. Percy jolted at the other’s accuracy, then nodded slowly and funereally with an indescribable look on his face.

    “Uncle,” he said, “I don’t wish to sound like an infant, but I so want to go home.”

    “As do I,” Mr. William replied, “Percy, I have no idea what to think, but one thing I know: I will never take your instincts for granted again. I’m not saying you should be guided only by your feelings (Most un-British!), but if you find me telling you things like, ‘IGNORE IT’, I give you full and unconditional permission to bean me with a golf club.”

    “Thank you, I accept your offer,” Mr. Percy replied, smiling a little haggardly.

“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!” Part 8

by Catherine Malone | Nov 30, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

The most practical of the five travelers, Mr. William, undergoes the worst nightmare. Poor Mr. Percy also gets a share of it.

PLEASE NOTE: Mr. William's nightmare is much longer than the others', so I cut it in half. This part, ‘The Encounter in the Woods', is only the first section of his nightmare. The second section, ‘Tanta Argentia', resumes his nightmare.

Part 8: An Encounter in the Woods

    Mr. William awoke with a jolt from peaceful sleep as a ruckus sounded in the next room. Fearing the worst, he bounded from bed and into a pair of slippers. Having hastily donned a plum dressing gown, he wrestled open a drawer on his bedside table and pulled out a revolver. Thus armed, he flung open his bedroom door and rushed out into the chilly passage. The sound issued from his nephew’s room. A slit of light peeped from the bottom crack of the door. He threw open the door and prepared to leap into the fray… to discover that it was only a one-man fray. There was Mr. Percy, in teal pajamas, charging forward, then leaping back suddenly, then charging, punching the air, and retreating again, with such courage, mingled with such agility and grace, that at first Mr. William simply stood outside in the hall and stared in admiration. He really could not help it. The sight was positively enthralling. Then, as the grand finale, Mr. Percy rolled magnificently over the bed to evade the unseen enemy and traveled in an unintended rotating motion towards the doorway.

    A little crowd of robed figures hurried to Mr. Percy’s room, wondering what the matter was. Mr. William held up a hand signaling them to come no farther.

    “It’s all right. Please, go back to bed. There’s nothing amiss,” he reported quietly, tactfully closing the door so as not to cause his nephew the humiliation of realizing he was being watched, as Mr. Percy had not noticed his uncle. Mr. William would have done well to do so earlier, for his nephew at this moment was still rolling towards the door. There was a dull bump as he came up against it. Mr. William knocked softly on the door. More bumps were heard as Mr. Percy clothed himself in the garb more proper to visitors.

    “Is de sweed blonte boy alrighd?” Mrs. Vrenord inquired, extremely agitated.

    “He is alright, madam, perfectly alright,” Mr. William assured her, “Please, all of you, return to your beds. I will take care of this.” Reluctantly, the crowd retired to their sleeping quarters.   

    An eerie rectangle of light moved along the floor as Mr. Percy opened the door.

    “I-er-I heard-ah-some noise in here—is anything, well, the matter?” Mr. William inquired, striving to choose his words with delicacy.

    “Deuced young minotaur,” Mr. Percy confided readily, “Took me unawares. He’s gone now, sneaky animal.”

     “Ah,” was all Mr. William could say in answer. He took his nephew’s arm. “Percy, my lad, let’s talk.”

    “Yes, I’d like that, thank you, Uncle,” Mr. Percy agreed. They walked into the room together. Mr. William closed the door.

    “Sit down on the bed, please,” he ordered kindly, “Yes, good… umm, Percy, you’ve been suffering from these hallucinations since childhood. Would you tell me what you do to fight against—er, no, that’s not a good expression… would you tell me what you do to remedy it?”

    “I don’t see what I can do, Uncle,” Mr. Percy answered, “Many times I don’t know whether they are real or not.”

    “You must know that there isn’t such a thing as a half-man, half-bull! You must think, Percy. When you see something weird, challenge it! It’s the human brain against a mere mental image. Face it and conquer it.”

    “Uncle…” Mr. Percy asked in a low, nervous whisper, “What if it is real?”

    “Well, er, it won’t vanish into thin air like that minotaur did.”

     “Yes, Uncle, you’re right… yes, you are!… But, but what about Tillie?”

    “What about her?”

    “You know, the snake.”

    “This house, meaning no offense to our honorable hosts, seems to have strange effects on some people. It’s rather like one of the haunted ilk.”

     “But, Uncle, what about… you know… what I saw. The dead Englishman. He took my hand, and I felt the cold, frigidity of it. How could you explain that without…”

     “Hmm…” Mr. William mumbled pensively, then suggested, “What if you had inadvertently touched a cold gravestone and fancied it was a hand?”

      Mr. Percy could hardly imagine this was the case. The whole nightmare had seemed too vivid for comfort. He remembered the message: “But mark me, your troubles aren’t over yet. This is the sort of place where things OCCUR. Dreadful Things…You may join me here someday in this delightful little cemetery…” Mr. Percy gulped loudly.

    “Something bothering you, Percy?” Mr. William asked concernedly.

    “Um… never mind, Uncle,” Mr. Percy answered, “I suppose it’s nothing.”

    “You need more confidence in yourself, Percy my lad! The darker side of your imagination fears it. You’ve got good, wholesome, British stuff in you. Use it to conquer these disturbing images…” his uncle went on (while striding back and forth across the room, gesticulating), or words to that effect, because Mr. Percy was not listening fully. He was too busy feeling strange. He felt it mainly in his throat, an odd, foreboding sort of feeling.

    “Uncle,” he broke in quaveringly, “Something’s wrong. I can feel it. So can Tillie. We’re in danger here.” Mr. William sighed.

    “Calm down, Percy. What danger could we possibly be in? This place, as I’ve mentioned before, has strange effects on people, probably due to its rather forbidding appearance. The butler, I admit, seems a bit sneaky, but harmless, I’m sure. And surely you don’t think the Vrenords…”

    “No, Uncle, not the Vrenords, of course, but… but… oh, I can’t explain!” Mr. Percy buried his face in his hands, exasperated and miserable. His uncle put a hand on his shoulder.

    “Get a good night’s sleep,” he said, smiling gently, “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

    “Goodnight, Uncle,” Mr. Percy said laconically, face still in hands. Mr. William, returning the wish, left quietly. Mr. Percy crawled slowly into bed, convinced he would never sleep until he was a hundred miles from this house. He tossed and turned the rest of the night, disturbed by visions.

    It was the young night of the next day, which was Halloween. The sky was dark jewel-blue, and only a few stars now showed themselves. The pearly moon looked hung, the white and mysterious queen of them all.

    Mr. Percy had been grim, tired, and silent all day. The others had strived to engage him in conversation, but he was so languid and detached that they soon gave up. He retired to his bedroom early that night. The others sat in the living room.

    “Hey, whatsup with your nephew?” Mr. Groobe inquired of Mr. William, “He’s been acting the weirdo all day.”

    “He didn’t sleep well last night,” Mr. William explained, slightly frigidly. The phraseology Mr. Groobe employed when speaking of his nephew vexed him.

    “Oh, didn’t sleep well, huh? What was it this time? Did he think the bed was trying to eat him?”

    “No,” Mr. William replied in a voice devoid of tone, while staring steadily at Mr. Groobe.

    “Uh, good!” Mr. Groobe croaked lamely, noting the dangerous expression on the other’s face. And, remarkably, he immediately changed the subject to pleasant things!

    “Whad a vurch beaudiful Halloween nighd!” Mrs. Vrenord marveled a little later, looking up from her knitting to gaze out through a window at the fantastical scene outdoors: pale blue clouds now floated with the stars and the moon. The stark black trees of the woods stood in rigid bleakness, like reluctant night watchmen. Thick, heavy caterpillars of fog were lowering themselves over the earth. Covering the ground were carpets of colorful leaves, shiny from the day’s recent rainfall. From the kitchen, the high voices of Neuma and Neima twittered a haunting tune, that soared, cavorting and purling, into the living room. Lizchee’s deep voice joined in, and it seemed like a great rectangular mass sliding slowly across the living room floor, and somehow, at the same time, oozing into the woodwork and making the house tremble on its foundations. Nevertheless, the music was very lovely.

     “How delightful,” Mr. William remarked, “though I don’t recognize the song they sing.”

     “They’re singing a song about Greicha. Id is Argnartian dradition do sing id on Halloween,” Mrs. Vrenord explained.

     “Speaging of Halloween, I wonter how de pumpgyn rolling finals durnt oud,” Mr. Vrenord remarked, smiling.

     “‘Pumpkin rolling’?” Miss Crelvis asked, perplexed, “What is it? It sounds despicable.”

    “Oh, miss, is Halloween dradition. Chiltren run drough de zdreeds rolling pumpgyns ant seeing who gan roll deirs fardest. Id is goot enjoyable, really. Dey have goot prizes, also. Ant de men dress up as beas on Halloween nighd, and the chiltren drow dings ad dem, nod heavy dings, of gourse. Id deaches goot survival dactigs.”

    “Wow, that’s bizarre!” Mr. Groobe marveled. Mr. Vrenord looked at him, a little surprised by the other’s reaction.

    Mrs. Vrenord glanced up at the clock, which was made of wood with a bear’s head in the middle of the face and a star-shaped silver pendulum.

    “Ah, betdime!” she said delightedly. Mrs. Vrenord loved to sleep. She carefully stowed her knitting away and rose gracefully. They all filed out of the room, ascended the wide, carpeted staircase, and, with cordial goodnights all round, retired to their rooms.

    Mr. Percy had not gone to bed. He had not even undressed. He was not at all tired anymore, but tense and jumpy. He either sat on his bed or speedily paced the floor, his green eyes owlishly humongous all the while.

    Mr. William did not go to bed either, not right away, but sat upon the soft, spacious bed, pondering on his nephew’s peculiar dilemma. Then he went to his window to behold the beautiful night before retiring. He gazed down at the unkempt lawn encompassed by the broken-down wall.

    Then he saw her: a bent little shawled old woman slowly traversing the front yard. That was impermissible. His gentleman’s heart recoiled from allowing little old ladies to traipse along in the dark and fog in a wood brimming with bruins. Mr. William flew out of his room and down the stairs. He darted into the jet-black foyer, where but a lean white shaft of moonlight lay on the floor from the moonbeams that filtered through a window. He charged forward into the dark, miscalculated his bearings, and thus barreled into the side table with the bowl that had the wax fruit (the fruit Mr. Groobe had tried to consume) in it. The table tipped over, the items on top slid onto the floor with a crash, a dozen bouncy bumps, and a metallic tlingggk! He sprawled all his length upon a part of the foyer that did nothave any plush rug. But though his tumble seemed like a thunderstorm to Mr. William, no one upstairs heard it. In this big mansion, the upstairs world was too separated from the downstairs world for people shut up in their bedrooms to hear a minor bump-about downstairs.

     He rose and found, among the scattered wax fruit and the shattered bowl, his nephew’s golf trophy, most deservedly won in a dramatic championship, made of pure silver, lying upon the floor. It was shaped rather like a gnome’s hat. Miss Toots, who was exceedingly proud of Mr. Percy’s golf accomplishments, must have left it there after showing it off to the Vrenords. Why just there he had no idea. Without thinking, he nestled the piece into his breast pocket, found and opened the front door, and ventured outside. The moon fell full on his slate-blue hair, highlighting it eerily. In that same intense moonlight, he saw the old woman hobble across the yard, aided by a walking stick. He approached her, calling to her. She paid him no mind but hobbled onward… into the woods. Mr. William gasped in horror and ran after her amongst the misted trees. But strangely, though he ran and the woman hobbled, she remained ever far in front. On and on they went this way, through the chilly woods. The air was sharp and cold, smelling of nuts and damp leaves.

    They were quite a way into the woods, when Mr. William called for the sixteenth time, “Hi! Madam!” This time, she halted. Just as he caught up with her, she turned round.

    Oh!    

    Her face!

    He caught but an instant’s glimpse of twisted grey flesh and shockingly disordered features. He knew it was the face of Greicha. Her worst aspect was her inexpressibly surreal eyes. Greyish were the whites, pale, ghostly blue-yellow the irises. The pupils were like a snake’s. The awful eyes met his own for one instant, and then she had whipped her shawl in front of her face, concealing the hideousness of her countenance. Mr. William decided it was time to leave.

    “Oh, you must be Mrs. Greicha,” he spoke conversationally, to distract her, backing away slowly, “Allow me, madame, to express my extreme sorrow at not being able to recommend any beauty salon in this vicinity. Really, though, you must admit you brought it upon yourself. Well, goodnight, or rather, good morning.” He continued to back slowly away from her, towards the house. Then, he realized what a fool he was making of himself. He must be seeing things, just like his nephew. There was no Greicha. He only imagined her. He stopped backing up and began to slowly and defiantly approach the vision.

    “You’re not real,” he informed it in low, level tones, smiling with infinite condescension and expecting it to disappear any minute, “You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re…”

    The vision did not disappear but, with a gravelly scream, flew at him like a mad dog, taking him utterly by surprise. From its weathered cloak shot a skeletal arm, to which was barely attached a great warty hand. It clutched his hair and pulled back his head with extraordinary strength. The awful crone, her yellow teeth bared, leaned her shrouded face close to his. As he was forced to inhale her sickening breath, he found he was unable to move a muscle. All he could do was wait for those awful teeth to puncture his throat.

    Then the scene changed.

    He was staring into the jaws of a great Arcnardian bear.

    The picture was all too vivid: the flabby, furry cheeks, the close-together eyes, the cadaverous breath of a bear. It looked at him hungrily, making deep, ravenous noises.

    Mr. Percy sat bolt upright, covered in sweat. Eyes! Teeth! No, no, merely a dream. He must have dozed off. That strange feeling in his throat had risen to a climax. He had to get out of bed! Wait! I must be calm, he ordered himself, I’m overexcited. I must be more confident in myself. Yes! Uncle William will appreciate my following his advice. With superhuman effort, he sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed there for two entire minutes. Then he was off like lightning down the stairs. He knew where a good bear rifle was… what?! Why a bear rifle? Percy, what are you doing, you young idiot!? he demanded. Ignoring himself, he snatched up the rifle, checked if it was loaded, and dashed off, he really knew not where.

“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!” (Part 7)

by Catherine Malone | Nov 29, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

Part 7: No One Will Notice

    It was probably the reason that they lived in solitude in a clearing in the woods, separate from the outside world, and because they had always lived rather sheltered lives, that Perpich and Marcilia Vrenord had great purity, and trust in strangers. They were almost childlike in their naivety. This, in turn, was the reason for the unwise action Mr. Vrenord made of showing Miss Crelvis the Vrenord Treasure. He showed the others too, of course, but it was most dangerous to display anything above $100,000.00 under the nose of Miss Crelvis, an extremely spoilt and privileged movie queen, because she was apt to be just a tad unscrupulous about other people’s property, as shall be seen.

    Mr. Vrenord, a lantern clutched in his hand, led them into the cellar. There, he unlocked a wee door, the color of which blended into the wall, and the group entered a close stone passageway. At its end was a spacious stone chamber, which they entered.

    “Wow!” said Miss Crelvis. The room was full of graceful and valuable statuary, glorious paintings in expensive frames, and bejeweled vessels. Mr. Vrenord opened one of the many stocky chests that were also in the room, all crowded together. It was bursting with holdings of many hundreds of dwerps [a dwerp is Arcnardian money. One dwerp is three-and-a-half times a dollar] and gemstones winking roguishly in the light of the lantern.

    “Real neato, Mr. Vrenord! Real neato!” Mr. Groobe breathed.

    “Yes, id is. Dis is de wealth of many Vrenords drough de centuries. Very gluddered here, dough, is id nod?”

    “Yeah, but what clutter!” Miss Crelvis cried, her eyes covetous golf-balls.

    “True, miss. I plan do give many of dese valuable ard pieces to museums,” Mr. Vrenord went on, “Dere are more dan we gan fid even in dis big harse.”

    “A worthy plan,” Mr. William approved.

    Having duly admired this wonderland of wealth, the group exited the chamber, chatting pleasantly, …

…all but Miss Crelvis.

    Yes, she remained, and no one realized her absence, not even Mr. Groobe. She was not going to leave, not without a keepsake from this treasure chamber.

    But it was so dark. How was she to see? Miss Crelvis looked around, letting her eyes grow more accustomed to the darkness. She remembered seeing a box of matches held in the hand of one of the large statues. Mr. Vrenord had put it there in case the lantern needed to be relit.

    But he had taken the lantern. What to use for a source of light? She now dimly saw an old, deformed candle enthroned upon a corroded candlestick.

    With a bit of trouble in the dark, she managed to get hold of a match and the candle. She touched the match to the candle’s wick. A willowy tongue of flame leaped to life. It bobbed about on the wick as she made her way to the group of treasure chests. Kneeling on the cold stone floor, she opened a particularly bulky chest (none of the chests were locked, although they could have been, but there were so many, Mr. Vrenord did not bother). Piles of glinting silver coins, glimmering gems, and handsome jewelry reclined within. A slow smile spread across Miss Crelvis’ face, cracking the thick white, half-dry beauty cream she had drowned her human identity in. Her green eyes narrowed, glittering with avarice. Her sylph’s hand reached in and rummaged unreservedly through the pile of wealth. She wanted something small enough for her to hide in her room, yet expensive enough for her to enjoy. She scooped up a tangled mound of treasure and found something there that she liked. Delicately removing the surplus pieces, she gazed upon her prize. It was a necklace of superb craftsmanship. From its chain hung a minute golden cage of extraordinary metalwork. Inside the cage sat a dainty bird, made of diamond, with infinitesimal beads of sapphire for eyes, and a beak of some unidentifiable orange gem. There’s so many unique necklaces here, she thought, No one will notice me taking just this one. No one will ever notice!

    She stuffed it hungrily into the breast pocket of her dress and was about to hurry after the others, when she felt a cold stare burn into her back. She whipped her head around, panic starting out of her eyes. But all she saw behind her was a life-sized marble statue of a man in armor. But—but what was this?! Did she imagine that the knight’s body swayed ever so slightly like a living man would while standing in one place? She looked guiltily and tentatively up into its eyes, as if ashamed of her theft even in the presence of this statue merely carved in the likeness of a human being. Oh! There was no alteration in the appearance of the blind marble eyes, and yet she felt a penetrating gaze that issued from them, reaching into her soul. Then, suddenly, unmistakably, the right arm of the knight lifted, reaching out towards her, the palm outstretched, as if it desired something—something that she could give.It stiffly lifted one foot and began to slowly and inflexibly approach her. The stern mouth was tight shut; the eyes were locked on her in an unflinching gaze.

    Miss Crelvis knew that the knight wanted the necklace to return it to its rightful place. That was plain, but she was not going to give up easily. She was a willful woman. But she backed slowly away from the statue like a frightened animal, scrunching her shoulders and lowering her head, and as she did, she heard a funny banging noise. She looked behind the knight statue and perceived the stocky treasure chests all opening and shutting their lids, of their own propulsion and in perfect rhythm. They were like a volley of squat beasts with giant mouths testifying against her who was a thief. Everything in the chamber seemed to be testifying against her: paintings seemed to darken their colors, as if covering their faces from her, statues glowered at her. The vases and pots seemed to cringe in disgust and loathing of her.

    All the while the statue of the knight came nearer and nearer. Then, unexpectedly, it dashed forward and grasped her arm in a firm, stony grip! Staring grimly down into her eyes it held its other hand under her nose in anticipation of the necklace. But Miss Crelvis kicked it in its marble shins, succeeding in loosening its grip on her arm and inflicting severe pain on her toes. But now that she had liberated herself, she began to run. Clack-clock-clack-clock, went her fancy shoes as she sped through the narrow passage, stretching the flame on her candle with her rate. She could hear the knight’s swift, marbly footsteps keeping a steady pace behind her. But she was almost free. She was going to make it to the door leading out of this dreadful place! She was! She was going to make it! She was at the door! She turned the handle.

     Uh-oh.

    It wouldn’t budge.

    Mr. Vrenord had locked the door again, unaware that she was still on the other side. Screaming, she slapped her palms against the doors, but no one answered her.

    The knight arrived. It grabbed her and lifted her in its arms. She hurled the candle at its face, but what good is fire on marble? She struggled and screamed in its ear, but apparently the knight was stone deaf and held her fast. It bore her back through the shadowy passageway and set her on her feet back in the chamber.

    Then the worst thing of all happened. As Miss Crelvis stood there, a twittering noise began in her breast pocket. Was the necklace, the stolen property itself, crying out against her?! With an ear-piercing shriek, Miss Crelvis dug into the pocket and goggled at the delicate diamond bird in the cage. It was trilling loudly in fright, its beak wide open. She flung the necklace from her in fear and disgust. It fell jingling to the floor. An extraordinary thing then occurred. The diamond bird began to grow, rising taller and higher, getting broader and bigger, until it was taller than the knight! It became an enormous, fierce white bird. It cocked a startling flaming blue eye at Miss Crelvis, shrilling a wild cry. With one immense wing, it overturned the particularly large treasure chest from where she had taken the bird, and the treasure poured out upon the floor. The knight then turned the chest right-side up again, and the bird took flight, beating its wings at Miss Crelvis, and forcing her into the chest. Mr. Crelvis curled up, cowering, in it, and the lid closed on her. There was a click, as if somehow, the chest had locked itself of its own accord. There she lay in the dark, yelling herself purple.

     It seemed like eons to the captive thief, but it was not long after Mr. Vrenord had locked the door that he and the others realized that Miss Crelvis was missing and went back into the chamber to look for her. They heard the muffled yells from the chest (who could not?) and Mr. Vrenord let her loose.

    “Whad on earth were you toing in dere, miss?” he cried in a voice of utterly perplexed wonder, his eyes round. Miss Crelvis nervously peeped out of the chest, and seeing no giant bird, rose, grumbling and giving no explanation whatsoever. Mr. Vrenord was rather angry that she had carelessly dumped the Vrenord Treasure on the floor, just to climb inside a treasure chest, but he was also fearful for Miss Crelvis’s sanity and sorry, as were the others, for letting her get locked inside the chamber. Miss Crelvis, as soon as Mr. Percy had helped her out of the chest, fell into a cringing, guilty lope, exiting the chamber and leaving the others to clean up after her. They saw, as she passed a statue of a knight, she deliberately avoided its eyes.

   They never got an explanation out her.

“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!!!” (Part 6)

by Catherine Malone | Nov 26, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

     The Vrenords and the five travelers hurried into the kitchen. There was the dumbwaiter, sitting placidly on the floor of the shaft. Mrs. Vrenord gasped. Lying on top of the dumbwaiter was a disordered heap of… cat bones.

Part 6: Mr. Groobe and the Floating Ears

All were relieved when Mrs. Vrenord remembered and informed them of Lich the butler’s bizarre hobby of collecting skeletons.

    “Lich muzd have pud his gad zgeledon on de tumbwaider. He doog id from de barn gad afder id tied,” Mrs. Vrenord said sternly, “Imagine, leaving id here ant scaring us oud of our wids! To nod worry, dough, I will speag do him abard id!”

    She called Lich, and he hurried in.

    “Yes, mattam?” he inquired in drooping, butlerly tones.

    “Lich, whad is your crazy gad zgeledon toing here? You derrified us, maeging us dink id was my Freenglahan!” The butler observed the skeleton she indicated.

    “But, mattam,” he respectfully denied, “I tit nod pud id dere. Id hat been missing. Someone else must have pud id dere, mattam. Nod your tear Lich pud id dere!”

    “Who tit, den?” Mrs. Vrenord asked sharply.

    “To nod know, mattam,” Lich answered. He shuffled over to the dumbwaiter, removed the narrow skull from the rubble of bones, and scrutinized it. Then he delivered his verdict.

    “Dis is nod my gad zgeledon, mattam,” he insisted, shaking his head vigorously.

    “Whad now?! Nod your zgeltedon!? Oh, budlers! Dey are like chiltren! How many zgeledons you dink we have?!” Mrs. Vrenord cried fiercely, “Id must be yours! Now, ged id oud of our sighd! We gan’t have your obscene zgeledons lolling abard de harse!”

    “Is nod my gad zgeledon. Is nod my gad zgeledon. Is nod my gad zgeledon,” Lich mumbled, perplexed, placing the bones on a wide tray, and bearing them off.

    “Budlers to nod mudder, Lich!” Mrs. Vrenord reminded him. Lich huddled his head into his collar and looked back at her like a guilty mongrel, giving a little whimper. Then he was gone.

    “Well, that’s that cleared up!” Mr. Groobe remarked cheerily, rubbing his hands together as if wiping off the recent event. Miss Toots and Mr. Percy looked around in disbelief. Everyone else was happy and satisfied with the comfortable explanation of Miss Toots’ scare. The two looked at each other. But is this really the explanation? their worried eyes asked. After all, Lich seemed so adamant that it was not his ‘gad zgeledon’.

    “Freenglahan will probably durn up soon, my honeygaeg,” Mr. Vrenord said to his wife, patting her hand affectionately. But Freenglahan never did. But still they always hoped he would, for the Vrenords were confirmed optimists.

   “Go away,” said Mr. Groobe. But the ears would not. They just floated obstinately there beside him as he sat by the bureau in his room. They were great elephantine ears. Deeply agitated, Mr. Groobe clutched for the 1892 bottle of potent Arcnardian wine he had “borrowed” (while the others were abed, for it was now 11:00), and, grasping it, poured with shaking hand a liberal amount into a large glass. It had been during his third glass that he had realized the presence of the ears. He now downed his fourth without further ado. Thus empowered, he turned defiantly to the ears.

    “I said goway!” he informed the ears, using his fiercest face, a face that would curl the toes of even the toughest baseball player who refused to conform to his will, the face that spurred the birth of a nickname, spoken behind his back of course, that of, ‘Rubber-jaw’.

    “You know, you have uncommonly obnoxious vocal powers,” said a voice, that seemed to come from between the ears!!! Mr. Groobe started violently and looked around wildly to see who was talking.

    “It was I who spoke,” said the voice again. This time Mr. Groobe traced the sound to the ears. He goggled.

    “What are you?” he asked them, eyes abulge.

    “A pair of wandering ears, of course. What else do I look like?”

    “How do you like that? Fresh ears!” Mr. Groobe complained to the world in general. Then he asked the ears, “Don’t you belong to someone?”

    “Of course,” they replied, and suddenly, a grotesque little face appeared between them, followed by a small, lean body attired in brown, the hands and feet of which were enormous.

    “What are you?” Mr. Groobe inquired again, eyes yet more abulge.

    “A Listener,” replied the thing, “That’s a special breed of goblin. I can vanish at will, all except my ears.”

    “Huh boy!” said Mr. Groobe, slapping his forehead, “Go on! What are you listening to in here?!”

    “I love the noise your wine makes sloshing into your glass,” the goblin answered gigglingly, “I can’t leave until you stop drinking.”

    “Well, I can’t stop drinking until you leave!” Mr. Groobe cried.

    “I guess we’re stuck in a rut then.”

    “Look!” Mr. Groobe cried suddenly, making the creature wince, “This is my room. You can’t just come in and listen to me pouring liquid into a glass! I demand my rightful privacy!”

    “But, if you had exceptional ears like mine, you would eavesdrop like I do!” said the creature, “My hearing is splendid. I could be on the bottom floor of an hotel and could hear people chatting loud and clear eight stories above.”

    Mr. Groobe pondered. He thought if he had ears like that, he would be able to eavesdrop on the He-Mans, a rival team of his, before a game, and hear all the tactics they would employ during the game. Then, his team, the Machetes, would be prepared for the strategies of the He-Mans, and the Machetes would win hands down. Besides, he would prefer having ears that didn’t look like wrapping paper that had been messily torn off the back of a present by some maniacal child and then crumpled up, like his own did.

    “Yeah, actually, maybe eavesdropping isn’t that bad,” he decided.

    “Certainly!” the goblin agreed wholeheartedly, then snapped a finger and said something that sounded like a mix of Swahili and Welsh, with perhaps just a smidgen of Croation. “Congratulations!” he said, “You are now the proud owner of remarkable ears.”

    Mr. Groobe started in surprise.

    “What!?” he exclaimed.

    “I’ve just transformed your ears to look like mine,” said the goblin, “seeing as you don’t mind eavesdropping.”

    Mr. Groobe delicately fingered his ears. His head pivoted to the mirror.   

    Oh, no. Oh, NO!

    There was his own face in the mirror, but not his own ears! They were exact replicas of the Listener’s! How awful, how utterly deplorable they looked, clapped to the sides of so comparatively miniscule a head as his own!

    “Uh-oh, I see you’re not pleased,” said the goblin, “Don’t blow your top. If you scream with rage, you’ll surely deafen yourself with your new, sensitive ears. But don’t worry. You’ll get used to them.”

    Mr. Groobe’s cheeks were puffed to keep in his ire. His face was crimson, with a tinge of violet.

    The goblin hastily vanished. Only its ears could be seen as it hurried out through Mr. Groobe’s door. Mr. Groobe pounded after it, his footfalls sounding like thunder to his new ears. Peering out into the dark passageway, he could perceive no trace of the Listener.

    The American baseball player slumped back into his room and subsided into the chair on which he had been seated while downing wine and arguing with the Listener.

    Then he heard a noise that put his heart into his mouth. A loud, continuous buzzing. Eeugh, it sounded like a giant fly. Mr. Groobe looked about him frantically. But all he saw was a regulation-sized fly droning around the room. Oh, the sound it made! How loud it was! The fly decided to land on the bureau. Mr. Groobe jerked violently at the dull thump the six infinitesimal hairy feet made when they touched down on the wood.

    His ears made him hear everything well… too well! Mr. Groobe wanted to howl and wail, to cry, ‘Yowza!’, a favorite ejaculation of his, but he was obliged to keep silent. Who knew how loud his laments would be in his eerie (or perhaps rather more eary?) condition?

    In the depths of misery, he recalled that this was not the way the story of Miss Lerlock and the Floating Ears, the story he had told while he and the other five travelers were walking in the woods, had went.

    Mr. Groobe began to run aimlessly as if trying to leave his ears behind, but his tread sounded as heavy as a bear’s, so he tiptoed from his room.

    “Help,” he said in a very small, weak voice to anyone who cared to listen, cupping his hands around his mouth, so as not to damage his ears, “Help.” He knocked softly on Miss Crelvis’ bedroom door.

    There was a muttering inside, a rustle of sheets, and a few thumping sounds, and then Miss Crelvis, attired in a long ivory robe decorated with gold outlines of bears and blossoms, opened the door. She had one eye half closed, and her hair was in complete mayhem. One end of her mouth was slung to the side. It would not be right or truthful to say that, at this moment, she looked exactly like the “Breathtaking Empress of the Cinema”, as she had been described in newspapers all over America.

    “Sreenie, Sreenie,” Mr. Groobe whispered to her, “It’s my ears!”

    “W’ta’bootim?” asked ‘Sreenie’.

    “I lost them, and I got these ones instead!”

    “Yah drunk! Gutta bbbbbed.” And with that intelligent counsel, Miss Crelvis shut her door, nearly closing it on of her boyfriend’s colossal ears. She hadn’t even seemed to notice them! She must have been half-blind with sleep.

     Mr. Groobe staggered to his bed like a drunken man, crestfallen at his girl’s lack of heart. He was exhausted. He barely got ready for bed before he flopped down upon the blankets, too tired even to slither underneath them. He slept heavily. The next morning, his own ears were miraculously back, but he had a groggy headache. He could not even remember what had happened to him the previous night, until he saw the bottle of wine on the bureau.  

“To Each His Own… Nightmare!” Part 5

by Catherine Malone | Nov 16, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

Miss Toots, all alone in her room, has a dreadful scare.

(Please note: despite appearances of some pictures, NONE of the pictures on our website were generated by AI, unless specified. We do the arduous task of drawing ourselves. We don't have machines do it for us.)

Part 5: Incident of the Dumbwaiter

    “So, how do you feel, having a looney nephew?” Mr. Groobe asked of Mr. William. Mr. William gave the other a cold look out of his usually soulful sea-blue eyes.

     “Please, Mr. Groobe, we are nearly strangers, bonded only by the slender thread of tribulation, which could snap at any given time. It is not your place to declare my flesh and blood to be ‘looney’… That place,” he added, turning back to his book, “is reserved for a responsible senior relative.” He looked up with a crestfallen expression. “And being a responsible senior relative, I am at liberty to say you may be right.”

    “Aw, don’t speak to me in riddles,” Mr. Groobe reproached feelingly, “I’m real sorry for you. I know you feel. I have a few maniacs in my family.”

    “I should never have guessed,” Mr. William said quietly, a sardonic smile creeping up his face. But it quickly disappeared. Mr. William was really worried about Mr. Percy.

    “It must be the result of the recent unpleasant circumstances impressed upon his young and highly-strung nature,” he soliloquized, “And when you fill a nervous man’s mind with ghoulish stories,” here, he shot a significant glance at Mr. Groobe, “he is liable to imagine anything. Ugh! Imagine, dead men sticking up from the earth and talking to him. That lad needs help!”

    Almost a week had passed, and those concerned subjects of Britain started a fund to rescue the travelers stuck in Arcnardia, which they would pay to an airway company willing to risk flying there. But the other airway companies were not interested in mending what Cosy Airways® had done. And Cosy Airways® would not back down and rescue the travelers, not even for money, because of the horrible exaggerations they had heard about the Arcnardians.

    “Cannibals!” they squealed in disgust, “You want us to fly to a land of cannibals?!”

    Miss Toots wiggled her toes deeper into her plushy orange slippers. She was hunched over a desk, her tongue out, typing busily on the typewriter the Vrenords had loaned her. She was writing another of her relatively well-known adventure novels and was lost in a world where the heroes were blondes with interesting personalities; where all the heroines had huge, glassy, ethereal eyes and were always having nervous breakdowns; where the villains, men and women, had long hair and dagger-like fingernails. She was now at a suspenseful scene: this always made her very tense. The room she was in was very lovely, but there was not as much lighting as she would have liked. It was the perfect atmosphere for suspense, though. The hour was late. Black masses of shadow coated the room. The gorgeous pale-orange housecat, name of Freenglahan, his golden eyes glowing, rubbed his satin head against her leg, and she now and then reached down to stroke him.

    The clicking of the typewriter keys suddenly stopped. Miss Toots had found she could not writeanother word, not without sweets. When she was writing, she nearly always had a big box of Klingerman’s Chocolates® with her to help her along. She bit her tongue trying to taste the fluffy, creamy, raspberry filling of the kind she liked best. It was expedient for the quality of her work to have some variety of candy at hand. This was the perfect opportunity to try out the dumbwaiter in her room. She would ask Lizchee to bring her up some of those divine candied nuts. I suppose, she supposed, I shout down the shaft for my order. She took a wide step over Freenglahan and stuck her curly head into the shaft.

    “Oh, Lizchee, some candied nuts, if you please!” she called. Her request echoed down the black pit.

    “Yi, merm,” Lizchee’s rather thick alto sounded up from the depths of the pit. Miss Toots thanked her and flounced back to her seat. She read over what she had just written:

    Matthew advanced ever onward, unaware of his peril. Darkling hid in the shadows, his heart worm-eaten with hate. With one gloved hand, he slowly extracted a thirty-two-inch dagger from his sleeve. His serpentine eyes darted from left to right, making certain there were no witnesses out on the docks. The area was devoid of life. Good, good. The unsuspecting Matthew was now but a hair’s-breadth from him. This was the moment. Quick as a snake, the villain made to plunge the knife into the throat of our hero…

    This unfinished section of her novel seemed to awaken a funny feeling in the pearl-encircled throat of Miss Toots. She gulped. Suddenly, she heard an odd noise, a sort of rushing noise. She whimpered, but then realized, the dumbwaiter has come with my sweets. She brightened at once and turned round. It was not the dumbwaiter. It was the head of a snake. There it was, a giant, reptilian, oscillating creature, staring with luminous gold eyes into her room from the darkness of the shaft. Its pale tongue flicked in and out of the shadows. Miss Toots stood in a stupor, her lips parted in pure fear. Then, all too suddenly, there was a dreadful, high, whining scream as the head, its eyes as bright as train lights now, lashed out towards her! It then shot back again, and vanished. There was a rushing noise speeding down the shaft, then silence. Miss Toots looked at the empty shaft. She did not feel the room had any more appeal to her, so she fled out the door, shrieking.

     “EEEK!” Falsetto screeches were hurled down the main staircase of the mansion, and a sort of blur with orange slippers followed it about two lengths behind. Chivalry jerked Mr. William and Mr. Groobe from their seats in the living room and carried them swiftly to the bottom of the stairs, where Miss Toots, the white and pink on her face balanced as on an extremely underripe strawberry, stood, hysterically lachrymose. Half-blind with tears and fear, she threw herself upon Mr. Groobe crying,

    “Uncle! Uncle dear! It was horrible. Waah!” Mr. Groobe looked at Miss Toots as if she were an extra baseball mitt that he didn’t know what to do with.

    “Caress her, Groobe,” Mr. William hinted. Mr. Groobe made attempts to comply but was not successful. Miss Toots stared up into his face through the tears and leaped back, crying ‘EEEK!’, again. She turned herself round and round in search of Mr. Percy, who was just coming downstairs. The instant she saw him, flung herself upon him, lamenting loudly, like a chicken. Mr. Percy mumbled condolences and rubbed her back, which shuddered with sobs. Now the Vrenords and Miss Crelvis had gathered at the bottom of the stairs. Miss Crelvis made mental notes of Miss Toot’s actions, so when Miss Crelvis decided to have a fit, it would seem more authentic than ever.                                                        

    “Mayge de tear laty sid town. Give her branty,” Mr. Vrenord commanded.

    Soon, little Miss Toots was seated comfortably in the living room, merely sniffling now. She was sipping brandy while everyone was gazing concernedly at her. This is lovely, she thought, so homey and real. Could she have possibly imagined what she had seen? But she shuddered as the vision of the snake’s head hurtling towards her flashed through her brain.

    “Tillie, darling, tell us what’s been troubling you,” Mr. Percy begged. His words were a little understated, but Miss Toots did not mind.

    “There’s… there’s a-a snake or something… in the dumbwaiter shaft,” she explained, blushing self-consciously. The story seemed so fatuous in the presence of all these real people. At her words, Mr. Percy looked empathetic. The Vrenords looked deeply concerned. Miss Crelvis looked amused. Mr. Groobe looked meaningfully at Mr. William. Mr. William looked chagrined.

     “It rose up the shaft, and peeked into my room,” Miss Toots went on.

     “Now, now, miss,” Mr. Vrenord assured her, “Lizchee wouldn’t send you up a snake.”

    “Of course not, sir, but it was there all the same. And it—I think it ate Freenglahan.”

    “What?” Mrs. Vrenord cried.

    “Please, Tillie, start at the beginning, and give us the details,” Mr. William told her.

    “Yes, of course,” Miss Toots agreed, “I was in my room, working on a new novel. It was dim and shadowy in my room. I was feeling, well, rather on edge, because I was writing a suspenseful part of the novel I’m working on. Freenglahan was with me. I… well, I asked for some sweets to be brought up by the dumbwaiter, because sweets help me with my writing. I thought I heard the dumbwaiter rolling up and turned round, to discover this appalling serpentine face staring at me. I—”

    “Excuse me: did you actually see the serpent’s face, or perhaps just its eyes?” Mr. William broke in.

    “Well, I fancied I saw the contour of its face and neck, but it was so dark in the shaft. I saw a pair of eyes, though, and a flicking tongue.”

    “Hmm, and at that moment, you realized Freenglahan was not there?”

    “No, I didn’t realize that until I after the thing left, which in turn was after the hideous shrieking I heard.”

    “‘Shrieking’?” Mr. William queried.

    “Please, could I tell my story in my own way?” Miss Toots, ever the authoress, asked politely.

    “Of course, forgive me,” Mr. William replied.

   “Then, the snake shot forward like a whip, and I heard the most dreadful animal shrieking, and then the snake was gone. And so was Freenglahan,” Miss Toots finished up quickly.

    “Hmm…” Mr. William considered, “Tillie dear, I don’t wish to be captious, but what if when the dumbwaiter came up, Freenglahan jumped into it, perhaps attracted by the sweets. If sitting in the correct position, he could have resembled a serpent, his flicking tail being the serpent’s tongue. Then, maybe Lizchee started to let the dumbwaiter down, and that frightened him, making him leap forward.”

    “What made him shoot back again, Uncle?” Mr. Percy inquired. Mr. William had no explanation for why a cat should ‘shoot back’.

    “Maybe his dail was caughd in de pulley or someding?” Mr. Vrenord suggested dubiously. All then sat in pensive silence.

    At that moment, there was a knock on the living room door, and Lizchee peeped in.

    “Oh, merm,” she addressed Miss Toots, “I hert you gome town, and remembert your nuds. Gom sorry! Pod boilt over, gake fall in oven, I ged distracdet. I forgod gompledely abard bringing up your nuds. Forgive me, merm! My helpers are foolish liddle toves. Dey to nod to a ding for me in de gitchen, juzd tream aboud de gynda man dey’s gonna marry…”

    But no one waited for her to finish. They all stampeded out the door, unwittingly sending Lizchee spinning onto a nearby couch.

    “Whad is de worlt gumming do?” she demanded of the living room furniture.

     The Vrenords and the five travelers hurried into the kitchen. There was the dumbwaiter, sitting placidly on the floor of the shaft. Mrs. Vrenord gasped. Lying on top of the dumbwaiter was a disordered heap of… cat bones.

“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!” Part 4

by Catherine Malone | Nov 15, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

Alright, now we come to the point of the story where (hOpEfUlLy) creepy things begin to happen. Mr. Percy has a strange experience near the Vrenords' golf links.

Part 4: The Golf Ball and the Grave

    One morning, though foggy, grey, and dreary, it was nonetheless surprisingly warmish. The travelers had been staying with the Vrenords for three days, and already word was being spread about the stout refusal of Cosy Airways®, who owned the areoplane that had crash-landed in Arcnardia, to send a rescue squad to that island. Many of the subjects of Britain were scandalized at the Cosy Airways'® disgraceful attitude and began taking other airways instead. Others were indifferent about or ignorant of the entire matter.

    Mr. Vrenord was absent at breakfast. Mrs. Vrenord explained that her husband had breakfasted early and had gone to the stables to pay a visit to poor lame Fleece. She said he loved that woolly little Arcnardian horse, and would often visit her, converse with her, even sing to her.

    “He shoult nod be long visiding, unless he forgeds de dime. If dad is case, I will remynt him,” she told Mr. Percy, “Afder his visid, he and you gan go town do de golf gourse ant shood a game dogeder. Perpich woult love dad. If you wand, you gould go dea early and warm up. De gourse is nod far away. Juzd follow de liddle foodpad dad runs pazd de cemedery.”

    “‘Cemetery’, madam?” Mr. Percy asked.

    “Oh yes, id is de Vrenort Cemedery. Vrenorts have livt in dis harse for years and years, ant when dey ties dey are burit in lovely liddle cemedery behint de harse. Sometay Perpich and me shall join dem.” At this last remark, she looked dreamy.

    “Oh, don’t speak so, madam!” Mr. Percy protested.

    Mrs. Vrenord smiled fondly at him, then added, “Oh yes, I forgod, dea is one poor Bridish burit dere also, a dourizd, I dink, by his glothes. He was drying do esgape from beas, juzd like you nice people. We rescute him, bud he tyte in are arms. So sat, dch, dch, dch. When you pass by, pray for de souls of all dose burit dere, woult you please?”

    “Gladly, madam,” Mr. Percy returned graciously. He did not betray his slight agitation over the topic of cadavers that the conversation had turned to, especially about the deceased Englishman.  

   Sometime after breakfast, Mr. Percy, looking very attractive in full golfer’s garb, strode jauntily along over the narrow, well-trodden dirt footpath, towards the golf course, which lay a fair distance behind the house. He went there early to warm up for the game he would shoot with Mr. Vrenord. He had forgotten about corpses for the time being. His only thoughts were about golf.

    He passed the ironwork enclosure that margined the cemetery, a sober area of withered grass and cherub-decked slabs of stone. The sight of the cemetery chilled him slightly. He offered a prayer for the souls of the dead there, then resumed his journey to the links. He was not so carefree now as he had been when he had first ventured out.

    The golf course looked eerie on this dim autumn morning, a dismal stretch of scratchy half-dead grass, with here and there a dot of color where a gaudy flagstick stood. White translucent banks of fog hovered low over the ground. The humid vapor entered Mr. Percy’s pores and invigorated his body. Despite the cheerless appearance of the links, he felt grand, and his shots were grand, high and far and accurate. But, drunk with success at his seventh beautiful shot, he overswung far too much, and the ball soared high and far like a little white bird, made a splendid arch and fell to earth… by the cemetery. Mr. Percy strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of his ball.

     Then, unexpectedly, a cheery, friendly voice came bellowing across to him from the cemetery.

    “Hoi! I’ve found your ball! Come and get it!”

    The accent was not Arcnardian, it was British, a man’s, but not his uncle’s. Who could it be, then? Mr. Percy jogged towards the cemetery. There he discovered a young man, buried up to the waist in the earth. He was situated in front of one of the gravestones. He smiled at Mr. Percy and pointed to where his golf ball lay.

    “There it is,” he said, smiling. His tones were amiable, but there was something blank and empty, something artificial about them.

    “Oh, uh, thanks,” Mr. Percy said, rather at a loss for eloquent speech. He walked slowly over to the place which had been indicated, found his ball, and put it in his pocket. He then looked again at the helpful stranger, blinked incredulously, opened the cemetery gate, and crept inside and along the cemetery path to investigate further into this strange phenomenon. Now, standing before the half-buried Englishman, Mr. Percy could survey him in detail. He was not a bad-looking sort, but his skin was very pasty, and his eyes wide open. His hair was matted and dry. There was nothing scary in his outward appearance. What was really terrifying was the look of blankness in his face, the lack of soul behind the big eyes, and the sight of his slim, well-dressed form sticking partway out of the ground like a worm.

    “May I ask who you are, sir?” Mr. Percy inquired. The other, without a word, leaned sideways to give Mr. Percy a view of the gravestone behind, pointing his thumb at the name inscribed thereon:

Unknown

killed by bears 1949

R.I.P.

    “Oh, of course!” Mr. Percy said “You must be The Poor Englishman buried here. I hope you’ll forgive my obtuseness. I didn’t realize who you were at first.”

   “Oh, that’s alright… I say, though, you're an Englishman too. What are you doing in these parts?” the stranger inquired.

    “Our areoplane made a crash landing in the woods,” Mr. Percy said, as blankly as the other, for it seemed to be catching.

    “And lived to tell the tale? With the bears and all? Lucky fish. But mark me, your troubles aren’t over yet. This is the sort of place where things OCCUR. Dreadful Things,” the young man replied, grinning most appallingly, “Heh, it’s funny. You may join me here someday in this nice little cemetery, and I hope you do. There’s no enjoyment in lying here with a bunch of foreigners. It doesn’t give one a very homey feeling.”

    “I suppose it doesn’t,” Mr. Percy agreed, half-perceiving fifty-six ghostly faces that floated over the other graves, one face to a grave, all staring queerly at him. Mr. Percy blinked in quick succession, and they were gone.

     “You know, although your golf game is admirable, I would ask you not to go chucking the balls this way. Most disturbing to my daily routine.”

     “May I ask what your daily routine is?” Mr. Percy requested.

     “Come to think of it,” the other replied, with an awful, snorting guffaw, “I don’t have much of a one. I mostly lie back and count the beetles. You know, the ones that dig in the dirt all around me.”

     “I understand completely. Forgive me, dear sir, for bothering you,” Mr. Percy apologized.

     “Well, I’d better let you get back to your game. Enjoy yourself while you can,” the other said, and leant forward, with a look of dead earnest, taking Mr. Percy’s hand and patting it, which action made Mr. Percy reel back in aversion, “You may not be long for this world. Take it from me, old lad.” Mr. Percy hurriedly yanked his hand out of the other’s frigid, stiff grasp.

     “Really?” he asked, “Thank you for the warning. I-uh-will bear it in mind. Well, I really must be going now. Good day, sir.”

     “Likewise,” the other said, then, holding his nose as for a dive, ducked into the ground again. One hand popped up to grab a chunk of grass-covered earth and place it like a lid over the place where he had stuck out. He was gone. Mr. Percy turned a trifle green. He tottered out of the cemetery, closed the gate tidily, and streaked along the footpath for the house.

    He only uttered one word as he flung open the back door that led into the kitchen, making the cook Lizchee jump out of her skin. That word was ‘Brandy,’ uttered in hoarse, gasping tones.

“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!” Part 3

by Catherine Malone | Nov 9, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

Part 3: Supper at the Vrenords's

    The gong rang, and the Vrenords and the five travelers, cleaned and dressed properly for supper, filed into the dining room. Mr. Groobe did not enjoy being as well dressed as he now was. He complained his collar was suffocating him, though in reality it was a perfect fit. He just wanted to get it off because it was too proper.

    The dining room was a grand, glowing, spacious banquet hall, the main colors of its make-up being burgundy, rich gold, and brown. The dining table was polished cherrywood, with a length that allowed fifteen people to sit at without crowding. Above the table hung two sublimely carved chandeliers, shackled in drooping chains of gleaming gold, spangled with glittering diamonds, and adorned with stately ivory candles. The ceiling was ebony wood, very medieval-looking, carved with intricately designed cherubs and flowers painted gold.

    Yes, the room was very lovely and ornate, but at the same time, there was a heavy, dour, haunted sort of atmosphere hanging in the very air of the place, like invisible smoke that would not go away. All of them had started to feel it the moment they had leaped over the rose-colored wall, but the feeling had been especially impressed on Miss Toots and Mr. Percy, who were the most sensitive and best attuned to such things.

    The meal, though, was marvelous. There were omnifarious kinds of beans (Arcnardians adore beans), large, healthy ones with an unusual caliber of flavor, crumbly cheese, salad, and crusty bread. To drink, there was a wonderful sort of nectar for those who wanted something weaker than the almost overpowering Arcnardian wine the Vrenords also provided. There were little butter sculptures for each of them, all a handsome yellow color, skillfully carved into the shape of a bear on its hind legs, roaring. Miss Toots stifled another tiny scream that rose in her throat when she saw them. But though they unnerved Miss Toots and gave Mr. Percy a queer feeling, they were so beautifully realistic that the three British travelers felt it behooved them to maintain the bears’ aesthetic qualities. So, though Mr. Vrenord and Mr. Groobe hacked away with butter knives at their bears, without even a trace of guilt on their faces to move their fellow men to judge them less sternly, and Mrs. Vrenord and Miss Crelvis, at the other end of the table, unmercifully scalped and maimed their bears, the three, with looks of grave concentration on their faces, would slide the butter knife delicately and painstakingly along his bear’s contour, reducing the body parts without hacking the bear to bits. Mr. William’s bear soon began to look like some crude primitive woodcut. Miss Toots had her tongue out and kept unconsciously pressing the knife down hard on her bear while she worked and was reducing it to a squashy mess. Mr. Percy had a sort of expression of wild-eyed care—as Michaelangelo must have looked while sculpting an eyelash or a strand of hair on one of his masterpieces—as he worked excruciatingly carefully from his bear’s hind feet up. But, even with all his efforts, for some unaccountable reason, by some inexplicable freak of nature, the bear began to develop a really shocking head of hair. At last, they had to give in to Fate. There was no simple way to preserve the bears’ beauty for as long as possible. With guilty, furtive glances to see that no one was watching, they basely chopped their bears into oblivion and spread the remains on their bread.

    They were served by two giggling Arcnardian girls, Neuma and Neima. They were enthralled by the Ivertons, because they were polite and good-looking foreign men who had braved the bear-filled woods. It was true that Mr. Groobe was also a forgeiner and had braved the bears, but he was lacking in the other respects. When the girls got to the baseball player, they rushed dispassionately through serving him and savored every second of serving the two Englishmen. When the Ivertons smiled kindly at them, they nearly died of bliss. Neima accidentally overturned Mr. Percy’s glass, spilling nectar onto his lap, and was utterly horrified. Mr. Percy was very good-natured about the matter, but she could not be consoled. She half-smothered him in a large cloth, trying to blot every drop of nectar off, even in places where there wasn’t any.        

  “You have a truly beautiful house,” Mr. Percy lauded, when he got his breath back, “Your tastes are admirable.”

  “Oh, dank you, bud id really was nod us who mate id so, Mr. Vrenord replied modestly.

  “You see, id is de olt, olt story,” Mrs. Vrenord explained with a smile, “We inherided de place. When we move in, furnishings ant tecorations were dea [there] alretty, notting for us do to much. Id is vurch, vurch preddy, you right dea, Mr. Iverdon. We have maits do geep place spigg ant span. We are vurch happy and gozy in dis house in de woods. Yes, vurch snug, vurch snug. Bud dis is nod ad all impordand. Perpich and I woult like do know how you ever gome do Argnartia.”

  “We were going by areoplane to the UK, when…” Mr. Groobe began.

  “‘Areoplane’!” Mr. and Mrs. Vrenord exclaimed in unison. Mr. Groobe then realized he had just used a bad word. He looked at Mr. William for help. Mr. William had his eyes tightly shut. He appeared to be counting under his breath.

   “Uh, yeah… it wasn’t exactly an areoplane,” Mr. Groobe began to explain, but then the Vrenords did a most unexpected thing.

   “Ooh, how exciting!” Mrs. Vrenord cried, while her husband, putting down his knife and fork, clutched an imaginary control column and made engine noises, “Perpich and I find areoplanes fascinading, as well as oddur newfangled devices! Unfortunadely, most us Argnartians shun dem. But dell us more! Quick-quick! Whad happent do your areoplane!?”

   “It crashed,” Mr. Groobe answered laconically. The Vrenords looked disappointed.

   “No one was hurt, luckily,” Mr. Groobe resumed, not noticing this, “but there were still the bears to reckon with. One of us ran away with the map when the bears started snuffling, so we got lost. Soon the animals began to chase us. I picked up the two fainting girls, one in each arm, and ran, our only torch held between my teeth to light the way for the Ivertons. Mr. Iverton senior, with his worn old heart, you understand, had to be helped along by Mr. Iverton junior, who was hardly any better off from our long tramp from the areoplane…” At this point, he leaned over to the Vrenords and whispered, “you know Englishmen, with their lamb-like ways, can’t take that sort of thing like us big, tough, he-man American boys.” He then leaned back and resumed with normal volume, “The Ivertons were way behind me at first, but as I ran, I shouted encouragement to them, and that made them pick up speed.”

   “You shouded engouragement wid dorch bedween your deed?” Mr. Vrenord asked. This statement caused Mr. Groobe to bug out his already rather protruding eyes and ponder deeply. Meanwhile, the two Ivertons and Miss Toots began to tremble with some uncontrollable emotion, their broadly smiling faces hidden in their hands.

   “Well, uh, sure,” Mr. Groobe answered at last, “It’s an acquired skill.”

   Mr. and Mrs. Vrenord smiled wryly but didn’t say anything.

   “We were wondering how you survive here in the woods, sir,” Mr. William, his fit of mirth having passed, addressed Mr. Vrenord, “I assume that, though you are not situated in, you are not far from Nuich?”

   “Oh, we are vurch, vurch far from Nuich,” Mr. Vrenord responded, “When you godd lost, you musta really godd lost. Dis is vurch serious, Mr. Iverdon. We have such short taylighd arwers. No maddah how early you zdart for Nuich, you nod gonna make id dere on foot before dark. And dark means beas.”

    “Who needs to do it on foot? You must have an automobile or two, Mr. Vrenord,” Miss Crelvis suggested.

    “‘Audomobile’? I wish I hat, miss,” Mr. Vrenord sighed, “Just a lame horse and busted goach. You see, yesterday, one of our servands, Heirch is his name, was on way home from going do Nuich do procure goots. De village markeds were busy dat tay, wid lods of gustomers ant he hat do stay for a long dime do ged whad he game do ged, and so id was lade when he starded back. Well, as I say, he was goming home and near home, when dis big brazen bea jump oud ad him, make horse scurry in panig, and goach swing against dree. Lots of breakage. Heirch hat gun and shod de bea many times, bud id seemed do have no effect. Dese beas are a tough sord, bud is funny, because Heirich, de servant, is goot, goot, goot wid de gun. Heirich was able do esgape, dough, by tedachting Fleece, the horse, from the goach, and riding like a Durk for home. Heirch has broken arm, ant  Fleece is lame now, bud bode are regovering well. De bea ad last lefd the goach, and we were able to fetch the goach and gadder de goots. Goach in vurch bat shape, dough. It will dake a big while for id do be fixed, especially as no one quite knows how to fix it yed.”

    “Oh dear? Whatever shall we do?” Miss Toots squealed.

    “To nod worry, you are vurch welgome do zday wid us undil Fleece is bedder and goach is fixed.”

    “You are most generous hosts,” Mr. William said gratefully.

    “Id is notting,” Mr. Vrenord responded, his broadly smiling face dotted with dimples, “We will enjoy de gompany. We hardly ever ged visidors.”

    “You, young Mr. Iverton, you mus like golf much?” Mrs. Vrenord asked that gentleman.

    “Oh yes, vurch—er, very much indeed,” Mr. Percy returned, “I’m quite passionate about the game.”

    “We have big-big golf gourse dad you may use. Dear Perpich would greadly enjoy playing id wid you. He has nod hat a gentleman of your zdation play golf wid him in long-long dime.”

    “That sounds delightful. Thank you, madam.”

    “You such a wonterful boy. If we hat son, I would wand him to be juzd lyge you,” Mrs. Vrenord, who had really taken a liking to Mr. Percy, said with tender wistfulness. Mr. Percy always blushed a beautiful red when great compliments were paid him, and he did so now.

    After the supper things were cleared away, dessert was brought in, composed of a little bowl of scrumptious candied nuts for each of them. The wind was rising outside while they partook of these. Now and then it made an odd screeching noise.

    “The voice of Greicha,” Neuma said to Neima in a low, dramatic voice. At this Neima’s eyes bulged, aglow with excitement and fear.

    “Who’s Greicha?” Mr. Groobe asked loudly, hearing her.

    “Oh, she is from Argnartian folkdale. A sord of vampire,” Mr. Vrenord explained, “When de wint sgreeches lyg dad, dad is nod wint. Dad is Greicha.”

    “Oh,” Mr. Groobe said, and resumed eating. Mr. Vrenord was disappointed. He had hoped Mr. Groobe would ask more questions, but he didn’t. But Nuemma carried on the talk of Greicha, unprompted.

    “Greicha was once a woman of beaudy. She marrit ant bore a taughder. Bud when she behelt de face of te taughder, id was juzd as beaudiful as she, so she killt id wid a tagger. De momend she tit she lost her own beaudy. Her husband tayt of grief. But Greicha lives on, now wantering Argnartia, tringing de bloot of men and women, drying do regain de beaudy she lost when she sinnt so abominably,” she informed Mr. Groobe, very quickly, and relishing every word, before Mrs. Vrenord could stop her.

    “Gee whiz, if she was real, I’d really have to watch out,” Mr. Groobe jawed, “One drop of my blood, and she’d be Miss America.”

    “Bud she toz nod tifferendiate bedween ugly and hantsome people, because all ugly people are hantsome compared to Greicha.”

    “Dad is enough, Nuemma,” Mrs. Vrenord told the girl, “You’re frighdening Miss Doods.”

    “Oh, I’m alright,” Miss Toots said quietly.

    “Bud she trings in vain,” the other serving girl, Neima, added happily, “She will never, ever ged her beaudy bagge.”

    “Enough, girls, enough,” Mr. Vrenord commanded, even more disappointed now that Nuemma and Neima had told Mr. Groobe all about Greicha instead of himself.

    After supper, Miss Toots and Mr. Percy were able to get together in private and talk.

    “Oh, Percy, my guiding angel,” Miss Toots moaned, pressing her cheek against his chest and hugging him, “I feel something dreadful is going to happen to you… to all of us!”

    “I know how you feel, my heart’s honeycomb,” Mr. Percy agreed, kissing the top of her curly head, “But maybe it’s just a feeling.”

    “Oh, Percy, you will take care of yourself, won’t you, my faithful buttercup? Promise.” She gazed up at him, her eyes pools of maple-syrup brown.

    “Yes, of course. And you do the same, my blushing rosebud. Now, I think we’d better be getting back to the group, before we’re missed.”

“To Each His Own… NIGHTMARE!” (Part 2)

by Catherine Malone | Nov 7, 2025 | Catherine, Fun, Golly, Literary Posts | 0 comments

PART 2: Refuge

    They ascended a few marble steps to an ornate, though rather forbidding, front door. Miss Toots gave a tiny scream when she saw the doorknocker with a roaring bear’s head adorning it. Mr. Groobe grabbed the knocker and began to batter it against the door.

    “Not with such avidity, Groobe!” Mr. William chided. Mr. Groobe ceased knocking. There was no response from within. Mr. Groobe tried again. Still no response. As they surveyed their surroundings, waiting for someone to answer the door, Miss Toots glanced over at a lighted window… and saw a horrible, convulsed face twisted with fear peering at them! She shrieked and tried to conceal herself behind Mr. Percy, which was impossible, as he was too thin.

    “A corpse!” she wailed, “A corpse is looking at us! Oh, heaven help us!”

    “Yowzah!” Mr. Groobe yelled in fright, as they all gazed upon its terrifying features.

    “Now, now Miss Toots, it can’t be a corpse,” Mr. William, ever practical, reasoned, “No corpse is florid.”

    “It could be, if newly deceased,” Mr. Percy added, not that he exactly believed it was really a corpse. But his statement seemed to disturb everyone, even his uncle, and they all took a step back from the door.

    “We really must get to the bottom of this, you know,” Mr. William said, but didn’t make a move to do anything.

    “Um, maybe if we show we’re friendly, it won’t harm us,” Mr. Percy suggested. So saying, he took a tentative step forward and tried to grin amiably at the corpse, but what with his severe discomposure, all he could manage was a ghastly grimace. He waved his hand in a cheery manner.

    At this friendly gesture, despite its lack of superficial charm, the corpse’s face untwisted a little and disappeared, only to reappear as the door, with an unsettling creak, opened. The corpse turned out to be the butler. His face looked more presentable now, having been untwisted and ceased twitching.

{A quick explanation of some Arcnardian pronunciations of words: (English – Arcnardian) I am = Gom, very = vurch, c = g, d = t,  t = d,  ow = ar,    air = ee (They also remove ‘T’s from some words, like ‘kep’ instead of ‘kept’)}

    “Gom sorry do have kep you waiding, bud I hert knogger bashed againzd toor uncood ant judged you were raiters. Whom shall I annarnce?” he spoke cordially, but gutturally, as is the fashion of the Arcnardians. 

    Mr. Groobe turned traffic-light red at the butler’s speech, and the others, except Miss Crelvis, strived to stifle their laughter. As Mr. Groobe tugged his squashed reputation out from under the boots of those about him, Mr. William gave his name to the butler. “Follow me,” the butler then gurgled and the five filed in. The butler shut the door, which closed with a weird whining noise. A strange smile spread over his face as it did.

    “Forgive my emotion,” he said to the five, “I lyge de sarnt de toor maeges when id gloses ant opens. When opens, id greagz, when glose, id whines. Id gives me such dingly feeling. Waid here, please, while I annarnce you.” He left, and the five were alone in the antique foyer, with its tall, haunting, square-paneled windows with their dark, heavy drapes; the sad-looking wax fruit in a ceramic bowl on a decorative side-table; the plush rug, condensed from years of being tread upon. Mr. Groobe swaggered to the bowl and casually removed a wax apple from it. He was going to take a bite from it, but Mr. Percy stopped him in time. Miss Crelvis said that she didn’t like the way the house looked, because it wasn’t Bohemian.

    “Shh! Quiet, Miss Crelvis!” Miss Toots warned, “Here come our hosts, at least I hope they’ll be our hosts.” Sure enough, a portly, dimply, genial man of shortish stature and a tall, angular lady approached them. They were attired in quaint, archaic dress, and were a comely, decent-looking pair. The lady was about forty, with ruffly hair of an attractive greyish-brown, sparkling eyes, and crimson lipstick. The man was somewhat older, with a monk-like ring of bright blonde hair encircling his head and a broad, mustached smile. 

    “Welgome, welgome, layties, sirs!” he said in a high, buzzing, bug-like voice, “Whad to you in de woods of Argnartia? Ton nod you know aboud de beas?”

    “Oh yes, sir. In fact, we’ve been rather too well acquainted with the bears,” Mr. William answered, “You see, a great number of them pursued us here. We were trying to reach the village Nuich on foot, when the bears came. We lost one of our comrades as he fled into the woods. It was only pure chance that we ever came upon your house. I’d hate to intrude upon you, especially at this late hour, but could we trouble you to put us up for the night?”

     “Of gourse, of gourse, of gourse!” the lady cried, “‘Never durn art frent or zdranger in neet!’ Dad is Argartian guzdom. Lich,” she addressed the butler, “bring in the baggage of are ezdeemed guezds.”

    “Oh, but there is none to bring in,” Miss Toots informed her, “We had to drop the baggage to distract the bears.”

    “Dad is vurch glever, vurch,” the lady exclaimed, “No wonter you esgape beas. You god brains. Bud waid, you nice blonte fellow, you have some baggage.”

    “Oh, you mean my golf bag,” Mr. Percy said, looking over his shoulder at it, “I’d forgotten about it in the confusion.”

    “Lich, relieve dis gendleman of his bag of golf,” the lady commanded, and resumed the conversation, “Gom sorry you lozd your gomrate. Ah, bud dere is notting we gan to abard id. I hope he mate id do Nuich. Ah, bud we hat bedder as well get agquaindet: Gom Marcilia Vrenord, and dis is my husband, Perpich.”  

   “It’s an honor,” Mr. William replied. He took the hand of the lady and bestowed a kiss upon it. He was about to introduce himself and the others, when Mr. Groobe, tiring of these additional formalities, interrupted him.

    “How rude, not introducing yourself immediately!” he admonished the rather astonished older gentleman, “Hiya, folks, I’m Logan Groobe, this is my girl Serena, and these are the Ivertons, and this is Miss Toots. We’re all happy to meet you! Yeah, sure we are!”

    “Eh-heh,” Mr. Vrenord gave a little nervous laugh, “Lygewise.” Arcnardians are quiet folk and cannot abide unnecessary caterwauling.

    “Gome, led us nod remain here in de foyer, bud sid town in de living room,” Mrs. Vrenord ordered, “Our guezds must be gomfordet avder dea derrible experience. Have you hat your suppers yed?”

    Miss Toots assured her that they hadn’t.

    “Den you muzd be vurch hungry. I’ll get Lizchee (she is marvelous gook) do make us all goot supper. I will led you tress for… oh, no, you gannod tress for supper. Baggage you drew away. Waid! Of gourse. We have glothes you gan borrow! Vrenorts have lived in dis harse for years and years,” Mrs. Vrenord went on, “Many uneeted beautiful glothes are lying abart de place from previous Vrenorts.”

    “But, madam, are you sure…” Mr. Percy began, but Mrs. Vrenord cut him off.

    “Id’s perfectly alright! Dere are so many beautiful glothes dad are going do waste begause dere is only one laty and gendleman in de house. I woult love for dem do be of use.”