mr.mincemeat@syteka.UUCP (mr.mincemeat) (10/13/83)
There is this pair two people
Husband and wife they are
And living not gladly
In the house of his father
Who was weird, and
Is dead of strange causes.
The wife is not happy,
The house being old
And strange also
Imbued as it is
With shades of the dearly
Departed dead scholar and taker
Of notes, many pages now stored
Expectantly waiting
In dusty array in a small room upstairs.
After a space and
Over wifely objections
The son and young husband
Begins to explore these tomes-
Diffident at first
And them more avidly as
His interest, some might
Say obsession-
His worried wife is one-
Grows and soon
As more and more his
Time is spent among the
Books and papers
And strange sounds are heard and
Stranger odors smelled
By the dutiful wife
With beautiful tormented eyes
The man grows odder
And it seems his appearance
While never too fine
His wife is the first to admit
Becomes bony and gnarled
Somewhat like the dead father
The last time she saw him
Before his untimely demise.
But only somewhat
And her husband says
Uncharacteristically communicative
For his newfound persona,
His father went wrong, did not take
The right path...
This some few days
Before scratching comes at her door,
While she sleeps at night, alone,
Her husband busy as usual
With books and strange smells-
She is indeed frightened, and
Calls, cries out to him;
He comes then through the door
On which he had been scratching
Wizened beyond belief
Greenish and studded
With protruding hornlike things
And leering and gobbling
Deep in his throat
Leaps for his wife
Who dodges, runs gibbering
With fear through the house
Her husband this thing in spiny
Pursuit and growing ever more
Withered and like something dead
Until she is cornered
In some seldom used storeroom
And his attenuation reaching its zenith
Leaves him at last only
Bones which fall clattering
Unjointed and lumpy
And become unwholesome dust while his
Wife puts her fingers deep in her mouth
Screaming all the while and staring and staring
As the dust sinks into the floor itself
And the floorboards begin moving and seemingly live
And she hears the doors slamming
Throughout the house and
Suddenly even the
Door to this room shuts
Tight by itself as the lights
Die abruptly and the floor's
Undulations are matched by the wispy
And dry quiet dead chuckling
So much like her husband
And her own voice shrieking
In the tones of the damned.
mr.mincemeat
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