What is creepier than Mister Sandman, stealing toward your bed or cradle, dragging the dusty velvet mantle of Sleep? What is scarier than a dense hair spider squatting with menace upon the floor? What, oh what, could be ever so daunting as the middle of a stormy night when the next lightning flare could reveal a dark shape where it doesn’t belong? What else but the wrath of an inner tempest, lashing out at all who dares to trample the contours of my sanctumonious impliety.
What does that even mean?
Don’t ask. It is safer not to know the answers of questions better left unsaid. Within the moorish mingled depths of my balmy belfry lies the ultitude of shallow glory. What proof is in the telling when the truth may only disappoint? Therefore, ask not. Seek not. Just go away!
This is an archive of deepest dark, where a candle would shudder in the fumeous frost of fear. My dreariness knows no bounds — no borders except good taste. And even those taste terrible! You should quake and quiver to tread this route. To venture on is sheer foolhardiness. I have posted warnings. Heed them well. DO NOT ENTER HERE.
But if you must, as some must do, I can only moan and grimace. If it is your choice, your own free will, then step forth and behold the consequence. I have striven to be clear this is no place for the wandering psychic, the misguided lost, the idle curious, the lonely soul, or the faint of heart. It is a vault of dire abominy, the confuscated workings of a murkadian mind uttering strings of underworldly unworthmentionings . . .
Be wary. Be very wary.
Really, how can I adequately describe my bemusement at the folly of plunging into this cranial vortex for the absurd? It is like trying to count Ravens and Crows, flocking together against a twilight sky. I am baffled by your lack of discrepancy, the absolute void of your mental acumenity. (And I thought I was a basket case. Wow.)
So here we are, two nuts in a padded shell, meandering a confined line between yang and yin. (That’s yin and yang upside down.) I know why you’re here. You believe your life isn’t bleak and tedious enough. You crave the garbled blanderings of a detached “Abby Normal” brain. Turbidly typical. The mold is always blacker on the other side of the wall.
Do brush aside that hanging moss or it might strangle you for dinner. Please step over the blobby goo. It isn’t gray matter. It isn’t mind wax or brain jelly. It’s something alien that slipped up my nostrils one day and appears to be spreading.
How can I convince you of my insincerity? What magic phrase will make you rethink the error of the footsteps that led you along this trail of least persistance? If it’s Horror you yearn for, you are knocking at the wrong door. By now it should be obvious. The horror is in the voice you hear inside my head. The vacuous echo of an empty skull.
The thing about horror fans, you expect frights and shivers and jolts. What’s wrong with you??? Did someone forget to slap you when you were born?
Okay, sure, I fancy horror myself. But that’s me. I’m as gothic at heart as Edward Gorey. What’s your excuse? I suppose you think horror will make you feel that things could be worse. Or, when reality truly bites, the conversely interextrapolated opposite — that things could get better. The side effects my horror imparts, liberally wired with eccentricity, will lighten your spirits while simultaneously tickling your scarybone. It sizzles the blood in your veins while freezing the laughter in your throat. If you prefer to feel like Jekyll and Hyde, or Heckle and Jeckle, stick around. Otherwise, grab the next train to Saneville. GET THEE OUT OF MY GOURD!!!
I cannot be more plain. I cannot implore you with keener emphatics. Should ignorance prevail and you linger thus, accept my condolences for the minutes of well-spent time you will never retrieve. You have my sympathies. You do not have my respects, for you must be a total nincompoop!
Either that or an aardvark, huffling and snuffling, pursuing the ant and termite lines which go in one ear and out the other.
Whatever your problem, I hope I’ve dissuaded you from this reckless course, before crossing The Point Of No Return. Once the giant hook descends, you can’t retreat. You’ll be reeled into a carnival of idiots. Perhaps it’s already too late . . .
And there you go, enjoy the show
We know you won’t refuse
Such knives we’ll throw, the lights will glow
The crowd will be amused
As high and low your screams will flow
Your body so contused
The lions roar, the clowns want more
For you it’s all a haze
The carnies grin, they strap you in
And set your hair ablaze
But don’t despair, it’s just a fair
They’ll be gone in several days!
Very well, if that didn’t do the trick, I suppose you must proceed. Here’s your ticket. Don’t lose it, or you will not be permitted to leave.
(Aren’t you even a teensy bit reluctant?)
Guess you’re stuck. Or you would be if this were not simply a piece of flotsam derived for Tome Two, DANCE OF THE CUCUI — the precautionary foreword. You still have a chance to reconsider. If you haven’t figured it out by now, my Ravens And Crows column offers the intrepid intruder (in this case you) a glimpse of coming thrills and chills. It features peeks into the author’s upstairs, a trove of farfetched fantasies and loop-de-loop thunkenings. Why read it? Uh, that wasn’t rhetorical. I’m asking, why read it?
In fact, most people find it quite easy to overlook. Why are you reading it? If you are, in fact, reading it? Perhaps I should rephrase: Is anyone, in fact, reading it? Probably not. But if they were, why?
Maybe the question, more accurately, should be why am I writing it? Hmm, you’ve stumped me. It seems there’s no answer, because there wasn’t a question, because there isn’t a reader and I’m just talking to myself. Curiouser and curiouser.
I guess the next thing to say is that They will be arriving shortly to take me away, ha-ha ho-ho hee-hee! If They haven’t already . . .