Monday, December 21, 2015



"It was a natural thing for him really. His father had been an avowed occultist and his mother had been deeply involved in spiritualism and because of both those factors Oliver learned to raise the dead. There wasn’t much to it, just a lot of concentration and the right incantations. He spent many a pleasant night creeping around cemeteries and slipping into crypts.

Of course he had to do his research first. But that was alright as he enjoyed pouring over obituaries. Seeing who had died and where.

“Ah, Myrtle Tidwhistle died of pneumonia, only 28. Tsk tsk. I must do something about that!”

And so he would. Finding out what killed people was so important to him because he had come to think of himself as an avenging angel of sorts.

“You, Eustace Fibbergil shall walk once more upon the earth! No dreary tomb for you, Eustace!”

Crypts were good because the dead held up better in crypts. And there was so much death in Victorian times. It was now 1922 and although infant and child mortality was less rampant, there were still so many who died far too soon.

He became so proficient at raising the dead he was peopling his home with a great many of them. These were kindly, well-meaning undead, not scary at all or evil. Generally they were just content to sit and chat with Ollie about their lives and deaths. They filled his life up because if it hadn’t been for them, he’d have rattled around quite alone in the huge turreted Victorian mansion his mother left him. Yes she was there too, still worrying about him catching a cold.

Things went on as they always had. Seasons came and went but the one thing that never changed was how few people came to call: living people that is. Just the postman occasionally and he rarely stayed longer than was necessary.

Still, people talked and there were rumors about strange goings on that very often Oliver would have to show people around like the police to make them see everything was alright. Of course this he did after ensuring his undead boarders were safely out of sight.

One year something unusual happened however. He was just decorating the tree, for it was Christmas, when he heard the front door bang open and the sound of an angry voice:

“It’s true! You do have dead people!”

Mrs. Mason, the town’s worst busy body, was gesturing to all of the undead folks scattered around the living room. There were quite a number of them too: Ollie’s mother and father were there, so too were some Victorian children who died of typhus, as well as other children who died of scarlet fever and polio. They were all present.

“I’m going to the police!” Mrs. Mason shrieked.

Oliver didn’t have to threaten her as his mother was upon her in a moment. One twist of the nosy nag’s neck and Mrs. Mason was soon one of them, albeit with a strange tilt of her head.

“Yes that’s better,” said Oliver. “Now we can carry on with our festivities.”

But they couldn’t because Mrs. Mason was even more obnoxious dead. She was insulting and accusatory and when she stood up and began shuffling over to the door Ollie realized there was only one thing to do. Grabbing his father’s genuine Turkish sabre he had acquired in the war, he sliced off her head.

“There now!” he said staring into her dead eyes. “You shall be Christmas dinner!”

Everyone cheered for their general fare consisted of rodents and the occasional beetle. They ripped her corpse apart in no time. Oliver was pleased for them. "You have your Christmas feast!" Ollie cried. "So now in the spirit of the holiday, I should like to wish everyone a joyful time!”
Everyone nodded. They were covered in blood and gore. Ollie had never seen them so happy.

Suddenly Oliver's own favorite little zombie boy called out: “Merry Christmas and God bless us, everyone!”

© Copyright 2011 Carole Gill

One of the many stories in House of Horrors!

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