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The only light came from the glowing eyes of the ghosts. The first was the baby in the arms of the headless man, but soon there were others. One by one, the canvas straps around an assortment of coffin-like boxes broke and the unfortunate Russian prisoner jumped every time it happened. He screamed when the tops slid off and hit the floor. The 'contents' were unwrapped, sad, desiccated remains of hellish experiments performed long ago by Stalinist doctors. Bodies half stripped of flesh.... Legless stumblers hobbling about on stiff, ancient, proto-bionics.... Humans with beaks like giant eagles (made of strong, early bakelite) affixed to the place their jaws once were. And they eyes, the dried up currants sunk deep in ocular, bony wells began to glow with a cold, dead, blood red light.
He ran. The prisoner ran... down passageways lined with similar containers, each spilling it's contents as he passed. Skeletal hands stretched out to grab him. Some pinched hard, but he tore free, oblivious to the blood, til he reached a pale, green, cinder block wall and could no longer escape.
They were on him in a heartbeat, tearing and grabbing and eating... stinking of death, though not of the grave, for these were never buried. And he fell to his knees, as they swarmed his body, devouring his flesh. The bite that took the bit of meat beneath his trembling chin hurt most.
Then it was over. The dead, red eyes were gone and he lay there on the old linoleum tiles, wheezing and coughing and gasping in the dark. He ran his hands over his body expecting to feel bone, but the skin was still there. And at first he thought it a dream and he laughed, alone in that pitch, black isolated place, thankful just to survive.
Four heartbeats later he heard the footsteps. They came 'round a corner and he saw the small, red eyes. The headless man and his seeing-eye-baby were back. The baby held out its little hands to him and went - da da ba ba da da ba ba. And the headless ghost adjusted his crotch. I guess even headless ghosts like their pants to fit right.
But there was a third 'figure' with them and he seemed focused on other things.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link ~> 1,300 episodes and none is LEAVE IT TO BEAVER
link ~> THIS IS OUR SECRET TWITTER CLUBHOUSE
please leave a comment down below. thank you.
He ran. The prisoner ran... down passageways lined with similar containers, each spilling it's contents as he passed. Skeletal hands stretched out to grab him. Some pinched hard, but he tore free, oblivious to the blood, til he reached a pale, green, cinder block wall and could no longer escape.
They were on him in a heartbeat, tearing and grabbing and eating... stinking of death, though not of the grave, for these were never buried. And he fell to his knees, as they swarmed his body, devouring his flesh. The bite that took the bit of meat beneath his trembling chin hurt most.
Then it was over. The dead, red eyes were gone and he lay there on the old linoleum tiles, wheezing and coughing and gasping in the dark. He ran his hands over his body expecting to feel bone, but the skin was still there. And at first he thought it a dream and he laughed, alone in that pitch, black isolated place, thankful just to survive.
Four heartbeats later he heard the footsteps. They came 'round a corner and he saw the small, red eyes. The headless man and his seeing-eye-baby were back. The baby held out its little hands to him and went - da da ba ba da da ba ba. And the headless ghost adjusted his crotch. I guess even headless ghosts like their pants to fit right.
But there was a third 'figure' with them and he seemed focused on other things.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link ~> 1,300 episodes and none is LEAVE IT TO BEAVER
link ~> THIS IS OUR SECRET TWITTER CLUBHOUSE
please leave a comment down below. thank you.
