To whom it may concern

Simon gripped the top of the ladder tight with one hand, willing himself not to think about either the drop below, or the fact that if he suffered a fatal fall in the Eerie Cemetery, his parents were more likely to tell Mister Daganfort to shovel his pulpy remains into the nearest available hole and be done with it than pay for Bert and Ernie's questionable reconstruction techniques down at Happy Brothers Mortuary.

Just out of arms' reach, Snooter and Candydrops loitered atop the curling horns of a great stone gargoyle. The gargoyle did not look happy with it's situation.

Ongoing Verse: Microwave

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Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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The rain was coming down, and the gravestones in the Eerie Cemetery stood tall and dark and crooked, multiple rows of long grey teeth rotting in a wet and diseased mouth.

Deep within their cocoons of damp soil, the restless dead moaned. Newly-turned earth and graves long turned to grassy green bulged and roiled as the decaying things beneath strained upwards in search of light and air and living flesh.

Euclid Daganfort trudged the narrow and winding paths between the burial plots, a shovel slung over one shoulder, the blade sharpened to a narrow silver line shining in the gloom.

Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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The day was bright and sunny, and a stiff breeze rattled the tree branches and disturbed their new coats of pale green leaves. It was the perfect day for hanging laundry and already a dozen yards bloomed with detergent-scented bedsheet ghosts.

One of these was trying to steal from the Teller's washing line, fuzzy patches of distorted air marking the space where the spirit had yet to successfully clothe itself.

"Not that one," said Marshall, gripping the corner of his bright blue New York Giants duvet cover and glaring. "Take Syndi's."

The ghost glanced at the proffered fabric and shivered.

Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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Ongoing Verse: Teller Family History

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The grass needed cutting, and it squelched underfoot as Euclid Daganfort made his way to the little stream that ran behind the Eerie Cemetery.

He carried a fishing pole and a tackle box, and he wore a chainsaw across his back and a gleaming, serrated knife at his belt.

The Jenny Greenteeth was sunning herself amongst the weeds that grew in the shallow places along the bank. Her eyes were bulbous, white and glassy with pin-prick pupils, and her mouth was frog-wide and full of jagged verdigris blades.

She smiled when she saw him, and eel-like coils churned beneath her.

Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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Some idiot had buried the mangled doll parts which once hung from the dead trees in the dead centre of the dead section of Deadwood Park.

Now they had sprouted, horrible rubbery growths of dyspeptic pink with staring eyes and too many limbs.

"You'll need to pull up the root system," Euclid Daganfort informed the Faceless Aide that had shown up on his doorstep. He handed back the stack of photographs and added:

"He'll be tempted to burn them, but it won't help. All the fumes and melted plastic might just spread their spores further."

The Faceless Aide scowled, facelessly.


Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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Tiny translucent bottles lined the shelves, each one carefully sealed in red wax and silver thread, all of them gleaming in the warm light of the reading lamp.

The things inside, horrors lined up alphabetically like the contents of some nightmarish spice rack, snapped and snarled and beat against the smooth slick walls of their prison. Colours that had never existed in the sane world flashed and sparkled, and the air hummed with the scrape of claws on glass.

Euclid Daganfort hung his butterfly net up by the door, opened his tackle box, and added another God to his collection.

Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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Ongoing Verse: The Powers That Be

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"Go on," whispered the Paper Witch, her voice like damp pages turning unaided in a haunted house. "Do it. You know you want to."

Harley Holmes sat in the middle of the Eerie Library's brightly painted and well-lit Children's Reading Area, surrounded by an ever-growing puddle of darkness. In his small hands he held a heavy board book bound in bloodstained linen.

"Eat of my flesh," hissed the Paper Witch. "Take me into yourself. Become my instrument upon the earth."

Her laugh rustled dryly through the stacks.

Harley considered for a moment, shrugged, and open his mouth. Hundreds of pearl-white milk teeth spun in concentric circles as he raised the book to his lips.

"Wait," said the Paper Witch. "Wait. That's too many teeth. You're not- I've changed my mind! Stop!"

Hard-wearing cloth and heavy-duty cardboard fell away in wet clumps, and the Paper Witch screamed and screamed and screamed.

Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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The storms had brought heavy cloud cover, and the golden pool of light shed by the small desk lamp looked warm and almost liquid compared to the louring grey skies outside.

Marshall set two mugs of hot chocolate down on the cluttered desk, careful to use coasters despite the surface being pockmarked with stains, scorch marks and even the occasional gouge.

"Hey," he said. "Remember that old tombstone radio we took out of the Secret Spot a while back? I was in the kitchen and it just started playing a bunch of old-timey ghost stories. Come check it out."

Simon looked up, rubbing tired eyes with ink-stained knuckles. In front of him, a scattering of Polaroid photographs completely failed to tell a story and a handwritten report had long ago degraded into illegibility.

"I can't," he said. "I'm supposed to be looking into UFO activity over the Eerie Cemetery, but everything I can find points to it being just another illegal zombie rave. I need to give this client something by Friday or risk angry phone calls on Monday morning."

"You won't be fit for UFOs or zombie clubbers if you don't take a break occasionally," said Marshall. "You can finish up the cemetery job tomorrow. I'll give you a hand if you like."

He saw Simon's hesitation, sensed his wavering resolve, and decided to go in for the kill.

"I'm pretty sure I heard Boris Von Orloff's voice on there," he said. "You always say you wanted to know how his post-death comeback was going."

"That's true..."

"And we did kinda sorta almost help Harley retroactively wipe out his entire career..."

Simon sighed and stood up.

"I guess..."

Marshall grinned.

"We'll just listen to a couple, to show support," he promised, already opening the office door. "Bring your cocoa."


Ongoing Verse: Trusted Associates Inc

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Ongoing Verse: Holmes Brothers

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Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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Euclid Daganfort looked out over the rows of empty graves, leaned against his shovel, and sighed.

Looking north, he could see the winding road that connected Eerie Cemetery to the rest of the town disappearing over the crest of a hill. Barely visible against the darkening sky of a late January afternoon, the last straggling members of the risen dead stumbled along it. The bright colours of their brand-new sportswear contrasted unpleasantly with the grey-green of rotting flesh as they dragged themselves towards the lights and sounds and smells of the living world.

Wearily, he rubbed his face with one hand, calloused fingers rasping against three-day stubble. He sighed again, just to let the universe know how tiresome he found all this, and began cleaning up the scattered mud and soil left by the departing zombies.

As he worked, he was pleased to discover that many of the grave markers were simply crooked, and resituating them in the newly disturbed soil was a simple enough task. Some, however, had fallen completely, chipping or cracking on the stone pathways or knocking chunks out of their neighbours in their collapse.

It was here that he found it, a glossy trifold pamphlet advertising Eerie Aerobicize. "Get fit and have fun!" declared the bold print on the front. "Special offers for new customers: see inside for details."

Euclid Daganfort, keeper of the Eerie Peace Garden, protector of the living from the dead, and the dead from the living, opened the colourful piece of discarded junk mail and signed for the third time that day.

"Get the life you always wanted!" screamed the headline above a pricelist only mildly inflated for the post-Christmas rush. "New year! New you! Visit our state-of-the-art facility for more info!"

"Well," thought Daganfort. "Even the dead are entitled to self-improvement."

Ongoing Verse: Euclid

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The toilet block on the northern edge of Deadwood Park writhed with graffiti.

Stall doors creaked to life and slithered off their hinges, accompanied by cries of dismay from the stalls’ hapless occupants. The corrugated metal roof flexed like a set of giant moss-encrusted wings, support struts shrieking as it tore free of the thick stone walls. A half-dissolved urinal cake sprouted a screaming inhuman face and shrieked imprecations at a terrified Stanley Binkerman.

Moe Bob, Lou Bob and Bob Bob, their trigger fingers crimson with spilled droplets of aerosolised paint, gaped at the vision before them. Then they ran.

( Read the rest of the Trusted Associates verse here )

( Read the rest of the Holmes Brothers verse here )

Written for Day 25 of the 31daysoffandom October challenge. The prompt I used for this one was "dead"

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( Read the rest of the Trusted Associates Inc verse here )