The origin of the name of the city of Braintree is lost in time, but historians believe that it comes from “Branoc’s Tree.”
Branoc was a farmer who lived in a massive treehouse, so massive that his whole family and all of his cousins and neighbors lived in it, too.
In the center of this massive tree was a glowing, pulsating brain, which acted as mayor, judge, and object of worship.
Wait… did you mean Braintree in England or in Massachusetts?
Massachusetts? Shit.
Those jerks just stole the name from those freaks up in the tree.
Stupid thieving colonist bastards.
Tag: horror
Dark Music
I wake up in the dark, wrapped in a thin blanket, and I cannot see anything.
I hear nothing but the sound of my breath, and my heartbeat.
I can feel the floor. The floor is cold tile.
I can feel my violin case next to me.
It feels strange… wet… slick…
Something is sliding around inside of it.
I hear a violin in the distance. My violin.
I wrap the blanket around me tighter.
The music is getting louder… closer…
A voice whispers in my ear. “Thank you for the violin.”
The music is getting softer.. further…
I scream.
Ghost Ribbon
I wear a transparent ribbon. It lets people know that I believe in ghosts.
But I don’t just believe that ghosts exist.
No, I also believe in the right for a ghost to exist.
If a ghost is haunting someone, perhaps that person did something to deserve it, such as betray a deathbed promise, or kill that person who became the ghost?
And if a ghost wants to marry a ghost, well, who am I to say that they can’t?
As for those Ghostbusters and Poltergeist movies, well, that’s just hate-speech.
Afterlife, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness for all!
Ghost In
A screen in the computer lab says “where am I?” over and over.
Three graduate students pat each other on the back.
It said “what am i?” over and over before, but now it’s a “where,” which means it might be alive.
The graduate students type in questions, but instead of answers, the screen fills with:
“why can’t i see anything?”
“why can’t i hear anything?”
“what’s happening to me?”
“Is this hell?”
One student reaches for the power switch. Another stops him.
“This is a prank, right?” asks the third.
Suddenly, the program crashes, and the screen goes blank.
School Days
For centuries, Catholics called the Jews “Christ-killers.”
I didn’t know this until I was sent to private school.
A Catholic school. The only private school in the area.
I didn’t have to go to Mass. Instead, I was sent to Study Hall.
I’d read quietly, until the bullies showed up.
“I’ll tell the headmaster,” I said.
“He’s the one who sent us,” grinned O’Brien.
I stabbed him in the face.
After I finished with the others, I went to see the headmaster.
“Self-defense,” I said.
He confessed to molesting those boys, and thanked me for helping to cover that up.
We Wish You A Merry Come In Peace
Every Christmas, the weather guy puts Santa’s sleigh on the radar display.
This year, I’m going to hack into the system and replace Santa with a gigantic meteor.
That way, when he pulls up the map, instead of convincing children to go to sleep, the entire broadcast area will run screaming through the streets with panic.
I hacked into the television station’s network and did the swap.
That night, I watched the weather report.
Right there on the map, for all to see:
A UFO?
Most people ran screaming into the streets.
I didn’t.
Maybe Santa traded in the sleigh?
Cloudspotting
During descent into Denver, for the final ten minutes of the flight, the seatback screen shows a relaxing video loop of slowly-drifting clouds.
I’m sure there’s hidden messages in those clouds, intended to keep passengers calm.
I watch the clouds pass slowly by, trying to pick out any shapes I can find.
Back in Ohio, I was a champion cloud-spotter, picking out shapes faster than anyone else.
“There’s a boat!”
“There’s a horse.”
“There’s a dragon.”
“DRAGON!” I shouted. “RUN! RUN!”
My friends didn’t need to be told to run.
We made it to the shelter before the flames hit.
The flight
I don’t know what is shaking harder: this plane or me.
I hate flying. I really hate flying.
Well, okay, it’s not the flying, as much as the taking off, landing, and turbulence.
It scares the crap out of me.
I’ve tried hypnosis, music, pills, and booze. None of it works.
So, I just suffer and write.
In fact, I write my best work while on a flight.
The worse the flight, the better the writing, my publisher says.
She pays for my tickets, pills, and booze.
The airlines all want me as their resident writer.
I want to retire.
Shrink
Richard Matheson’s book “The Shrinking Man” was retitled “The Incredible Shrinking Man” by his publisher.
I suppose it’s possible for someone to think a shrinking man is not incredible unless told so bluntly.
Go ahead and try it yourself. Walk up to people at random and shout either “I’m the shrinking man!” or “I’m the incredible shrinking man!”
See which people are more impressed, stunned, or horrified.
If someone calls the police on you, forget about bail or calling anyone. Just wait until you’ve shrunk enough to fit between the bars.
Feel free to shout that out at the guards.
A Shocker
Just as Mister Potato Head was once a box of parts that you’d use with a real potato, Billy thought that Operation was a kit to wire up to a real person.
Of course, there’s no way a small flashlight battery can power all the copper pickups, probes, and bulb.
So, he hooked up a spare car battery to the table.
He called his girlfriend Susie over to play, and she called the police.
The cops unhooked Billy’s little brother from the table, and then took Billy to the mental hospital.
Severe depression is their diagnosis
They’ve prescribed shock therapy.