The Tattered Tale Within Woesome Wooden Rose

Part One: A Cold Case Of Creepiness

It was a cold day, a little bit too cold for the mild mannered townsfolk of the sleepy township of the metaphorical yet- still- altogether believable community of the innocuous Wooden Rose, a name derived from the seemingly fabled, magical and legendary ‘tree of roses’ that only existed throughout the casual banter of old wives tales. A howling dog. A flash of lightning. A cold wind, on a cold day, in cold, cold place that was unusually cold where a candle flickered on the parson’s window sill…

A lamp flickered- its light bulb was not properly installed, leaving a lacking of light in the lowly lair of the lackadaisical lad who was laid before a large, leather bound load of literature, lost in the translation of the lonely, foreign linguistic embedding of the lost soul who had ironically lost the god forsaken material lost by his own estranged father, whom he had lost years before them years before, leaving many years in between the time of the lackadaisical lad, whom we will call Larry, and the initial losing of the lost material by the lost soul who had lost it years before. It was loathsome.

When the code was broken, the lad we call Larry jumped in fright. Could it be? Damned right, it said so right there among the ink smudged paper. God damn it! Damn it all! Larry had to get to Parson Parker, the esteemed parson of Wooden Rose, whom the town’s children lovingly called ‘Grandpapa P.P.’ - an obvious abbreviation of ‘Parson Parker’. Larry gathered his leather papers and, while lost in thought, he did not notice the ominous flickering of the forsaken lamp. Suddenly, Larry found himself in darkness, complete in total darkness…

“It’s pretty fucking dark in here.” He commented, noticing the dark.

Pretty fucking dark indeed. Too dark for Larry to see the shadow crawling upon the floor, racing like small venomous snakes hell bent on bringing hell to earth for all of humanity. But not really. Finally, Larry saw the dark shadows on the floor.

“What the fuck? What the FUCK!!” he screamed, screaming in awe of the fact that there could be a shadow where there lacked light, an obvious feat that defeated the basic laws of scientific studies that somehow proved that shadows could not exist where light was naught. Something gripped his ankle. Hair was pulled. Violent words exchanged. The shadow seeped into his flesh, and he was cold, cold all over, much like the cold wind that coldly mocked him from outside of window, whistling its icy melodies through the tree limbs and branches and things of that nature. “Parson!!” he screamed, once more, “Damn it all! Parson! Oh my god! NO! NOOO!! PLEASE!! DAMN YOU….” The shadow had successfully seeped into his person. Larry shivered all over. His voice, cold as cool ice on a warm day in July, calmly betrayed his former state of mind. “Time to see the parson.” He grabbed a knife that lay conveniently within his reach on the coffee table. “And I shall present to him a present.”

A fire mysteriously appeared in the fireplace, smoke filling the room. This was much more mysterious than it must sound while being read silently. Actually, a fly on the wall would think it quite creepy, but then again, what do flies know? He grabbed the load of literature and tossed it into the fire. Now no one shall over know about the loathsome quality of the literature, which held the secret to opening the dreadful portal of hell, which lay in the heart of Wooden Rose, that lie beneath the fabled tree of yore, yes, the Tree of Roses… of yore. He smiled at this feat. Slowly turning, he thought of the parson, and walked through the walls, blade in hand, in the general direction of Main Street, where the parson lived, alone, but though it often times did not seem that way… “Parson, must see the parson…” he mumbled like an automaton, left without a will, possessed by something dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, dark, oh so terribly dark.

Johannes Lufvzblud III, co-creator, publisher, sleeper, part hobo, part vampire, part gigolo, part scholar in the art of archery, part animal, all man, and amateur magician.

In his spare time, he also likes to eat cookies made of/by children)

Dick Fuldred, co-creator, author, thinker, philosopher, demonologist, and orthopedic expert and occult extraordinaire, ordained Reverend in the Franciscan Understudy of the Capulet Klan