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The Ghoulish Guidance Archive
Dear Ghoulfriend,
I've heard stories told of your attic. It's said that those who have gone into it and lived, have returned utterly changed, their sanity blasted by whatever lurks there. What's in there?
-AW
Dear AW,
I have only visited the attic once in my life, and I still find it difficult to think about, much less discuss with others. The gargoyles who formerly inhabited the attic and who were themselves witness to the unspeakable atrocity that took place there never mention it, either. However, since you and I have corresponded many times throughout the years, I will force myself to divulge the terrible secret locked in my psyche.
It all began one dark and stormy night (is there any other kind?). My staff had just left for the evening to chase down their dinners and I was looking forward to enjoying a few hours in the cellar with my captives -- I mean, "guests" -- when I heard a loud crash from one of the floors above. I feared the storm had broken a window or ripped a hole in the roof and I climbed the stairs to investigate. As I approached the last set of stairs the house was plunged into darkness. Don't let anyone tell you zombies aren't afraid of the dark; it's simply not true. We still retain some of the same irrational fears and phobias we had as living humans, only now we socialize with many of them at union picnics and send them Christmas cards once a year. (The Boogeyman has long since lost his sinister power over me, and we've even dated occasionally.) Few things, however, frighten me more than the cost of home repairs, and when a rhythmic thumping began emanating from the attic, my blood ran cold -- well, colder than usual; it's so hard to find a competent roofer these days. The attic can only be reached through a hole in the ceiling of a tiny closet on the third floor. I hesitantly turned the doorknob to the closet and opened it a crack. Zombies typically have excellent night vision, but the inky darkness of the house was so impenetrable that I couldn't see a thing. I blindly groped around until I heard the trapdoor's hinge groan, and the ladder lowered to the floor. As silently as I could, I pulled myself up and peered through the hatch in the attic floor. A faint green glow illuminated the large space. The gargoyles were cowering in the farthest corner with terror reflected in their big yellow eyes. Their new plasma TV had been shattered by the crash-landing of an alien spacecraft, and lay in pieces amidst tattered cobwebs and splintered rafters. As I squinted in the dim light, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tiny spacemen exited their ruined ship in a tidy single file, details of their features and clothing blessedly obscured by the shadows. All the while the thumping grew louder and the green light pulsated with each deafening beat. A small, spherical object was rolled out of the ship and raised to the highest peak of the ceiling where it glittered and spun ominously in the dim glow. I presumed this was some sort of explosive device, preparing to blow the gargoyles and me to smithereens, but I was too enthralled to move. In unison the little creatures shouted something unintelligible, and a blinding white spotlight shone down on their assembled ranks, revealing the tiny aliens in all their horrific splendor. With surgical precision, they divided themselves into six distinct groups, and then they turned to face me. Each group was attired differently from the next: Soldiers, police officers, construction workers, Native Americans, bikers and cowboys. I nearly fainted at the sight of them.
And then they began to sing.
The gargoyles gyrated to the music as if possessed, and gesticulated wildly with their arms high over their heads. A tiny, swarthy man wearing only a vest and black leather chaps beckoned to me to join them. In my haste to flee, I fell off the ladder and was knocked out for several hours. By the time I regained consciousness, the storm had passed and the electricity had been restored. The closet door was still ajar and the trapdoor gaped like a hungry mouth. I had to look.
The gargoyles were shambling around the attic, their wings dragging listlessly behind them, through the debris. Two of them wept openly as they recovered the smashed TV remote from the ruins of their once-cozy lair. All traces of the alien invaders had vanished except for the mirrored ball still spinning lazily at the peak of the roof.
The gargoyles have since abandoned the attic in favor of a spare bedroom on the second floor which they've remodeled with shag carpeting and garish pleather furniture. They seem to have lost their zest for maiming and killing and send out for pizza and chicken wings almost every night. They have grown sluggish, endlessly watching their new TV purchased with a fat check from my homeowners' insurance policy. When they don't know I'm watching, I sometimes see them prancing around the room with their arms over their heads in a pale imitation of that revolting event. One of them wears a feathered headdress to bed. Another sports leather chaps stolen from the Big, Tall & Winged store at the mall and recently purchased a membership to the local YMCA. No longer do I hear the comforting, blood-curdling screams of their hapless victims. It breaks my heart.
The only tangible reminder of that horrific night is the tiny glittering ball. I am told it stopped spinning long ago and is now swathed in spiderwebs and dust, but malevolence still lingers in the air. Bats will no longer roost in the attic and they have since moved into a three-bedroom bat condo near the back yard pond where food is plentiful and disco is just an ugly rumor.
I'd like to thank you for your question, AW. Writing about this has been somewhat cathartic and I may just attempt another trip to the attic tomorrow. During the daylight -- with Black Sabbath playing on my iPod.
Love,
Ghoulfriend
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