Ghoulnextdoor.com

The Ghoulish Guidance Archive

Living Dead Entities And The People Who Love Them

Dear Ghoulfriend,
Well, now I've done it. All these years of walking the Earth after dark, and you'd think I'd have learned a thing or two (aside from Stealthy Moaning and Leaping Out From Behind Tall Headstones, that is). But such is not the case.

Here's my quandary. A few years ago - well, 1967, to be precise - I put the gobble on the sweetest little 19 year old Junior College cheerleader to ever get lost in a graveyard. Now, being a gentleman, I just nibbled a bit on the neck, and sent her packing with a stern warning that not every ambulatory corpse in the environs might be so civic-minded.

Well, I'd no sooner risen from my daily slumber, than who should come sneaking down my crypt but my nibble from the previous night! Oh, how she pleaded with me. Reveal to me the mysteries of the Dead, she begged. Tell me the secrets of the night, all that sort of thing. I tried to put her off, even going so far as to roll my eyes all the way back to the whites and do the stiff-legged arms-out slow but inexorable walk bit, but she was having none of it. She'd brought a *notebook,* you see. A notebook, a candle made out of some awful-smelling goat wax or other, and a Ouija Board!

Now I can only sigh. Perhaps it was her chutzpah, perhaps it was the heaving bosoms beneath the sheer white blouse, perhaps it was the way she underlined everything I said - but I let her stay the night. And the next. And the next.

She'd ask about the riddles of the Undead, and - it shames me to admit this - I made things up. What else was I to do? You know how it is, surely. Rise from the grave, work out the kinks, grab a bite to eat - when I walked among the living, it was mostly the same thing, except for the wardrobe and the slow necrotic decay. Deep mysteries of Death? Well, my nose tends to fall off. That's about as far as the Deep Mysteries affect me, you know?

But I'd read some Lovecraft back when I had a pulse, and she hadn't, so I laid it on pretty thick, hoping she'd find a new interest and pursue it and leave me to my nocturnal perambulations. But week after week, and month after month, she returned, always with a notebook and fresh new questions.

Frankly, it became an embarrassment. I had to tell the gang something, so they wouldn't have her for dinner, as it were. I told them at first she was a half-ghoul, come to assist me in luring victims to my crypt, but that only lasted until she brought me that blasted stuffed teddy for Valentine's Day. After that, oh, the jokes. But I endured them - what else could I do? This went on until, finally, I simply walked away one night. Left my crypt door open and a note on the wall and I walked until I found the Sea. The note just said "I have taught you all I can."

And I thought it was over. Years passed. I became accustomed to my new digs. I made a few friends -- there's Errrrr, who died in '72 and once shook Robert Plant's hand. And Urrrr, who can still do that damned 'moonwalk' thing, even with most of a foot gone. Great guys, graveyard by an interstate, a plethora of unreliable vehicles - who could ask for more?

But now -- SHE'S BACK.

She died in 2004, and came back as a zombie (damn that nibble!), and she's wandered ever since looking for me, eager to be my pupil again. She still hasn't figured out that everything I taught her was, well, a bit of nonsense. Hell, she's even dressing in ragged white shrouds and dedicating her better-preserved meals to Cthulhu!

What do I do? Maintain the pretense? Tell her the truth? Run and hide? Please help! This 'Lord Cthulhu' bit is wearing really thin!
Thanks,
-Name withheld by Coroner


Dear Name withheld,
Well, that's some story. I won't lecture you about your past fraternization with the food; by now you are painfully aware of how irksomely obtuse they can be and I'm sure you won't make that mistake again. This silly wench sounds positively dreadful; I'll bet she's blonde, isn't she?

As I see it, you only have three options:

Of these choices, I prefer the third. This can be accomplished in any number of ways, and since you've been around for decades, you should have no trouble dispatching her rather quickly. Please do not preserve her brain for any reason. I recommend placing it in a food processor and treating your friends to some smoothies. It will have no nutritional value, but a little junk food never hurt anyone.

On a personal note, I'm pleased to hear that Urrrr is still shambling about. I'm partially responsible for his disability, you know, but I will tell you that his foot was as tender and moist as any I've had. He had an extra toe that was really delectable and I still have its tiny bones hanging from my rearview mirror. Please give him my regards.
Love,
Ghoulfriend


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The Ghoul Next Door - Night of the Living Dead 's Little Zombie

Ghoulnextdoor.com

The Ghoulish Guidance Archive

Living Dead Entities And The People Who Love Them

Dear Ghoulfriend,
Well, now I've done it. All these years of walking the Earth after dark, and you'd think I'd have learned a thing or two (aside from Stealthy Moaning and Leaping Out From Behind Tall Headstones, that is). But such is not the case.

Here's my quandary. A few years ago - well, 1967, to be precise - I put the gobble on the sweetest little 19 year old Junior College cheerleader to ever get lost in a graveyard. Now, being a gentleman, I just nibbled a bit on the neck, and sent her packing with a stern warning that not every ambulatory corpse in the environs might be so civic-minded.

Well, I'd no sooner risen from my daily slumber, than who should come sneaking down my crypt but my nibble from the previous night! Oh, how she pleaded with me. Reveal to me the mysteries of the Dead, she begged. Tell me the secrets of the night, all that sort of thing. I tried to put her off, even going so far as to roll my eyes all the way back to the whites and do the stiff-legged arms-out slow but inexorable walk bit, but she was having none of it. She'd brought a *notebook,* you see. A notebook, a candle made out of some awful-smelling goat wax or other, and a Ouija Board!

Now I can only sigh. Perhaps it was her chutzpah, perhaps it was the heaving bosoms beneath the sheer white blouse, perhaps it was the way she underlined everything I said - but I let her stay the night. And the next. And the next.

She'd ask about the riddles of the Undead, and - it shames me to admit this - I made things up. What else was I to do? You know how it is, surely. Rise from the grave, work out the kinks, grab a bite to eat - when I walked among the living, it was mostly the same thing, except for the wardrobe and the slow necrotic decay. Deep mysteries of Death? Well, my nose tends to fall off. That's about as far as the Deep Mysteries affect me, you know?

But I'd read some Lovecraft back when I had a pulse, and she hadn't, so I laid it on pretty thick, hoping she'd find a new interest and pursue it and leave me to my nocturnal perambulations. But week after week, and month after month, she returned, always with a notebook and fresh new questions.

Frankly, it became an embarrassment. I had to tell the gang something, so they wouldn't have her for dinner, as it were. I told them at first she was a half-ghoul, come to assist me in luring victims to my crypt, but that only lasted until she brought me that blasted stuffed teddy for Valentine's Day. After that, oh, the jokes. But I endured them - what else could I do? This went on until, finally, I simply walked away one night. Left my crypt door open and a note on the wall and I walked until I found the Sea. The note just said "I have taught you all I can."

And I thought it was over. Years passed. I became accustomed to my new digs. I made a few friends -- there's Errrrr, who died in '72 and once shook Robert Plant's hand. And Urrrr, who can still do that damned 'moonwalk' thing, even with most of a foot gone. Great guys, graveyard by an interstate, a plethora of unreliable vehicles - who could ask for more?

But now -- SHE'S BACK.

She died in 2004, and came back as a zombie (damn that nibble!), and she's wandered ever since looking for me, eager to be my pupil again. She still hasn't figured out that everything I taught her was, well, a bit of nonsense. Hell, she's even dressing in ragged white shrouds and dedicating her better-preserved meals to Cthulhu!

What do I do? Maintain the pretense? Tell her the truth? Run and hide? Please help! This 'Lord Cthulhu' bit is wearing really thin!
Thanks,
-Name withheld by Coroner


Dear Name withheld,
Well, that's some story. I won't lecture you about your past fraternization with the food; by now you are painfully aware of how irksomely obtuse they can be and I'm sure you won't make that mistake again. This silly wench sounds positively dreadful; I'll bet she's blonde, isn't she?

As I see it, you only have three options:

Of these choices, I prefer the third. This can be accomplished in any number of ways, and since you've been around for decades, you should have no trouble dispatching her rather quickly. Please do not preserve her brain for any reason. I recommend placing it in a food processor and treating your friends to some smoothies. It will have no nutritional value, but a little junk food never hurt anyone.

On a personal note, I'm pleased to hear that Urrrr is still shambling about. I'm partially responsible for his disability, you know, but I will tell you that his foot was as tender and moist as any I've had. He had an extra toe that was really delectable and I still have its tiny bones hanging from my rearview mirror. Please give him my regards.
Love,
Ghoulfriend


More Living Dead Entities And The People Who Love Them

Return to the Table of Contents