Sinister: A load of arse

[Lucy Alder]

I was on my own in the flat, watching an old episode of Twin Peaks, the room lit only by the
flicker of the screen and the dimmed lamp in the corner of the room.  You have to create the right
atmosphere to watch Twin Peaks, don't you?  Coop was giving an in-depth and, dare I say it,
unnecessarily long analysis of Wyndham Earl's psyche.  Perhaps the scriptwriters had realised
their episode was four minutes too short, or perhaps in three weeks time, something extraordinary
would happen and I'd understand and be glad I'd sat through this and not got up to make a cup of
tea.  And then

Tap... tap... tap...

I sat perfectly still.  The tapping continued, slow but regular.  Gradually, I moved my eyes
towards the patio doors.  The tapping stopped.  I squinted from the sofa and tried to see if
anybody was outside, but my glance was met with a dim reflection of the room on the dark glass.  I
started to breathe again, and turned back towards the television.  For a few minutes, all was as
normal.  Then

Tap... tap... tap...

This time, I sat up with a start.  Nervous that some weirdo freak was looking in from the outside,
I ran to the patio doors and drew the curtains, but the tapping continued and I realised that it
was coming from inside, not out and it sounded less like something hitting glass and more like
somebody gently tapping a drum with one finger.  I directed my gaze across to the lamp and saw a
large, brown moth hitting the shade, desperate to reach the light inside.  Urgh!  Moths!  What to
do?  'I know,' thought I, 'with my flatmate on holiday, I can use his room for the purposes of
moth entrapment!'  I switched on the light in his room, propped the door wide open and waited for
the moth to flit through the dark flat to the comfort and light of the empty bedroom.  Ha! 
Success!  Off went the bedroom light, I slammed the door shut and settled back in front of the
television to enjoy the rest of Twin Peaks.  Then

Tap... tap... tap...

What?  Another moth?  No, this tapping did not emanate from the living room, but from the deserted
bed chamber I'd closed the door on only a few minutes previously.  A strange rapping it was,
louder and faster than before.  An eerie chill shot down my spine as I realised I must find out
the source of the noise in order to spend my evening in peace.  I crept into the hall and crouched
on the floor, my ear to the door, listening to the rhythmic, rather hypnotic tapping.  What should
I do?  Could I open the door?  Could I bear to see the gory sight that would no doubt greet me?

The tapping continued and I listened for what must have been five minutes or more, before I
noticed a light coming from behind the door.  You know how in Ghostbusters, the fridge goes a bit
bonkers?  It was like that, but in Stoke Newington.  I felt myself drawn towards the brightness,
but my feet were not moving.  I was hovering, my toes approximately three centimetres above the
ground, and being pulled closer and closer to the light.  The door swung open!  I was blinded!  A
foul-smelling wind of great strength swept my hair from my face!  My eyes were forced open!

Before me stood a giant moth, ten feet tall, with dusty, scaly wings that seemed to be made of...
yes!  Brown corduroy!  What was this strange, supernatural beast that confronted me?  Dared I look
at its face?  I dared!  I recognised those spectacles, that floppy hair!  It was... No!  Yes! The
face of... Chris Geddes!  AAAAAAAARRRRRRGH!  The Geddes monster came at me with an axe in his
hand, swinging it from side to side and flapping his wings in a really spooky way.  The sound of
Frank Wilson came from nowhere and the Geddes monster started to spin.  He spun so fast he started
a little whirlwind in my flat, sending books and records and tealights flying all over the place. 


I ran into my room and buried myself under the duvet, because that's supposed to keep frightening
things away, isn't it?  My arse does it.  The fiendish beast backflipped into my room and launched
an attack on me so ferocious I can barely bring myself to describe it.  Clump!  The axe came down
on me, severing my left arm.  Slash!  A knife found it's way between my ribs.  Tinkle!  Hundreds
of haunted piano keys buried me alive, their weight crushing my lungs.  Gelatinous blood sprayed
the walls and stained my duvet cover.  'My goodness,' I thought, 'even Jacko from Brush Strokes
would take ages to clean this mess up.'  And then...

Silence.  The ferocious attack is over and the hideous creature has disappeared, leaving me
beaten, bruised and in need of paramedics.  I can hardly move and the phone is in the other room. 
I know the end is nigh.  In the absence of a pen, I write this in my blood in the hope that
somebody will read it and Be Afraid

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