Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Day Three-Sixty-Eight: Oh, that Philip

Philip cut off a woman's hair today. All of it. He pinned her against a wall with a heap of chairs when most of us were out working and spent almost an hour crudely snipping away at her head. We found her trapped and crying when we came back from planting winterweed. Philip left no cuts, but she says it was a very close call on many occasions. 

And that wasn't all. Not by a long shot. Philip is getting out of hand with his pranks. He throws books, he steals and wrecks tools, he scrawls vulgarities in the snow with surprising accuracy, he scares people in the dark, he howls at night to keep us up, he… he keeps throwing dead rats at us… I can't even ask the still-living group to help us, 'cause they've gone into hiding in their warren and won't come out…

The final straw came when Philip gave Libby a wedgie. Under normal circumstances I might find that funny, but not right now. Not right now.

"STOP!" I screamed, pointing at the air behind my wife as something invisible hiked up her underwear and made her yelp. "STOP, YOU FUCKING FUCK! GET OUT OF HERE!"

Philip laughed, his head popping into view to razz me with a waggling tongue. He continued to tug until Libby's underwear snapped, and she collapsed on the ground, swearing and punching at nothing in particular. The scrap of fabric still in Philip's ghostly fingers floated across Pubton, and I followed.

"YOU LITTLE ASSHOLE!" I shook my fist, running after the cloth as it bobbed back and forth ahead of me. "WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT? YOU SAW WHAT WE WENT THROUGH! YOU CAN'T PULL THIS CRAP! STOP IT, STOP IT, STOP IT!"

The scrap of underwear flew back in my face, catching me in the eye. Didn't hurt, but it surprised me enough to put me on my butt in the snow. Struggling to get up, I was almost bowled over again when Philip carved two huge letters in the unbroken field of white surrounding me.


Then came the globs of snow. One hit me in the face, one in the chest, one in the patched hole in my armour, two in the legs, one in the crotch. All were small, none really hurt, all surprised and angered. Cursing, I abandoned my quest and ran back to Robert's Beefiary, swearing that I would see Philip hanged for his cruelty.

Assuming you can hang a ghost.

I guess you can't.

When I got to the pub I found Bora standing with a tight knot of peasants. She was pointing crazily towards the kitchen. Assuming the worst, I slid over the counter of the bar, ran into the back -

- and found one of the floorboards pried up. Another was slowly peeling upward, the nails straining to cling to the wood of the foundations. No one I could see was doing the job.

I should have jumped on the floorboards. Should have forced the wood back home. Should have screamed until my voice went raw and blood flew forth from my lungs. Should have tried, to no effect, to exorcise Philip on the spot. Instead, for no reason I can understand, I passed out.

When I woke up, a few people told me that they'd seen a bright light from the kitchen, and when they rushed in to check they found me keeled over the cauldron, my head half-dunked in lukewarm grass soup. No more floorboards had been pulled away. I personally repaired the ones that'd been yanked out by Philip.

Also? A second pair of gloves gone. Definitely burned away.

Something's not right.


Dragomir the Mayor


  1. Jinxed of the red underlined textJanuary 9, 2013 at 3:21 PM

    Dragomir- pyromancer
    (or codemancer whateves)

  2. I have a plan. We will form...the Ghost Busters of the T.O.E universe!

  3. Until proven otherwise, I will naturally assume that Dragomayor has mastered Hokuto Shinken in his sleep. Which, as we all know, is equally effective against ghosts.

    As "they are already dead".