"Aye, ye scrawny li'll mongrel, I'll strangle ye chicken neck if ye don't do as i say. Undersand, ye pipsqueak?"
The poor peasant bobbed his head in fervent recognition of the captain's brazen declaration, and hefted the thick barrel without complaint. As he set it down, the voice whispered soothingly in his ear: "Don't worry, ye chipper li'll grass 'opper, we's gonner make it through. Ye're a good lad if me old self's ever seen one." The reassurance was a solid one, but the lad wasn't even mildly placated.
Mortified at his new nickname, the youth promptly set his barrel down, and, after ensuring the saftey of its contents, he promptly threw himself overboard, laying his life down before the merciless eddies and torrents of the ocean.
The voice mourned its fallen comrade briefly: "Aye, the lad 'as it comin' to 'im. The brine'll feast off 'is young bones now, though. It cant'nt be 'elped," the voice keened pitiously.
Then, having sated its grief, the voice guffawed hysterically at the sallow, bloated body and its cloying stench. The whitened, swollen corpse was a constant source of mirth and hilarity for the voice; it reveled it knowing what cruel deeds it had done.
It was especially gleeful when bobbies made an attempt to arrest the malevolent thing. This wasn't easy, as te voice possessed no coporeal form. It chuckled and uttered a single, wraithlike howl, then dissapated into the gray shrouds of mist.
Now the voice roams, a gaunt, bulbous-eyed, leering beast, eager to spring on unsuspecting travelers....
Six years later:
"'Ello, I was a wonderin' where a lass such as meself could find a descent, workin' occupation?"
WHO IS IT THAT THE BEAST LUSTS TO POSSESS WITH ITS DEMONIC THRALL NOW? KEEP READING TO DISCOVER THE DARK HISTORY OF THE SENTIENT GHOST!!!
