Like many consumers of fine literature I find myself particularly attracted to a good ghost story. Each summer at the family cabin in the hills my family gathers around a late night fire for marshmallows and a satisfying round of spooky tales. We always have at least one jump scare, the classic Hairy toe or its like, several paranormal adventures involving truckers, or new home owners discovering their properties unofficial residents, sometimes a tale of love from beyond the grave, or an attempt to cheat death. All of these combed from piles of recorded accounts found in libraries, podcasts, uncles and online forums. As such I am always in search of a new tale for my turn round the fire. You can imagine my delight then as one day while exploring the attic of an estate sale I came upon a dusty, cobweb-draped trunk of the late Tobias Plumb, a local professor of anthropology, eccentric and excellent spinner of yarn. The chest had at least a quarter inch of very nasty looking dust complete with spider prints and dead flies, rotting leather, tarnished buckles, and swollen hinges as to place it straight out of the Salem witch trials. I knew the depths of that case held things sinister and dark enough to curdle an undertaker's blood. Fortunately, on top of that chest was another much friendlier looking box made of nice sturdy oak. It was locked with no key, but after a bit of haggling the right price was arranged and I stole it away to my apartment where I quickly picked the lock.
Lifting the lid with trembling fingers my eyes met a sizable stack of parchment, a manuscript accompanied by several rejection letters from publishers who had failed to understand the books merit on account that it was not written by the current popular class. In other words, Tobias, being a man of Anglo decent (by his father chiefly, but also his mother), did not possess a voice that the proprietors of said publishing establishments were interested in purveying. I am continually surprised at the attitude of individuals who prioritize color over product, but alas it is a disease that seems prevalent in every generation no matter which color or social group it is focused against minority or majority.
The manuscript being untitled as is was, I have imposed one upon it based on the circumstances upon which it was found and the undoubtedly horrifying stories that must have been stored in the ghastly chest underneath. It is then, with great pleasure I present to you the forgotten manuscript of Mr. Tobias Plumb, stories trimmed from his expert research and professorial exploits no doubt, entitled: Stories Not Quite Scary Enough to Tell In the Dark, But Still Nearly Chilling In Their Own Right. May you enjoy both reading and telling them again and again as I have, with those you love and those you wish to see soil their trousers, nearly.
DU LIEST GERADE
Stories Not Quite Scary Enough To Tell In The Dark, But Still Nearly Chilling
ÜbernatürlichesAn almost spine tingling selection of nearly spooky tales taken from the abandoned archives of the late Tobias Plumb.
