A Night at Skullsbury Manor

The rain fell heavy on the aging roof of Skullsbury Manor, the droplets assaulting the roof in a savage drumroll. Thunder cracked and the wind whipped the shutters. Mary and I huddled by the fire, trying our best to remain undisturbed, though if I’m honest, I found myself increasingly agitated. How did we end up here, isolated in this Edwardian château in the remote English countryside? If anything should happen to us, who on earth would ever know?

As I was fretting over these things, just then Mary let out a shriek and pointed behind me. I turned and, to my horror, saw an apparition that would blanche even the most stolid fellow. It resembled a man of sallow complexion, cloaked in tattered white sheets and dragging chains behind him. It approached, closer and closer, and I, for my part, was utterly unable to move. I wanted to scream, but could not. Certain that my doom was at hand, I resolved to die—if die I must—without regrets.

With great exertion, I was able to regain just enough control to begin spanking it: I slapped my ol’ sausage up and down, round and round. All of a sudden—and to my utter amazement!—I realized that this hitherto terrifying phantasm was actually my father, sleeping in his bed, and that I don’t know anyone named Mary. Well, dear reader, imagine my surprise! The morale of the story is, don’t be afraid to try new things.