Entry The Sixth In The Preposterously Private Journal: Horrific Halloween Hauntings

Now, like a devoted dog returns to its manly master, I, LDM HHH III ESQ, return to you, my precociously private journal. It has been a dismal few hours since I departed you, dear diary of my innermost thoughts, because the stock market keeps spiraling downward, and I stand a slight chance of losing up to ten per cent of my vast fortune should this trend continue unabated.

However, this dark depression nibbling upon my selfless soul has enabled me to come up with another fearfully frightening story, which, as usual, I have invented all by myself, for myself because, as we all know, my princely private journal, you are for my eyes and my eyes ONLY! This story is so scary that I honestly don't know if I can get through all the writing it without my overly generous heart exploding with fear and horror and macabre and fraidypantsedness.

This is the best ghost story ever written by anyone, ever, and I call it (scary music, please):

The Burn Of The Brew

It was Halloween, it was; although I at first recalled that it was Christmas Eve, I had spent with a group of droll friends in an old house exchanging ghost stories. I believe the owner of the house was a fine old gentleman who unfortunately had the most disreputable name of 'Hank Jimmy'. Many a time have I implored that otherwise fine old man to change his name, but stubborn he remains, even to his last breath, apparently.

Another young man at this Hallow's Eve gabfest, presented a tale of such monstrously scary proportions, that I hesitate to set it down now, so scary was it. Full of scares it was, this tale, which was why it was so scary, I guess.

This young gentleman, who persisted in claiming that his name was 'DJ Dougie-Doug-Dug-Dug' although I highly doubt that is the moniker with which his parents christened him, said that he knew of a young governess, with whom he claimed to be madly in love, but, really, how can you love someone or be loved by someone when you go around claiming that your name is something so entirely ridiculous?, who took care of two young charges, one boy and one girl, but, wait, instead of me trying to recount this terribly terrifying tale all by my lonesome, let us instead consult the governess' own account, which just happens to be so conveniently lying here, of what happened in that large castle of a house that was so horribly haunted by ancient apparitions...

I have been sent here to this large castle to look after two young children, Glora and Stiles by name. These two orphans ended up here and were supposed to be looked after by their wealthy uncle, but I suppose tomcatting all night suits him better than looking after two such innocent flowers. Instead, he sent the children to this huge battleship of a home, of which I soon hope to be the commander.

The name of this huge ship-like home is Sly, and sly it is, for there are doors everywhere, and traps, and hidden staircases, and all kinds of places where you may see a ghost or just imagined that you did. There goes one now! It was all white and formless and looked like a German child in this English countryside. I get the most distinct impression that its name is 'Kaspar', and that it, or he, as the case may be, we shall see, is most friendly.

Stiles was unceremoniously kicked out of school for 'conduct unbecoming' whatever in Hades that should mean. I questioned Mrs. Gross, the maid, about Stiles, and this stout, plump lady informs me that Miles is in all regards a very good boy, except when he isn't, which was very helpful.

Two events have startled me recently; I have seen a most disagreeable young man glaring at me through the windows. This happened twice, and I saw Mrs. Gross about the matter. We agreed that this man was Pete Spent, a valet who used to work here but who died under mysterious circumstances.

This ghost of Pete is seeking to infiltrate Stiles! How I know this, I know not, but I know it, down to the marrow of the bones in my pretty little ankle, which I may yet show you a glimpse of, should I decide that I like you. Or maybe poor, sweet, innocent, cunning, calculating Stiles has ALREADY been possessed!

Then, one day when we were pickniciking on the lovely lake, I caught sight of another apparition! It was the late governess Jessel, who also died under mysterious circumstances, possibly, but not definitively the same mystery under which Mr. Spent died I knew Glora saw the ghost, and, in fact, seemed quite chummy with her, but she outright DENIED having any knowledge of any such thing. So I had to call in Mrs. Gross to confirm my sighting, but, much to my shock and dismay, Mrs. Gross denied having seen anything either! Now I knew she was in on the conspiracy also, so I resorted to the oldest feminine wile in the book: I fainted.

When I recovered, both Glora and Mrs. Stiles had departed! Hmph! See if I'll ever faint for THEM again!

As time goes on, I catch more and more glimpses of both ghosts, and it gets to where I can hardly sleep at all. Then one night, in the middle of that cold, hard night, what do I see but Stiles standing in his nightclothes outside! I just KNOW that Pete put him up to this. I took young Master Stiles indoors and asked him what he thought he was doing. He just said he wanted to be 'bad'. Bad! Bad enough, indeed! I gave him some hot cocoa to warm him up, and made him drink of it even though I knew it was too hot yet to drink. Maybe some 'burn of the brew' will wake him up to his behaviour (I have to spell it with a 'u'; I'm in England, you know!).

So now I know the truth. Both Glora and Stiles consort with ghosts, and not the friendly one heretofore mentioned; the bad ones of Pete and Jessel. Who knows what wicked ways these two urchins are yet learning from these spectres? It is my duty, as commander of this good ship Sly, to set straight their ways, and rid them of this nonsense, first of all, of believing in 'ghosts'.

Now Stiles wants to return to school. What for? To teach yet more wickedness to his classmates?! I should think NOT! Despite his not wanting to be disturbed, I decide I must write a letter to the lord explaining the strange doings in this house and by these children. Glora leaves the house in a huff; she is angry at me merely because I accused her of being possessed of the devil! The nerve of some children!

Now I can't find the letter! What has become of it?

I hear a strange commotion now emanating from...from...yes!...it comes from Stile's room, I go to investigate and dear, sweet little Stiles invites me in. He sobbingly confesses that it was he who took the letter. We embrace lovingly, and I caress his hair ever so gently. For a little guy, he sure is a handsome young man. Then I see the dread ghost of Pete outside. I swing lovely little Stiles around and ask him if this is the person who has been making him act so naughty. Poor little Stiles gasps and dies in my arms. I knew he had been possessed all along.

Pinch! Pinch! Keep pinching, man! Make sure that you're alive after such a horrifying tale as this. Yes, yes, I am. I am risking life and limb to put these totally original works down on paper, but I feel impelled to do it, just as a certain captain, with the aid of his trusty Great Dane, felt impelled to chase a great whale, but you already know that story, o perplexingly private journal o' mine!

Thus concludes this, the Entry the Sixth in the most portentously private journal of me, Mr. Dr. Lord Henry Harrison Hensarlingington the Third, Esquire.