The feminine nurse strolled into the vandalized cubical.
“Mr. Burton here’s some lunch for you, oh no! He’s gone!”
The nurse scampered rapidly and slammed down on the emergency bell.
“Doctor, doctor he’s gone, it’s not Alan is it damn, he’s taken too much morphine, he’ll change for the worse, he’ll never last, he’s just gone and killed himself, but slowly”
The whole hospital searched for the handless dying human, on the village roads through the dark woeful woods and by the extremely religious yet ghostly church. The nurse searched the spiritual church but what she did not know was the mental maniac was perched behind his mother’s stone grave. The nurse began to panic seeing all the graves, her hands were frantically shaking like they were in a bucket full of ice. The fear had got too much for the squeamish women so she started reading the names on the gravestones trying to erase the devilish thoughts that were racing through her feeble brain.
Nick Summerbea, Jill Minto, Terry Charlaton, Jean Burton.
“What”
Alan Burton jumped up like a jack in a box
“Hello nurse, you should have given me some more drugs!”
The killer slashed her throat with his new hand, his hook. Blood flooded out all over the mad murderer’s mother’s grave.
“Stupid whore”
He was very disheartened by that action so he took her limbs one by one, like the old urban legend! The rusty hook sliced through the tender tissue and masticated through the feeble bones. Never say anything about my family again!
It was reaching the twilight zone and the desolate Woughborough was becoming evil. The wolves were howling like women giving birth, the owls were hooting in the moonlight and swiftly vanishing when a noise sounded, that noise was Alan Burton strolling through the village. He was bleeding in masses now, and had minute leeches with dark green slime oozing out, the little demons were sucking even more body fluid out. At this rate Mr. Burton could be in a body bag in days!
On the outskirts of Woughborough stood a gigantic manor. The skilled Doctor and
his striking wife had settled here. Thick opaque bushy Yew trees over shadowed the vague manor. The trees were like cloned guards guarding the fortress. The frail branches fixed up like big boney arms with the milky moon gleaming through the branches onto the ghost-house. The doctor was perched in his grand armchair elegantly smoking his Ghanaian pipe. On the other end of the Victorian room was his young sassy wife only wearing her night-gown which was only a few inches above her toned waist.
“Ding dong”
“Who could that be at this time, how juvenile” the doctor nervously spoke. He opened the door and there was only a scruffy looking piece of scrap paper. The doctor opened the piece of paper with certain disbelief, the note said;
“Your wife looks nice with the night-gown …off!”
The scared doctor swithered around the hall to find that the Victorian lounge was empty. The phone rang while the quivering doctor jumped anxiously.
“Hello”
“Your wife has got a nice….”
The phone went dead, the medical man grabbed a fire fork and the searched the house. He approached the ensuite bedroom as he ventured further he could hear mumbling, his palms were sweating, his pulse was racing like an international sprinter. He rushed in to find his wife on the bed but without her insides in her they were scattered around the furnished room. And again the Urban Legend struck, the fragile limbs were wrenched and stripped from their sockets and joints. The doctor broke down, weeping at his bed which was now a lovely shade of red. Suddenly the light switched off.
“Hi doc” the croaky voice muttered.
“Your wife’s good in bed”
The distraught doctor arose and screamed “your dead”.
The oxidized hook hacked through his ribs, the lob-sided bitten ribs punctured his healthy heart the helpless doctor screamed for his life.
“How immature” Alan smugly spoke as he lingered off back into the village.
The psychotic psycho roamed towards the graveyard where only a few hours ago he dissected a young female nurse. Alan approached his mother’s grave in a slightly hesitant fashion.
“Hi mum, I’ve done what you asked me to do. Those cowardly medical people they should have never left you to die, but I got them back for you, I got them back, I love you mum. The psychotic killer turned and rose to his feet but he couldn’t move much further for a big bold human was standing like a rock before him, the maniac yielded his blood dripping hook, but the stocky human took control of his arm the real murderer.
“Hi son”
Alan Burton looked up slowly and with a frightened look on his pale face
“Dad, you’re supposed to be dead”
“No you’re dead”
His dad brought the hook up to his murderous son’s stomach and ripped the piece of iron through his digestive system and gradually put pressure upwards towards his vital organs. The noise of the killer being killed was horrific his organs were spurting and slapping against the grey grave now turning a dark shade of red. He screeched and moaned like when his hand was amputated. The peaked hook was approaching the nearly deceased heart, There was a sudden uproar when the iron made contact. It was like a blown fuse and Alan Burton’s fuse was now blown. Alan’s last words were
“I thought you were dead dad”
“That just was ‘the ugly truth”.
Alan’s dad walked slowly into the sunset as Alan saw his last pictures before his eyes close forever.
A grotesque scene where Alan ‘killer’ Burton was statically lying in a pool of blood over his much loved mother, he was completely hollow now like his heart had been all the way through. The real killer the novice hook was conveniently perched on top of the brutal grave.
A few days later the Woughborough Gazette had a front-page story “Death in Woughborough” and there was a picture sent in from a young boy walking past the crematorium. The picture was of a man with a hook as his hand and him killing himself, but it looked like he was struggling against an invisible force from beyond the grave?
The End
BY ROBIN THORPE
