Part 1 of 1
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Tonight we present a tale of torment regarding the occupants of the storied acreage of Bilgehammer Manor.
The Skinner Co. Network
154 - The Haunting Of Bilgehammer Manor, Part 1 of 1
[ Music ] >> Welcome to FlashPulp Episode 154. Tonight, we present the Haunting of Bilchhammer Manor, part one of one. This week's episodes are brought to you by Mr. Blog's Tepid Ride. To quote the reanimated corpse of Chief Martin Brody, I think we're going to need a bigger blog. Find out more at bmj2k.com. [ Music ] [ Music ] FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, we present a tale of torment regarding the occupants of the story-day-cridge of Bilchhammer Manor, the Haunting of Bilchhammer Manor, part one of one, written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [ Music ] Bilchhammer Manor had once been a sprawling country estate. The vast lawns had long ago been divided and sold as separate plots, and the outbuildings had, in years previous, been lost to fire or weather. But the central house was well maintained, and, despite its reputation, still looked as if it might make an excellent home. Harvey Finlison had purchased the property with no concern for its history. His imagination carried him no further than the agent's very agreeable price. Now he stood in the main hall, his furnishings piled about him. He clucked, tapping his lips with a pen. Opening a cupboard, he noted the contents against his list. Satisfied with his findings, he closed the door, but found he'd applied too much force in the process and sent a harsh echo through the entry area. He winced, then began to whistle, as if it might cover up his mistake. Sheepishly keeping his eyes locked on his clipboard, he started up the stairs to the second floor. It was at the midpoint of his unobservant journey that he lost his footing. His back arching, his hands flailed wildly, but never quite reached the banister. Just as gravity began its inevitable process, ghostly fingers, wearing an ornate wedding band, closed about Harvey's wrist, slamming his grip into contact with the rail. Whew, that was close, Finlison muttered to himself, never once considering the source of his salvation. One of the movers pushed through from the porch. "Hey, boss, all this stuff ready to go?" Unsure if the worker had seen his moment of peril, Harvey felt he needed to retake control of the situation. "Well, jerky, it ain't staying here," he replied. Frowning, the man positioned his bright red dolly under a stack of poorly taped boxes and wheeled the load onto the veranda. A year earlier, when Finlison had originally arrived, things had been different. Upon his first evening, the three phantoms of Billchhammer, the man in the blue jacket, the weeping bride, and headless Amy, had prepared an extensive welcome. The spectacle had commenced at the stroke of midnight, an hour after Harvey had replaced the remainder of his six-pack in the fridge and maneuvered up the runner that led to his bedroom. Once the man was settled and the time for startlements seemed optimal, the man in the blue jacket initiated his pacing. Dragging behind him was a translucent duplicate of the chandelier which had collapsed, snuffing his life in that very same hall. To his surprise, the discordant chime of crystal, in the scrape of its metal frame, did nothing to disrupt Finlison's wheezing sleep. As sure a tactic for decades, the apparition was at a loss on how to proceed. It was the weeping bride who next moved to disturb the dreamer. Passing through the walls of his bedchamber, she began to wail as if it were still the day the balcony's rail had buckled, hanging her by her own veil. At first her efforts went unnoticed, but after a stuttering series of gasps punctuated by gusty shrieks, Harvey roused somewhat. The man had long been a city-dweller, however, and too cheap for air conditioning. Never fully coming awake, Finlison began to shout noises which only vaguely resembled language, but which entirely conveyed his displeasure of the situation. In biddered at the lack of proper reaction, the woman in white stepped forward, tugging hard at the high pile of blankets under which the source of her frustration slept. He threw out a cluster of sharp expletives and yanked the woolly shell hard over his head, holding it there with a firm grip. Within seconds, he'd returned to snoring. The gown hovered briefly, then took to the bed, straddling his blanketed chest, she allowed her eyes to rot into buttery slop and set her nose against his own. She unleashed a cry which she knew would leave her faint for days to come. Harvey's response was delayed, but the tactic was successful in finally making him conscious. As he looked about the empty room, his gaze contained none of the terror for which the trio hoped. Releasing a yawn, the interrupted slumber arose. His kneecaps popped as he stumbled down the flight of stairs and towards the fridge. He drank greedily from the open can of old Milwaukee he'd opted to store for the morning, then extinguished the kitten lights. The spooks had held back their most potent scare for last. As Finlison plotted his way to the second floor, Amy revealed her presence on the landing. The girls stood in her billowing Sunday dress and carrying her gory head in her hands as she'd been forced to since having it removed by a tumbling pane of glass in the decrepit greenhouse that had once dominated the back lawn. "Hm, must be a nightmare, I guess," Harvey said aloud. Rubbing at his brows, he passed directly through Amy and into his sleeping quarters. If the night had been bad, however, the spirits found the days considerably worse. Having expended themselves and their exertions, in the sunlit hours they had little recourse, but to observe the trumping and snorting that filled whatever corner of the house the new occupant entered. There was no shelter either from the clamoring television, which was left to spew unending political commentary at all hours. The one-sided arguments Finlison conducted with the electronic equipment eventually drove the hunters to spend the majority of their time in the cellar, where at least the sound was reduced to an unintelligible blaring. Worse still was the damage the clumsy homeowner conducted upon his own property. It seemed no journey to the washroom could pass without some scratch to the formerly grand plaster walls or some new stain on the plush carpets. Unnoticed by the opposing side, the nocturnal warfare continued for 29 days, with little effect. It was on the thirtieth that Amy had nearly succeeded at ending the intruder's life with an extended leg as he explored the disused coal shoot. The incident had precipitated a critical conversation between the long-serving companions and a change in tactics. The last item to leave the house was Harvey's wallet. It had been forgotten on the kitchen counter, but unseen by the living. It had floated from its misplacement out the front door and directly through the passenger side window of the former tenant's car. It would be unmissable atop the dewy cans which were already warming in the sun. "I'd rather he not have an excuse to return," Amy later explained. A celebratory meeting had been called in the library, which the phantasms found to smell pleasantly of settling dust. It would have been nearly worth the pleasure of killing him if he'd spent another afternoon complaining to himself about the current standing of the bloody red socks. Spoke the man in the blue jacket, sitting atop his restraining lighting fixture. "Yes, but imagine if he'd managed to die here," the bride replied. "I'd rather be moldering than suffer an eternity with that fellow I was around complaining." The headless girl nodded from her lap. Her hands worked unthinkingly at her braids, as any child's might upon a beloved doll. "I'm just glad she thought to simply remain consistent with sabotaging his telesignal. Otherwise he might never have gone," she said. It was 16 months of undisturbed death until another resident tried their luck. Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music]