Part 3 of 3
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Tonight we hear the conclusion of our current serial, as told by Thomas Blackhall himself.
The Skinner Co. Network
036 - The Last Ghost Story: A Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3
[Music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 36. Tonight, the last ghost story. A black haultail, part 3 of 3. [Music] This evening's episode is brought to you, part by Mr. Blogg's "Tepid Ride." One man's rants on television, society, and the ridiculously gaping plotholes in reality all peppered with a peculiarly in-depth knowledge of the history of Superman. Find it at bmj2k.wordpress.com [Music] FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting FreshPulp stories in the modern age, 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, we hear the conclusion of our current serial, as told by Thomas Blackhall himself. The last ghost story. A black haultail, part 3 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, art and narration by Opoponax, an audio produced by Jessica May. [Music] He must have twisted away in the final moment, for the blow that struck Porter down had landed at the rear of his skull, and there was still hope for an open casket. Thomas Blackhall paused a moment in his story, sipping from his ale. Knowing it would be a few hours until anyone might make it out to the house, I dragged him inside. I had no interest in returning only to find his nose or cheek had gone missing down some fox's gullet. I was doing my best to keep things orderly, but it was an awkward position. Should I drag him by the arms and risk getting some of him on me, or by the heels and risk leaving some behind? In the end, I removed his coat and wrapped it about his head and neck. It was just as well, it was becoming increasingly difficult to meet his steady gaze. I was as strong a stomach as anyone who kills and cooks his own meals, but it was quite a wound, and it was still the face of a man staring back at me. Anyhow, no matter where I placed my hands, his sag was awkward. By the time I had breached the midpoint of the stairs, my breathing was laboured, and his limp form made it impossible to find a single posture in which I might remain steady. From across the table, O'Connor, the half-face sergeant, interrupted. Up the staircase, there was a hole in the kitchen's wall, and at the smell of blood, a fox or coyote would just as gladly go round the knock, Blackhall replied. But would of a millie, Big's cow hoon asked. I was half way up when the woman made her presence once again known. There was a slam and rattle, and she moved vigorously about the upper floor. I will not repeat my language here, but in defense of my conduct, I would argue that it is difficult for any gentleman to maintain his composure while carrying the dead body of an acquaintance at the staircase. My outburst seemed to bring her up short, and I lay porter down in the former nursery unmolested. I was quick to retreat, I admit, closing the door I made a plea to the air to leave the man be as a guest until I had returned to take him away, then I departed. Outside I had not passed the sitting room window to move down the lane when I heard a thrashing and thumping. Returning to the door I pushed my way inside, and there, in no little disarray, lay porter. "Harlet! she'd already killed him once," said O'Connor. "Frankly, I had little patience for her behavior, but I no more blame her for the death of the man than I do you. Or I should say I blame you just as much." "What?" He may have been set upon his course by our chatter, but we could hardly be blamed for the outcome. His mug tottered dangerously as he spoke. Millie held no weapon upon our encounter either, said Blackball. "She'd never sent the man into a pint, he'd certainly be alive today," O'Connor replied. "And if you'd held your tongue?" Neither man had a reply to that, but Thomas was not happy to let the point lie. I was here much of the evening before our introduction, and any in the barroom with ears had little choice but to hear the prattle of your mouths. It seems likely to me that there was a time when a check upon your wagging tongues might have gone far towards keeping the whisper of cuckled from Nelson Tyler. Thomas took a long pull of his drink, his eyes drifting from one table-mate to the other. Now you have remorse, and surely in the morning to follow. But in a month, in a year, I tell you this story not so that you might forget the parts that shame you during the thousand retellings you'll no doubt undertake, no. I tell you this story so you might recall to sometimes shut your bloody mouths. The room, even though packed, had long fallen silent at Thomas's telling, and his words carried to every wandering ear. Upon once again entering the house, I retook the stairs, and made a second attempt at Palavar with Millie. She did not appear. I moved to the top of the flight, hoping to secure some bargain of safekeeping, but she provided no notice that she heard or cared. I began to descend the steps, and there was an impact between my shoulders. I twisted to save my balance, but it was for not. It was my turn to roughly ride the staircase to its terminus. I landed heavily on the much maligned corpse. That's when I heard him yelling. As I rided myself, he stood above me in the entrance, your man porter, just as in life. But half is opaque, and twice is angry. "That will be enough," he shouted, passing through me and fading from my eye as he took the steps to at a time. In short order there was a woman's scream. Then the bedroom door slammed shut, flew open, slammed again. Then all was silence. I asked the air several questions, but to no reply. After another struggle with the body, the remains of porter were once again deposited in the nursery, this time without problem. As I passed down the stairs I believe I heard voices from the closed door beyond the hall. I wonder if Millie might now regret her lack of hospitality. Who knows how long porters spirit may linger. It's my hope that a proper burial will allow him rest. It was a long walk back, but as Don crept upon the land, I was lucky to meet a boy on the road. For the promise of a second breakfast he was happy enough to let his donkey pull us both into town. From there there's little you do not know. Constable Bunting brought the body to Father Mitchell, and both men can see the work of accident plain enough. "What of Millie?" O'Connor asked, unable to meet Blackhall's eyes. Upon my exit I took a moment to observe the linen closet in which we'd first discovered the woman. There was not left behind but a babes blanket, slightly moth-eaten. I assumed her pregnancy was little obvious when the rumours of her infidelity flew, but by the nature of her fixation upon that closet and the adjoining nursery, I suspect if you lay the cloth down in her grave, she too shall rest. I do not say you lightly. I shall be again passing through in a year, and I would not enjoy being forced to speak of my suspicions as to the source of the gossip that led Millie to her woe. The blackened cottage reeks of fire and death now, and I would hate to have to spend so long making a speech within, should I find the cloth still mouldering." Thomas emptied his mug and stood. "Now pay bar master's turn, you're outstanding debt, and run along home to hope that burial is enough, and that porter does not catch you out some evening, telling tales." Flashpulp is presented by http colon slash slash skinner.fm. 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