Gary Compton
I miss you, wor kid.
- Joined
- Jul 8, 2007
- Messages
- 3,247
Apparently I have reached 2000 posts so in the tradition I offer you my Ghost Ministry story for critique.
This is second draft
I was enjoying afternoon tea; some scones with generous helpings of a delightful homemade jam when an interruption to my particularly pleasant afternoon occurred. A messenger delivered to me a personal note from Queen Victoria. I excitedly broke the Royal seal and read the contents.
“Her Majesty Queen Victoria urgently requests the attendance of Isambard Roxton-Smythe at Buckingham palace at two o’clock on Wednesday 5th March 1862”
A very welcome interruption indeed it turned out to be and I lifted my gaze and stared at the messenger with a very proud smile on my face. This was splendid news and I could not hide my excitement in attending Buckingham Palace. I had no idea why my presence had been requested but as a loyal servant to the throne, it would be my duty to carry out whatever my Queen had planned for me.
#
Next day I adjusted my top-hat, checking the time on my gold pocket watch as I could not be late for this meeting. After a particular bumpy coach trip through the cobbled streets of London I was suitably ushered by her majesties private secretary to a meeting room within the palace. The setting was rather splendid and I sat patiently admiring the décor. The Queen entered quietly, making eye-contact with me and offering a particularly engaging smile. I was put at ease instantly. She was enthralling, telling stories of her break at Balmoral and her holiday in Scotland.
It was a shame that my pleasant afternoon was unsuitably ruined when the Queens smile turned into a grimace as she reported to me many infestations of evil in her royal palaces and beyond. Apparently numerous apparitions, manifestations of the undead and funny goings on had occurred. This was the reason for my prompt attendance as her decision was to appoint me the head of the newly created Ghost Ministry. A department of the monarch’s government dedicated to finding and expunging all manner of supernatural incursions from the Royal residences and other properties across her kingdom. Off course that would by no means be easy but being a retired bishop of the Church of England and esteemed member of the House of Lords I would track these apparitions like the wonderfully talented hunter following his prey, I would exorcise them from the said properties in my position as a man of God, and leave her Majesties’ stately manors and residences in a condition that my Queen would find acceptable.
My first assignment was a Windsor where one of her majesties “Ladies in Waiting,” found one of the Queen’s favourite cooks shredded like mincemeat in a huge pile in front of the cooking range. Her body had been turned to a heap of blood, bone, flesh and sinew for no apparent reason. A disturbing case indeed. On further investigation, and to my horror, I discovered the servants of the house had used an Ouija board in their quarters in an attempt to call up a Demon. It was frightfully clear that they had achieved this to the detriment of Mrs Shufflebotham. The lady in question had been removed from the said murder scene in several of her own cooking pots, a truly distasteful way to meet your maker but nonetheless, efficient to the extreme.
In my attempt to obliterate this unwelcome presence from Windsor, I attempted to recreate the scene of the crime, so to speak. The original participants and myself were positioned around the Ouija board in a manner that replicated the terrible day when Mrs Shufflebotham became a considerable mincemeat-cadaver. Her upbringing had afforded her a well rounded and large frame and this had been shredded by some unknown entity efficiently and quickly. Her Majesty’s staff were not overly happy that I recreated the scene of the alleged crime, however, as Minister for Ghosts I reminded them that failure to do so would mean a period of time at the Tower of London, courtesy of the Queen. Thankfully, they saw sense and we gathered round the Ouija board in preparation.
The candle flickered at the centre of the table, dark shadows shimmered on the participants faces. I, for that matter was unimpressed with the atmosphere, however I was to be truly surprised when the candle went out for no apparent reason. Silence descended in the room for a moment but suddenly a most horrible scream came from one of the servants followed by a sound that I would not want to hear again. Flesh being processed into mincemeat by the previously aforementioned monster.
I fumbled in my pocket for a match and managed successfully to relight the candle. My excitement was short lived and to my horror, and to that of the other four participants of this séance, Mr Higgins, a dour Scotsman had mysteriously moved from his seat to the floor, somehow being processed from the rather handsome Queens butler with a wicked smile and attention to detail into a pile of flesh, sinew and bone. The three maids who had accompanied us on this journey to the unknown, held their mouths in horror. I for that matted was slightly concerned but as a man of God I knew no demon would ever come near a man of the church.
My assistant, a very able addition to the Ghost Ministry ran into the room, breathless and sweating. “Are you okay, sir,” he asked.
“I am,” I told him but sadly Mr Higgins was not okay. In fact he was the opposite of okay! The evening had started out with a hopefulness that I would suitably deal with this infestation of evil. Her majesty would not be happy at another one of her servants had left their post without handing in their statutory notice.
#
Due to the unspeakable events at Windsor I decided to have a word with a man who was recommended to me by a serving Bishop of the Catholic Church. Apparently he was a maker of bespoke glasses and all sorts of other wonderful mechanisms used by psychics and men of the cloth responsible for the removal of mischievous apparitions This news was music to my ears. Apparently Mr Spencer had acquired a witch’s crystal ball which he displayed in the window of his splendid place of business in Knightsbridge. He believed that the said piece could be transformed into a device that could view malevolent beings from across the veil. Of course I was slightly excited at this news and I‘d taken a carriage to his shop to hopefully acquire the said contraption.
I walked into his rather splendid emporium of antiquities and my eyes widened at the amazing array of artefacts, mysterious objects and all sorts of uniquely interesting contraptions. A truly pleasurable experience it turned out to be. Mr Spencer approached me wearing his leather apron and round spectacles. He was a short man with receding white hair but had a happy demeanour about him. “Isambard Roxton-Smyth,” I said, offering my hand.
“Glad to meet you your eminence,” he replied, walking behind his counter and pulling a rather splendid looking box from beneath. “I have your special glasses finished, sir.”
He opened the box and I stared at the most amazing looking device my eyes had ever beheld. The crystal ball's glass had been cut to size and set with in a thick gold rim with was engraved with some form of hieroglyphics. On the sides a clockwork mechanism moved quietly. The beautiful brass cogs turning magnificently in synchronisation and a subtle tick-tock, tic-tock could be heard. “I am lost for words,” Mr Spencer smiled like a Cheshire cat who had just finished off the cream.
“It is rather good,” he beamed. “They actually work,” he said, passing the spectral glasses to me.
“Can I try them,” I asked. “Do I need to do anything?”
“It may be advisable to say prayers of protection. You are about to cross the veil.”
I swallowed nervously but in a frivolous sort of way I was looking forward to what lay ahead of me. I said a prayer and slid on the spectacles. To my utter amazement I could see ghostly apparitions going about their business. Then almost immediately I suffered the most unsettling fright possible to have: a man carrying his own head walked through the wall. He looked at me through bloodshot eyes and flesh fell off his bones. To my relief he turned his attention to something else and disappeared. This contraption was probably the most amazing device I had ever seen. A ghostly figure of a woman pushing a pram shimmered across the floor. It was particularly interesting that Mr Spencer’s beautiful shop was nowhere to be seen. I appeared to have been transported to another dimension.
This is second draft
I was enjoying afternoon tea; some scones with generous helpings of a delightful homemade jam when an interruption to my particularly pleasant afternoon occurred. A messenger delivered to me a personal note from Queen Victoria. I excitedly broke the Royal seal and read the contents.
“Her Majesty Queen Victoria urgently requests the attendance of Isambard Roxton-Smythe at Buckingham palace at two o’clock on Wednesday 5th March 1862”
A very welcome interruption indeed it turned out to be and I lifted my gaze and stared at the messenger with a very proud smile on my face. This was splendid news and I could not hide my excitement in attending Buckingham Palace. I had no idea why my presence had been requested but as a loyal servant to the throne, it would be my duty to carry out whatever my Queen had planned for me.
#
Next day I adjusted my top-hat, checking the time on my gold pocket watch as I could not be late for this meeting. After a particular bumpy coach trip through the cobbled streets of London I was suitably ushered by her majesties private secretary to a meeting room within the palace. The setting was rather splendid and I sat patiently admiring the décor. The Queen entered quietly, making eye-contact with me and offering a particularly engaging smile. I was put at ease instantly. She was enthralling, telling stories of her break at Balmoral and her holiday in Scotland.
It was a shame that my pleasant afternoon was unsuitably ruined when the Queens smile turned into a grimace as she reported to me many infestations of evil in her royal palaces and beyond. Apparently numerous apparitions, manifestations of the undead and funny goings on had occurred. This was the reason for my prompt attendance as her decision was to appoint me the head of the newly created Ghost Ministry. A department of the monarch’s government dedicated to finding and expunging all manner of supernatural incursions from the Royal residences and other properties across her kingdom. Off course that would by no means be easy but being a retired bishop of the Church of England and esteemed member of the House of Lords I would track these apparitions like the wonderfully talented hunter following his prey, I would exorcise them from the said properties in my position as a man of God, and leave her Majesties’ stately manors and residences in a condition that my Queen would find acceptable.
My first assignment was a Windsor where one of her majesties “Ladies in Waiting,” found one of the Queen’s favourite cooks shredded like mincemeat in a huge pile in front of the cooking range. Her body had been turned to a heap of blood, bone, flesh and sinew for no apparent reason. A disturbing case indeed. On further investigation, and to my horror, I discovered the servants of the house had used an Ouija board in their quarters in an attempt to call up a Demon. It was frightfully clear that they had achieved this to the detriment of Mrs Shufflebotham. The lady in question had been removed from the said murder scene in several of her own cooking pots, a truly distasteful way to meet your maker but nonetheless, efficient to the extreme.
In my attempt to obliterate this unwelcome presence from Windsor, I attempted to recreate the scene of the crime, so to speak. The original participants and myself were positioned around the Ouija board in a manner that replicated the terrible day when Mrs Shufflebotham became a considerable mincemeat-cadaver. Her upbringing had afforded her a well rounded and large frame and this had been shredded by some unknown entity efficiently and quickly. Her Majesty’s staff were not overly happy that I recreated the scene of the alleged crime, however, as Minister for Ghosts I reminded them that failure to do so would mean a period of time at the Tower of London, courtesy of the Queen. Thankfully, they saw sense and we gathered round the Ouija board in preparation.
The candle flickered at the centre of the table, dark shadows shimmered on the participants faces. I, for that matter was unimpressed with the atmosphere, however I was to be truly surprised when the candle went out for no apparent reason. Silence descended in the room for a moment but suddenly a most horrible scream came from one of the servants followed by a sound that I would not want to hear again. Flesh being processed into mincemeat by the previously aforementioned monster.
I fumbled in my pocket for a match and managed successfully to relight the candle. My excitement was short lived and to my horror, and to that of the other four participants of this séance, Mr Higgins, a dour Scotsman had mysteriously moved from his seat to the floor, somehow being processed from the rather handsome Queens butler with a wicked smile and attention to detail into a pile of flesh, sinew and bone. The three maids who had accompanied us on this journey to the unknown, held their mouths in horror. I for that matted was slightly concerned but as a man of God I knew no demon would ever come near a man of the church.
My assistant, a very able addition to the Ghost Ministry ran into the room, breathless and sweating. “Are you okay, sir,” he asked.
“I am,” I told him but sadly Mr Higgins was not okay. In fact he was the opposite of okay! The evening had started out with a hopefulness that I would suitably deal with this infestation of evil. Her majesty would not be happy at another one of her servants had left their post without handing in their statutory notice.
#
Due to the unspeakable events at Windsor I decided to have a word with a man who was recommended to me by a serving Bishop of the Catholic Church. Apparently he was a maker of bespoke glasses and all sorts of other wonderful mechanisms used by psychics and men of the cloth responsible for the removal of mischievous apparitions This news was music to my ears. Apparently Mr Spencer had acquired a witch’s crystal ball which he displayed in the window of his splendid place of business in Knightsbridge. He believed that the said piece could be transformed into a device that could view malevolent beings from across the veil. Of course I was slightly excited at this news and I‘d taken a carriage to his shop to hopefully acquire the said contraption.
I walked into his rather splendid emporium of antiquities and my eyes widened at the amazing array of artefacts, mysterious objects and all sorts of uniquely interesting contraptions. A truly pleasurable experience it turned out to be. Mr Spencer approached me wearing his leather apron and round spectacles. He was a short man with receding white hair but had a happy demeanour about him. “Isambard Roxton-Smyth,” I said, offering my hand.
“Glad to meet you your eminence,” he replied, walking behind his counter and pulling a rather splendid looking box from beneath. “I have your special glasses finished, sir.”
He opened the box and I stared at the most amazing looking device my eyes had ever beheld. The crystal ball's glass had been cut to size and set with in a thick gold rim with was engraved with some form of hieroglyphics. On the sides a clockwork mechanism moved quietly. The beautiful brass cogs turning magnificently in synchronisation and a subtle tick-tock, tic-tock could be heard. “I am lost for words,” Mr Spencer smiled like a Cheshire cat who had just finished off the cream.
“It is rather good,” he beamed. “They actually work,” he said, passing the spectral glasses to me.
“Can I try them,” I asked. “Do I need to do anything?”
“It may be advisable to say prayers of protection. You are about to cross the veil.”
I swallowed nervously but in a frivolous sort of way I was looking forward to what lay ahead of me. I said a prayer and slid on the spectacles. To my utter amazement I could see ghostly apparitions going about their business. Then almost immediately I suffered the most unsettling fright possible to have: a man carrying his own head walked through the wall. He looked at me through bloodshot eyes and flesh fell off his bones. To my relief he turned his attention to something else and disappeared. This contraption was probably the most amazing device I had ever seen. A ghostly figure of a woman pushing a pram shimmered across the floor. It was particularly interesting that Mr Spencer’s beautiful shop was nowhere to be seen. I appeared to have been transported to another dimension.
