So you want to hear my story eh?
    Don’t tell me, you were passing through town and decided you just had to have a bite at the quaint little diner. And I’ll bet while you chowed down on that plate of grease Liz calls the “Breakfast Special” she couldn’t wait to tell you all about the local crazy woman and her tales of the undead. And as you stood at the register buying your much needed Rolaids you decided you just had to come hear it all for yourself.
    Well pour yourself a couple of fingers of that Bushmills over there, have a seat and I’ll try to tell you my story.
    It was a dark and stormy night.
    Isn't that how these things are supposed to start?
    I don't mean to be cliché, but that is how it began.
    Mother Nature was having a serious temper tantrum and all I could do was batten down the hatches and ride it through, living on a lonely stretch of beach in the middle of nowhere that’s about all you can do. Now normally there's nothing I like better than a good thunderstorm, but somehow that night was different. I was restless, on edge, y’know? I had the feeling that something was going to happen. Something I wasn’t going to like. I tried to convince myself I was being ridiculous, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.
    That was my first mistake.

    I threw some logs in the big old wood stove, made myself a cup of tea and sat down at my computer. I figured chatting with some online friends might distract me from dwelling on the storm and my strange reaction to it.
    It worked...for a while.
    I was having a grand time talking with my friend Mish, from England. We gossiped, we joked, and I was really no longer concerned with the outside world. When our conversation turned to the weather, I described to her what was going on in my neck of the world. As I talked I noticed Mother Nature would kick it up a notch. The more descriptive I was, the more violent the storm became. What the hell was going on? Did the old girl want it kept a secret, I remember thinking that and laughing.
    Behind the wind I could hear a slow rhythmic pounding. Was it the waves?
    It got louder, harder.
    I stopped laughing.
    It felt like some mythic beast was swinging a giant sledgehammer against the foundations of the house. The vibration of it rocked the walls, rattled the windows. Bang, bang, bang as sure and steady as the chiming of some nightmarish grandfather clock.
    I started to tell my friend what was happening but as soon as I began typing the details the force of the blows increased. On a whim I deleted my message…the pounding eased. Okay, now I was really spooked! I had somehow become a character in a Stephen King novel.
    Irrational as it was, I thought that maybe if I turned off the computer it would all go away.
    Mistake number two!

    As soon as I went offline, so did the power. Standing in the dark, a storm raging outside and the devil himself bashing against my house, I knew I was in trouble.
    I think that if I had known just how prophetic that statement was I wouldn't be here talking with you today. I wouldn't have had the will to go up against what lay ahead.
    As it was, I did what any sane rational person would do in that situation; I crossed to the window and peaked through the blinds.
    Like I said, I'm sane, I'm rational, right?
    Well this is where reality packs its suitcase and says, "I'm outta here!"
    I thought I was ready for pretty much any explanation for what was going on out there. Maybe a big branch from the old Jack Pine in the front yard had snapped in the wind and was banging against the house. That would be feasible, wouldn't it? Or maybe the water had risen to flood levels and some mountain of debris was bouncing off the foundation. Scary, but still acceptable.
    What wasn't acceptable was a seven-foot tall ghoul in black swinging a giant sledgehammer against my house and laughing like a madman. You know, when I saw him standing there I wasn't the least bit alarmed. No, I turned away from the window and shook my head. My brain just wouldn't accept what my eyes were seeing.
    Seven-foot tall ghouls just don't go around swinging giant sledgehammers against people's houses. They just don't!
    Not really.
    Do they?
    So I took a second look . . . you know . . . just to prove myself wrong. Only this time I was brazen. I reached out, grabbed the cord and raised that blind all the way to the top! Bloody hell, do I wish I hadn't done that! Mother Nature must have been in on it, the bitch, because she chose that exact second to let loose a brilliant bolt of lightening.
    Stephen King, Wes Craven, hell, even Spielberg couldn't have done a better job of setting up a scene.
    Over seven feet tall, and corpse thin, he was wearing a tattered black suit and cloak from a hundred years past. Black leather gloves and knee-high black leather boots completed his ensemble. Everything about him was slick and shiny from the rain. He stood not two feet away from my window, his arms thrown out, his head thrown back; he spun in a slow circle. The wind tore at him, the rain pounded against his upturned face. He was lit by bolt after bolt of lightening. He was loving it, revelling in it, absorbing the violence of the storm.
    I, on the other hand, was too stunned to be afraid. I was rooted to the floor. I’ve heard that expression a million times, we all have, I finally knew what it meant; it felt like my toes had grown roots that stretched out and embedded themselves in the floorboards, I couldn’t move. I knew he wasn't human but I didn’t think I wanted to know just what he really was. Would you?
    He stopped his spinning and slowly lowered his arms as he turned and smiled down at me. Now I was afraid. Afraid? Hell, I was scared shitless! A line from a book I’d once read popped into my mind, 'his grim visage bespoke my very death'. I thought that line quite cheesy at the time but now, somehow, I found it quite fitting!
    I didn't know what this guy wanted, but I knew I wasn't going to like it!
    He braced his hands against the window and leaning down, slowly licked the glass in front of me with a long black tongue. Bile rose into my throat, I thought I was going to be sick. Every inch of me was soaked in a cold sweat. This wasn't good. Looking him in the eyes I had the distinct impression that I wasn't going to be around for very long.
    I know what you're waiting for, you want me to tell you what he looked like, don't you?     Well, he wasn't what you'd expect. He looked like how you would picture a 'dark' angel, you know?
    Yes, he did make my blood run cold and okay, he definitely was not the poster boy for 'Hunks r Us' but he wasn't Freddy Krueger either. Add about a hundred pounds to him and he would not have been that bad looking, if you like the whole 'undead' kind of thing that is. Through the rain soaked window I could just make out his face. He had that "Hi, I'm a corpse" thing going for him. Shoulder length black stringy hair, hollow cheeks, a high forehead and his skin was the loveliest shade of grey. I'd have to say it was his eyes that really got to me, they were truly cat's eyes! You know, the pupils weren't round like yours or mine? Black vertical slits surrounded by a bright glowing green. Yes, I said glowing! I couldn't take my eyes off of them, I felt mesmerized. It was as if they were pulling me into him.
    A sound from behind me broke the spell I was falling under and I turned to see my two dogs entering the room. Ah, my boys, I thought. They would protect me from Gary the Wonder Ghoul!
    I haven't mentioned them before have I? Well, they’re not here today; they’re off at the groomers for a bath. Anyway, Smith and Wesson are a pair of grey Irish Wolfhounds, (sorry about the names but I got them during my Clint Eastwood phase) they are thirty-four inches at the shoulder and afraid of nothing and nobody.
    Well, maybe the garbage truck and I guess my cats do tend to bully them a bit and then of course there's Mrs. MacDonald's Chihuahua, Brutus, but he's more like a sewer rat that barks and, in all fairness, who isn't afraid of sewer rats, especially barking ones?
    All right, so they're a pair of quivering cowards but they are big and they do love to bark at strangers. Maybe that would be enough to scare him off, right? It may well have done the job if they had have stayed around long enough to find out!
    Just as I was reaching out to grab their collars the front door flew open and with a spiralling gust of wind, rain and debris in came our friend. My so-called protectors took one look, let out a collective squeal, more suited to a barking sewer rat than a pair of wolfhounds, and headed for parts unknown!
    Okay, so I was on my own.

    I could deal with this. Yes, I was in a dark house, and yes, the worse storm of my life was raging around me and yes, a seven-foot tall ghoul was spinning around my living room laughing, well, manically. Yup, sure, I could deal with this, maybe if I had an entire fully armed swat team at my back I could deal with it, but on my own?
    Yes, I know, I must have dealt with it or you wouldn’t be here sipping my best whiskey listening to me, with a sense of disbelief I’ll wager, as I regale you with my adventures now would you?
    Ok, now where was I? Oh yes, spinning, laughing etc.

    Gary the Wonder Ghoul spun around a few more times and came to a stop in front of me. He leaned down so we were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. The smell of rot, death and decay rolled over me. A smell so vile it took all I had not to vomit at his feet. He looked me in the eye and spoke in a soft whisper, “Give me what I want and I’ll go away.”
    That would have done it if not for one little thing, I had recently seen the mini-series, Storm of the Century. You know, the one based on the Stephen King novel about the mysterious stranger showing up during a blizzard? Well, Mr. King’s mystery man keeps appearing and his favourite one-liner is, you got it, “Give me what I want and I’ll go away.”
    If Ghoul Boy had said anything, ANYTHING, but that I would have been a cowering mass of goo, trembling at his feet in abject terror. Instead, well, I laughed. I laughed long, I laughed hard and I laughed loud. When I saw the stunned look on his grey face I laughed even harder, a knee slapping, hug your stomach cause of the pain kind of laugh. He growled, I laughed. He snarled, I laughed. He raised his arms above his head in what I’m sure he thought his most “scare the bejesus outta the mortal” fashion and came at me, I fell against the wall tears pouring down my face.
    “Please stop!” I told him, I had one of those laughing stitches in my side. “You have to let me catch my breath.”
     He threw his hands up in disgust and crossed the room and threw himself into that lazyboy recliner, yep, the one you’re sitting in right now.
     A few deep breaths and I had myself under control.
     “I’m sorry,” I began, “but look at yourself. You are the most nightmarish thing anyone has ever seen and the first thing out of your mouth is a line from a movie! You’re a denizen of hell for Christ’s sake, the least you could do is come up with some original material!”
    He’d lost all credibility with me. Part of me was terrified but come on; he was quoting Stephen King! How bad could he be?
    “Do you not fear me woman?” His voice sounded like the hissing of snakes. “I could rip out your heart and show it to you before you hit the floor.”
    Mr. Ghoul was just brimming with clichés. “Sorry Hun, but you lost a lot of your ‘fear me mortal or else’ persona as soon as you opened your mouth.” Yes, I’ll admit I was scared spitless but I’d realized I’d taken the piss out of him with my laughter and perhaps that gave me an edge…an edge I wasn’t willing to give up.
    Did I say edge? Yes, well, I’d have to say that last comment of mine pushed him over the edge. He must have launched himself out of the chair and crashed into me. I don’t know, I didn’t see it. All I do know is one minute I’m standing there looking at him sitting back in that chair and the next I’m laying flat on my back on the other side of the room with a wicked pain in my chest and him towering over me.
    “GIVE ME WHAT I WANT!” His voice shook the house. He ended it with an inhuman roar that grew in pitch and volume til I felt a blinding white-hot pain inside my head. I thought my eardrums would burst from the intensity of it. When he stopped the echo of his scream seemed to go on forever in my mind. I felt something wet trickling down the sides of my neck, I wiped it with trembling fingers and they came away red. MY EARS WERE BLEEDING!!
    I scrambled away from him like some demented crab; I didn’t dare take my eyes off of him for a minute. He reached a leather-clad hand down and with one quicksilver movement he had me suspended above him. “Give me what I want.” He was using his snake voice again as he shook me like a cat with a mouse, then he threw me onto the couch.
     You’ve heard of funeral humour? You know, that giggle that pops up at the most inappropriate of times. Well, whenever I get tense or scared I laugh and start wisecracking.
     I looked up at him and said with a nervous giggle, “A towel? Is that what you want? You really look like you could use a towel. I’ve got plenty of them, big fluffy ones, just go down the hall and turn left and…”
    Oh he didn’t like that!
    He raged around my house smashing everything in sight.
    “Perhaps it’s a cup of cocoa? A nice hot cup of cocoa would warm you up and soothe your nerves.” I couldn’t help myself, I was sure he was going to kill me but the more scared I got the faster the wisecracks came.
    Watching him, I realized he wasn’t destroying my house in a mindless rage; he was searching for something. But what?
    As I lay there on the couch, yet another witty comment coming to mind he did something that really gave me a turn. Not finding whatever it was he was searching for on the lower shelves of that bookcase, he floated up to check out the higher ones. I really hate floating. I can’t stand it in movies or in books; it’s the one thing that always gives me the heebie jeebies. It makes my skin crawl! And there he was floating around my living room. Somehow, seeing him doing that, all the wit and wisecracks were washed away.
    But what could I possibly have that an ancient demon would ever want? To say I was confused would be an understatement. I wracked my brain trying to think of something. Then it came to me…the old family legend. A fairy tale really…but maybe not?

    I guess you’ve noticed I have quite the collection of swords, but this story is about my great grandfather’s sword.
    Yes, the one I’m wearing right now and I’ll bet that’s been driving you mad with curiosity but you’ve been too polite to ask. Now why would a woman, in this day and age, be wearing a scabbard holding a three-foot sword? Well Hun, you’re just going to have to wait for that answer.
    What I will do is tell you the story behind this sword. It starts about a hundred years ago, my great-grandfather Josiah wanted to clear some land on the family farm to plant some crops. Well there was this section of the property that had never been touched, it was forbidden. A dark and dangerous family secret was buried there, just what this dark and dangerous secret was had long been forgotten and being a family man with a houseful of mouths to feed practicality outweighed family legends so Josiah went ahead and cleared the wooded acreage. Half way through his first day working he heard the clink of metal against metal. He had uncovered the dark family secret…this sword.
    If you take a closer look at it you can see the runes running down the blade. Being of Celtic heritage, he figured perhaps these runes meant something. To be honest, from what I’ve heard of good old Josiah it was more than likely he hoped the sword was worth something!
    Once the ploughing and planting was done he hooked up the team and headed off to the city with the sword. No doubt hoping one of the learned men at the university could tell him something about the value of the thing. No one could help him; the runes weren’t in any known language so the professors decided them to be mere decoration. Josiah came back home and hung the “fool thing” over the mantelpiece and there it stayed until my father’s day.
    My father, being the curious sort, took his turn at researching just what the sword was all about. He had better luck then old Josiah as the men of the university were a little more learned than they were in great grandfather’s day. It was discovered that the runes did mean something, they told a tale of a sword capable of destroying the undead. There was quite an argument as to the authenticity of the sword because the language used had been dead hundreds of years before a sword of such quality could have been forged, unless of course it was forged by sorcery, which was a joke the professors loved to bandy about.
    Fanciful tale at best, wouldn’t you say?

    I always thought it a wonderful tale. As a little girl I would daydream about the sword and make up stories about mysterious wizards and knights doing daring deeds. Let me tell you a little secret. I’ve done more than daydream about this sword, ever since I was a teenager I’ve practised with it. Now, don’t laugh! Behind closed doors I wield it about in a most Xena-like fashion. Actually I’ve become most proficient with it, which, as it turns out, is a damned good thing!

    But back to Gary the Ghoul…
    Now, where were we…ah yes, he was trashing my house.

    The meaning behind the runes came to me…a sword capable of destroying the undead. Now wasn’t that a coincidence? I happened to own a sword that legend said could kill the undead and a particular chap of the undead persuasion was ransacking my house looking for something.
    Hmm…I wonder what it could be?
    Keeping one eye on the floating ghoul I ever so slowly got up from the couch and crossed over to the old upright piano. Any other time the sword would have been in it’s place above the mantelpiece, where he would have seen it in an instant, but I’d been playing with it earlier and I’d put it up on top of the piano when I had to answer the phone. My mother had always lectured me for not putting my toys away, I’m glad I never learned to listen to her.
    I grabbed the sword and slashed it around a bit, limbering up my wrists as it were.
    I guess he sensed the motion for he turned to me, his eyes lit up with excitement when he saw the sword.
    “GIVE IT TO ME!” He roared as he flew across the room at me.
     At the last moment I raised the tip of the blade so it was almost touching him. “I take it this is what you were looking for? Now what would someone such as yourself need with such a fine blade as this?” I’d decided that if I played innocent perhaps I find out just what the sword truly was to him.
    “Drop that blade witch.” I could see he was more than a tad uncomfortable with my swinging the sword around.
    “It’s what you came for, why don’t you take it from me?” I jabbed at him a time or two with the sharp point. “My, my, my I do believe you’re afraid of it!” That was it! He was terrified of the sword and what it could do to him. A wave of relief washed over me at that point – pardon the pun. I knew as long as I held that sword I was safe from him.
     “You will surrender that blade witch or I will release my minions against you. They won’t kill you but you will soon be begging me to do so.”
    Sword in hand I was feeling rather brave so I laughed, “I can’t believe you actually used the word minions in a sentence.”
    “I doubt you will find laughter in this…”
    He spun around several times in his quicksilver way, his hands making intricate patterns in the air, and a brilliant flash of light flooded the room, blinding me. The air was filled with the stench of blood and decay. The sound of a million voices screaming in agony roared around me.
    The voices changed, hard to explain really, they sounded like the gibbering and snarling of some sort of beast. When my vision began to clear I knew why…never before had I wished to be blind but at that moment I did. The image of those creatures, a dozen of them I would say, it was wrong! They shouldn’t exist!
    Dog-like, cat-like creatures, it was as though they were made up of spare parts of man and beast. Drooling, snarling travesties of animals or, and the thought sickened me, were they once men transformed into these parodies of humanity?
    I really didn’t have time to philosophize about it, as they all seemed to share one thought. To tear me apart!
    I stepped back until I felt my back against the wall, I had the piano protecting my left side, at least they all couldn’t come at me at once! I raised my sword and tried to come up with a witty line, you know, like the heroes always do in books? All I could think of was, “OH SHIT!”
    In all those books they never talk about the true sound of battle. The first creature came at me, a snarling thing with a body of a man, the large dripping muzzle of a wolf and the claws of a tiger and I ran him through with my sword. As I pulled it out of the beast it made a vile suction sound…I almost gave up right then and there!
    After that first kill it was a blur of screams and blood. I hacked off limbs, drove my sword through stomachs and hearts and eyes. I stomped on claws and kicked at faces all the while filled with a sickening panic.
    The screams of the dying rang in my head and the smell of blood and bile filled the air.
    I was winning!
    I was fighting them back, killing them one after another with ease.
    I didn’t have a mark on me!
    I didn’t have a mark on me? How was that possible? Then it became clear. They weren’t trying to…no, they couldn’t hurt me! Yes, it was the sword they were after but I had to give it to them freely. They were trying to scare me into giving them the damn sword.
    “I’ve had ENOUGH!” It was my turn to let out an inhuman roar. “I know what you’re up to and it’s not going to work. I will NOT give you this sword!”
    The ghoul raised his arms and performed the same quicksilver dance with his hands he’d used to summon the beasts and all the demons vanished, dead and alive.
     “I will not let you keep me from my destiny! It all WILL be mine!” The old snake hiss again. “I will wear you down, eventually you will relinquish the blade to me witch!”
    The realization of his plan hit me like a bolt of lightening. He wanted power in my world like he had in his own.
     “I don’t think so. I think this sword must be the only thing in this world or yours that you fear or you wouldn’t be here; and as long as I have it you don’t dare try to attack my world.”
    “How cunning of you witch but I will have this world of yours to call my own. I will wear you down. I will keep coming back. I will continue to send my ‘minions’ against you. You will tire of the battle and you will give up the blade.”
    With that he was gone, but not for long. He does as he said he would. I hear the pounding of his hammer and he’s back, sometimes alone, sometimes with a dozen or so of his charming associates. On occasion he sends them on their own and he stays behind, doing whatever it is he does ‘down’ there. Sometimes he leaves me alone for weeks or he can come every night for a month, I never know.

    So there you go, my story such as it is. No, there is no grand finale; the adventure is not yet over. Only time will tell how it all comes out.
    I do know two things, the magic hour is six o’clock and I will never give up this sword, because one night, sooner or later, one night I will get close to him.

     Will you look at that sky? It will be dark soon. I can’t believe I talked the afternoon away. Well sir, six o’clock is but an hour away, you’d best be on your way in case my visitors arrive.
    What do you mean it’s six o’clock? My clocks all say five!
    Daylight savings ended last night? No! That’s still a week away!
    Last night you say? Are you certain?
    Shit, what’s that sound?
    Damn, the pounding has started!

    Well boyo, you’re in for an interesting evening.