Years ago...
Just after my grandfather passed away, I was up in Scotland visiting my Nan. They had lived most of their lives in this crumbling, Victorian, red-brick, mid terrace house, and I was going through some of his old things in the attic, when I came across some of his old Journals.
Most of the entries were fairly innocuous, there isn’t a lot to write about when you’ve spent most of your life working in a Whiskey the Chivas Regal distillery, but in some of his earlier journals there were a few harrowing, disturbing stories from the time he’d served as a medic in the army during WWII. Most notably, there was a particularly shocking description of the time he’d had to hold his friend’s intestines with his bare hands. An experience that he, as anyone would, found extremely upsetting.

They weren’t the most eye-catching tales in his dusty old journals though; the ones that really grabbed me were the ones he’d written shortly after he had moved into the old, Victorian house in the late fifties…

I carefully opened a musty smelling book that I’d found under a pile of well-worn clothes, and flicked through most of the pages without really looking. Until I found some of the later entries for that year, where for some reason his normally quite reserved style of writing seemed to take a nervous, slightly more panicked slant.
I’ve edited the entries to how I remember them, as he was a strong Scotsman, and I want for you to be able to hear these words how I remembered his voice, if possible.

November 12th 1958
The day, work was as it a’ways is, Jean’s looking as lovely as ever, and the wee one in her belly only seemed to add to just how lovely and peaceful life seems to be.
I couldnae get any sleep at aw the night though, there was this strange, scratching noise comin’ fi’ the attic aw night, an’ ev’ry time ah went ti investigate there was nothin’ there, not a mouse, pigeon, squirrel, or owt tae be seen.

A few unremarkable entries followed, and life seemed to be good for my grandparents. They both worked hard, and enjoyed their simple existence in their quiet little Scottish town.

November 23rd 1958
That feynyin’ bastard scratching returned the night, the noise seems tae travel from one side o’ the house tae the other, and back again. Every bloody time I went up they stairs, the noise stopped, and every bloody time ah went back tae mah bed, it started again.
Ah’m laying some traps the morrow, I’ll catch that buckin’ wee shite any way I have tae.

I have to admit, that at this point the hairs on the back of my neck raised, but I wasn’t scared. It was a little strange, but I wasn’t frightened. Over the next couple of weeks my grandfather wrote entries about his traps always turning up empty, and the scratching noises returning more frequently than before. The sleep deprivation was starting to take its toll, his work was slipping, his handwriting became messier, but all the while my grandmother slept through it all, not once did he mention any of this waking her.

December 9th 1958
Last night the scratching was worse than ever, ah couldnae get a moment’s peace. At one point, just as I could finally feel myself falling asleep, the room was FREEZIN’. When ah opened me eyes, the bloody bedroom windae was wide open. Ah cannae tell if the latch is broken, it wisnae even windy oot last night. Ah cannae ken how that windae was opened.

December 10th 1958
I have got tae get masel’ some sleep, this is really driving me crazy. How does the noise no keep Jean awake? Why only me? The night ahm stayin’ oot o’ the hoose, she’ll be awright for the night by hersel’. I just need to get some rest.

December 11th 1958
Last night I got masel’ plenty of sleep roond at Tom’s hoose, ah feel much stronger, healthier and fitter for it. I know that all o’ this silly nonsense is just in mah mind, the night I know I’ll get plenty of sleep wi’ Jean.

December 12th 1958
Ah really dunnae ken wit tae write. Ah dinnae ken what ah saw. Anyb’dy readin’ this is going to think that I’m goin’ completely oot o’ my mind.
Last night there wisnae any scratching noise, at least, no at first.
I woke up in the middle a they night, the attic was thumpin’. Ahm sure that there was somethin’ movin’ aboot up there, an’ the windae was open again. Jesus Christ, Ah’ve never been so scared in my life. I wis fair sweatin’ like a pig, but ah wis freezin’, I’ve never felt cold like that before.
Then, in the murky darkness o’ they room, there wis a light, and they light, it just got bigger, and bigger. It looked like a woman, but ah cannae be sure. She, it, just appeared, and it stayed there, standin’ at the bottom o’ the bed, and I wis frozen to the spot. I couldnae scream, speak, or move. I jus’ stared, and stared, and after wit felt like an age, it was gone again.

December 13th 1958
Ah couldnae speak to Jean aboot what happened the other night, I couldnae speak tae anyone aboot it, they’d all think I was mad. I just thank God that the apparition didnae appear again last night, but just the worry is enough tae keep me awake now.
Jean’s taking me to church the morrow, I know that she’s worried about me, but whatever it was that ah saw, I doubt that a trip to church is going to help.

December 14th 1958



December 15th 1958
The last two nights have been the worst. She appeared again last night. I know that it’s a she now. She materialised exactly as she did before, I could feel her, looking at me.
She waited at the bottom of the bed for hours, the windae was open, but the cold was coming from her. I was frostbitten on the face and fingers, and this time she approached me. I could make out the callous look in her eyes, and her face was gnarled intae a deeply wrinkled look of pure pain. As she approached me, her mouth opened wide, and her hair flowed as though she were floatin’ in watter. I was sure that she was aboot tae tell me something, but the first rays of the sun appeared over the horizon, and she disappeared as quickly as she had materialised that first night.
Ah’ve got tae find out what she wants, it’s the only way tae get my sanity back. Tonight I’ll stay awake, and ah’m going tae find out what she needs to tell me.

December 16th 1958
I don’t think I’ll be seeing the white lady ghost again.
She appeared last night, a freezing wind howled through the open window, I sat up in bed, and Jean didnae stir even once.
The white lady approached mah bed, the pained look in her eyes turned my insides to cold stane, and ah gripped mah quilt so tight that the blood disappeared from my fingers. She leaned close to my cheek, the side of my face burned from the cold, and I felt as though her pointed teeth were chewing on my ear. She didnae speak at first, she just waited there, and I gulped. Ah was truly terrified, in ways that ah don’t think anyb’dy could ever understand. Her ghostly arm raised itsel’, and a bony finger pointed to the open window, where, another small light was slowly starting to appear.
I could feel her face, she was almost kissing mine, I was petrified of what would happen next. Then she spoke slowly, her voice was rasped and weary,
‘Over there…. you see him…?’
I looked to the light that was appearing by the window, it was taking a form, smaller than the white lady, but a definite, recognisable shape.
It was a small animal, a horned, furry animal. A Goat, a symbol of the guardian of the underworld.
‘You see him?’ She said, ‘I’ve had him.’


The End

I’d just like to point out that all of this is fiction, and that my granddad is actually very much alive. He was a medic in the Army, and the story about him holding his friend’s intestines is true. My granddad is a great bloke, a crazy, old, chauvinistic, misogynistic bigot, but definitely a great bloke.

( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:02, 15 replies)

Pssstttt...
There're no whiskey distilleries in Scotland. No whiskey at all is made in Scotland.

Mornin'!
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:11, closed)

Feck off
and a very good morning to you too!

EDIT edited for Enzyme
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:12, closed)

Tee hee!
Have a Monday morning click
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:15, closed)

*shakes fist*

......

*realises shaking fist is futile*

....

*shakes cock*
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:16, closed)

Bahhh
You had me genuinely thinking your grandad was haunted by some pervy bestiality crazed bint there
(Freddles, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:31, closed)

It's a long drawn out tale.
Just to be able to mention goat sex.
( girlinthehole, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:35, closed)

Worth it though, BGB
Had me going, that did.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:37, closed)

@BGB
It sure is, I wanted to post something serious, but then thought, 'Nah, fuck it.' ;D

EDIT But no-one has mentioned the crapness of typing in scottish yet, I might have gotten away with it...
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:42, closed)

Morning!
All through that, I was fighting the urge to randomly shout "coobeastie" at the computer/my colleagues.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 9:54, closed)

.
extreamly well written Sir!...but i'm not going to click because i'm pissed off the story was made up!! (but still, very well written!)
(drain_bamaged, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 10:58, closed)

@drain bamaged
Click! You bastard! Or my next story will be about you!
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 11:05, closed)

It's a
welcome return to the board Mr Sexmonkey.

*clicks*
( Bazongaloid, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 12:13, closed)

Ah huv tae say
that the dialogue wisny bad. No right Scots, but no bad.

Hae a *click* onyway.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Mon 7 Jul 2008, 13:58, closed)

'Eckin 'Ell
I'm sat here in a freezing office reading that shitting myself then i get to the last line!

Very good!

*click
(Lip Up Fatty Fatty Reggae still loves BBQ food on, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 14:07, closed)

@TWW
Ah'm a scotsman, but lost the accent when ah was wee, ah tried tae write how I remember mah Papa's voice. You probably noticed that towards the end the scottishness of the text fades a bit though, it doesn't lend itself to being scary enough.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Tue 8 Jul 2008, 9:44, closed)