Caught in a violent shoot-out with police in a department store, serial killer Ray Brady used an ancient voodoo spell to transfer his soul into a popular “Buddy Time” doll before dying. That Christmas, the doll was purchased for young Andy Goode. At first, Andy was thrilled with his new toy, as the “Buddy Time” dolls were the most popular gift of the season. But when, reanimated and blood-thirsty, the possessed doll resumed its killing spree, Andy Goode found himself in grave mortal danger. He watched, with the helplessness of the child he was, as one of his most prized possessions murdered neighbors, loved ones, and workers in the service industry, like the postman. Resolute, Andy made an important decision, choosing to hold on to the doll only until it went out of production, and then selling it (at a 15 dollar profit!) on eBay for 40 dollars plus shipping.
During an attempted robbery of immensely valuable crates of gold bullion, an entire luxury cruise-ship of people was slaughtered. But little did the robbers know they were playing into the hands of a demon, who then murdered the robbers. Then the cruise ship disappeared. Then it came back, and Gabriel Byrne went to fix it, and he died. Basically, it’s a Phantom Ship, and this L.L. Bean-clad demon goes around looking for souls? No one knows. Even the demon admits that his plan does not make that much sense.
For her ninth birthday, Maria had all of her friends over for a slumber party. There was face painting, and pillow fights, and corn chips, and everyone heartily agreed that it was the best party all year. They even stayed up past midnight! Eventually, the girls got very tired and climbed into their sleeping bags in the rec room. A couple girls stayed up telling gossip and ghost stories while the others slept, but eventually they, too, fell asleep. Everyone except Maria. She was too excited to sleep from all the festivities, and she had never been able to fall asleep if she was near other people who had. Their breathing kept her awake, reminding her that they were doing what she should be. So, when she was very tired but unable to sleep, she tiptoed up to her room, where she would be more comfortable. Her dog, Chips, bounded into bed with her and laid at her feet. In the comfort of her own room, it did not take long for Maria to fall asleep, but after only an hour or two, a strange noise woke her. In the dark, she listened for footsteps or doors opening, but there was nothing. Chips, her dog, licked Maria’s hand until she fell asleep. In the morning, Maria awoke alone in her room with the door ajar. She moved into the hallway, and was spooked by the utter silence of the house. Passing her parents bedroom, she noticed something amiss, and looked in only to find them both gruesomely murdered in their bed. Scared, Maria ran downstairs and discovered that all of her friends had been butchered in the rec room. And there, by the door, was Chips, with a knife sticking out of him, and a note pinned to his blood-matted fur that read “People can lick hands, too.” For years, after the murderer was caught and put on trial, while moving from orphanage to orphanage, as the subject of intense media scrutiny as the tragic victim at the center of the decade’s most violent crime, Maria thought often of this note. It seemed like an especially dicky thing to do, after murdering everyone she loved and her dog. So when Cole Wayne Dobbs was finally executed, she really didn’t feel bad. She thought about that note and figured he deserved it, if only for being so disgustingly grandiose, although, in general, she felt that capital punishment was morally questionable.
A traveling salesman found himself driving in the middle of nowhere one night. Long after dark had fallen, he had still yet to see any sign of life, and he was getting very tired after a long day going door to door, trying to unload some encyclopedia sets. Just when he thought he was going to have an accident, he saw the lights of a lone farmhouse, set deep into a field of corn. As he drove up to the small ramshackle building, he got an eerie feeling, but it was the only place he’d seen in almost a hundred miles, and he did not know the area at all. After knocking a few times, he heard a voice beckon him inside. The door let into a cozy kitchen, and a woman was busy preparing a delicious smelling dinner at the stove. The salesman excused himself for the intrusion, but explained his dire situation. The woman just smiled at him, and invited the salesman to join her for her repast. It had been a long time since she’d had company, she told him, and it was a welcome change from the usual lonely silence. After eating, the woman invited the salesman to sleep on the sofa. He was reluctant to accept, but did not see any other options. He graciously accepted the woman’s kindness. After he had fallen asleep, the man was awoken by the woman, come to him in the night, naked and luminescent. At dawn, while all was quiet and still in the house, he awoke, alone, and quietly let himself out of the house. He stopped at the first roadside diner he spotted, and took a stool at the counter. As he was waiting for his food, he told the waitress about his late night jitters, and the kind woman who gave him room and board. The waitress grew very quiet, as did the other man at the counter. Both exchanged glances. The salesman did not understand the mystery, and asked them why they looked so scared. “That was the old McCreedy place,” the waitress said. The name registered with the salesman, who remembered seeing it on the mailbox as he drove up the dirt path to the house. “But that house is abandoned, and Ms. McCreedy has been dead for ten years,” the waitress said. The air in the roadside diner grew still. Slowly, with a shaking hand, the salesman took a sip of his coffee. “Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you one thing, that ghost likes to fuck. A lot. I’m chafed raw.”
After a pedophile was murdered by an angry mob, he returned in the dreams of his killers’ children, driving them to suicide. His nightmarish haunting of their sleeping subconsciousnesses was filled with gruesome imagery, and very real physical sensations of pain. While many thought this was the murdered criminal’s attempt at revenge from beyond the grave, it was actually a craven attempt to get them to make a movie about him, which they did. Now he’s super famous, and makes a bundle off of subsidiary rights to toy replicas of his knife-gloves, so who really won in the end, the vengeful parents, or the baby-fucker?
A guy and a girl were out on a romantic date. After dinner and a movie they drove up to makeout point. Just as things were getting hot and heavy, the love songs on the radio were interrupted by an important bulletin. A dangerous killer had escaped from a local penitentiary. He is very dangerous, and a killer, and he has a hook hand, that’s how you know it’s him, the report said. The guy and girl laughed because they were nervous, and then they continued kissing with their mouths. A moment later there was a scratching noise at the door. The girl didn’t like it, but the guy tried to brush it off, explaining the noise away on an animal trying to come in from the cold. It is July, the girl insisted. The boy drew her into a deep kiss. There were more scratches at the door. After almost a half hour of scratch-laden kissing, the girl was just too creeped out, and asked the boy to take her home. When he pulled up at her house and went to open her door for her, he found a hook attached to the handle. He tried to hide it behind his back, but the girl had seen him hiding something and demanded that he show her what it was. Reluctantly, he revealed the killer’s hook hand, which was probably, they both agreed, what was making that scratching noise. The boy was angry. “He fucked up my paint job.” The girl just made a face. “I don’t care if that hand belonged to the King of England, a hook hand is just gross.” The boy threw the hook hand into some bushes of a neighbor’s house, and then leaned in for a goodnight kiss. But the girl had already backed into her doorway. “I don’t think so,” she said. “You were just touching that gross hook hand.” Surprisingly, years later, when the guy was making a list of all the girls he’d ever kissed, he almost forgot to add that girl.
It was late one crisp autumn night when all the children gathered in a tent in a backyard to tell stories. One of the children told the legend of Candyman. “If you repeat his name in front of a mirror three times, he will appear and he will eat all of your guts.” The children decided that this was the most frightful tale they had heard yet, and that they simply must try out the chant, no matter how frightened they got. All of them crowded into a bathroom, which must have been very large, because none of them were uncomfortable or squeezed in too tight. With the lights off, one child shouted “CANDYMAN!” Three of the children screamed in fright and ran out of the bathroom. The same child shouted “CANDYMAN!” again, and another group of children shuddered and went running. It was down to only four children. For the third time, the child shouted “CANDYMAN!” The noise of footsteps and a dripping faucet startled them. Although the lights were already out, it seemed to get darker in the room. One by one, they felt the air grow cold, and then screamed when a large, frozen hand touched upon their shoulders. It was the Candyman, the legend was real! The door would not budge, and the children cried for their mothers as the Candyman ate all of their guts. He hated this part of the legend, but it was what he did, and he had no choice about it. After he was done, he said a little prayer for the dead kids, and then he went wherever the Candyman goes when he’s done terrorizing you. Back in the mirror? No one knows.
If I had a dollar for every person who read this diary, I would have almost ten dollars.
And I could really use ten dollars.
Please send one dollar to Worker #3116, Cubicle D-489, 5th floor, Bldg. 1.
With the recent withdrawal of Harriet Miers as a candidate for the Supreme Court of the United States, the Greatest Country on Earth, it is now up to President Bush to once more nominate an able-bodied citizen to the highest court in the land.
Throughout the confirmation proceedings of recent months, both in the diastrous Miers nomination, and the much more successful John Roberts nomination to Chief Justice, one issue comes up time and again: the right to privacy. It was under the auspices of a constitutional right to privacy that Roe v. Wade, the landmark “baby killing” case of 1973, was decided.
While baby killing is a volatile issue, there are two separate, much more important right to privacy issues at stake, both of which MUST be addressed by this President if he wants to be reelected for a historic third term. These, of course, are my personal privacy issues with going to the bathroom and talking on the phone. I would like Mr. Bush to nominate an intelligent, insightful, and American justice to the Supreme Court. But whoever that person is, I want them to immediately enact strict federally-enforced laws guarding my right to go to the bathroom without anyone else being in there (and that goes double for you, Jake from Accounts Payable. You know we all call you the Great Evacuator, right?), and ensuring that no one is ever allowed to hear one single word I speak over the phone to another party, unless I specifically decree that they may do so.
YOU’RE ON NOTICE, PRESIDENT (FOR HOW MUCH LONGER IF YOU KEEP THIS UP?) BUSH!