something I started a couple years ago

[crazy a]

Isle of the dead. Picture such a place, if you will. A dark, dreary mass of land. From a distance, only a large hump of earth with nothing but trees standing tall, reaching for the heavens. In a comical way, looking like the very tip of a submerged giant's head, hair standing on end. Surrounding the isle, a fog, not a thick blanket as one would expect but more of a veil, giving the viewer an unclear, hazy eyeful, and giving the isle itself an eerie, forboding air.

It was at this obscure spot of God's earth that our criminals were buried. Mind you, these were not petty thieves or the like; after all, even they deserved a decent Christian burial. No, these were the worst of the worst, the most hardened, loathsome creatures (they weren't fit to be called humans) to walk among respectable, God-fearing men.

The isle was a well of superstition and folklore. Tales to frighten children were often told, mostly, I believe, to teach proper respect towards one's elders. According to them, everything from wandering spirits to monsters of all shapes and sizes to the Devil himself inhabited the isle. Though these stories instilled the desired fear and respect in me, I was also most fascinated by the idea that such monstrosities (even Old Scratch!) was only a short boat ride away. This fascination, naturally, did not go over well with my parents or teachers. In fact, it earned me looks of shock and dismay, usually followed by a paddling and being sent to a corner to think about my soul, or some other act of penance. When I made mention of seeing if the Devil lived on the isle to the Reverend Smithson, one would have thought I had blasphemed God, the angels, and the whole of Heaven. The Reverend's eyes grew so large as to nearly pop from his head. His mouth opened in disbelief, and I do think he forgot to breathe. Quickly gathering himself, he laid a hand upon my head, mumbled a prayer, and hurriedly went on his way. He also made me promise to tell my parents of my indiscretion, which I did not.

(more to come.--A.)

[crazy a]

I had spent many hours wondering how to get to the isle. I dismissed early on the idea of borrowing or renting someone's boat. If the intention of going to the isle was made known, I wouldn't be allowed ten feet of a boat, even if I had money to pay. The notion of stealing one, distasteful even to me, seemed the only way. Of course, it was fitting that the boat to take would be the one used to carry the deceased to their final resting place.

Unfortuately, that boat was kept under lock and key. There was a small building near the shore, and it was here that the boat was stored. I had seen the craft on other occasions. It was a common thing, nothing elaborate, did in fact look like the boats other people used to catch fish. The main difference being that the purpose of this boat was well-known, and nobody bothered it.

Apparently, there was just one key to unlock the boat-house, and Tom Sweet had it. Old Tom was sweet in name only: he was a regular in the tavern and his breath stank of drink. He also had a rather nasty disposition. Tom never seemed to have a kind word to say, so it was anyone's guess why he was entrusted with the responsibility of actually burying the dead. It was a wonder to the town that he never lost the key while stumbling around drunk. He did, however, perform a task no one else wanted, so not much fuss was raised concerning his off-duty behavior.

(more to come.--A.)

[This message has been edited by crazy a (edited May 24, 2001).]

[JaceSan]

Sorry to interrupt the flow. Just wanted to say this sounds spooky. Keep it coming.