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Death in the Chair’s Easy

December 21, 2012

Internal evidence suggests I was eight years old when the following story was written. It is the second one written into the dummy book I was using at that time. I’ve kept the original spellings for interest and accuracy.  I won’t bother you with the first as – as I sternly noted sometime later – the ending is “ripped off from Monkey Planet – Pierre Boule!”

This more original piece is somewhat in the style of the creepy but moralistic tales one saw in those days in American comic books such as House of Mystery and Tales to Astonish.

Enjoy but, please, don’t have nightmares or try this at home!

Death in the Chairs Easy


Lucky 13.

George Charlton had never known the meaning of fear until the night of February 3rd 1969.

He had attemted to rob the largest bank in Bosten. Unfortunately he had overlooked the fact of a bank clarck pressing down on an ingenious foot alarm. The police charged in. Charlton became desperate, for he was the only member of his gang still not hit by the bullets that were flying through the air. Desperately he fired, and an unfortunate policeman fell to the ground, dead.

6 months later George was eating supper. His cells number was 13, which only added to his gloom. Sudenly he heard a faint tapping noise on the door. He turned round and saw a man outside the cell door. “May I come in?” the mysterious man asked. Amazed George said he could, even though he couldnt see how. To his astonishment, the stranger simply walked through the cell door as though it wasn’t there. This rose Georges spirits completely, and he quickly atempted to go through the cell door which he now thought was just an illusion. But, bang! he soon discovered it was not. He gingerly picked up his wounded self. Then he turned with amazement to his amused spectator. “Oh, so you think its funny do you, well I dont!”

George banged his fist into the gigling old looney with all his might. “Ow!” This was not Georges only exclamation as he banged the wall, but it was certainly the only writable one. As he caressed his injured hand he discovered how cold it felt. “Hey!” He said suddenly.

“You are a ghost aren’t you? What are you doing here?”

The ghost smiled and said “I’ve come to make it easier for you. But before I begin I must know what happened. In order to save you pain I must know the facts. But beware, I know when your lying”.

“Well, I was born in a New York suberb, like everyone is. When I was in coledge I met these two brothers, Fred and Joe Duncan. They wanted to start a sort of club with me as their first member. Of course “club” ment gang and I was soon very involved.

Well about six months later we were going to do this big raid. Thats when the police got us and by acide [ed’s note: got to the edge of the page before spelling completed] I killed one of the cops.” There was silence. then the silence was broken by the ghosts voice. “Very well George Charlton, as I did, you shall have your chance.”

Two nights later George was experiencing the agony of the last hour of life. He hardly realised that he was renouncing his sins to a somewhat chubby priest. Then he was awakened from his thoughts by the sound of his own footsteps echoing as they walked the last mile. Strangely enough for the first time in his life he felt beautifully at peace with himself. Then he was sitting down with the electrodes clamped on him. It took him about five minutes to realise he was dead.

If you are in a cell numbered 13 for the same reason as George, watch out for him, he’s there to help you.

Chilling! The next tale is entitled “Before you murder your wife, think about it”. But that must wait for another time…



From → Critic, Writer

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