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Hey guys, it's E. J. Miller, creator and writer over here

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at Fast Food Horror. Igor Froederick
is still away with his ghoul friend for

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a Valentine's Day weekend. So you
just got me for this episode, and

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I'm very excited about this week's episode. A few weeks back, we did

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HP Lovecrafts The Terrible Old Man in
our Classic Horror series. After reading that

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story, though, I realized there
was so much more left to that story.

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So in this week's installment, We're
going to take HP Lovecrafts The Terrible

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Old Man in a direction I'm sure
that would make him proud in a very

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creepy way. So sit back,
relax, and please enjoy our adaptation inspired

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by HP Lovecrafts The Terrible Old Man. Ricci and Silva. They both assured

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me this would be an easy job, an easy mark, a feeble old

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man right for the taking, that
lives by himself on the edge of this

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god forsaken spec on the map.
They brought me to a Kingsport. They

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Silva and Ricci had this old coat
scouted perfectly. They assure me, a

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World War two vet of which side
they could not determine. But the towneys

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suspect, not for Uncle Sam,
who lives by his lonesome on the town's

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edge on the coast in this decrepit
mansion. Shoot. He's so old no

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one knew his name, let alone
his actual age, or remembers him when

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he was younger than what he is, a pasty, frail, gaunt bag

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of bones that looked like he'd blow
over in a stiff breeze. The townys

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just call him the terrible old man, they say, the old white hair

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hobbles into town once a week for
supplies, then disappears back behind those gnarled

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trees to his crypt. He doesn't
talk to no one, doesn't visit,

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socialize or exchange a word with no
one, doesn't dip into the for a

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nip, doesn't flirt or say a
kind nothing to the cashier at the shop,

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none of that. Kids and women
cross the street when he comes through,

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and dogs run to their porches and
bark and howl as one as he

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passes. But get this, this
is what hooked me. He doesn't pay

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for his groceries and such with cash
or card, but with honest to goodness

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gold coins, gold coins. And
where does he get his gold coins?

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No, not from the bank.
They don't know him, doesn't even have

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an account, not from the coin
dealer or the pawn shop. Ricci and

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Silva never even saw him go in
there, so that only means he stashes

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them inside the mausoleum he calls a
home. Towny they talked to swears on

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their grandma's life. It's just always
been that way, as far back as

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even the oldest resident can remember.
The terrible old man so many gold coins

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that we could all retire to a
beach in Mexico and live like princes.

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That's what Ricci said. We'd be
set for the rest of our lives,

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said Silva. An easy job in
and out, and yet here I am

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shivering and cold. Hiding from the
plan was easy. Just after sundown,

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we'd all depart from town at separate
times so not to gain suspicion, and

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meet in the back alley of Waters
Street, right behind the old man's home.

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I'd keep the car running and keep
a lookout. They'd walk up the

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home, quietly, make their way
in, and convince him to share where

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he'd stash his coins. Bastards like
Silva and Riccie are good at that convincing

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people, and then we'd be on
our way. That's what we did.

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We waited till sundown and made our
separate ways from town to the alley off

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Water Street. I was there first, sitting in my car listening softly to

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some local sports show. Ricci and
then Silva joined me, each on foot.

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Huddled in my car in the dark
alley. We watched till the lights

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came on, then off, room
by room in the old mansion, till

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there was only one left by the
yellow light of an unseen lamp. There

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he could see the old man seated
at a small table by the window,

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alone, chin resting on the tops
of his hands placed reverently upon the table,

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talking to four small bottles. There
was no one else there. We

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could see him playing as the moon
in the sky, turning his head gently

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talking to each bottle. Feeble and
crazy. I started to feel bad for

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what was about to happen and ask
Silva and Ricci to be gentle with the

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old man before they each made their
way from my car and slid into the

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shadows toward the old man's front door. Minutes later, I watched the old

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man's head whip up like a hunting
dog when he hears a crack of the

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brush, signifying his quarry moved.
I gazed and held my breath as the

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old man stood, moved his lips
and appeared to be speaking lovingly again to

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the bottles, then moved from the
table away from the window, out of

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view. The lights of each room, then in succession towards the front door

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illuminated the windows of the structure.
Minutes passed slowly. I could not see

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any activity in the window, and
could only guess that Silva and Ritchie had

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made their way in and were now
practicing their art of convincing the terrible old

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man to share where his treasure of
coins was kept. After an hour,

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the silence of the night was shattered
by shrill screams coming from the house behind

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the sentinels of gnarled trees. I
was concerned, had they killed him,

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had the shock of Silva and Riccie
scared him into death's arms. Did all

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this happen before he told them where
his coins were? I told them to

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be easy with the pathetic old man, to be gentle. My thoughts,

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though, were broken by movement to
the rear of the house. The back

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door slowly opened inward was it Richie
and Silva. Was the deed done?

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What treasure did they find? How
much had the old man stashed away?

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What bounty had they discovered? I
strained my eyes and saw a figure as

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it emerged from the doorway, back
lit by a naked bulb, into the

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moonlight. It was not Silva,
nor was it Richie, but the terrible

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old man had tilted to the moon
with a hideous smile painted red across his

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lunar lit face. I watched as
the terrible old Man appeared to be chuckling.

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Then he took the sleeve of his
shirt and wiped the red from his

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face, the blood. The terrible
old Man then turned back into the doorway,

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disappearing for a moment, then re
emerged into the moonlight, dragging from

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the home two large somethings I could
not tell what, each with one arm,

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seemingly with ease through the backyard to
the cliff's edge, and tossed each

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out into the void. I was
white knuckling the steering wheel. What had

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happened? What went so wrong that
this skeleton of a man took down both

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Ritchie and Silva. I went to
start the car. I was not going

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to stay around and find out the
battery was dead, And the clicking of

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the engine starter gave my position away
to the terrible old man. I saw

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his head whipped to the right and
his gaze fixed upon my position in the

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alleyway, his yellow eyed gaze.
His eyes were actually yellow. A wicked

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smile played across his lips as a
growl. Then a howl erupted from his

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lips that pierced the night's silence.
As he opened his mouth wider and wider,

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exposing rows of pointed teeth. Saliva
dripped from his maw as he ran.

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His tongue is sharp and rose.
The terrible old Man was not an

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old man at all, but something
entirely different. He started from the rear

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door at a slow, limping gait, then picked up his speed to a

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well muscled long stride, ditching his
cane as his complexion darkened with fur,

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I turned and sprinted blindly out of
the alleyway, abandoning the car breathlessly,

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stumbling in a mad panic. I
wanted to be anywhere but there, which

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is why I'm here, shivering in
a cave along the shoreline, being hunted

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by that man, no, by
that thing, that took breechey and silver.

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I'm waiting for the sun to come
up and get as far away as

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I can from that terrible old man. Mm hmm