Hey guys, it's E. J. Miller, creator and writer over here
at Fast Food Horror. Igor Froederick is still away with his ghoul friend for
a Valentine's Day weekend. So you just got me for this episode, and
I'm very excited about this week's episode. A few weeks back, we did
HP Lovecrafts The Terrible Old Man in our Classic Horror series. After reading that
story, though, I realized there was so much more left to that story.
So in this week's installment, We're going to take HP Lovecrafts The Terrible
Old Man in a direction I'm sure that would make him proud in a very
creepy way. So sit back, relax, and please enjoy our adaptation inspired
by HP Lovecrafts The Terrible Old Man. Ricci and Silva. They both assured
me this would be an easy job, an easy mark, a feeble old
man right for the taking, that lives by himself on the edge of this
god forsaken spec on the map. They brought me to a Kingsport. They
Silva and Ricci had this old coat scouted perfectly. They assure me, a
World War two vet of which side they could not determine. But the towneys
suspect, not for Uncle Sam, who lives by his lonesome on the town's
edge on the coast in this decrepit mansion. Shoot. He's so old no
one knew his name, let alone his actual age, or remembers him when
he was younger than what he is, a pasty, frail, gaunt bag
of bones that looked like he'd blow over in a stiff breeze. The townys
just call him the terrible old man, they say, the old white hair
hobbles into town once a week for supplies, then disappears back behind those gnarled
trees to his crypt. He doesn't talk to no one, doesn't visit,
socialize or exchange a word with no one, doesn't dip into the for a
nip, doesn't flirt or say a kind nothing to the cashier at the shop,
none of that. Kids and women cross the street when he comes through,
and dogs run to their porches and bark and howl as one as he
passes. But get this, this is what hooked me. He doesn't pay
for his groceries and such with cash or card, but with honest to goodness
gold coins, gold coins. And where does he get his gold coins?
No, not from the bank. They don't know him, doesn't even have
an account, not from the coin dealer or the pawn shop. Ricci and
Silva never even saw him go in there, so that only means he stashes
them inside the mausoleum he calls a home. Towny they talked to swears on
their grandma's life. It's just always been that way, as far back as
even the oldest resident can remember. The terrible old man so many gold coins
that we could all retire to a beach in Mexico and live like princes.
That's what Ricci said. We'd be set for the rest of our lives,
said Silva. An easy job in and out, and yet here I am
shivering and cold. Hiding from the plan was easy. Just after sundown,
we'd all depart from town at separate times so not to gain suspicion, and
meet in the back alley of Waters Street, right behind the old man's home.
I'd keep the car running and keep a lookout. They'd walk up the
home, quietly, make their way in, and convince him to share where
he'd stash his coins. Bastards like Silva and Riccie are good at that convincing
people, and then we'd be on our way. That's what we did.
We waited till sundown and made our separate ways from town to the alley off
Water Street. I was there first, sitting in my car listening softly to
some local sports show. Ricci and then Silva joined me, each on foot.
Huddled in my car in the dark alley. We watched till the lights
came on, then off, room by room in the old mansion, till
there was only one left by the yellow light of an unseen lamp. There
he could see the old man seated at a small table by the window,
alone, chin resting on the tops of his hands placed reverently upon the table,
talking to four small bottles. There was no one else there. We
could see him playing as the moon in the sky, turning his head gently
talking to each bottle. Feeble and crazy. I started to feel bad for
what was about to happen and ask Silva and Ricci to be gentle with the
old man before they each made their way from my car and slid into the
shadows toward the old man's front door. Minutes later, I watched the old
man's head whip up like a hunting dog when he hears a crack of the
brush, signifying his quarry moved. I gazed and held my breath as the
old man stood, moved his lips and appeared to be speaking lovingly again to
the bottles, then moved from the table away from the window, out of
view. The lights of each room, then in succession towards the front door
illuminated the windows of the structure. Minutes passed slowly. I could not see
any activity in the window, and could only guess that Silva and Ritchie had
made their way in and were now practicing their art of convincing the terrible old
man to share where his treasure of coins was kept. After an hour,
the silence of the night was shattered by shrill screams coming from the house behind
the sentinels of gnarled trees. I was concerned, had they killed him,
had the shock of Silva and Riccie scared him into death's arms. Did all
this happen before he told them where his coins were? I told them to
be easy with the pathetic old man, to be gentle. My thoughts,
though, were broken by movement to the rear of the house. The back
door slowly opened inward was it Richie and Silva. Was the deed done?
What treasure did they find? How much had the old man stashed away?
What bounty had they discovered? I strained my eyes and saw a figure as
it emerged from the doorway, back lit by a naked bulb, into the
moonlight. It was not Silva, nor was it Richie, but the terrible
old man had tilted to the moon with a hideous smile painted red across his
lunar lit face. I watched as the terrible old Man appeared to be chuckling.
Then he took the sleeve of his shirt and wiped the red from his
face, the blood. The terrible old Man then turned back into the doorway,
disappearing for a moment, then re emerged into the moonlight, dragging from
the home two large somethings I could not tell what, each with one arm,
seemingly with ease through the backyard to the cliff's edge, and tossed each
out into the void. I was white knuckling the steering wheel. What had
happened? What went so wrong that this skeleton of a man took down both
Ritchie and Silva. I went to start the car. I was not going
to stay around and find out the battery was dead, And the clicking of
the engine starter gave my position away to the terrible old man. I saw
his head whipped to the right and his gaze fixed upon my position in the
alleyway, his yellow eyed gaze. His eyes were actually yellow. A wicked
smile played across his lips as a growl. Then a howl erupted from his
lips that pierced the night's silence. As he opened his mouth wider and wider,
exposing rows of pointed teeth. Saliva dripped from his maw as he ran.
His tongue is sharp and rose. The terrible old Man was not an
old man at all, but something entirely different. He started from the rear
door at a slow, limping gait, then picked up his speed to a
well muscled long stride, ditching his cane as his complexion darkened with fur,
I turned and sprinted blindly out of the alleyway, abandoning the car breathlessly,
stumbling in a mad panic. I wanted to be anywhere but there, which
is why I'm here, shivering in a cave along the shoreline, being hunted
by that man, no, by that thing, that took breechey and silver.
I'm waiting for the sun to come up and get as far away as
I can from that terrible old man. Mm hmm