A Tale from the Crypt

I could a tale unfold, of murder most foul, most horrid. Last week, our little house was graced by three excellent furry friends, the most innocent, the most trusting, the most loving of all the creatures that are undreamt of in your imaginations. I talk not of spirits - though spirits they could as easily be for the characteristic selflessness with which they treat one another and, indeed, all those in need of friendship - but of creatures known as Fimbles.



Fran and I played in the garden all day with these curious Fimbles, and, by evening, as we ate dainty cakes and drank delicious cordial, they each regaled our company with the most excellent stories and song. And, when the sun finally set, they reminded us that they had much to do and would be taking their leave before any of us were awake the next morning, and then they went to sleep, curled up in a fluffy heap beneath the stars.

That night, my sleep was broken by disturbing dreams. I dreamt of a phantom, with eyes of fire, and long, foot-long knitting needles for fingers. "Soft," the phantom hissed, in a voice that was petrifying to hear, "sssso ssssoft. And what beautiful, beautiful colourssss..." I dreamt I saw her hover over the fimbles, sleeping in the darkness, oblivious to the danger that faced them. In vain, I tried to cry out but by no sound came from my throat... And then, as the clouds parted, allowing a moonbeam to fall onto the midnight garden, I saw a glint, of a blade - a knife? no, it was scissors!

It was at this point that I awoke, feverish with fear. Whether the scream that rang in my ears was my own, or that of the dream-phantom's hapless victim, I know not. I climbed out of my bed and looked out into the garden. There were no fimbles to be seen. I returned to my bed, thinking they must be have already set off. But wait! From the corner of my eye - what was it that hung over the radiator? a sodden mass: a yellow and green bag, recently felted. Surely a coincidence, I thought, and thought myself foolish for even entertaining that idea that anyone should kill a fimble to make a bag. But, as I chastised myself for my silliness and paranoia, I turned the bag around. Oh horror, dear reader, it winked...