by P.S.Gifford
forum: Inevitable
speculative fiction for the internet generation.

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            "Damn!" Graham suddenly cried out shaking his head from side to side.

            "Whatever is the matter darling?" Mildred answered in her most patient and understanding tone. Having being married to him for many years she knew all to well he was prone to tantrums.

            "I still haven't finished this story, and I simply must do it. I know this is the one that is going to sell, and finally the world will realize just how awfully talented I am! I feel like I have been working on this bloody project for years." Graham replied with frustration evident in his voice.

            "I am sure you will come up with something perfect and terrifying darling…You always do," Mildred said in her softest tone.

            Graham looked up at his wife, who always managed to both encourage and inspire him, and then suddenly resumed his relentless tap tap tapping upon his keyboard.


            Phil Rogers always liked graveyards. In particular he enjoy them in the middle of the night, he felt that it was far more exciting admiring them by moon light. So here he was in the very heart of the glorious Yorkshire dales at just before midnight standing fascinated next to a tomb. It was quite an ordinary tomb to the casual observer; simply constructed out of modest white local stone…Yet he knew oh so well that there was a wonderful and disturbing dark secret attached.

            He took out his Frommers ghost hunters travel guide and re-read the account that had made him drive up from Oxford to investigate.

            `Graham Chance always wanted to be a writer…In fact his desire was so much that when he inherited his rather substantial family estate the money was quickly spent in an attempt to realize his illusive dream. He self published four novels printing off thousands and thousands of copies, sure that they will sell and that he would be heralded as one of the greatest writers of all time. Yet poor Graham missed one crucial element required to be make this dream a reality; talent. His books were scorned and ridiculed by the critics and then finally simply ignored. Barely a single copy ever sold. He did however have one devoted fan; a certain Mildred Roberts. Mildred was a humble farmers daughter and not only did she love Graham almost at first sight she also believed him to be a brilliant writer. They were quickly married and lived a modest existence together in a small Yorkshire home. Rumor has it that one fateful day Graham began writing a new story for his upcoming self published book and he desperately wanted to woo the critics with this one, which he considered his finest hour... He spent six days and nights without a moment sleep attempting to write and rewrite each clumsy sentence. Each attempt he made became increasingly worse .Finally Graham went completely out of his mind. They say that he began to scream feverishly from his writing desk and ripped large chunks of his hair out. As his beloved Mildred came rushing in to see what the commotion was he had reached a wild state of rage and madness and as she tried to restrain and calm him he fought her away. Moments later he slowly began to regain his sense of reasoning and he saw to his complete and total horror his true love, and only fan, lay silent and motionless upon the faded carpet. Her head positioned against the stone mantel and the delicate curls of her flaxen hair were covered by her own blood…

            Graham apparently was so distraught by the comprehension of his gruesome actions that he took his letter opener, the one that had opened countless rejection letters over the years, and without hesitation thrust it deep into his own heart…

            They were buried together in the heart of Yorkshire and…'

            Phil abruptly stopped reading and examined the nondescript tomb in front of him.

            'Is it my mind and ears playing tricks on me? Surely that is the sound of gentle tapping' He thought.

            Phil shuddered and tried to regain his composure.


            Graham all at once stopped typing.

            "What's wrong now dear?" Mildred cooed.

            "I am sure I can hear someone outside dear." He whispered picking up his letter opener "I think I will go out and see who is disturbing my writing."



copyright 2005 P.S.Gifford.

P.S.Gifford is an incredibly handsome Englishman who is making his dream of being a published author happen in California. is the site if anyone is even the slightest bit curious about me...