Now A Zombie

Only those who dare read this may, but you must be viciously attentive to every detail and you cannot have a weak stomach. Do not question the sound of creaking in your nightmares or raise a hand against persistent spirits. Do not hide from that moment, when your skin begins to crawl, waiting like some parasite, in a festering feeding ground. Do not twitch when there is a hand reaching up for you from under the gutters, where madness and envy dance together like depraved lovers. Because then you will see it, you will meet their gaze, and the screams will be nothing but the sound of the truth ringing in your senseless ears. Your union will be solidified once it touches you. I am speaking to you through a barren hollow from the depth of all lost souls. The air that I gasp outlasts life, so I suppose you could say, my words are an epilogue.

This weekend was so casual it was deadly. My eyes rattled in my skull and I let my legs buckle to devilish music. I stayed around the homestead instead of meeting up with my new family. The relatives understood. Zombies are too dumb to protest. We have zombie communication. Deep moans can be carried across long distances. When you aren't sentient, all your reactions are mere mechanizations of the flesh anyway. So for the time spent locally, it was full of ghastly Halloween delights. I had horrible fun.

I got together with Homer Simpson and Big Poppa, some things and a dinner table set for two. If I were still mortal, it would have tired me out relentlessly, but I died last week, and besides losing several chunks of skin, I still have most of my limbs and corpse intact. (Big Poppa staple-gunned my left arm back on)

Let me tell you so far about death so far compared to life. Death came to me like an answer to so many questions. No more struggling to survive. It is easier to drag others down and feast unreservedly like the necromancer I am. The world owes me for consuming my life, so I started with a few small cats and moved my way up to children. They were naughty children, who I caught in the midst of committing arson, so I rectified them and had a snack. However, I prefer the reeking wretched taste of women that work in fragrance departments. No additional seasonings needed. If they don't seem delectible, I pour gasoline on them and serve them to myself as a flamb�.

Life was nice, but so innocent. They say that life is wasted on the living, and now that I'm dead just from one silly accident, I would say so too. Still, there were the simple joys of seeing dew on flowers in the spring, or being able to stay out late look out from the CN tower, or have the convenience of going in to get a coffee at some caf� and seeing some beautiful blond to exchange smiles with or walking into a church and catch everyone sitting quietly that made it all seem worth it. Perhaps someone would randomnly leave a note on your desk that told you that you were important to them, or you solved some problem for someone who had been scratching their head for weeks trying to figure out. Those things made life seem worth it.

Here it is grey now. There is a electricity and danger in the air, which is looming. Because it is the night of the celtic calendar when spiritual activity is said to be strong, I feel a call from my fellow zombies. There are many places in my hometown that are said to be haunted, and I will try to find them. The Joseph Schneider house is apparently haunted by a woman who is seen in the upstair mirror holding a pair of scissors. She is known as the Phantom Seamstress. I would like to meet her and ask her if she'd care for a walk.

Maybe I can learn more about this new state of being undead.