Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr’s Terrifying Story
Note: the following is the first chapter of what was a novel-in-progress. It is the transcript of a reading by me, Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr - celebrated philosopher-botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, extinguished firewalker, writer and humanitarian lecturer, at the East 75 Street Community Centre, in New York City, sometime in September 1972. Please pardon any indecisiveness that may seem to exist in terms of theme, character, style, storyline, genre or raison d’être. (As an aspiring writer, these were elements I found most challenging.) Oh, and also pace. Pace, and tone... and maybe direction? Really, it was a work-in-progress; but a very scary one. It’s to be published by Doubleday in the spring of next year. Well, maybe. They don’t seem to be answering their phone. …Perhaps they’ve relocated?
Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr, 1974
“Hello and good evening. This microphone is on? …I see nodding. Excellent. I’ll begin with (clears throat) ‘The Disclaimer’.”
(Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr presses the ‘play’ button on the cassette recorder placed before him. Scary music floats out and fills the room with dread.)
“This is possibly one of the most frightening stories you will ever encounter. You are forewarned; if you are weak-hearted, easily anxious or find solace in animated films with talking animals and sweeping orchestra scores, you should probably leave this room, immediately. I know there’s Seniors’ Bingo next door in the Yellow Room and a Coloring Workshop for Those Myopic somewhere upstairs, or perhaps that’s next week. If you stay - I have warned you - you risk an episode of catatonia.
Basically, this story is for the hard-boiled… Hi, Marvin. Nice tuxedo. You can stop waving. I see you.
Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr’s Terrifying Story
Chapter One
In an effort to raise the level of terror in this room, let’s begin with some ‘Important Terrifying Facts’:
Terrifying Fact # 1: In Texas, in 1971, ninety-seven people were murdered in the safety of their homes, while sleeping.
Terrifying Fact # 2: In Texas, forty-nine people await the death sentence. Method: lethal injection.
Terrifying Fact # 3: Something about…cheese? I think. Hmmm. Maybe not so terrifying, in retrospect. I’ll just make a note here, ‘Not scary’. It probably belongs on another list I was making. …Good. I am done.
Terrifying Fact # 4: The serial killer is often highly intelligent and a respectable member of society. He is not unlike you or I.
Terrifying Fact #5: I am not unlike you or I. Think about it...
Terrifying Fact # 6: It takes a rotting cadaver 47 days before the lungs begin to collapse.
Terrifying Fact #7: No one knows why, but sometimes, often 15 hours after the time of death, the deceased’s heart begins to beat once again.
Terrifying Fact # 8: Death is a real commitment most are reluctant to make. Dead people are good listeners. Dead people are cool to respond with uproarious laughter but, alas, rarely snicker. Dead people are the least productive and frequently incommunicative.
The way it happened (Brace oneself)...
It was not long ago. It was a dark, humid night. Very VERY frightened, I raced from the confines of my bungalow and disappeared into the cool night. To where I disappeared and for how long, I cannot really be certain. I would rather not think about it (because of its scary nature). Of course, if I were to stop there, ladies and gentlemen, that would not be scary, so I’ll forge on…
That night, thick, lead-black clouds slid over the moon like glaucoma. Visibility was low. I bumped into things my mind simply could not identify. A thick humid wind swept across the landscape and tore at the shrubs, trees and my lone slouching figure as I staggered through the threshold of a necropolis. As I did, a tree limb cracked and broke from its thick trunk, then tumbled over the crematorium as if it were a discarded corpse. Glass was heard shattering but only momentarily for soon the deep rumble of thunder engulfed it. Presently… (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr presses the ‘stop’ button on the cassette recorder and everyone relaxes. He looks up from his notes genuinely amazed.) Jeez! This is pretty damn good! You do realize I’m primarily a botanist by profession, ladies and gentlemen? (His eyes return to the text and he presses the ‘play’ button on the cassette recorder again. The scary music rises into the air. Spines stiffen.) …Presently, the ordered rows of cold stone and the cast iron gate were released from the dead black night by a long artery of lightning cutting across the sky. A duck quacked menacingly overhead and, with a developing awareness that unnerved me, I realized I had left my hairpiece on the dresser, next to my watch.
No. Let me just correct that here right on the manuscript. (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr, always a perfectionist, makes revisions on the spot while the scary recording continues over his scribbling. He looks up and smiles cryptically.) Okay… A WOMAN’S throaty scream caused the hair on the back of my neck to bristle. It was THEN that I entered the threshold of the cemetery where the large bird, most likely a duck - hovering menacingly - unleashed - and you’ll just have to trust me here – a blood-curdling quack. (Ivan Von Noshrilgram’s ‘quack’ bounces around the multi-purpose room and causes Asma Mohammad Abdullah Al Mazrouei to slide, distracted, onto the floor and disappear behind Isaac Weidman’s shopping bags.) I passed through the first row of tombstones, then the next, and the next after that, and I witnessed a figure, holding a large shovel, slip behind the base of a large oak. Watching his shadow cast upon the bushes I made out his failed attempts to hide the shovel in his fedora. Naturally, as a former private detective and one only too familiar with the inhabitants of the dark underbelly of this world I slid my hand stealthily into my jacket, reflexively reaching for my trusty revolver. This initiated the first of the evening’s several disappointments when I released from the holster my cordless electric shaver by BraunTM…
Without thinking, I switched it on, began to shave and, I therefore gave myself away. Soon, after removing half of a sideburn, I sensed the moist odor of rotting flesh floating about me. I began to gag when, from behind, two powerful icy hands grasped my right nostril and, oops, nope, I mean both of my nostrils...
Wait. …Errr. (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr’s lips move as he reads silently.) That’s not scary. Let me see. Boy. Writing prose is more difficult than I anticipated. It. It. It. Umm. (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr scratches his scalp. He presses the ‘stop’ button on the cassette recorder with a loud click. The room is silent. A member of the audience clears his throat. Joints crack as arms extend into the air, stretching. Asma Mohammad Abdullah Al Mazrouei reappears.) Really. It sounded scary at home when I read it to the cat…
Let me just think here. Think-ing… Okay! Got it.
Chapter Two
It was NEITHER one nostril, NOR was it two. (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr presses the ‘play’ button on the cassette recorder once more. The music floats out, somehow growing ever more eerie. Muscles twitch around the eyes of audience members.) In fact, I now distinctly remember I felt hands upon my naked throat. That’s what happened. I attempted to scream but cold fear stifled me and I felt powerless. Changing gears, perhaps with the decisive aim of sidestepping the horror I was then encountering, I found myself, on some level, pondering the ubiquitous American food snack TwinkieTM and, um, (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr begins to mumble) the obvious condescension inherent in the choice of this name. (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr shrugs and stares at the text. He bites his lip. He looks out to the audience. He presses the ‘stop’ button on the cassette recorder, CLICK. An audience member sighs loudly. Ivan then decides against stopping and presses the ‘play’ button again and the music starts up. Someone in the audience swallows and a gulping sound rises up. Then Ivan presses ‘stop’ once more. He sighs.) …‘TwinkieTM’? Have you given this name some thought? Really. I think about it. I’m challenged to imagine a more patronizing name for a prepared food, or any food for that matter. How about ‘Health Bar’? It would be a lie but I would eat a ‘Health Bar’…
Anyway. That’s not why we’re here. We’re here to have the daylights scared out of us! (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr presses the ‘play’ button and as expected the mood gets scarier.) Well… there was a second ‘quack’. There was the flapping of wings that ruffled my clothing. The beast hovered just above my head, in proximity of the bald spot. ‘Was this the winged messenger of Satan?’ I ask myself.
To my genuine surprise the cold hands encircling my throat appeared to wane in their engagement. In fact, they seemed vaguely to lose interest entirely in their endeavor as if their owner was attempting to recall for certain whether the gas in the kitchen had been left on. I sensed immediately - expertly! - that a change in ‘the script’ was required. That is, I believed that by completely ignoring certain social cues from my attacker I might confuse him and therefore get the upper hand. Perhaps not the best choice, but what do you do when confronted by a seemingly physically superior opponent? Do you ‘play dead’? Pretend, with certain futility, to be a martial arts expert? (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr’s index finger twitches above the ‘stop’ button as he looks out at the first row, then beyond.)
Jesus, Marvin... It's a rhetorical question. Go back to being frozen with fear. Everyone, please put your hands down! I’m just… Thank you.
…In short, in short, I followed my gut! I changed form, seamlessly, pretending that it was Christmas Eve, that I was, indeed, cheerful; that I was shopping for gifts for close friends at Edward’s Emporium on West 38th Street. I imagined I had just left my office. …It seemed a moment of genius. This choice, inexplicably, did not have the desired effect. No. My attacker was not misled, and so the talons returned with a renewed commitment, perhaps even more conspicuously vicious. This series of events disturbed me, more so since I felt certain I had approximated a convincing semblance of a highly intelligent man (with a mustache) encountering the ‘perfect cow oven mitts’ for an outstanding member of his legal team. Yes. The beating of those filthy wings continued. Still, I repeated fragments of the monologue I’d just given aloud once more several times with vigor, not unlike a broken record, unable to concede defeat. Perhaps my enthusiastic, “Why, YES, monsieur! YES! I WILL pay with my Thomas Cook Travellers Cheques!” lacked something resembling 100% commitment, I decided at that moment, and with each rendition added yet more verve. Nonetheless, ladies and gentlemen, I will not hide from you that I, Ivan Von Noshrilgram, found myself struggling for my very sanity that cold and lonely night as I tried to liberate my neck from that icy grip… (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr wipes his brow with a handkerchief. Something before him catches his attention.) …Excuse me?! You’re leaving? My story is getting too scary? Folks, I started to scream! ‘Eeeeeeeek!’ I screamed. This scream was blood-curdling I’m telling you, if I remember correctly, and it traveled back and forth across the endless rows of tombstones in a mocking manner, diminishing my resolve with its return each time. Indeed, I felt horribly alone, as if my imminent passing produced only a flabby indifference in this world. Then, as if THIS really wasn’t sufficiently devastating, the sparkly roller skates I’d borrowed from my niece earlier and was at that precise moment wearing caused me to falter - my right leg slid forward, my left back – and I heard my trousers ripping; then I lost my balance completely and fell sideways into a large balsam. It was here that I, a life-long semi-scholar of the myths of the indigenous peoples of America, heard the timbre of two coconuts colliding.
Chapter Three
By THE WAY, folks, I’d like to thank those of you for kindly staying to listen to my terrifying (basically) true story. Yes. I am a celebrated philosopher-botanist, among other things, but I am spreading my wings here, people, exploring new territory and I am truly grateful for your kind support. Also, I hope you are enjoying the free coffee, and the muffins… I’d appreciate if you’d stop slurping or chewing with your mouths open, actually. This might detract from the sought-for level of terror that could be achieved, ideally. Also, I’d like to thank the vast swath of empty chairs for showing up for this event tonight. It’s always a pleasure to see you as well. …What? That sounded ‘sarcastic’? Pardon me, Hazel. I guess I’m a little lost. (Clears throat.) Well, let’s get back to being truly terrified…
And so, in the end, dark, ominous clouds were pulled over the ever-watching moon as I fell to the ground in a heap, beside a balsam. Barely alive, or at the very least, fast approaching a loss of consciousness, I caught the sounds of my antagonist. I heard his hideous laughter, and his wet footsteps as he stomped over the flowers and grass, then crossed a gravel road and disappeared, I presumed, into the bushes, with my cordless electric razor by BraunTM. Utterly delirious, I reached for a telephone receiver – yes, most likely a bouquet of flowers, a vase or a wet clump of dirt - and ordered from Room Service in what I now humbly recognize was a haughty manner. I waited with a chilly air for some response from the idiot on the other end when, sensing the moist grass tickling my forehead and steadily comprehending the folly regarding the ‘phone call’ I was engaged in, I flushed crimson and hung up with an appropriate level of diffidence.
After this, thank you Shiva, I slipped into the void and experienced a dreamy nothingness and later - since I had spent the entire evening and part of the early morning on wet, freshly-cut grass - hives and a sincere zeal for scratching. The end.
Okay. I am aware, now, this might not sound frightening; however, if some of you could stick around and assist me in the stacking of the chairs, well, I’d appreciate that…” (Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr presses the ‘stop’ button on the portable cassette recorder, CLICK, and releases the community hall from the clutches of an ever-so-terrifying evening.)
Ivan Von Noshrilgram Sr
(Celebrated philosopher-botanist, wild game hunter, exotic animal trainer, extinguished firewalker, writer, humanitarian lecturer, scholar of the myths of the indigenous peoples of America. And terrifier.)
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