Hand of Glory
Original text from ''The Visitor From Curtisville'', Chapter 14--What Little Remains
Originally posted in Creepypasta wikia {{By|Mmpratt99 deviantart|user=yes}}
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Someone seemed to be in trouble. Arthur Gerhardt, First Class Professor in magic and spells, could hear the faint cries coming through the blankets surrounding his balding head.
“Gerhardt! Wake up quick! I need help!”
“Mmmnn,” the old elf said as he crawled further under the covers.
There was a hammering coming from somewhere, loud and urgent. Arthur’s first impression was that there was a donkey stamping and braying in the hall; and then he discarded the thought as simply ridiculous, and that it had to be something terrible like fire, or an earthquake, or else a plague of demons. Then it began to dawn on him that there was a maniac knocking on the walls and doors with a crowbar.
“Ah, you bloody idiot,” Arthur muttered to himself as he pulled the covers up over his head. He lay there with his eyes screwed tight, waiting for the police to come and collar the freak.
There was complete silence. Well, that was quick, Arthur thought. Not at all like the police to come so quickly; must have been the hotel detective.
No sooner did he poke his head out then the noise started all over.
“Ahh great, not again.”
Now the nutter was knocking with what sounded to him like a sledgehammer.
“Gerhardt, pleeeese! Are you there? Let me in, quick!”
Groggily, Arthur sat up and rubbed his eyes. Slowly it dawned upon him that the raving lunatic banging at the door was none other than his ghoulish colleague and often-times rival Wilkie Grierson .
“Get up, you bony old goat! It’s after me!”
“What!” Arthur sprang his shriveled frame out of the bed. “Who does he think he is calling me a ‘bony old goat?’”
“Hurry Gerhardt, it’s coming!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Arthur sung out. Thrusting on his carpet slippers, he muttered to himself. “What’s that dunder-head trying to do? Rouse the whole hotel?”
“Please Gerhardt!” Wilkie whimpered. “Help me. Please help me.”
The door rocked on its hinges.
Alright, I will!” Arthur shouted irritably as he stormed to the door. “Just hold your horses!”
Throwing open the door, Arthur found a pale and shaking Wilkie in his nightshirt, wringing his purple-striped nightcap.
“Here! What’s all this about!” Arthur demanded.
“There’s a damn ghost after me! That’s what!” the ghoul gibbered, his short red hair and whiskery mustache bristling on end.
“Well, I’m not surprised,” said Arthur indignantly. “This old hotel happens has a history of hauntings. You must of annoyed one of the permanent guests.” He eyed the door critically. “At least you didn’t damage any of the woodwork. I…Hey…Leggo!”
Wilkie grabbed the lapels of Arthur’s pajamas and shook him until his gold teeth rattled.
“It chased me right out of bed and out of my room,” he said reproachfully. “You took a bloody long time answering the Glazarotsnatz door! That wretched blighter pinched me on my face and bum; I’ll be lucky if I don’t develop bruises by next morning!”
“Leggo of me!” Arthur squeaked, struggling to free himself from the grasp of the panic-stricken Ghoul. There was a sound of tearing fabric. “Ahh, look at my shirt!” he said disgustedly. He glared up at Wilkie. “Pure Virian silk it was until you grabbed hold of it! You should get those daggers of yours trimmed or else wear gloves!”
“To Draumgurgle with your shirt!” said Wilkie belligerently. “What about my goodnight sleep?”
“What about my goodnight sleep?” retorted Arthur, despairingly. “What about the other guests’goodnight sleeps?” He gestured across the hall to where a number of doors had their peepholes opened. “You’ve gone and woken everyone up with your hysteria over a mischievous little spook.”
“Mischievous?” said Wilkie, bristling indignantly. “It attacked me!”
“So go sprinkle it with some of Snarvo’s Special Spirit Repellant,” Arthur suggested, “chant a few protective spells, and call me when you have completely collected your senses.” He stepped back into his room. “Just don’t come running back to me for help.”
Before Arthur could close the door, Wilkie scrambled across the threshold, shoving him aside.
“Oh no!” Wilkie yelped as he slammed the door shut. “You’re not leaving me out there! There’s a Hand-of-Glory after me!”
“Hey, I paid for this suite out of me own pocketbook, and I have no intention of sharing it with…Hand-of-Glory?” Arthur looked at him blankly. “What Hand-of-Glory?’
“That thing that attacked me!”
Arthur regarded him skeptically. “Don’t be absurd. It takes the right hand of a gibbeted criminal to make such a device, and anyway, gibbeting went out of fashion centuries ago.”
“Still it could be done,” Wilkie pointed out, “and who said it had to come from someone who’s been hung?”
“What do you mean?” asked Arthur. “What did it look like?”
“Stubby, pink, and plump,” Wilkie answered, glancing around uneasily, “like a little kid’s hand.”
“Little kid’s hand, huh?”
”Yeah, that’s right. Disembodied but smooth all over except for the wrist part which had a ragged cut.” The ghoul shuddered. ''Who would do that to a kid?'' “The ghastly thing was toying with the blankets when I woke up. Smelt pungent despite its rather healthy appearance. Personally, if you ask me, I like my carrion to be a little less lively. ”
“Gee, that’s weird,” muttered Arthur, not sure what to make of Wilkie’s story. “The ones I’m familiar with are large, shriveled, and grotty-looking. This sounds more like a ghost to me.”
“Or a sending,” Wilkie suggested, glancing nervously around the room.
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous,” said Arthur scornfully. “You got yourself a ghost. Who’d send you a sending in the first place, you haven’t offended anybody.” He gave Wilkie a curious look. “At least I don’t think you’ve offended anybody,” he went on. “You haven’t by any chance tore apart a chickcharnee’s* nest?”
“Ahh, get real, Gerhardt!” Wilkie snarled. “We all know who’s to blame for all this!”
“We do?”
“Of course, it was that Niamth A . K. A. Fire Witch Woman!”
“Oh, Her,” said Arthur, feeling a bit ill.
“Oh, yes, ‘Her,’” said Wilkie, scowling ferociously. “The one who nearly swallowed you back in Octopus Bay when you buzzing about as a bothersome horsefly…”
“Must you remind me of that,” said Arthur acidly. “Anyway, what’s she got against you? You only met her for like a few minutes.”
“I saw her true face in those few harrowing minutes,” Wilkie replied. “So I suppose she’s after me because of that?”
“Oh, come now, old chum,” Arthur retorted. “I think your imagination’s getting the better of you. I don’t think Niamth would draw attention to herself with a ghostly warning display. That would compromise her plans, for sure—whatever they may be. If you ask me, I think you just have a lively ghost in your room.”
“So what are we going to do about it?” asked Wilkie irritably.
“About Niamth or about the ghost hand in your room?” queried Arthur.
“Both!” Wilkie snapped. “But right now, I’m more worried about the uninvited guest.”
“Oh, well, just take my advice and go sprinkle it with some spirit repellant,” said Arthur casually. “As for the slomgath situation, it could wait till tomorrow.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “As for me, I’m going straight to bed.”
“WHAT?” shouted Wilkie, as Arthur pushed him towards the door. “You’re not going to help me? You’re just going to hit the sack while your dear ole friend and colleague’s going to be murdered in his sleep by spectral proxy!”
“Oh quit your worrying, dear boy,” Arthur reassured him. “Just follow my advice and you’ll soon have a peaceful night sleep; I quite guarantee it. That Niamth would have to be pretty desperate to attempt something like that.”
As soon as Wilkie disappeared completely from view down the hall, Arthur slammed the door, locking it tight.
Pah! All that fuss over a wee little ghost!
He sighed wearily as he crawled back into bed and switched off the light. Typical for Wilkie to make a great to-do over such a small matter.
Soon he found himself yawning, his eyes getting heavier. He hadn’t ben fully asleep for several minutes when he heard a muffled rustling in the coverlet beside him.
''Mouse'', thought Arthur. ''Or perhaps even a rat. This old hotel’s full of them.'' He would have paid it no mind had it not been for the sudden odor filling his nostrils--a mephitic scent tinged with the smell of moist earth and forest.
For one long moment, he laid there with wide fixed eyes, clamping his gold plated teeth tight until he tasted the iron of his bitten tongue. Then he slowly reached out behind him and fumbled about the bedclothes. His groping fingers soon closed around something, something soft, something cold and rubbery. It felt like--
Then something tightly clutched his wrist.
Back in his room, Wilkie was having a hard time getting back to sleep. The current whereabouts of his ghostly roommate as well as the uneasy thoughts about Niamth’s intentions wore on his nerves.
Now just when he was getting ready to doze off and drift into dreamland, there came that infuriating knocking.
Thinking it was the spook returning, he snapped, “G’way, haunt someone else for a change!”
No reply came same for more persistent knocking.
Wilkie’s grew livid. “Can’t a person doze in peace around here?”
Bolting up, he stormed to the door and squinted through the peephole. He stepped back in startled surprise. Peering right back was a drawn and haggard, yet familiar face. He threw open the door.
“Arthur--?”
“Outta me way!” The elf barged past him, clutching a pillow and a couple of blankets. “I’m bunking with you tonight!”
The End?