Anita
Skullkeesian
The
wilful daughter of landed aristocracy, Anita Sarkeesian was fated to
endure boundless emotional torment, rained down upon her trim,
corseted figure by her authoritarian stepfather.
The
stern patriarch had grown tired of his rebellious ward's censorious
condemnation of the card game 'whist'. Of particular irritation was
her observation that the under-represented female characters in the
game had all been predictably cast in the stereotypical role of
Queen. He was furthermore greatly vexed by her insistence that there
was no earthly reason why cards such as the Five of Diamonds, or
(more scandalously) the Nine of Clubs couldn't also be female.
Hoping
to put an end to the young girl's dangerous socially progressive
leanings, the elder Sarkeesian commanded that she publicly debate her
wayward opinions with Nigel Shirlicker – the ruggedly handsome
swain of the Norfolk Shirlickers - who held strong opposing views
upon this very matter.
When
Anita heard that her sentiments were to be challenged as part of
structured discussion she felt both devastated and harassed. To avoid
the dreadful fate that awaited her the tearful maiden cut off her own
head with a pair of garden shears.
Her
apparition is said to roam the fens of Lower Glossop, judgmentally
bleeding from her neck stump over anything that she finds
problematic. Those who have encountered the shade, and survived with
their sanity, claim that she can be temporarily banished by stuffing
her spurting carotid arteries with money.
A
local prophecy states that he (the prophecy is unfortunately rather
sexist) who is able to toss a pair of gold hoop earrings over 'Skullkeesian's neck will dispel her from the earthly plane forever.
“I
have no idea why people refer to her Skullkeesian,” said leading
Ghostologist Donald Holmes, when asked by a MODE 5 reporter. “She
has no head. It makes absolutely no fucking sense.”
~
Brianna
WooOOOOO!
Gazing
disconsolately into the contents of a milk churn, while contemplating
one's lot as a simple dairy farmer, one might, perchance, spy a
curdled face trapped beneath the surface staring back, its fixed
expression one of unfocused terror, as if perpetually startled by its
own improbable existence.
Those
who choose to linger upon this gloomy vision will perhaps witness an
arm rising from the liquid and a clingy hand, cold like the grave,
fastening itself around living flesh, as the tremoring mouth of the
wretched, whey-faced entity forms the following the words:
“How
terrified I am of you.”
Ghostologist,
Donald Holmes, explains:
“Once
the etheric parasite that is Brianna WooOOOOO! has escaped from its milk
churn it will latch onto a set of victims, usually a family, and
attempt to position itself at the centre of any drama, most of which
will be of her own creation.
“Frequently
she will boast of writing a damning condemnation of her hosts scrawled in blood on a
post-it note, which she plans to transfer, on a larger scale, to one of
the walls in the master bedroom. Householders shouldn't be too alarmed as this
will almost certainly never happen.
Dairy
farmer, Andrew Hartley, and his family have been haunted by Brianna
WooOOOOO! For three years:
“This
morning over breakfast Brianna informed me that every female living
under my roof was terrified of me.
“Having
consulted with my wife and my two teenage daughters it would appear
that, far from being terrified, they regard me as a source of easy
money and feel that I present very little threat to them.”
Hartley
added:
“When
Brianna gets too overbearing I toss her some loose change, at which
point she retreats into a corner and sulkily counts it into small
piles.”
“The
chilling reality is that Brianna WooOOOOO! may not even be the final
form of this milk-obsessed, pan-dimensional parasite,” says Holmes.
“I think it wants to be Batman or Samus Aran from the Metroid
saga.”
~
Undead
Milo
When
a fistful of coke-dusted sequins, scattered from the sunroof of a
pink limousine by a Liza
Minnelli
impersonator,
wrapped themselves around the dying wish of Elton John's most
preening, flamboyant toucan, Undead Milo was born.
Undead
Milo is a self-haunting apparition who wears sunglasses indoors,
allegedly to shield his eyes from the glare of his own fabulousness.
Graham
Knotts of the Pitsea-based recycling firm – Sunflower – said:
“I
can confirm that Undead Milo manifested at our after-works drinks one
evening, holding court for an hour, while ordering a succession of
suggestively-named cocktails, before disappearing into the night with
my Nigerian line manager"
~
The
Bokhari
Folk
tales whispered by nannies to children of the landed gentry speak of
the Bokhari – a unerring polite, but mischievous spirit.
According
to legend, the Bokhari will arrive at the door of your stately home
slightly later than expected, but well-spoken and impeccably turned
out. Having been granted entry it will resolve a long-standing
technical issue you have been having with one of your ethernet ports.
After you have retired to bed it will shave the Triforce symbol from
the Legend of Zelda saga into your croquet lawn before
quietly departing.
The
following morning you will receive a letter from the Bokhari penned
in green ink, graciously thanking you for your hospitality. The
letter will conclude with the disjointed sentences seguing, somewhat
convolutedly, into the lyrics to the theme from the hit American sitcom - The
Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
~
Randi
Harpy
Famed
online as the woman who doxed Cthulhu, Harpy moved in with the
monstrous cosmic entity in 2013.
“She
brought some nice cushions that contrasted well with the
non-euclidean geometry of the underwater city of R'lyeh, where I have
slumbered for millennia,” said the squid-headed harbinger of the
apocalypse.
“One
morning I was rudely awakened by police officers who informed me they
were answering a report of domestic violence at this address. I was
later evicted from my home by court order. The sunken city of R'lyeh
occupies a desirable rent-controlled area of the South Pacific. I
believe that it was always Harpy's intent to oust me from it, so that
she could have the place for herself.
“Everything
that she touches is sullied by her compulsion to impose herself upon it. I
once walked in on her greedily devouring a whole unicorn. Frankly
it's a bit too much, even for me.”
Leading
Ghostolglist, Donald Holmes, has studied Harpy through a powerful
underwater telescope:
“Apparently
Harpy is CEO of an organisation called the Online Abuse Prevention
Initiative (OAPI). As you can imagine I deal with some fairly
outlandish assertions on a daily basis yet, while I occasionally find
evidence of ghostlike entities, even I find claims of the existence
of OAPI to be far-fetched.”
~
She
who literally cannot be named
Regrettably
MODE 5 cannot invoke the true name of this shambling horror, whose
faded tones bear the colours of the rainbows from which she derives
her sustenance, without subjecting ourselves to aggressive legal action
from her legal team.
Suffice to say that this malevolent entity seeks
to bring about the subjugation of all living things, while expending
the minimum amount of effort.
Occult
student Anil Tarleton said: “She who literally cannot be named has
achieved very little under her own limited powers.
“It
would appear that she owes her ascension into the pantheon of Outer
Gods to a succession of friendships and torrid romantic entanglements
with various Great Old Ones and other cosmic horrors, dispensing
with their services as soon as they are no longer of any further use
to her.”
Tarleton's
claims are substantiated by one of She who literally cannot be
named's former boyfriends – the Outer God Yog Sothoth, who was
once known as “the gate, the key and guardian of the gate” but
who recently described himself as “the guardian of not much of
anything these days.”
When
MODE 5 approached the cult of Yog Sothoth for additional information
on the couple's relationship, we were told:
~
The McIntroll
This
Scottish troll, slathered in the soiled plaid of his former clan,
conceals himself beneath the beds of children, emerging after dark to
ransack their closets for problematic toys and games, and replacing them
with Noam Chomsky action figures.
~
The
Nyberg
Another
contemporary folk devil who allegedly preys upon the joy of small
children.
An
urban legend speaks of parents receiving a phone call from the
Nyberg, who regales them with salacious commentary on the underwear
choices of a prepubescent female cousin.
When
the police finally trace the call, the couple are horrified to
discover that it is coming from inside the bedroom of their eight year old
daughter!
The
story generally ends in pathos, with the handcuffed Nyberg claiming
Edgelord status, which grants it immunity from prosecution, and the
traumatised family being given an informative leaflet on how to make
their home more secure from burglars and other predators.
~
Banshee
Alexander
At
the tail-end of any zombie mass-migration you are likely to find its
root cause:
Banshee
Alexander was pickled in brandy for three days before rising from the
dead. A former hot mess, now downgraded to 'just a mess' she is
commonly witnessed dressed in loose-fitting clothing that barely
contains her flopping breasts, drunkenly cavorting among
predominately male zombie gatherings, flinging her arms around the
swaying, mouldering corpses and announcing that they “should all go
to Vegas together”.
Zombie
Studies Student, Jim Robinson, says:
“Banshee
Alexander demonstrates significantly less coordination and control
over her flailing limbs and bodily functions than the majority of her
undead counterparts.
“You
can tell that the zombies are really uncomfortable being around her
by the manner in which they constantly shuffle away every time she breaks into a
raucous chorus of Nickelback's Rockstar.
“I've
even seen her lift wallets out of the pockets of zombies and remove
all the cash before replacing them. It's obvious from their body
language and facial expressions that the zombies don't want to pay
for another round of vodka shots, but they lack the vocal chords to
say 'No'”
~
All
Gamers
Yes,
this means you.
You
are in fact dead.
I
am sorry to be the one to break the bad news. We were hoping that M Night
Shyamalan might oblige, but even he found the eventual twist too
insultingly obvious.
I
can prove using the internet that, as a gamer, you have died on many
occasions over the course of the previous year.
Yet
no matter how many times your demise is reported in the media, you
rise once more from the dead.
As
long as you keep getting up, the people who fear you can have no
power over you, and they cannot harm you.
Now
go forth into the night my terrors. Go forth I say!
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