True Tales of World War I Ghosts

Just when you thought Horrible Satan would stop publishing anything on a regular (or any kind of) basis, you just got slapped back down to Earth. Introducing an old series called “True Tales of World War I Ghosts” — in which the world’s mightiest WWI ghosts are given an opportunity to live again only in prose and in no other way.

(Details for how you too might share your WWI ghost’s story are forthcoming.)


Col. Target Borth was the ranking officer on the U.S.S. Mortimer, America’s largest amphibious Sea-Tank in the Great War. Here, now, is his story.

I’d like to start, first, by explaining my strange-sounding name in earnest. My family originated in a foreign country, and I’ll say nothing more on the subject!

The Mortimer was the proudest Water Horse (as they were called back then) in the Army-Navy, and I was proud of how proud she was. That, ominously, was my downfall. On February third, 1918, we were supposed to be tanksailing to Italy to have the Mortimer dismantled and scrapped because proud as she was, she was certainly also terribly bad.

I was so proud, though, that Instead we went to Verdun. We were up on the shore in a flash, and then it was off to the front, because I was so proud. I scampered out of the hatch to run right out into no-mans land, right on the front, so I could just yell and yell about my pride, the pride of the Mortimer. Before I could even get there, though, I was nastily torn in twain by a spat of bullets between the two sides. I had been a school teacher back in Connecticut, and I had been ironically done in by running between two sides shooting at each other before I could boast to God. The DIRT in my GUTS was the worst.


Yashua T. Steamhauser of the 10th Marching Cadre, Beefman Class Sergeant at Beef, was a Giant-in-Arms Cleric during the Great War of 1914-1918. This, now, is his story.

I remember my salad days in Dogsex, Louisiana well. Summers swimming away from our sexual Headmaster Vollman Gaerth, motivated by frisson of an afternoon cradling. Scared of our own “lake erections,” likewise, I say.

Ya’ll must know I was sent from my mother at a very young age because she sensed in me a great amount of blandness. And it was true, I had been a very bland boy — very porous and torpid, too. But golly if something in my adolescence hadn’t kindled my inner spices. As I crackled to my new birth, I became a master spicer in the chefery near my boyhood Second House and Acquisition Family, traditional graviers originally from northwest New Hampshire.

Most of the time I was beaten for tempering the meats, but eventually I mastered the art of tempering to the point in which I was only rarely beaten and even more rarely to exhaustion. I associate this also with Acquisition Father’s declining health and faculties. He hadn’t the vigor to accost me with his rice cane he’d had at age sixty-five. I ate my ration of goober peas alone many nights, gol darn it.

War was declared and I immediately enlisted, against Acquisition Father’s mightiest beatings. He had said I was of no use to my Acquisition mother and him dead and wished to send our negro in my place, which was impossible because slavery had been abolished many years prior and our negro remained only by his own good will, voluntary spirit and because he was a paid staff member, and accordingly he considered himself more of an employee than a slave.

During the war I was responsible for the cattle grazing nearest the frontest line, sport meat it was called. My primary job was to whip each head of cattle with my cattle whip whilst also screaming but one day I neared too close to the cattle and was gored by an errant cow horn which caused me to stumble and fall into the path of a hail of new fewer than seventeen bullets, which struck the cows as well and led to my blood and their blood mixing, as well as my guts and their guts. Also, my guts became fetid with much feces and dirt, as I rolled around writhing in pain. I would die many days later of various plentiful infections. It was the greatest pain I had ever known.


James McMaster, a Master-at-Guns for the 41st Reginald of the British Stamper Force in World War I. HIS story:

When I was born, my grandmother, who had given birth to me, according to legend, said, “This boy can only do good,” and I took that to heart. That’s a part of why being an officer in a horrible war was hard for me. War, in my mind, is truly a large number of murders at once, I say.

I remember the day I was murdered quite well. It was still burning off the October frost, as I recall, and the ground had a crunch under foot. We had spent the evening playing squash against the side of a truck by mortarlight. I had forsaken the bland tea they rationed us some time earlier, and usually grazed the battlefield for strange plants to brew for breakfast.

Suddenly gun fire erupted as the Germans opened fire on our machine gun battery. I knew this meant that my time was short, as I was charged with managing the machine gunners. Quickly, I scampered over the grass, searching in vain for a weird leaf. My search was fruitless as I was horribly ripped in twain by the competing bullets. A bunch of dirt got in my guts when my torso rolled through debris, and it only got worse when I found out I was doomed to walk the earth as a lost soul, which is terribly boring. Getting into the afterlife, like trying out for the Westhampton Gay Singaliers, is all politics, it turns out.


Harvard Prince, a gun-holder for the US Army who was KIA in 1918, has a story to tell.

On the day I first came to the western front, six-and-one-half weeks after I had enlisted, I had a terrible stomach ailment and spent the morning curled up in the grass.

Then I ran out in between two machine guns and was rrrrrrrripped in half in a hail of bullets!


Let’s hear it for our ghosts, everyone! It took a lot of courage to say those things, I’m sure. Email us if you want to buy some of their old medals or stuff, or pieces of their bones. Trades will be considered.

Lost Novel: “Legend of the Ryders,” page 1

Jamie Ferguson


“But Wolfe, you can’t go out there today. You’re still recovering.”

He knew she was right. Getting concussed on the CyberByke track was enough. Having the same ryder also break your heart the same day, during the same race? That would take a little while to recover from, as Speedstra had just suggested.

“I know what I can handle, and I can’t not race.” She nodded solemnly, knowing that he was bravely making the choice he had to make.

My God, how handsome he is! She thought internally as she nodded.

What exactly had happened the previous weekend at last week’s big race? Wolfe couldn’t quite remember, his memory was foggy, love and concussions both did that to you sometimes. Luckily Speedstra had a mind-link turned on so she reminded him what happened.

“The mysterious and beautiful lady ryder who mysteriously came down in that pod passed you at the last second for the win, and she hit you in the head with a wrench as she did it, and she also told the press afterward about how you asked her out. She held up the note, checked ‘No’ and then laughed at you indirectly.” She nodded solemnly, knowing even more than before that he was brave.

“Oh yeah.” He pretended like he remembered it. Really he had taken powerful and entertaining memory-erasement drugs because even when you’re hard as a rock mentally love can still sometimes bring great pain you can’t even bear.

Speedstra began to straddle Wolfe erotically as he lay on the floor, a single tear on his cheek. “What if I danced for you? Would that help?”

Here are the moves she did:

Don’t Let Bears Give You a Headache

Matt Rowan

You think about bears and it gives you a headache? Don’t give them that power.

You see bears and it gives you a headache? Don’t run. Don’t walk but don’t run. Running might give you a headache, or a worse headache, which I’m thinking is exactly what they want. The terror you feel because you’ve encountered a bear in the wild or on the loose in a(n) (sub)urban public place is possibly going to give you a headache, likewise. Don’t let it. Be calm. Be cool. Calmly climb a tree and cooly sit there till your feeling that you might get a headache subsides.

Don’t beware the werebear, no matter how fun it is to chant Best to Beware the Werebears! That’s how untruths get traction, by their being fun to say. Werebears are your friends. They are men who become men-like bears when the moon is just right, at around the same time men become werewolves. Maybe just before. Sometimes just after, in special cases.

People say that silver bullets are the only thing that can protect you from a charging werewolf. Wrong. Werebears are another thing that can protect you from a charging werewolf.

Don’t be fooled.

Don’t kid yourself.

Don’t pay much, if any, attention to how werebear sounds the same as Carebear. Of course they’re different entities and of course one is a very real phenomenon and one is children’s television fiction. Now, think about how much time you’ll waste thinking of this strange, but entirely coincidental, congruency. Might it give you a headache?

Don’t let it.

Because this isn’t about Carebears. You could try to make it about Carebears. But Carebears only ever bring delight with their caring. They are also fictional. And what fictional things give headaches like the real thing? I’m hard pressed to answer. I’d complain about Pauly Shore if he were relevant and fictional.

What else can you do to avoid letting bears give you a headache? Trust them. Like not in a crazy way like Timothy Treadwell, but you know in a way that’s not crazy.

Trust in their goodness, their godliness. Their goddamn goodness and godliness and goodliness.

If you just don’t dress up like a pile of garbage in an open garbage can, smelling like actual garbage, perhaps because you used actual garbage to complete the effect. The point is, don’t do it.