An evening at home with a zombie. Zombies really do eat brains. The proof is here.

To get the full flavour of this story read these ones first.

1
http://hubpages.com/hub/My-zombie-best-friend-and-housemate-Not-wikipedia-nor-Facebook
2
http://hubpages.com/hub/The-story-of-a-zombie-Not-Wikipedia-or-Facebook
3
http://hubpages.com/hub/Living-with-a-zombie-Not-Wikipedia-or-Facebook
4
http://hubpages.com/hub/The-zombie-eats-Not-Wikipedia-or-facebook

What I have seen today is so horrible, and so almost unbelievable, that I am writing it down now straight away, because if I leave it for a day, my mind is bound to convince me that it was all just an horrific nightmare.
The scenes that I witnessed in that house are such as I hope never to see again. I will never forget the smells, or the screams of my sergeant, Dave Goosling, as that monster ripped the top of his head off, and proceeded to eat his brains, using a dessert spoon, just as if he were a diner in a topclass restaurant partaking of a delicious and costly meringue.
What happened after that, is so incredible that I do not expect many to believe me, but I have been a policeman for many years now, and, apart from a few of the customary stitch ups of offenders in court, I have always been a scrupulously honest man.

My nightmare began when I went, in company with my late sergeant, to an old Edwardian house near Wimbledon Cemetery, to make enquiries after a Mr Stanislaus Gutterskunk, who had been reported as a missing person. Mr Gutterskunk had vanished shortly after going to this house to make a landlords inspection. He was the owner of the property you see.
The door was answered by a harrassed sort of cove, who gave his name as Christopher Anton. He said he was the tenant, and claimed to be some sort of a writer, although neither of us had heard of him. He spoke to us at the door, and did not invite us in. I was kind of glad of that, as there was the most awful smell stinking out the whole hallway. It seemed to be coming from the ground floor room that I assumed was the livingroom. I could also hear someone playing a piano through the door of the same room.( some arty farty classical rubbish, not my kind of music at all.)
Mr Anton said that he was away when the inspection was done, and he had no idea where his landlord might be now.
When we asked him if his piano playing friend might know anything, he said no one was playing a piano; we were only hearing a cd. We left after telling him to let us know if Mr Gutterskunk got in contact.

On the way back to the station old Dave was musing out loud in the car.

"Why was there that rotten smell?
Was that really a cd?
Why was Anton glancing nervously back at that livingroom door all the time?
Why did he not invite us in?
That whole setup stinks"

Sergeant Goosling decided that we would get a search warrant, and go back to have a proper look around.
Doing that was not my kind of fun. I didnt care if I never saw that smelly house again. I certainly didnt want to look in that livingroom.
From what I had been told, the missing man was a bit of an alchoholic. He was probably sleeping off a king size binge somewhere. Anyway who cared where he was? He was unlikely to be mourned, even if he never turned up.

That evening we went back to the house with a search warrant. The music was playing as we walked up to the door. But, as soon as we rang on the bell, it stopped suddenly. There was a shuffling/scuttling type of sound from the living room, followed by the sound of a cupboard door shutting quickly. The sergeant and me looked at each other and nodded.
A rather flustered looking Christopher Anton opened the door. When we gave him the usual spiel about "having a warrant to search the premises" he reluctantly let us in.

"Let's look here first" said the sergeant, heading for the living room.

The smell, that hit us when he opened that door, would turn a planet inside out. It was as if every corpse from Wimbledon Cemetery had been dug up and you were forced to lie with them on top of you. Both Dave Goosling and me spewed all over the hallway.
But we were here to do a job, and stink or no, we were Her Majesty's finest, and nothing was going to stop us executing her warrant.
When I had recovered my senses I noticed that there was a large upright piano in the room, and no sign of a cd player.
The sergeant, with fine metropolitan police sarcasm, said to Anton.
"That your cd player then?. Not exactly compact is it?
Christopher Anton looked more nervous than guilty.
I thought to myself.
"That wussy idiot is not guilty of anything major". I have always been a strong judge of character, and I felt that there was more of the gullible fool than psychotic kidnapper/killer about our Mr Anton.

If only we hadnt come to that house. If I could go back to relive what the next few minutes brought, how different the outcome might have been.
Old Dave, that brave fool. He just had to go for the large cupboard that was standing at the far wall of the room.
He opened the cupboard door.
He looked in. The smell from the inside was worse than anything there had been yet.
"What we got ere then"
That was his second last sentence ever.
This was his final utterance.
"Oh shit its a zomb"
He never finished that last word.
Sergeant Dave Goosling fell to the floor, his hands, that were reddened by his own blood, scrabbling frantically at the monstrosity that was clinging to his chest. The creature turned to look at me and Christopher Anton. There was a tongue, and what looked like a jawbone hanging from it's rotting mouth. There was a gaping hole where the Sergeant's mouth and tongue had been. The look of sheer terror in my colleague's eyes will stay with me until the end of my days.

Have you ever been so terrified as to be totally paralysed? There must be soldiers that see the gun on a tank swivel to point at their positions, and be so sure of impending death, that they just freeze into immobility, and wait for the inevitable. Rabbits are said to do similar when the shooters light is turned on them. Well that is exactly how I was in that room in Wimbledon. My brain was so fried with horror that it refused to function normally. I gazed into Dave,s screaming eyes, and the only stupid thought that came into my head was

"I dont have to pay him that twenty quid I owe him now".

Beside me Christopher Anton was as frozen as I was. He just kept saying over and over.

"No Julian No."

As if things could not get any worse, what happened next was just surreal in it's hellishness.
I'm not sure if the sergeant was dead by this stage. The screaming light had went out of his eyes. I still couldnt move.
The zombie, (for I had realized what the hell fiend was by this stage), reached a stinking mouldy arm into the cupboard and retrieved a large dessert spoon.
Then it used its infernal fingers to get a grip on my colleague's eyes, and it ripped of the top of his head, just like someone would break the top off a large chocolate easter egg.
It then proceeded to use the spoon to take delicate mouthfuls from the sergeants brain.
My horror went stratospheric when it started speaking to us.
To be addressed by a psychopathic zombie, who is speaking to you, while it's mouth is full of the grey matter of a close friend, is not something I hope you ever have to do.
This is what it said.

"I always prefer to eat brains with a spoon. My father was the butler to Queen Victoria, you know.

Forgive me if I speak with my mouth full. This Policeman's brain is so delicious.
Gutterskunk just tasted of stale brandy.

Which one of you two lovelies should I snack on next?

I can play last requests".

Then. Suddenly the zombie stopped eating. The putrescent features, that only a few seconds ago were sneering in evil triumph, suddenly became distorted in agony. The rotting hands clamped at it's stomach. My eyes were drawn to those clutching claws. A blue flame darted out from between the rancid fingers, and quickly spread to engulf the entire zombie. The Piano seemed to be on fire as well.
My brain and my body started to function again.
I screamed, and I screamed.
So did Christopher Anton.
So did the zombie.
But the zombie did not scream for very long.
Within two minutes all that was left of the Monster of Wimbledon was a heap of glowing ashes, and a slightly bent dessert spoon.
The fire in the piano went out as well.

I have a theory about what happened. I'm not sure anyone will believe me. But who is going to believe any of this story anyway?
I reckon the zombie ate the alchoholic Gutterskunk. I further believe that parts of the missing landord were hidden in the piano.
I've read of spontaneous combustion. Some people say that drinkers are often the victims of that sudden inexplicable burning.
It was a type of poetic justice really that the body of Stanislaus Gutterskunk should combust, and destroy the person who had eaten it. The body parts in the piano went up in a blaze at the same time.

As for Christopher Anton. When he is done quivering in the corner, there are some nice men in white coats that would like to take him away for a very long stay. Where to exactly, I can't say.

To find out what excitingly gross thing happened next, read this.

http://hubpages.com/hub/10-Downing-Street-Cat-His-secret-revealed-Not-Wikipedia