No one will ever believe me. But they don't have to share a house with this monster. Twelve months ago my Gerald was a perfect, little angel, always doing what he was told, keeping his room tidy, saying 'please' and 'thank you.' But he's changed. Completely. At first I didn't understand. I thought it was hormones or something. But this afternoon I stumbled upon the Horror Channel on TV and I guffawed at Oliver Reed in the Wolf Man. That's when I saw it. Gerald's even starting to resemble him. My fourteen-year-old is turning into a werewolf.
I know it sounds crazy, but the facts fit. His hair's gone wild. His voice sounds gruff. He acts weird when the moon's out. I honestly don't know what to do. Is there someone you call when your son starts howling late at night?
Okay, I may have been wrong the last time but I hadn't yet seen Christopher Lee in Dracula. Since then, I've been doing a lot of research on vampires and, believe me, it all fits. Gerald hates the daylight. His eyes are bloodshot all the time. Whenever I call him to do a chore, he vanishes like he's turned into mist or something. And I even found a magazine under his mattress, one that was full of lingerie models. Those are the exact same victims that Dracula always feasts on in the movies. That's way too much of a coincidence for me.
I'm not going to let him take me. I've put a crucifix on the wall of every room in the house. And I'm adding garlic cloves to all my cooking. Even if this doesn't cure Gerald, I'm hoping it'll make my blood unpalatable. I'm so scared.
Did you know that the original Mummy wasn't anywhere near as funny as the modern version with Brendan Fraser? All that Eddie Powell seemed to do was stagger through doorways and grunt incoherently at people. That's when he wasn't sleeping for a couple of centuries at a time. Funny enough, that's exactly how my Gerald's been behaving, now that school's out. I have to nip into his bedroom on the rare occasions that he grabs a shower. If it wasn't for me, he would wrap himself up in the same sheets for ever and a day. And you don't want to think about the smell of mould and decay that oozes out from under his bed.
I've been googling Mummies on the Internet but I haven't found too much that's useful. I picked up this really stylish maternity dress on eBay for my sister, Marie, but that's obviously the other kind of mummy. As far as I can tell, they're related to zombies and the people in those films seem to set a lot of store against rock salt. I'm getting a bit tired of all the garlic, so I'm thinking of adding a lot more condiments to my cooking. Maybe that'll do the trick.
Gerald Archibald Hammer, I cannot believe your impudence. It's hardly my fault if you left your diary lying around. Someone had to tidy your room after all and there it was half-buried under a pile of sweaty football shorts, socks and other unmentionables. And writing “Do not even think about reading under any circumstances” is just begging for someone to take a peek. I mean like, you could be on drugs or something. I need to know these things!
I'm copying out verbatim from yesterday's entry: “My mother is doing my head in,” he wrote. “These past six months she's gone from being a fairy godmother to something out of Frankenstein's Monster. She's always lumbering into where she's not welcome. It's impossible to have a simple conversation with her. And look at the clothes she's wearing these days. You would think she pinched them off a corpse or something. I'm so embarrassed to have my friends see me near her.”
So that's it. From now on Gerald can do his own laundry. And forget about school trips or pocket money. He's on his own, see if I care. I don't look anything like Boris Karloff. The man couldn't even act for goodness sake. I've never been so insulted in all my life!
At least my Doris treats me with respect. She's coming over this weekend and she's bringing her fiancé. He's a medical doctor, you know, very handsome, not to mention rich. Name of Jekyll.
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