The Twisted Ones

by T. Kingfisher

Chicago Manual of Style

I'm an AMA gal myself

“Or aliens,” I told Bongo. “Maybe we’ve had missing time. Maybe we were abducted. Did you get probed? I don’t think I got probed.” My nether regions did not feel any different than they normally felt. I assume you notice that sort of thing.

Bongo’s nose is far more intelligent than the rest of him, and I believe it uses his brain primarily as a counterweight).

She looked like a cross between a drag queen and a wildflower meadow.

“Pickles is pickles. It’s a vegetable. It’s practically health food.”

Do you remember when you were a kid, and you fell down constantly, and it was just no big deal? Somewhere along the way, that changes and you start to realize how old folks fall down and die as a result.

I sang something—some stupid song from the eighties; I don’t even remember which one, probably about love or cocaine or driving fast cars or maybe all three and one was a euphemism for another, and then

I didn’t trust her, or her stupid semicolons.

when it rains while the sun’s out, some folks say it’s the Devil’s daughter getting married.” She snorted. “ ’Course, I always heard that was the Devil beating his wife, but whichever.

I’d go to… to a mall or a Walmart or something. Surely unholy abominations wouldn’t follow me to Walmart.

Astute readers will have noticed immediately that the Green Book is the diary from Arthur Machen’s found manuscript story, “The White People.” Published in 1904, this is one of the great classics of horror. (His novel The Great God Pan gets a lot more press, but for my money, “The White People” is far superior.)