Tortured Crimson Verse I: Crimson Quill meets Severin Frost



My dear Grueheads, I recently uncovered a transcript of an interview I did a relatively short time ago. I thought I had mislaid it and was kicking myself frantically with frustration at my loss, however the demonic grin returned to my face when I discovered it nestled within work I had been doing on my beloved Orphan Killer articles. The lost (and found) interview took place at The Hoffman Institute, the exact location, I cannot divulge, the date, I cannot recall. Those minor details are neither here nor there; the important detail is that the interview was done with one Severin Frost.




Now Severin Frost is, for want of a better word, a psychopath. I don’t claim to be an expert in such fields of analysis of who is or isn’t a psychopath but I think the term fits pretty fucking well for someone who tortures and slaughters priests, often in a ritualistic manner, don’t you grue lovers?



Mr. Frost first came to my attention through the fantastic novel …Of Tortured Faustian Slumbers by C. William Giles. I appraised the novel for the author, my first ever book Appraisal to boot, and absolutely loved it. If you haven’t read it then I advise you, one and all brothers and sisters to get hold of a copy and revel in its’ dark glory. The appraisal was followed by yours truly interviewing Mr. Giles for the Rivers Of Grue and subsequently we have became extremely good friends, future dark collaborators, and comrades in bloody arms.




One thing that niggled away in my brain like a rusty blade though was that I wanted to know more about Severin Frost. Giles has assured me that we haven’t seen the last of the monster, one way or another but I was anxious to meet the man in person. Well I have to say that I was practically erect when I received a late night phone call confirming that I had been allowed an audience with Mr Frost, but I almost ejaculated when I was told that Severin himself had agreed to the meeting.




Yes Grueheads, this was no Professor or politician allowing me access, this was the bogeyman himself not just accepting me but requesting me to enter into his dark fold for a tête-à-tête. I made notes as I sat in awe at his presence of course (I am your dear scribe after all) but what will follow is my recollections and feelings as I sat there transfixed, which were scribbled feverishly upon my late arrival home. Drink it in and enjoy dear Grueheads.




I entered The Hoffman Institute in great spirits; I was actually going to meet Severin Frost. Since my first encounter with the creature on the written pages of …Of Tortured Faustian Slumbers, I had been chilled to my marrow. I knew almost immediately that this man would be the stuff of legend, someone that people would tell stories about, a twenty first century bogeyman, a Kaiser Sosa character if you will. “Work hard in school kids and be good to your parents or Severin Frost will get you”.




I was frowned upon by the staff at the Institute almost immediately; I could see it in their eyes, their disdain of me radiated from them.

“Who the fuck does this guy think he is?” was the message I received from their body language as I practically bounced through reception, my glee was perhaps misplaced but in my head, I was going to meet one of my modern day heroes (though I accept the term hero is misplaced given Frosts’ crimes, but you get the picture I take it?).

“So, you’re the one that Severin wants to meet are you?” came a sneering voice from behind me as I waited in reception.

I turned my head to see two large men in security uniforms approaching me. In front of them was a smaller man, I held out my hand and told them my full name by way of a polite introduction (though my dear Grueheads I shall not be telling you what it is of course, I am forever the Keeper as you know). The smaller man didn’t take my hand or say who he was, he simply nodded to the guards who very quickly and efficiently (not to mention, roughly) frisked me for anything ‘unsuitable’. Upon my person I had just a simple pen & pad to take notes, I’m not one for recording devices, though the small man meticulously thumbed through the blank pad, looking for what, I couldn’t say.




Rough search completed, the small man pointed back down the corridor from where he and the guards had come, I naturally turned but as I turned back he had already departed into an office near the reception.

“Come with us” came the booming voice of one of the guards. I would normally give the men names but they are not the meat of my tale so suffice it to say I just moved in the direction that they pointed and was practically marched down long winding corridors in complete silence save for the pounding of the guards boots on the hard stone floor. Eventually the white washed walls came to a halt at a security gate. The guards (who for a comparison for my Grueheads looked like Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks) showed their security passes to another guard at a reinforced glass window, despite the fact that they all knew each other very well. Security was to say the least, very tight, making my presence all the more daunting.

Once entrance was granted we walked through the heavy and groaning metal door and down a smaller corridor. This, for the first time is where my trepidation overtook my enthusiasm, I heard the huge door slam behind us and I knew that things were suddenly very, very different now, even the air now seemed to hang with dread and foreboding. Before I could decide if I was actually going to shit my pants, we stopped at another door.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” was the simplest but most ominous of warnings that the guard said to me, I briefly nodded as any remaining smile slipped from my face. Then he opened the door to the room, hesitantly, I entered.



Read Verse II




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