Did you hear about Number 56 Croxley Street? 25 years ago, a husband and a wife lived there. The husband loved his wife very much, but he suffered from syphilis, and eventually went mad. He was looked after in a mental home by many special doctors. But one day, he escaped. The doctor came to give him his medication, and he grabbed the doctor by the hair, slammed the door shut, and gouged out his eyes and stuffed them in his mouth. Then he ran out the door and every doctor he met in the hospital, he gouged out their eyes and just left them on the floor. He escaped from the hospital, and was never seen again. The wife was very worried for her husband, as he had been missing for a whole week. At the end of the week in which he’d escaped and disappeared, it was his birthday. In the evening, his wife prayed for him, and went to bed. Suddenly, her husband appeared out of nowhere by her bedside. She woke up, saw him with her bread-knife and ran. She ran down to the kitchen, and was then cornered by her husband. He whispered ‘Happy Birthday’ to himself in her ear, and then gripped the top of her hair, and slit her throat, slowly to increase the pain. She screamed so blood-curdling loud, that the cat ran away hissing, and the clouds suddenly moved away from the full moon.  She fell to the floor and then, with the blood still flowing, he gripped her by her neck, hid her behind the couch sitting upright and forced the bread-knife brutally into her head, and then left her. But he wanted more. He wanted more gore. He wanted more blood. He wanted revenge of the doctors at St. Mary’s Hospital for not curing his madness. But there was no-one about; all the windows were locked and the doors shut and bolted. The only live person left was him. So he found his wife again, cut open her stomach, and ripped out her intestines. He then tied them to a hook in the ceiling with the tightest knot he could possibly think of. Then he stood on his wife’s dead carcass, and tied the opposite end of her intestines round his neck, and began to hang himself. Soon, he tried to gasp for breath, but failed. As he desperately tried to breath, he began to violently splutter and cough. The blood from his wife’s intestines began to trickle down his face, drip from his eyelids into his eyes, and drool down into his mouth and settle on his tongue. Eventually, as his coughs began to choke him even more than intended, he realised that he wasn’t just coughing normally. He was coughing up blood. And not just little sprays of it. Gallons of blood was rapidly pouring out of his mouth. Eventually, he felt his lungs stop. Halt. Finish to exist. And the blood dried on his lips and stuck to his eyelids. That was the moment he died.