Surreal Prose

And that was the day, I remember it well.
Old Arthur and Ralph came in from the snow with soot on their faces and handfuls of coal.
"Let's play a game!" exclaimed Ralph, shutting the heavy door behind him and stepping forward into the house, "It's a wonderful game, my old Aunt Better-Birch taught me this one. I think you'll enjoy it!"
And with that Arthur sighed as he pulled up an old oak chair and began to wring his hands in sorrow, "Not again Alfie, the boy's had enough...can't you see?"
There was a pregnant pause, the wind howled past the shuddering window like a thousand tiny ghosts. Ralph stamped his feet and began to salivate, soon enough the old familiar noises came rasping from his smoky throat and his dreadful incantations filled the room with mutters and shadow.
"Alfie, please..." I mustered, but was cut short by a knife flying through the air.
"Boy, you have no glory!" came the metallic reply from the dark space under the stairs.
An hour passed. I died of laughter as the old bastards left.