Tasty Mystery Baskets of Clips

No, I can't. Even my imagination grows stale.

Are you there, spirits? Come.

Let me out! Open the door!

- Charles Dickens. - OK.

That's how I got the house so cheap. Stories going back generations.

This isn't a permanent solution.

I'm an old man. Perhaps I've thought everything I'll ever think.

They can only test-drive the bodies for so long, then they revert to gas.

- How much do you get paid? - Eight pound a year, miss.

- Gwyneth, you know full well. - No, sir. I can't.

We're dying. Help us. Pity the Gelth.

- You don't have to do this. - My angels.

Perhaps he was not of this earth.

This house is on a weak spot. Mr Sneed, what's the weakest part of this house?

That's why you need the corpses.

- Morbid fancy. - Charles, you were there.

First you drug me, then you kidnap me...

- Doctor, what do I have to do? - You don't have to do anything.

OK. No kidding.

Like that? You'll start a riot, Barbarella. There's a wardrobe.

- Failing. - Open the rift. We're dying.

- I can't believe she's gone. - Not gone, Mr Redpath. Merely sleeping.

saw in the knocker,

- Blimey! - Don't laugh.

I'm sorry. You've got one of the best minds in the world.

It's all right. You just sleep.

Stop dabbling, child, and leave these things alone, I beg of you.

- Bridgehead establishing. - Come to this world, poor lost souls.