Tag: Guest Post

TRAILER & EXCERPT: Michael Phillip Cash

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A Haunting on Long Island 4:
Pokergeist

By Michael Phillip Cash
Publisher: Chelshire Inc
Publication Date: 6 August 2015
Genre: Paranormal Suspense, Urban Fantasy, Ghost Thrillers
Pages: 193

Sometimes life, as well as death, is about second chances. Luckless Telly Martin doesn’t have a clue. An awful gambler trying to scrape by as a professional poker player, he becomes the protégé of world famous poker champion Clutch Henderson. The only catch…Clutch is a ghost.

Telly and Clutch must navigate the seedy gambling underbelly of Las Vegas learning to trust each other in order to win the elusive International Series of Poker, repair their shattered personal relationships and find redemption in this life and the hereafter.

Prologue

Like taking candy from a baby, Clutch Henderson thought. He took a deep pull on his whiskey, allowing the burn to numb him from gullet to stomach. The room reeked of smoke, even though it was not allowed in the main ballroom during the tournament. Overhead, giant television screens focused on two players. Clutch looked up, winked, and watched the camera close in on his craggy face. I still got it. He smirked at his image. He was tall, lanky, and deeply tanned, which accentuated his silver hair and light eyes. Even though he was pushing seventy, he knew the ladies still found him attractive. They didn’t call him the Silver Fox for nothing. Clutch patted the blister pack of Viagra in the pocket of the polyester bowling shirt that he wore in homage to the Big Lebowski, the fictional kingpin legend. Gineva would be picking up a celebratory bottle of champagne right now, as soon as she clocked out at the Nugget. They wouldn’t give her the day off today—the bastards. There was a good chance he was going to make an honest woman out of her tonight…a rich, honest woman.

Clutch shifted in his seat, his hemorrhoids making their presence known. They burned his ass more than the cocky kid sitting opposite him. He looked over to his opponent who was sunk low in his seat, his face swallowed by the gray hoodie he wore. Adam “the Ant” Antonowski, boy wonder, who rose from the ranks of online card games, had beaten out a seemingly impossible one hundred sixty-five thousand players to earn a coveted seat at the International Series of Poker. His pimply face peeked out from under oversized sunglasses. Clutch sneered contemptuously at him. They let everybody play today. The kid did look bug-eyed with those enormous glasses. Adam curled his hands protectively over his cards, his bitten-down fingernails repulsive.

“Rookie,” Clutch muttered under his breath, his lips barely moving.

“Looks like Clutch Henderson is praying, folks,” Kevin Franklyn said into his mike from where he sat in a small room watching the game. He was a former champion turned seasoned sportscaster on the poker circuit, well respected, and the senior of the two anchormen. He was completely bald, his fleshy nose slightly off center on his craggy face, a victim of his youthful and unsuccessful boxing career. He’d made a mint once he turned to poker and had never looked back.

Stu James shook his head. “Clutch could be at his last prayers; this kid is the terminator.” Stu was a tall cowboy with wavy blond hair and mustache left over from his 1970s poker-playing heyday. He looked like a country singer.

“Let’s see if Clutch can exterminate the Ant,” Kevin replied.

They shared a laugh. The sportscasters wore matching light blue jackets with the Poker Channel logo on the chest.

Kevin nodded, placing his hand on his earbud, and said, “Yes, this is it, folks, in case you’ve just tuned in. A record fourteen thousand entrants, and it all comes down to this—the final moments. The rookie versus the pro: it could have been scripted by a screenwriter. David versus Goliath. Adam ‘the Ant’ Antonowski going up against the legendary Clutch Henderson.”

Kevin continued, “Legendary, yes, but Clutch has yet to take home that million-dollar bracelet, Stu. This must be his eighteenth try at the title.”

“Nineteenth. However, he did come in sixth place last year.”

Kevin nodded. “But the Ant is certainly the Cinderella story of the year. An online poker phenom who beat out thousands of players in a twenty-dollar online satellite game. And here he is today. How old is he?”

Stu turned around to a huge monitor. “I’m not quite sure, but I found out a lot about him earlier today when I interviewed him. Let’s take a look.”

Stu was in a suite overlooking the Strip. It was hotter than hell outside, but the room was icy cold. The Ant slouched in a Louis XV Bergere chair, his hands deep in the pocket of the jersey hoodie. The gold brocade of the chair was a stark contrast to the varied shades of gray he habitually wore. His Converse-clad feet lay propped on a golden rococo coffee table. Stu noticed that Adam seemed unaware that the rubber of his tennis shoes was peeling off the gilt surface of the coffee table. Every time he moved, another strip of paint flaked away.

Stu leaned forward, his large hands gesturing the spacious suite. “Nice room, Ant.” Everything about the newscaster was big, from his shoes to his huge chest. He was a former ranger-cum- football player and an avid golfer as well. The Ant truly resembled an insect next to the bigger man. “You have quite a view.”

The Ant shrugged indifferently. “I don’t care about stuff like this. I’m happy with a room in Motel 6.”

“This is a far cry from Motel 6. Why do they call you the Ant?”

“I’m small,” the Ant said. He smiled, revealing tiny, ferret-like teeth that looked mashed together. A frizzy curl escaped his hood to land over his shiny forehead. “But I can carry fifty times my weight in chips.” He laughed.

“Ha!” Stu joined him. “Fifty times. Is that what you’re expecting to take home?”

“Maybe more, if I can help it,” the Ant added defensively.

“Adam—I mean, Ant—you’re coming into the final table with little more than half the chips in play.” Stu paused for effect. “What’s your strategy in the face-off with the legendary Clutch Henderson?”

The Ant looked straight into the camera, his dark eyes fierce. “I want to eat that old shit alive.” The curse was bleeped out by the station.

Stu shifted uncomfortably. “That’s pretty competitive, son.”

“Let’s get this straight. I’m not your son, Stu.” This was said with dripping scorn.

“All right, Ant.” Stu’s voice turned decidedly cool; he did not like this kid. The sportscaster was freezing as well. What the hell was wrong with the air conditioner? Stu suppressed a shiver as he smoothed his mustache. The Ant was cold as ice; not a drop of human kindness flowed in his veins. Not only that, but he could swear the kid’s lips were turning blue. He wanted to end this farce and get out of Dodge. “So, how do you plan on winning against one of the greatest cash players of the last century?”

The Ant glanced out at the stark light in the picture windows. Heat shimmered in the desert, making the horizon look smeared and indistinct. The Strip was jammed already; a long line of red taillights filled the road as cars made their way down Las Vegas Boulevard.

The ants go marching one by one…Ant hummed the nursery song in his head, lost in the moment.

Stu pulled him back. “Ant?”

The younger man stared at him blankly, as if he’d just awakened. He twisted to look at the messy bar, just off camera. Crushed cans of beer and energy drinks littered the floor of the suite, and laundry was strewn all over the bedroom adjacent to the living area. Turning back slowly, dismissing one of the most important sports interviewers on television, the Ant said brusquely, “Next question.”

“All right.” Stu pursed his lips, trying not to lose patience. Maybe the kid is on something, he thought. He’d been playing in eighteen-hour shifts for days now, beating out thousands of players. The interview was going to the crapper fast, and this surly guy might be the next world champion. Give me something. He checked his notes and then blurted, “How does it feel to rise from relative obscurity and find yourself face-to-face with the one and only Clutch Henderson?”

“Look, this story is about me, right?” The Ant jabbed his finger into Stu’s face. “Not him. I’m the greatest player. I’m gonna create my own legacy, and it’s gonna be tonight.”

Stu sat back in his seat, shocked by the Ant’s hostility. “Isn’t that a little premature articulation?” Stu couldn’t help the jab. This kid was nuts. He must be wired on the cans of caffeinated drinks tossed all over the floor of the bar area.

The screen faded as the two sportscasters turned to face each other.

“Interesting interview, Stu. So, what did you really learn about Adam ‘the Ant’ Antonowski?” Kevin chuckled as he shook his bald head with amusement.

“Not a whole lot, Kev. He is a close-mouthed little guy.” Stu turned to gaze down at the single table where ten million dollars in cash had been strewn across the green baize in anticipation of the winner. A chunky gold bracelet glittered from the nest of cash, looking like pirate plunder. “It’s so quiet down there, you can actually hear the Ant thinking, I am the best player at this table.”

Kevin rolled a pen between his fingers. He looked at the camera and continued with his commentary. “The fairy-tale story versus the legend. Let’s not forget that Clutch may be the greatest earner in the history of the game: fifty million in lifetime earnings, one hundred twenty- one cashes, twelve final tables, and four number-one best-selling books.”

“What about his instructional videos? He made a mint with those in the nineties. Looks like the Ant’s asked for a break.Getting back to Clutch, he wrote what many call the Bible of Poker: Clutch Time: To Live and Die at the Poker Table. Will he make history tonight, Kevin?”

“He should. Been trained by the best—poker runs in the family.” They shared a laugh. “I’d call the Hendersons poker royalty.”

Kevin nodded in agreement. “I’ll say. Clutch is well-respected on the circuits; not many of those kind of guys left. He’s a true gentleman, a dying breed. I sat down and spoke with him earlier today. Let’s take a look.” Kevin turned back to the screen.

“You’re close,” Kevin grinned at Clutch. Clutch inclined his head with a gracious smile. They were in his residence, a ranch in the seedier part of Vegas. Clutch sat on a gold velvet sofa covered with plastic slipcovers in a heavy Mediterranean style left over from the seventies. His girlfriend, Ginny, beamed from the kitchen as the interview progressed. Just past fifty, she was a chubby Filipina with brassy blond hair that clashed with her olive complexion.

Kevin knew they’d been together for more than ten years, even though Clutch was still married to his wife, Jenny Henderson. Kevin paused for a minute and wondered if Clutch ever accidentally called Ginny Jenny or Jenny Ginny. That could make for some uncomfortable moments.

Ginny leaned against the doorjamb as the spotlight shined on Clutch’s silver head. She had pressed his shirt earlier today and made the sharp crease in his pants as well. His scuffed cowboy boots were too old to take the polish, and only she knew that cardboard replaced the worn soles.

“Very close,” Kevin pressed. “One play away from claiming your first-ever International Series Main Event bracelet.”

Clutch looked happy; his blue eyes were dreamy. “Livin’ the dream, man.” The camera caressed his face.

“How do you feel?”

Clutch cocked his head. “With my fingers,” Clutch said, wiggling his slender fingers for the camera. He glanced to Ginny as if to share a private joke. Winking, he smiled widely and a blush rose across her ample chest. She had great tits, Ginny did. Clutch knew that for a fact. He’d paid for them. He turned back to the interviewer. “Look, I’ve been playing this game since my granddaddy showed me the difference between an ace and a deuce. I’ve prepared my whole life. I’ve been taught by the best.”

“Buster Henderson practically created poker.”

“You ain’t lying,” Clutch agreed. “We didn’t have a kitchen table. We ate off a poker baize, and there was always a game going on. Ruthie, my grandmother, was a pretty good player too.”

“Yet it skipped a generation.”

“My daddy died on the beach in Normandy,” Clutch explained. “He never had time to learn the game.”

“And your mother?”

“Never knew her. Buster and Ruthie raised me. They lived and breathed poker.”

“Must have been an interesting childhood living with not only one, but two poker legends.”

“Yeah,” Clutch agreed darkly. “It was a barrel of laughs.”

“What do you think Buster would say to you if he were here today, as you enter the final table?”

“‘Better not screw this one up, boy, or I’m gonna kill you.’”

They shared a chuckle. “He was certainly a character,” Kevin added.

“Yep.” Clutch wasn’t smiling anymore. “A real character.”

“All kidding aside, even if you lose, second place has a hefty payout.” Kevin looked at his notes. “You stand to win four million.”

Clutch shook his head. “Sometimes it ain’t about the money. My grandpa won that bracelet over sixty years ago. It’s time for me to win mine.”

“Hmmm. Clutch, how do you feel about the advent of online players today—namely, your final opponent, the Ant?”

Clutch sat forward, his hands together, his face thoughtful. “The Internet has more porn than you can shake a stick at. What good is that? You can’t touch a computer. It’s sterile. In the end, the game ain’t real if it’s through a machine. Romance and cards have got to be in real time, face-to-face.” He let the comparisons sink in. “Nothing like the feel of a real woman.”

“Hilarious, Clutch.” Kevin laughed, sharing the macho moment with him.

“Now the real world has real women.” Clutch glanced back at Ginny, who grinned back at him. She had the worst teeth. They’d never fixed her teeth in the Philippines when she was a child. That was the first thing he was going to do when he won, take her to have implants. Well, after he got a new car, paid his bookies, and paid off his back child support. She never asked for anything, Ginny. She was a good woman. “Poker is a game about communication. It’s about reading people, knowing what they are thinking. You can’t communicate over the Internet. You can’t have a relationship with a keyboard and a screen—well, at least not an honest one. You can’t learn poker with a machine. Ain’t natural.”

“Have you got any old tricks up your sleeve?”

Clutch looked at the frayed fabric of his dress shirt. The stripes were so old that there was just a hint of color in the thin cotton. He looked at the gray hairs sticking out of the cuff. He touched the bony point of his wrist, imagining the heavy weight of the bracelet. His grandpa had left his bracelet to Clutch’s cousin, Alf, who had never even played poker. Clutch had wanted it for so long—every year scraping the money together to get into the tournament, playing with infants, hacks, and women who thought they could flirt him out of the game.

He was good. He knew he was the best, and he should’ve won a hundred times. He shook his head. A thousand times. It came so close, so very close, only to escape his clutches.

“Clutch…” Kevin’s insistent voice interrupted his wandering mind, pulling him back. “Clutch, you were saying?”

“Oh, we gonna teach that lil’ doggy how to make pee pee on a wee-wee pad.” The screen faded to black.

Kevin’s shoulders shook with laughter. He turned to Stu. “That Clutch—he is something else.”

“I’ll say. I think he has his metaphors confused. He may need a can of Raid instead of a wee- wee pad. Oh, the Ant is back from his break. Let’s see how the game is going.”

Clutch and the Ant sat opposite each other, the room tense and silent. The older man pressed his cards into the table, bending just the tip to glance at the letters or numbers in the corner. Kings, a good solid hand. He kept his face impassive, stifling a yawn. The Ant simply ignored him, a bored expression on his face. Between them, a colorful cascade of chips littered the table. The room crackled with excitement.

Clutch looked up at the dealer, who stonily stared into space. He smiled, and the dealer turned and nodded respectfully, revealing perfect teeth against his dark skin. They both looked to the Ant, who bristled with hostility.

Clutch narrowed his eyes, and a trickle of sweat began to make its way down from his temple. He stared hard at the Ant, whose dark glasses made him an enigma. The Ant was looking everywhere except at him. Why wasn’t the kid studying him, looking for tells, the signs that hint at what he is holding? He watched his opponent intently. The Ant glanced upward before he made a move, as if asking permission from the atmosphere. While he couldn’t see the kid’s eyes because of the dark glasses, Clutch knew he was looking toward the ceiling from the tilt of his head. A few times, Clutch caught his own eyes gazing in the same direction, wondering what the punk was up to. The room became hot. He was willing to take this to the mats. Based on the kid’s whitened fingertips, Clutch’s gut told him the younger man had nothing.

Clutch had a decent hand. He peered at the Ant’s cards on the table, as if he could see through the design to the faces hidden underneath. The kid liked to bluff; he had watched him do it all through the tourney. Clutch was willing to bet his last chip that the Ant had a junk hand. “Check,” Clutch said quietly.

“No check, old man. I bet three million.” The Ant pushed five stacks into the middle of the table. The crowd hummed with excitement. The Ant pulled off his glasses to glare hard at Clutch, his mouth pulled tight with intensity. Clutch looked into the younger man’s eyes and saw nothing. Nothing.

Clutch shrugged. “You wannabes sure think you know how this game is played. Lemme tell you something, partner…” He placed his Stetson on his head as if to make a point.

“Spare me the sage advice, Cowpoke. You’re done. I’m waiting to stick a fork in you.”

“Eight million,” Clutch said, his voice serious. The crowd applauded loudly as he pushed in a huge pile of chips.

“I just started, Pops, and you want to go down in flames already. Raise! All in,” the Ant sneered.

Clutch waited. He had patience. A murmur echoed through the room. He could swear he heard the ticking of a clock. He wanted to draw out the moment. His heart started to pound in his chest, pulsing so hard he felt it all the way to his toes. “Call,” he said so quietly that the dealer leaned forward to confirm.

The Ant dramatically turned over his cards, revealing an ace and a seven, both of them hearts. The red cards reflected back at Clutch until they filled his vision.

A slow smile spread across Clutch’s impassive face. He watched the younger man, savoring the glory as he slowly flipped his cards, revealing pocket kings. He had two kings—a good hand. Not unbeatable, but the kid had nothing but an overcard.

“Here comes the flop,” Clutch said aloud as he watched the dealer place the ace of spades and Clutch’s own heart sank in his chest. Now the Ant had a higher hand: two aces. The crowd’s gasp turned into a roar as the dealer spread the next two cards on the baize, revealing a king of hearts and deuce of hearts. He’d dodged a bullet; his three kings would beat the Ant’s two aces. Clutch took off his cowboy hat; the sweatband was soaked. His silver hair lay plastered against his head, the imprint of his hat looking like he had worn a vise. “Trip cowboys, pissant.” Clutch drew out the last word into a hiss.

On the table were two hearts. Two cards were yet to be revealed: the Turn, and then the River. Sixty-forty in Clutch’s favor, he estimated. Clutch felt his heart quiver with uncertainty.

The kid had a draw, two cards to go, and all Clutch needed to do was avoid a heart that did not match the table to claim his prize. The crowd exploded. The Ant stared at the card on the table, his expression hostile.

“We don’t need a commentary, old man. I got eyes. I can see,” the Ant snapped. The Ant’s dark eyes glazed over for a minute; he looked away and then turned back, his attention restored.

Clutch sat back in his chair, suddenly tired. His shoulders ached, and he longed to be back home in bed watching television. But the bracelet. He was so close. He glanced at the Ant’s cards and then studied his own. The patterns swam before his tired eyes as though they were alive. He was there, almost there. He could feel the heavy weight of the bracelet on his skinny wrist…the cash in his empty pocket.

Sweat dotted the Ant’s upper lip, and his eye twitched. There were so many chips spread across the table that the pot seemed obscene.

The Ant half rose from his seat, his face eager. His dark eyes glowed hotly, with red pinpoints in the pupils. He looked demented. His fingers pressed whitely against the green baize of the table. All he needed was another heart, and there were two cards left to go.

The Ant stood completely; Clutch was surprised at how short he was. He would barely reach Clutch’s shoulder. “Great hand, Pops,” the Ant nodded sarcastically. “But you need heart to play this game.”

The dealer barely breathed as he waited for the right moment to deal the next card, the Turn.

The crowd stood together as if on cue, the babble of thousands of voices drowning out the pulse in Clutch’s head. His body thrummed, and his face grew as red as the cards, sweat drenching his shirt so that it was plastered against his tense body.

Feeling his collar choke him, Clutch undid the top button of his shirt. Suddently it occurred to him that he might come in second. It would be a nice purse, four million at least. But after taxes and the funds to pay off the loan sharks, he’d barely have enough for his kid or Ginny’s teeth. Truth was, he didn’t give a shit about the dough—he wanted the bracelet. He needed that trophy to wear on his wrist for the rest of his miserable life. Too bad Buster wasn’t alive to see it. He wanted to shove it in his face and gloat. It sparkled from its spot on the table. Clutch swallowed convulsively, his neck feeling tight. He looked at the creep across the table. The Ant didn’t deserve it; Clutch did. This was the closest he’d ever come. He stared at the bracelet, the gold at the end of the rainbow. He could hear his grandfather’s voice, dead these last forty- five years, saying, “It’s about the game, stupid. Not the gold.

You play like crap. You never listen to me, boy.” Yeah, Clutch sneered, easy for you to say. You won a bracelet in 1954. Clutch glanced down at his two cards, his kings. With the third on the table, he had three kings, a good hand. He had to piss…really bad.

The dealer turned over a six of clubs. The audience moaned. A black card, not a heart. Without the fifth heart, the kid would bust. Clutch’s breath stilled in his chest. He was almost there. His heart pounded in his chest as if it were a kettledrum. One last card to go. He looked at the insect’s hand. The kid’s hands were trembling, his knuckles bony white like a skeleton. He had nothing. This was it. He had this. The dealer paused, his hand hovering over the deck. His manicured fingers caressed the top card, and then he flipped it onto the green table. An eight of hearts lay on the baize, earning the Ant a winning flush. The crowd buzzed, a thousand voices washing over Clutch’s numb face. His breath left him in a slow deflation until he felt flat. He wanted to disappear.

The Ant yelled like a little girl, his hands high up in the air. He pranced in front of the bleachers to the screaming fans and then mugged the camera. Kevin raced from his spot, mike in hand, to the older man. “Clutch! Clutch! What happened? That was so fast.”

Clutch stared at the cards, his face impassive, the pain of his broken heart heavy in his chest. “I…I…” Words failed him. He couldn’t breathe. The room was stifling, closing in on him. His vision narrowed to the cluster of cards on the table and the bracelet winking at him. They shimmered before him; the noise of the spectators was muffled. His ears rang. He still had to pee. In fact, he was drowning. He heard laughter. It was familiar. He looked around frantically to see who was laughing at him. The pain started in his chest and radiated to his shoulders, clamping around his jawline. His eyes dimmed.

He felt Kevin’s chubby hand grip his shoulder. It hurt. The announcer’s voice came from far away. “Clutch…Clutch, are you OK?”

No, he wanted to scream, but his own voice seemed foreign, the words coming out jumbled and thick. No, my dream died. He watched the room recede, the world strangely quiet, as the floor came up to meet his chin.

The Ant turned to see the older man fall. Oh, he thought as he heard Clutch’s head connect with the floor. That’s gotta hurt. He turned to his adoring fans and pumped his fist into the air, the bracelet gripped in his clenched hand.

Kevin struggled to get down on his knees. “Clutch…Clutch.” He shook the old man’s shoulder. His face drained of color. “Get an ambulance,” he screamed. He looked closely at Clutch. “Help…” he said sadly, knowing it was too late for an ambulance. They needed a hearse.

Boo-graphy:
Michael Phillip Cash is an award-winning novelist and screenwriter. His novels are best-sellers on Amazon under their genres – Young Adult, Thriller, Suspense, Ghost, Action Adventure, Fantasy, Paranormal Romance, and Horror. Michael writes full-time and lives on the North Shore of Long Island with his wonderful wife and screaming children.

GUEST POST: Edward M. Erdelac

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Halloween III: Season of a Witch: The ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ of the Halloween Season

The Christmas season has always had a massive catalog of holiday-themed movies and TV specials catering to nearly every taste, from Frank Capra sentimentals and whimsical Claymation musicals to raunchy comedies and in recent years, actions films and even Christmas-themed horror. The canonical Christmas classics are so ingrained that just reading this paragraph you’ve probably conjured up one or two old stand-bys. Ask ten people what their favorite Christmas movie is, and you’ll see a lot of the same titles turn up a couple times. It’s A Wonderful Life. A Christmas Carol. A Charlie Brown Christmas. National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation (my dad’s favorite).

The Halloween season has always had a decidedly less than universal pantheon of movies and specials, mainly because I think when you ask somebody what they watch on Halloween they tend to tell you their favorite horror movie. People equate the season with watching horror, and there are more horror movies under the sun than there are hairs on a black cat.

When I ask this question, I impose two requirements that I find whittles down the plethora of general horror responses.

1 It has to take place during the Halloween season.

2 It should comment on the holiday or depict its traditions in some way. Even if its just pumpkin carving.

This will generally yield a more manageable set of titles in terms of trying to suss out what ought to be considered the classics of Halloween. I won’t try to list them all, but some good recurring examples include It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, A Nightmare Before Christmas, The Halloween Tree, Trick ‘R Treat, Boys In The Trees, The WNUF Halloween Special, Garfield’s Halloween Special, Disney’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Hocus Pocus, The Midnight Hour, etc.

You’ll even find a couple of Halloween ‘bleed’ movies like Arsenic And Old Lace (Frank Capra!) this way.
Of course the Halloween franchise counts, and while I’m not a big Michael Meyers fan at all, there is one outing in the series that in my opinion counts as the quintessential movie of the Halloween season. The It’s A Wonderful Life of All Hallow’s Eve. The Miracle On 34th Street of October 31st. The Christmas Carol of Samhain.

That is, without a doubt, 1982’s Halloween III: Season of The Witch.

I’ve been singing the praises of this flick since I first saw it, and have been shouted down by Shape-heads for decades. It was notoriously panned for years as an unwelcome departure from the Laurie Strode–Michael Meyers storyline and criminally dismissed by a lot of horror fans. The premise has nothing to do with the rest of the series. It’s a one off.

Shout Factory’s description for the upcoming 4K release on Amazon says “A murder-suicide in a northern Californian hospital leads to an investigation by the on-call doctor, which reveals a plot by an insane toymaker to kill as many people as possible on October 31st through an ancient Celtic ritual and deadly Halloween masks.”

Not a masked killer in site. Instead, killer masks. The tagline, The Night NOBODY Came Home.

So, just forget Michael Meyers exists. It’s easy for me (I’m a Jason Voorhees nut). Take Halloween III out of the title. Let’s talk about a little movie from 1982 called Season Of The Witch (no, not Romero’s 1973 movie either. That’s Hungry Wives. Stop interrupting!).

The earliest memories of Halloween I cherish are of the smell of close latex and burning candles, heaps of candy rattling around in bright orange and green buckets, the scrape of a spoon in a hollowed out pumpkin and the slip of wet orange innards strung with seeds on my knuckles, leaves crackling underfoot at night, and a swirling array of half-glimpsed costumes both harrowing and gaudy, tacky and inappropriate.

Halloween. It’s chintzy, it’s spooky, it’s glorious. It’s a magical, pseudo-pagan night of anonymity, a night of festive abandon. A night of pranks and tricks and perhaps a subterranean current of unease, for some of us, in our celebrations of spirits and ghosts and goblins are flirting with the idea of oblivion and shaking ourselves wantonly under the nose of death. But Death’s a good sport about it. On this night, anyway.

And Season of The Witch encapsulates all those things for me.

Let’s start with the George Bailey of this movie, our sweaty, boozy divorcee protagonist Dr. Dan Challis, played with sleazy aplomb by Tom Atkins. Was there ever a more appropriate Halloween hero? Most of the time he acts more like a lecherous teenager in a white coat than a doctor. Challis is the bleary-eyed guy who answers the door on Halloween night with a can of beer in his hand and gives the sexy nurses and devils a little too much candy. While he gamely answers the call of adventure posed when a man murders one of his patients and self-immolates in the parking lot, leaving nothing behind but cogs and springs, like the underage drinker in the letterman’s jacket tagging along to take his best girl’s little sister out for candy, he’s really more interested in scoring Stacey Nelkin, which he invariably does, using the excuse of tracking down her missing father in a toy manufacturing factory way out in remote Santa Mira to ‘slyly’ get a one-bed room at a crummy roadside hotel and a six pack of Schlitz. He lures his companion to bed like an anxious teen who swears he can’t get the car to start. He’s a scuzz, as hilariously phony as a plastic knife in the head. But, he does uncover the terrible secret of Silver Shamrock Novelties, the makers of this year’s runaway Halloween fad, and he does do his damndest to thwart them.

And what a secret it is! If you’ve never seen this movie, here there be SPOILERS:

It’s the central ‘trick’ of Season Of The Witch that makes this movie so utterly perfect to me. Dan O’Herlihy’s puckish, ultimately sinister antagonist Conal Cochran sums it up in his villainous monologue as “a trick played on the children.” A mass sacrifice, enacted via a chip of Stonehenge embedded in a microchip in the logo of each Halloween mask, triggered by a television signal set to go off during ‘the big giveaway’ on Halloween night, during a showing of the movie Halloween.

Yes, it’s totally absurd. The death of millions of kids on Halloween night, perpetrated by a catchy jingle and the nebulous promise of a can’t-miss-it big giveaway. And not just normal old brain melting microwave beam death, but techno-science ray death by bugs and snakes popping out of your face. O’Herlihy sells the whole thing magnificently with his measured, ominous speech about the true meaning of Halloween (I don’t care that he mispronounces Samhain. Everyone does.). To this villain it’s a religious obligation, but he’s a gag-maker by trade, so it’s also a joke. You have to marry your work with your passions for a happy life.
And yet….speaking from experience as a kid in 1983, let me tell you, the plot of Halloween III would have totally got us. Or me, anyway.

The pre-eminent Saturday horror movie host of the Chicagoland area was and still is Rich Koz, The Son of Svengoolie. In the summer of 1982, Svengoolie promoted a special 3-D broadcast of Revenge Of The Creature on his show. It was the first attempt at a 3-D broadcast in Chicago. You could go to a 7-11 and get one of four limited edition cardboard 3-D glasses for 69 cents. Then, as long as you had a color TV set, could sit six feet away from the screen, and tuned in at the correct time, you’d be treated to a black and white 1955 movie in three dimensions. Yep, no big giveaway needed. I was all set to spit crickets just to watch a forty year old movie. But remember, VCR’s weren’t really widespread at that time, so if you were a fan of a movie, you scoured the TV Guide and made time for the broadcast or you missed your chance, and I was a big Creature of The Black Lagoon fan at that age – had no idea there even was a sequel. I guess the 3-D actually didn’t end up working correctly. I somehow missed the broadcast, even though I remember being really stoked for it. I probably fell asleep.

Another thing Season Of The Witch gets right about 80’s kids was our ravenous susceptibility to fads. Even before we induced our parents to duke it out in the aisles of Toys ‘R Us over Cabbage Patch Kids, in October 1980 there was another fad eerily akin to the Don Post masks of this movie that arrested the kids of Saint Andrew The Apostle in Calumet City, Illinois; Kooky Spooks.

Kooky Spooks came and went and a lot of people don’t remember them, but I was crazy to get in on it that Halloween. It was basically a bagged costume consisting of a plastic poncho, some reflective tape and makeup, and an inflatable character that sat on top of your head. There were nine variations. Wunkin Pumpkin, Wobblin Goblin, Scaredy Cat, Howly Owl, Spacey Casey, Wonder Witch, and Bone Head. The commercials were as ubiquitous as the Silver Shamrock jingle and they made me desperate to plunk down my parents’ money.

I was a Scaredy Cat. I was five or so, so I don’t know if I’m misremembering this entire thing and I was actually the laughingstock of my friends and not the envy. I have this one photo of my great grandmother disapproving of my get-up (including blackface), and my ma remembers it as being hysterical. I think the headpiece deflated and drooped over my face halfway through Halloween night.

Anyway the point is, I totally would have begged for one of those pumpkin masks (and I eventually did get one as an adult – Buddy Kupfer Jr. is my go-to Halloween costume when I take the kids out).

It could be all these elements of my own childhood Halloween experiences combined to prime me perfectly to enjoy Season Of The Witch, but a glance at blogs and lists around the internet tells me that I’m not as alone as I once was.

Season Of The Witch, for me, is the Halloween movie that perfectly encompasses everything I enjoy about Halloween and I closeout the holiday every year with a late night watch after we’ve brought the kids home from trick ‘r treating.

Don’t forget to watch the big giveaway….and wear your mask.

Boo-graphy:
Edward M. Erdelac is the author of thirteen novels including the acclaimed Judeocentric/Lovecraftian weird western series Merkabah Rider, Rainbringer: Zora Neale Hurston Against The Lovecraftian Mythos, Conquer, Monstrumfuhrer from Comet Press, Terovolas from JournalStone Publishing, and Andersonville from Random House/Hydra.

Born in Indiana, educated in Chicago, he lives in the Los Angeles area with his wife and a bona fide slew of kids and cats.

Conquer —
In 1976 Harlem, JOHN CONQUER, P.I. is the cat you call when your hair stands up…the supernatural brother like no other. From the pages of Occult Detective Quarterly, he’s calm, he’s cool, and now he’s collected in CONQUER.

From Hoodoo doctors and Voodoo Queens,
The cat they call Conquer’s down on the scene!
With a dime on his shin and a pocket of tricks,
A gun in his coat and an eye for the chicks.
Uptown and Downton, Harlem to Brooklyn,
Wherever the brothers find trouble is brewin,’
If you’re swept with a broom, or your tracks have been crossed,
If your mojo is failin’ and all hope is lost,
Call the dude on St. Marks with the shelf fulla books,
‘Cause ain’t no haint or spirit, or evil-eye looks,
Conjured by devils, JAMF’s, or The Man,
Can stop the black magic Big John’s got on hand!

Collects Conquer Comes Calling, Conquer Gets Crowned, Conquer Comes Correct and four previously unpublished stories – Keep Cool, Conquer, Conquer Cracks His Whip, Conquer And The Queen of Crown Heights, and Who The Hell Is John Conquer?

Rainbringer: Zora Neale Hurston Against the Lovecraftian Mythos —
“The oaths of secrecy she [Zora Neale Hurston] swore, and the terrifying physical and emotional ordeals she endured…left their mark on her, and there were certain parts of her material which she never dared to reveal, even in scientific publications.” – Alan Lomax

ZORA! She traveled the 1930’s south alone with a loaded forty four and an unmatched desire to see and to know. She was at home in the supper clubs of New York City, back road juke joints, under ropes of Spanish moss, and dancing around the Vodoun peristyle. Her experiences brought us Their Eyes Were Watching God, Mules And Men, Tell My Horse, and Jonah’s Gourd Vine. But between the lines she wrote lie the words unwritten, truths too fantastic to divulge….until now.

LEAVES FLOATING IN A DREAM’S WAKE, BEYOND THE BLACK ARCADE. EKWENSU’S LULLABY. KING YELLER. GODS OF THE GRIM NATION. THE SHADOW IN THE CHAPEL OF EASE. BLACK WOMAN, WHITE CITY. THE DEATHLESS SNAKE. Eight weird and fantastic stories spanning the breadth of her amazing life. Eight times when she faced the nameless alien denizens of the outer darkness and didn’t blink.

ZORA! Celebrated writer, groundbreaking anthropologist, Hoodoo initiate, footloose queen of the Harlem Renaissance, Mythos detective.

SHORT STORY: This House by Kenzie Jennings

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This House

DISCLAIMER: This may be figurative. This may be literal. I don’t know anymore.

I think my house is trying to kill me.

The police won’t get involved, I realize, but at the very least, is there a support group for that sort of thing? It’s not that strange, right? Homeowners have been victimized plenty of times…. and I mean PLENTY of times before. According to the National Safety Council, in 2019, there were 26,200,000 medically consulted, home-related injuries that occurred in the United States, and out of the 26 million, there were 93,700 deaths.

This data, of course, isn’t disaggregated, so it includes injuries and deaths due to poisoning, choking, drowning, burning, and falling. The commonality though is that all occurred inside the home…

…which brings me back to my point.

This house, my home, may be trying to kill me.

What prompted this ridiculous premise? I’m glad you asked. Last week, I was washing dishes, lost in my own daily thought-struggles, when the kitchen sink faucet decided it had had enough and promptly fell apart.

Yes, I know. I know. There would be a lot of that going around in a house that had been built in the late ’60s with appliances that hadn’t been updated since the ’90s.

But it’s the timing, you see, the fact that I was right there when it happened. Part of the faucet, a piece of the aerator from what I can tell, spat out from the spout, and the force of the water was so strong that I was drenched within seconds, water everywhere. Naturally, I slipped around on the floor and then fell right on my ass. For a woman well into middle age, I mean, it felt as if I’d broken not only my tailbone, but basically all the other bones and cartilage, tendons and innards, self-pride and spirit.

I’ve been hobbling around like an old lady. It takes some time for me get up the stairs.

Speaking of stairs, my sisters and I, and probably anyone else who’d been a kid in this house, have fallen down the stairs. There’s no carpet there for traction. It’s just wood, a slick surface. When you fall, it’s one of those full body slides where you’re reaching out to grab hold of the bannister as your legs slide out in front of you, and you butt-plonk down those stairs while you’re attempting to hang on and pull yourself up. Then you just bump all the way to the concrete floor below.

I have fallen down those stairs a total of eight times in my life. I’ve counted. Number eight was this morning. We’ve always known not to wear socks, and I don’t anyway. Still, it didn’t matter, even with calloused bare feet.

I fell down those stairs, and I heard someone laugh at me.

The laugh wasn’t coming from outside the house. Listen, I’ve noisy neighbors. I’ve heard them chortling and hollering over their shitty top 40 tunes on repeat every weekend. It wasn’t them.

I heard the laugh clear as day, right at my side, while I sat there on the floor in stunned silence. I thought it might be me. I’m forever questioning the last sliver of sanity I’ve left. I’ve been known to laugh at my own antics because I’m just hilarious. However, it wasn’t my voice, and my mouth wasn’t open. In fact, my teeth were grinding, my jaw tightly clenched.

I knew the laugh though. That witchy cackle followed by a mischievous giggle. That sound. My childhood summers came scuttling back to remind me this was home. It always was.

Did I tell you about the drywall incident? A giant piece of the breezeway ceiling broke over my head, the dust of it momentarily blinding me. By the time I could see anything, my eyes burned. The damage was all over the furniture, all over my hair and clothes. Everything looked as if a sack of flour had exploded everywhere and had left pieces of ceiling strewn about. You’d never know it happened. The last of my savings for the month repaired and cleaned it up.

Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I find myself unable to breathe only because I’m face down in my pillow. For the record, I never go to sleep on my stomach. It’s wretchedly uncomfortable. I’m a side sleeper, and I had never once woken up in any position other than on my side; right or left, it doesn’t matter. Ever since I’ve been left totally alone in this house—with no family, friends, or even a boyfriend—this moment where I’m suffocating has become a random occurrence without any sort of routine so that I cannot predict when it will happen, ever. I just have to take my chances when I go to bed.

My mother died from a lung disease. Her lungs scarred over and just ceased to function. She was basically suffocating all the time, and it’s what eventually killed her.

So, obviously, waking up with a mouthful of pillow terrifies me.

I knew what I was getting into. The dead came with the house. It’s not complicated. Family who’d loved unconditionally, who’d loved true, had lived here. I’m writing this from a room where others had passed away. Once, after a memorial service, a few pipes decided they’d had enough and water trickled from the ceiling over the breakfast table. A cousin said the house was crying.

I spend a lot of time on the laptop my workplace loaned me so that I could effectively work from home. There are days, however, when I feel as if my body is stuck in sludge, unable to move—like the desk chair, armchair, sofa, or even my bed, wherever I am working, is intent on keeping me there. I try to get up, but my legs feel as if they’re loaded down with weights, and I swear something has a locked hold around my wrists, like whatever’s there wants me to finish the work completely. I appreciate that something’s there, wanting me to keep busy, but I’m not intent on dying while I’m working, unable to get up to keep myself nourished.

Oh, and by the way, the house doesn’t have a pool, but even still, it may as well drown me. There’s a basement filled with piles of junk, and, on occasion, it floods. The water coming in is from either A) stormwater running down the walls or B) the HVAC drain pump. There’s a lot of exposed wiring too. I found that out quickly.

Maybe a fire is in the cards for me.

Speaking of fire, don’t get me started on the old stovetop. The kitchen was close to being burned to the ground on more than one occasion.

My immediate family members—hell, everyone who knows my situation—don’t understand why I don’t just up and sell, why I don’t just…leave like a normal person.

But there are other factors to keep in mind. I mean, everyone’s gone, and they’ve left their shit behind. It’s just too much.

And I think it’s all trying to kill me, all of it, every last piece of it. It’s the fuel of the house that keeps it from being anything but a house. My body will then have to be excavated because it will undoubtedly be buried underneath everyone’s stuff.

All of their unloved, unwanted stuff. More and more stuff.

They were smart, staying away from here.

I hope I’ll be waking up tomorrow so that I can start worrying all over again.

It’ll be Monday after all, and my house is always hungry.

Boo-graphy:
Kenzie Jennings is an English professor suffering in the sweltering tourist hub of central Florida. She is the author of the Splatterpunk Award nominated books Reception and Red Station (Death’s Head Press). Her short horror fiction has appeared in Slice Girls, Worst Laid Plans: An Anthology of Vacation Horror, Dig Two Graves Vol 1, and Deep Fried Horror: Mother’s Day Edition.

Reception —
While her rehab counselor’s advice replays in her mind, Ansley Boone takes on the role of dutiful bridesmaid in her little sister’s wedding at an isolated resort in the middle of hill country, a place where cell reception is virtually nonexistent and everyone else there seems a stranger primed to spring. Tensions are already high between the Boones and their withdrawal suffering eldest, who has since become the family embarrassment, but when the wedding reception takes a vicious turn, Ansley and her sister must work together to fight for survival and escape the resort before the groom’s cannibalistic family adds them to the post wedding menu.

Red Station —
There is a house overlooking the vast, rolling plains. A home station where a traveler will be welcomed with a piping hot meal and a downy bed. It is a refuge for the weary. A beacon for the lost. A place where blood and bones feed the land.

For four stagecoach passengers… a doctor in search of a missing father and daughter… a newlywed couple on the way to their homestead… and a lady in red with a bag filled with secrets… Their night at the Station has only just begun.

GUEST MOVIE REVIEW by Jeff C. Carter: Hack-O-Lantern

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Hack-O-Lantern
Rated R, 1:27, 1998

Director: Jag Mundhra

Writers: Dave Eisenstark (story), Carla Robinson (screenplay)

Cast:
Hy Pyke – as Grandpa
Gregory Scott Cummins – as Tommy

Available on: Amazon Prime Streaming, Tubi

A town is terrorized by devil worshippers and a masked killer.

Hack-O-Lantern begins appropriately with lurid red titles floating in black space, accompanied by the creepy pulse of synth music.

Then, something unexpected happens.

The sun rises, shining gloriously upon a bucolic farm. A pleasant tune chirps as an old pickup truck putters into view with a flatbed full of pumpkins. The driver (Hy Pyke – Dolemite, Blade Runner, Vamp) is a chipper old man in a cozy flannel shirt.

He arrives at a farm house and honks the horn to call out Tommy, his little blonde grandson. Everything is bathed in sunlight as the innocent child dashes out and leaps into his grandpa’s welcoming arms.

Everything distills into a perfect Norman Rockwell moment, until grandpa slips him a bundle with something “special.” He leaves him with a pumpkin, throws up the devil horns and then bones out in his truck.

This is not yet four minutes into the film, but we have been put on notice. This story just might give you whiplash.

Later, Tommy is carving his pumpkin and pelting his sister, Vera, with pumpkin guts. When he cuts himself, he proclaims that he likes the taste of blood and that ‘grandpa says it’s good for him.’

Their mother is distraught when she finds out that grandpa has been there, and she demands to know if the old man had given anything to her son. Tommy denies it and hides the special package.

That night, she begs her husband Bill not to confront Grandpa on this, of all nights – Halloween. Bill storms out to handle things anyway.

He arrives at Grandpa’s barn and finds him hanging out with a bunch of robed cultists. One of them smacks Bill with a hammer and together they dump his body back in his car and then set it on fire. Grandpa cackles with dark delight.

Back home in his room, Tommy takes out his special gift – a pentagram medallion.

Match cut to 13 years later: Tommy (Gregory Scott Cummins, former college sports star with roles in Buffy, Batman Returns, Its Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Baywatch Nights [TWICE!], and as the devil in a Snoop Dogg video!) is still swinging his medallion, but now he is all grown up. He is rocking a black sleeveless shirt that is open to the navel.

It is once again Halloween, and Grandpa has returned with another honk of the horn. This time he has a black robe for Tommy, who will undergo a ritual that night and learn his true power. Grandpa throws up the devil horns again, and now Tommy does too…and then they press their devil horns together.

Let’s pause for a moment to appreciate these actors. Gregory Scott Cummins has a prime set of ‘crazy eyes’ and does his best to mean mug every chance he gets, but he’s fighting for oxygen in every scene with Hy Pyke.

Hy Pyke is a character actor unlike any I have ever scene. He plays Grandpa like a southern fried, chain-smoking, frog-throated, slightly femme goth hillbilly. If Tim Curry had an older brother who was prone to falling down stairs, he might be a little something like Hy Pyke.

Tommy’s mother runs out and begs Grandpa to leave the family alone. Grandpa then reveals two things: first, he has been wearing one of Bill’s bones as a necklace for 13 years; second, he has been forcing her into an incestuous relationship for most of her life. If the devil horn hand kiss made you uncomfortable, you may wish to avert your eyes from the flashback in which Grandpa smothers his daughter on her wedding night. This could imply that Tommy and the others are, in fact, Grandpa’s children after all.

We are re-introduced to Vera, who is getting ready for Halloween with her friend Beth, and then to Tommy’s little brother, Roger, who is now a rookie policeman. Roger has been assigned to patrol the cemeteries after a string of grave robberies as well as chaperoning the big Halloween party in town.

Mom stands outside the door to Tommy’s basement apartment and screams at him to change his wicked ways, but he tunes her out with a Walkman and a cassette tape of rock n’ roll.

This begins a full-on music video, with Tommy fantasizing that he is the backup guitarist for a leather-clad rock band playing a song about the Devil’s son. A woman appears in a bolt of electricity. She is dressed in a skimpy outfit and draped in bones (possibly his father’s), and she shoots green lasers from her eyes that festoon the band’s drum kit with shrunken heads, freeze the band members in place, and then make them vanish one by one.

She throws Tommy to the ground and stabs his head off with a pitchfork. Tommy wakes up, disturbed (and/or aroused).

Now Roger is knocking on his door. He asks Tommy if he’s ever going to do anything worthwhile with his life. In response, Tommy shows him a closet that he has converted into a satanic altar with candles, skulls and a human fetus in a jar.

Roger just shakes his head, chagrinned and says, “No wonder mom thinks you spend too much time with Grandpa.”

The Satanic Panic of the 1980s certainly inspired this movie, but it seems that satanic ritual has been completely normalized for this family as well as the town at large.

Tommy goes to get booze with his girlfriend, whom everyone knows has a pentagram tattoo on her butt (see?). Unfortunately for them, Grandpa is there to nag Tommy into geting his rest for the big night.

Not long after, the girlfriend is surprised by a robed figure in a strange mask that is equal parts satanic and simian, like a demonic baboon. She believes the masked intruder is Tommy and she tries to flirt, only to get brutally murdered with a hooked pitchfork. For clarity, I will henceforth refer to this robed and masked figure as the ‘Staboon’.

Vera and her friends are all downtown decorating the hall for the big Halloween shindig. Naturally Grandpa stops by to leer lecherously at his granddaughter, but her boyfriend Brian chases him off.

Vera takes Brian home with her to lose her virginity, but Tommy busts in and throws him out with a warning; “Next time, you’re dead.”

Tommy goes to his room and pulls out a Staboon mask and a switchblade.

Brian takes the shortcut home through the cemetery and quickly finds himself being chased by the Staboon. He tumbles into an open grave. He begs the Staboon for a hand up, but gets his head cleft in twain with a shovel instead.

Night falls, and Roger begins his patrol of the cemetery. He has also brought Beth, so they can spend their date looking dug up graves. They find nothing but a fresh shallow grave, so they lay down and get it on, oblivious to Brian’s half buried body.

Roger then heads to the Halloween party, which features a tasteful full-nude strip tease.

The movie then grinds to a halt as an amateur comic shoehorns his tight five minute set into a random scene. This bad comedy is made even more awkward because it is performed outside on the street, instead of inside on the stage which was literally just established with the other entertainment acts like the stripper and the band. Perhaps this is meant to signal a tonal shift to comedy, which is only one of the genres that Hack-O-Lantern tries on like so many Staboon masks.

Vera and her friend Beth also take the cemetery shortcut, which apparently connects her house to the party hall. Beth shows off all the places that she had sex with her brother, but this time Brian’s body does not go unnoticed. Vera thinks it’s another classic Halloween prank and pulls on the arm, only to reveal her cleft-in-twain boyfriend. She freaks out and blames Tommy for the murder.

Vera heads straight to Grandpa’s satanic ritual barn to confront Tommy. She knows that he will be there for the big Halloween ceremony, and does not seem overly concerned by the robed cultists shuffling around the giant pentagram on the floor.

Grandpa rebukes her for intruding and orders his minions to tie her up.

He gives Tommy a goat-shaped knife, which they gamely try to hold in their hand while making devil horns with their fingers. Grandpa commands him to kill Vera, intoning, “The power is in the blood!”

Tommy raises the knife…and cuts her ropes! He sends her packing off into the night.

He turns to face his grandfather and shouts, “She’s my sister!”

Grandpa is both furious and crestfallen. He explains that in the kingdom of hell, the only family that matters are your fellow Satanists and…the master! He excommunicates Tommy from the satanic ritual barn.

I will note that it is heavily implied that the ritual that Tommy was supposed to enact that night was going to involve murder, but they didn’t seem to have any sacrificial victims handy until Vera showed up. Was this all part of Grandpa’s master plan?

Back at the freaky Halloween party, a belly dancer undulates for the revelers wearing a large snake. Vera and Beth arrive to find Roger, but the Staboon is already there.

Roger learns all about the murder and attempted sacrifice and then speeds away on his motorcycle.

The Staboon decides to knife a random lady in the women’s bathroom. Her only connection to the story was a few minutes earlier, when she was hitting on Roger. If there is a through line to any of the killings, it is that anyone who attempts to have sex with anyone in Tommy’s family dies. That may seem par for the course for a slasher flick, but this will take on added significance later.

Roger and the rest of the police find the barn, but no evidence of satanic activity. Back at the party, the Staboon strangles Beth. Vera finds both bodies and runs out, into the arms of Staboon.

She thinks that this is Tommy, but the Staboon removes its mask. It is her Grandpa, and he tells her that tonight, she belongs to Satan.

Tommy arrives wearing his own Staboon mask and wielding a pitchfork. Grandpa puts his Staboon mask back on, grabs a machete from a party goer, and the two start swashbuckling their way through the Halloween party.

Tommy quickly bests the old man and sends him careening to the ground with a pitchfork wound in his stomach.

Roger makes it back in time to unmask Grandpa. Grandpa tells Roger that, “the power is in the blood!” and then pokes him in the forehead with the devil horns, leaving behind a flicker of red light.

The other Staboon tries to flee, but Roger blasts it in the back with his pistol. The bleeding Staboon stumbles into the woods and unmasks. It is Tommy’s mother. She takes the cemetery shortcut to her husband’s grave and collapses.

Tommy finds her there and apologizes, telling her that he loves her. She dies, and the now reformed Tommy makes the sign of the cross.

It seems that all is well, or at the very least the nightmare is over.

Unfortunately, the Satanists have reconvened at their satanic ritual barn. They have a new leader now – and it is Tommy’s brother, Roger.

Hack-O-Lantern ends on that final twist, leaving us to contemplate what the hell we just watched and what was going on. I believe that Grandpa secretly fathered Tommy, Roger and Vera because he needed someone in his bloodline to carry on the power and dark work of his satanic coven. He jealously protected that bloodline, which is why anyone who attempted to sleep with or corrupt it was murdered. The theme song’s refrain, as you’ll recall, was ‘you’re the devil’s son.’

That is just one possibility, however. It doesn’t explain why Tommy had the pitchfork at the end, which was previously used to kill his girlfriend. And what was Tommy’s mother doing at the party dressed as a Staboon? Was she the swashbuckler who killed Grandpa? Or that random lady in the bathroom? Was she hoping to create a diversion to allow Tommy to escape? Was this movie set in a farm town only so its devilish characters could have easy access to pitchforks?

Indeed, this movie raises more questions than it answers. Overall, it is crazy, cheesy, creepy, gory, schmaltzy and simply fun. If you want a first time watch for your Halloween marathon, I say throw up the horns and put on Hack-O-Lantern.

Boo-graphy:
Jeff C. Carter’s stories have been featured in dozens of anthologies, translated for international markets and adapted for podcasts. His love of Halloween, adventure and science continue to inspire his horror, action and science fiction writing. He is a member of the Samhain Society and a contributor for the Creepy Kingdom network. He lives in Los Angeles with a cat, a dog, a human and a child.

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His new middle grade adventure book is called COLD SPELL: The Halloween Curse of Winterhill.

COLD SPELL The Halloween Curse of Winterhill is a spooky middle grade adventure from author Jeff C. Carter for kids and adults who love Halloween.

When a freak blizzard cancels trick-or-treating (based on a true event), a Halloween-obsessed nerd and his friends break the rules and go out, only to discover that a terrible curse has befallen their town.

COLD SPELL The Halloween Curse of Winterhill is a fun, fast-paced story of friendship and supernatural adventure that will appeal to fans of Hocus Pocus, Goosebumps, and anyone who believes there is magic just beyond the veil of red and orange woods.

This book is packed with dark whimsical illustrations by Mexican artist Mariana Garcia Pizá.

Her charming map of Summerhill shows a town on the verge of Halloween and all the places that the kids will go as they battle the Witch’s forces and attempt to break her curse.

There is a handy Spookabulary, a list of new words that every Halloween lover should know. The book also includes a Monster Manual featuring the unique creatures that serve the Witch, compatible for the D&D 5E and Tiny Dungeon RPG systems.

GUEST POST: Dave Cole

megHan

Windows in the Movies

“I was fifteen when I saw my best friend die. Although, if you think about it, I was fourteen when I saw him die the first time. Time had a way of confusing me that year. Ever since I’ve looked at past and present with a jaundiced eye. What is now and what is then? The one thing I’m certain about is that the worst year of my life started on December 16th, even though the bad stuff didn’t happen until the next year. I’m certain of the date, because that’s when I discovered the window.”

-excerpt from The Window by Dave Cole

Such an ordinary thing, a window. And yet, sometimes an ordinary thing can become something sinister in an author’s hands. Add in the magic of Hollywood and the sinister becomes a psychological thriller. Here are three of my favorite movies with “window” in the title.

Rear Window (1954) is considered one of legendary director Alfred Hitchcock‘s best films. When Jeff Jeffries (Jimmy Stewart) is confined to a wheelchair, he has nothing to do but observe his neighbors from the rear window of his apartment. When Jeffries becomes convinced one of his neighbors has killed his wife, he enlists the help of Lisa (Grace Kelly), his fashion consultant girlfriend, to investigate. A taut, well-directed movie consistently ranked one of the top films of all time. There was a remake starring Christopher Reeve that came out in 1988, but I’d stick with the original. Rear Window was based on the book It Had to Be Murder by Cornell Woolrich.

Secret Window (2004), a psychological horror thriller, is one of many Stephen King stories to make its way to the movie theaters. Based on King‘s novella Secret Window, Secret Garden, the film stars Johnny Depp as a successful writer in the middle of a painful divorce and a case of writer’s block. Moving to a remote lake house in upstate New York to get his head straight, he is stalked by a would-be writer (John Torturro) who accuses him of plagiarizing his work. It wouldn’t be a psychological thriller without a misdirection or two. The window overlooks a secret garden in the backyard and the window’s view involves one of the disturbing twists.

The Woman in the Window, the 2021 movie based on the novel of the same name by AJ Finn, is the newest edition to the suspense films involving a view from a window. Agoraphobic Dr Anna Fox (Amy Adams) begins to spy on her neighbors, the picture-perfect Russell family. One night Anna witnesses Jane Russell (Jennifer Jason Leigh) being stabbed to death in the living room. The police don’t believe her story, claiming the family is all fine. Alistair Russell (Gary Oldman) arrives with “Jane,” only it is a different woman from the one Anna had met before.

And while it doesn’t have “window” in the title, I would be remiss to not at least mention the iconic window from The Exorcist. It’s a powerful scene which illustrates the sheer force of entity behind the window.

Check out these four films during the Halloween season to see how something so ordinary as a window has the power to give you a good scare.

Boo-graphy:
Dave is the author of the YA novel The Window and The Math Kids series for middle grade readers. When he is not designing data center management software, he is usually reading, writing, or coaching elementary school math teams. He loves writing and his wife loves that he has found a hobby that doesn’t cost anything!

The Window —
A dark window to the future…

Everything changed the day Brian Bingham looked out the attic window and saw something that wouldn’t happen for another week. Through a mysterious window no one else can see, Brian gains a portal into the future. But the future is not always something he wants to see.

Brian has enough troubles in the present without worrying about the future. His parents are constantly fighting, his grades are plummeting, and his new relationship with Charlotte, a girl way out of his league, is in jeopardy.

When the window reveals his best friend’s brutal death, Brian’s world is turned upside down. He must find a way to change the future…or die trying.

The Math Kids: The Prime-Time Burglars —
Jordan and Justin are best friends and the only two kids in their class’s advanced math group. So it isn’t until Stephanie Lewis marches into their classroom that they meet someone who’s as good with numbers as they are. Their shared interest in math quickly draws them together, and the three soon form The Math Kids.

Unfortunately, life as math club kids isn’t always easy. In addition to extra homework, the three friends have two new problems. First, a string of mysterious burglaries has the whole neighbourhood on edge, including their parents. Then, they manage to earn unwanted attention from Robbie, the class bully. Luckily, Jordan, Justin, and Stephanie soon learn that their new club may give them the skills they need to solve both problems.

The Math Kids: A Sequence of Events —
The Math Kids Club is back! After solving the case of the prime-time burglars, The Math Kids, Jordan, Justin, and Stephanie are ready to return to the original purpose of their club: solving math problems. And the district Math Olympics is the perfect opportunity to do just that. But before they can enter the competition, they need a fourth teammate. The Math Kids set their sights on Catherine Duchesne. Even though Catherine has been quiet in class, she knows some really cool math tricks that are sure to help The Math Kids win the competition. But when Catherine doesn’t show up for school and Jordan, Justin, and Stephanie find out her father’s been kidnapped, the group springs into action to help their new friend. The Math Kids: A Sequence of Events, the second book in David Cole’s fast-moving math adventure series.

The Math Kids: An Unusual Pattern —
The Math Kids are at it again! When their new friend, Special Agent Carlson, asks them to take a look at a cryptic poem written by a dying bank robber, they know they will need all of their math skills to crack the case. The poem isn’t their only problem, though. Their favourite school janitor is fired for stealing from student lockers. The Math Kids know Old Mike would never do anything like that, but how can they prove it, especially with the new janitor watching their every move? Jordan, Stephanie, Justin, and Catherine will need math, bravery, and a little bit of luck if they hope to solve the bank robbery case and get Old Mike his job back. Will they be able to figure out the unusual pattern in time?

The Math Kids: An Encrypted Clue —
When Stephanie Lewis finds secret writing in the margin of an old book in the library, The Math Kids have a new puzzle to solve. But first, they’ll have to learn about codes and ciphers and how they can use their math skills to solve them.

As one clue leads to another, the kids are drawn into the mysterious old house that overlooks the town. Is it really haunted like some of the townspeople say? And who is the man in the long beard who keeps showing up everywhere they go?

But that’s not their only problem. The town they live in is broke. Unless they can find a solution, the math competition they’ve been training so hard for will be cancelled.

Jordan, Stephanie, Justin, and Catherine will need to use all their problem-solving skills to figure out the clues before it’s too late.

The Math Kids: An Incorrect Solution —
Fifth grade could not have a worse start for the Math Kids. Jordan, Justin, Stephanie, and Catherine have been split up. The girls are in one class with most of the bullies, which is proving to be chaotic. Meanwhile, the boys are stuck with their nemesis, Robbie Colson, and their new teacher, Mr. Miller, who makes it clear he doesn’t like math. Separated like this, the kids worry this could be the end of their math club. And, to complicate matters, there’s something going on with Robbie. When Jordan witnesses a shouting match between Robbie and his dad after school, he begins to question the bully’s history of injuries and wonders if Officer Colson might do more than yell.

People problems suddenly seem a lot more challenging than homework, but maybe with the right plan―and some math―the Math Kids can deal with their classroom woes and make sure Robbie stays safe.

The Math Kids: The Triangle Secret —
A Mysterious Will Launches The Math Kids Into Their Riskiest Adventure Yet!

When FBI Special Agent Carlson is kidnapped while investigating the plane crash of Willard Howell, an eccentric billionaire inventor, the Math Kids spring into action.

If Catherine, Stephanie, Justin, and Jordan can figure out the Great Triangle mentioned in Howell’s will, they might just uncover who’s behind the crash and Agent Carlson’s kidnapping—if they don’t get caught themselves!