I have been a fan of Jeff Strand since way back in August of 2016 when I loved and hated Specimen 313 (haha). Having him back on the blog makes me very, very happy. I hope you enjoy this as much as I did. And Jeff – this post brought back some memories haha.
The Night I Was a Skeleton
I don’t want this essay to immediately involve you saying, “Goodness, but you’re old!” but in my day, kids, Halloween costumes came in boxes that looked like they should contain birthday cakes. You got a cheap-ass plastic mask that only covered the front of your face, and then a very thin jumpsuit to complete your transformation.
In the early days, the jumpsuit would not be the outfit worn by the character you were trying to portray, but, rather, a picture of that character. If, for example, you went trick-or-treating as Spider-Man, the costume would have Spider-Man on the front. It was like he damaged his suit fighting Doctor Octopus and settled for wearing a shirt with his own picture on it. Eventually this would change, but in my early trick-or-treating days I was cosplaying as somebody wearing a Spider-Man shirt.
If you were dressed as C-3PO or Batman, the mask was okay. If you were going as a human, like Evel Knievel or one of the Dukes of Hazzard, the mask was an eerie, haunting representation that fueled a thousand nightmares. Have a crush on Bo Duke? You wouldn’t for long. This was a demonically possessed version of Bo Duke whispering for you to kill for him.
Oh, they had cool costumes back then. Rubber masks and stuff. But I, lacking the financial means to purchase one myself, was forced to ask my parents to buy me one. Every year, they’d consider my request for exactly zero seconds and then say, no, choose one of the cake boxes.
But one year I saw a rubber skull mask that I had to have. It was actually the skull mask from Halloween III: Season of the Witch, but I didn’t know that. I just knew that I needed this mask if I wanted to be the coolest skeleton of them all for Halloween. And that meant I had a lot of saving up to do.
Save I did. Every time we went into Pay-N-Save, I looked at that mask, and imagined how amazing I was going to look in it. I already had a black shirt that had a skeleton torso on it, and I was going to get bone socks and bone gloves to complete the illusion that I was a walking, talking skeleton.
My friend was going to affix Dr. Scholl’s Lamb’s Wool all over his face and arms and be an amazing werewolf. Fangs! Yellow contact lenses! We had absurdly long and detailed conversations about how incredible our Halloween costumes were going to be that year.
And eventually, yes, I had enough money to buy the skull mask.
“Don’t buy the skull mask,” my mom told me. “If you wait until right before Halloween, it’ll be half-price.”
Sure, and if I waited until right before Halloween, it might be gone! Had you thought of that, Mom???
I bought the mask at full price. And, yes, right before Halloween it was half-price. But that cruel lesson in economics is not what I’m here to write about. I had the mask! And I was going to be the skeleton! On Halloween night, I put on my costume, and it was sweeeeeeet.
Of course, I could only use it for the indoor portion of the spooky celebration. I grew up in Fairbanks, Alaska, so it was freezing by the end of October, which prevented me from using the skull t-shirt as my trick-or-treating costume. So I was a skeleton in a heavy winter coat with boots.
At least I got to look cool indoors. And my friend’s werewolf costume was…okay, he skipped the fur part of being a werewolf, and the fangs, and the contact lenses. What he did have was a plastic dog snout, with no way to affix it. So he would kind of shove it on his nose and try to contort his face so that it would stay on, which it wouldn’t, and he quickly gave up and just trick-or-treated as Kid Who Couldn’t Be Bothered This Year.
Though this is a tragic tale, it does have a happy ending. I kept the mask for over thirty years, until a friend who collects Halloween masks freaked out that I had a first-run Halloween III: Season of the Witch mask (later ones were glow-in-the-dark). It now sits as a treasured part of her collection.
Watching. Waiting for the right moment to strike.
Boo-graphy: Jeff Strand is the Bram Stoker Award-winning author of 50+ books, including Blister, A Bad Day For Voodoo, and Wolf Hunt. Cemetery Dance magazine said “No author working today comes close to Jeff Strand’s perfect mixture of comedy and terror.” Several of his books are in development as movies. He lives in Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Allison — Allison can break your bones with her mind, and she can’t control her power.
Now forty-five years old, she’s spent her life trying to stay away from other people. But a random encounter with a couple on the street leaves her believing that she may have done something horrible. Something unforgivable.
Killer-for-hire Daxton and his girlfriend Maggie know the truth. Instead of easing Allison’s anguish, they come up with a cruel plan to take advantage of it. But with Allison’s abilities exposed, there may be a bloodbath very soon…
The Odds — After a disastrous evening playing slot machines, Ethan Caustin wonders how he’s going to explain his massive loss to his wife and kids. As he tries to find his way out of the casino, sick to his stomach and filled with self-loathing, he’s approached by a stranger who offers a solution to his problem.
It’s a simple game. A 99% chance for him to win ten thousand dollars. In the remote chance that he loses…well, he’ll be strapped into a device that shatters his left arm.
The odds are very much in his favor. But this is only the first round.
As the game goes on, the prizes and penalties keep changing, along with his chances of winning. As the high stakes get out of control and Ethan desperately wants to quit, he’ll learn that they’ve only offered him one means of escape: play the game to the very end…
Twentieth Anniversary Screening — This mockumentary-style dark comedy recounts the grisly events surrounding the terrible slasher flick THE ROOFER, remembered only because an obsessed fan tried to reenact the murders as they played out on the screen. When the same theater shows the film twenty years later, will the warnings that this is a really, really bad idea be justified?
The Halloween franchise has been frightening audiences for generations, beginning with John Carpenter’s 1978 classic, and leading to Halloween (2018). With two more films set for release: Halloween Kills (2021) and Halloween Ends (2022), it’s the perfect time to revisit the films and see what made them so special. And also, which ones don’t quite make the cut in terms of quality.
The following is a non-spoiler review and opinion of almost every Halloween film ever made, ranked in order of importance. I am omitting the Rob Zombie versions from this list because I have not seen them and cannot make an accurate judgment. Nor do I want to.
Halloween (1978): The granddaddy of slashers. Its status is cemented in popular culture for good reason. From the opening credits to the film’s iconic musical score, it induces a sense of dread at every turn. When we hear those infamous piano keys, we feel the danger looming, knowing Michael Meyers is close. We are introduced to Laurie Strode, played brilliantly by Jamie Lee Curtis, a comely high school student who is relegated to babysitting on Halloween while her friends are off partying. She becomes the accidental heroine by fending off Michael, and protecting the children while Dr. Loomis searches for his escaped mental patient.
In terms of quality, it is still the gold standard for the franchise and slasher films in general.
Five Stars.
Halloween II (1981): Although he wrote and co-produced Halloween’s second entry, John Carpenter passed the director’s chair to Rick Rosenthal. Halloween II picks up the moment the first film ends. After Dr. Loomis fires six shots into Michael, he disappears, leaving Loomis to continue his search. With Laurie seriously injured, she is transported to Haddonfield Memorial Hospital for treatment. Michael continues his rampage, following Laurie to the hospital to finish what he started.
Halloween II doesn’t quite capture the same magic as the original, but it’s a very worthy sequel that streamlines one film to the next.
Four Stars.
Halloween (2018): I’d have to put this above all the sequels that came before it. As far as canon, this new entry pretends that nothing exists past Halloween (1978), even excluding Halloween II for no other reason that I can see, than to keep the dynamic of Laurie and Michael mysterious, meaning they are no longer brother and sister…a trope that Carpenter introduced with the 1981 sequel.
It begins with two journalists visiting Smiths Grove Sanitarium in hopes of getting a face-to-face with Michael Myers, who, according to the new timeline, was captured before the events of Halloween II. He eventually escapes during transport and tracks down the journalists, retrieving his original mask in the process. He now has no other motive but to locate his non-sibling, Laurie Strode, who has been preparing for this moment her whole life, barricading herself into a cage of crazy and excluding everyone around her, including her daughter.
The end showdown is nothing short of amazing, and I thoroughly enjoyed seeing the lore come full circle.
Three and a half stars.
Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers (1989): Although it blends with Halloween 4, I personally prefer this one for its darker atmosphere. Donald Pleasance reprises his role as Dr. Sam Loomis, protecting Jaime Lloyd (Danielle Harris), the daughter of Laurie Strode, from her murderous uncle. In this timeline, Laurie is dead, making it all the more confusing for modern moviegoers who are only familiar with the recent entries.
Halloween 4 and 5 are fun by themselves, but fail to move the franchise forward in significant ways.
Three Stars.
Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers (1988): Some people will disagree that I put H5 ahead of H4, and in some ways, I understand. This entry rejuvenates the franchise, bringing back Myers as a central character, unlike the misdirection of Halloween III: Season of the Witch.
We are now introduced to Jamie Lloyd, Laurie’s daughter. After learning of Laurie’s demise, we understand that Michael is now stalking his niece, hoping to snuff the family bloodline.
Two and a Half Stars.
Halloween III: Season of the Witch (1982): Michael Myers is nowhere to be found here. Halloween II was meant to be the last entry with Myers, leading to this new installment with the intent of extending Halloween lore in different directions. I personally like it, but it was a colossal flop, no one understood why it was called H3 when it departed from its previous “sequels” with no Shape to be found. It was intended to be an ongoing annual event, each year giving a new Halloween inspired theme, but unfortunately that never came to fruition. Go into it with an open mind, and you might enjoy it.
Three Stars.
Halloween H20 (1998): The year says it all. Twenty years later, this is the original Halloween (2018) forgetting H4 and H5 even exist. Laurie Strode is alive again, and she no longer has a daughter named Jamie Lloyd, she now has a son named John (Josh Hartnett) and is the headmistress of a private boarding school called Hillcrest Academy, where she has been hoping to avoid the inevitable confrontation with her brother. Her nightmares becomes a reality when Michael tracks her down, and a confrontation escalates.
This is Scream era, late ‘90s fare. If you enjoy this style, give it a shot.
Two Stars.
Halloween 6: The Curse of Michael Myers (1995): Before there was H20, the franchise gave one last crack at Michael’s existing reign. Paul Rudd is Tommy Jarvis, Pleasance is back as Loomis, and Michael is back as, well, himself. Donald Pleasance passed away during the filming, so the studio had to finish the film without him, and it shows. Some new lore is introduced here, in the form of something called Thorn. Hated it then, hate it now. But other than some side nonsense, it’s a fun watch if you don’t take it too seriously.
Two Stars.
Halloween Resurrection (2002): A sequel to H20 that wants to kill Laurie Strode within the first twenty minutes. I saw this in the theater and walked out immediately after said event. I’ve since seen it in its entirety and wished I hadn’t, citing temporary insanity as the cause. It revolves around a TV crew, showcasing their clichéd early 2000s internet broadcast that features a group of contestants spending a night in the Myers house. Surprise, Michael shows up. Busta Rhymes says, “Trick or treat, Motha Fu***,” and everything just sucks. Bottom of the barrel for me. Avoid it if you can.
One Star.
So there you have it, my loose reviews of the Halloween films. Let me know if you agree.
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Stuck in another time, Richard Langley just wants to find his way back home.
Richard is a former college professor, wandering a local neighborhood bookstore, where he stumbles upon the find of a lifetime: a signed copy of Tamerlane and other poems.
He is soon swept to another era. He is alone, confused, and his only mission is to get back to where he came from.
While struggling to adapt to his nineteenth-century environment, Richard meets a man he must help exonerate from false accusations in order to restore history’s original timeline and, ultimately, find his way back.
What Richard did not count on, was that man being the owner of the signature—Edgar Allan Poe.
Who remembers Tales from the Darkside? Can you recall that introductory sequence, the slow trip through the woods, the eerie theme music, building tension until the scene flips, colors invert, and the organ lands its ominous final note?
It imparts a sense of unease, atmospheric tension. To halt the viewing experience at this point is to leave the details of the “darkside,” an alternate place which exists in the long twilight shadows of the world, to the viewer’s imagination.
The imagination can be powerful, intimidating, and sometimes inescapable.
Speaking of horror anthology television shows of the 1980s, another opening theme that comes to mind is that of The Hitchhiker. Late at night, the opening beat would start with a hitchhiker’s solitary walk down a dirt road between desolate hills and past a rock formation. It’s this aspect I remember most of all: the setting, the sense of isolation, and minimal accompanying theme music. But from an objective standpoint, it’s just a man walking, isn’t it? Or is it?
There is more to the picture, we sense, a crucial detail askew, and more to come. As the scene fades out, this lingers on our thoughts.
Reaching even further back, I could go on to speak of The Twilight Zone, the original version created by Rod Serling, one of my favorite television shows of all time and an early influence on my work as a writer. Its theme and opening sequence needs no introduction.
Visiting an old, abandoned barn, happening across an unusual cemetery to which no road leads, or a mere stroll through the woods might serve to stir these avenues of the imagination. A late-night drive along old roads, such as one I made years back to find the Joplin Spooklight, or walking the perimeter of a school at night, with bulbs casting faint illumination across each of the locked entrances. While the building appears abandoned for the moment, the heavy silence echoes an unspoken question: are we alone here? Or are we being watched at this very moment?
Frightening? Maybe. Better yet, inspiring. Prominent fuel for an opening theme, if only in our own minds.
Every horror story must have its beginning, after all, whether the beginning of the end, a stab of sheer terror, or a moment’s speculation that leaves us uncertain but wondering, unable to turn away. It begins with the senses—the sights, the sounds—and in the darker spaces of the imagination, culminates in the question: what next?
Boo-graphy: Tommy B Smith is a writer of horror and dark fiction, award-winning author of The Mourner’s Cradle, Poisonous, and the forthcoming Black Carmenia series. His presence currently infests Fort Smith, Arkansas, where he resides with his wife and cats.
Black Carmenia 1: New Era Insomnia. Headaches. Fear.
It drove Marjorie down, cost her a career, and almost destroyed her marriage. When she and her husband Terry escaped to the quiet green countryside west of the Mississippi River, their new home, it seemed too good to last.
The snake-ridden adjoining property, bordered by a row of maple trees, hosts a deadly secret. There the blood of fields and innocents stain the crumbling ruins of an old farmhouse, a decaying testament to a web of treachery and murder stretching back to distant times.
The horror in the ruins watches in wait. Marjorie fears the end, and the end is coming.
“They’re going to love this year’s treat,” Cade said, giddily. He moved around the large steel table with a carving knife in hand. His milky eyes dazzled in the yellow glow of the overhead lights.
“What do you think, Mr. Mason?”
On the table lay Mr. Mason, covered by a sheet up to his chin. The man squirmed. His arms and legs pulled on the restraints that held him. His eyes were wide orbs, glassy and full of fear, a bruise beneath the left one. His dark hair was ruffled.
Cade lifted one eyebrow. His face loomed over Mr. Mason’s. “What? No response?” He shook his head, the joy of the time of year—the very day—coursed through his veins. “Brighten up, Mr. Mason. It’s Halloween—the greatest day of the year.”
He checked the I.V. line running into Mason’s arm. The steady drip told him Mr. Mason would be flying high soon enough, but not too high. Mr. Mason certainly didn’t want to miss out on the festivities.
“All those years of being a surgeon come in handy this time of year, don’t you think?”
Cade looked down into Mason’s green eyes. The man blinked, and a stray tear fell down the side of his face. He let out a groan, not one of pain, but fear. Cade was certain if the white cloth shoved into his mouth wasn’t there, Mason would scream for all he was worth—and at that moment, he may not have been worth much more than a cheap bottle of wine to any drunk on the side of the road, but he was worth all the candy in the world to Cade.
“Don’t worry—you will only feel a moderate amount of pain, and for only a few seconds, maybe a minute, then you’ll pass out.” He stroked Mason’s sweaty cheek, lovingly, as if he cared for the man before him. Cade’s eyes grew tender, his smile softened. “Then you won’t feel anything at all. At least until the children arrive.”
Mason shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. He strained to move. The veins on his forehead and along his throat, bulged against his skin.
“Stick around, Mr. Mason,” Cade almost sung, then patted Mason’s face. “It’s going to be a wonderful Halloween.”
2
In their homes, children sang and danced. Their mothers painted their off-colored skin whatever shade of pale, brown or black they chose. Halloween shows like It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown and Monster House, played on the television. Those who were finished with their dinners sat and watched until the sun began to set.
The anticipation made some of them bounce in their seats. Toes tapped. Fingers drummed. Betsy Wallabanger’s teeth fell out twice, and each time she put them back in, she had to adjust her lipstick. Excitement hung in the air like a thick fog on an early fall morning.
3
“Would you like a smiley face or a frown? Or maybe a really scary face?”
Mason shook his head and moaned. His eyelids were heavy, but he was still very much awake … and aware.
“Hmm … none of those? I have templates this year—got them cheap at the WalGreens in town. They practically gave them to me.” Cade rubbed the blade of his knife against the side of his head. A small flap of skin peeled back, and a few strands of dirty brittle hair flaked to the floor. Blood spilled down the side of his face. “Wow, that’s sharp—I guess I should be careful where I put it.”
Cade pulled the sheet away like a magician putting on a show. A pair of red underwear covered Mason’s privates. Other than that, he was nude. His belly was plump, the signs of a man who liked to eat well.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I shaved your body while you were asleep. You had a lot of hair, and you know how kids are—most of them just don’t like hair on their treats. But I didn’t shave your head. Some of them like to keep scalps for souvenirs these days. I wouldn’t want to disappoint the few traditionalists still out there.”
Mason shook his head and let out a yell that was muffled by the cloth. He chewed on the rag as if trying to eat it so he could cry for help.
“I’m sorry you don’t approve, but you needed the shave. What’s done is done—you’ll just have to get over it.”
Cade set the knife on a counter behind him and rifled through the templates. “Frankenstein? Oh, how about Shrek—he used to be popular with the kids.”
After going through all the patterns, he set them down, and picked up a black marker. “None of those will do. Not for you, Mr. Mason. I’ll just have to come up with something on my own.”
He stood over Mason’s ample belly and drew an odd oval just below the ribs. He drew a second oval, then a triangle around Mason’s belly button. Cade tapped his temple with the marker and looked up at the ceiling. Many images ran through his head. Then the right one came to mind. A smile creased his face.
“Oh, you are going to love this.”
He drew the large squiggly line below the triangle, then brought it down close to the waistband of his underwear. Cade picked up the knife and looked at Mason. “Are you ready for this?”
Mason screamed when Cade plunged the knife into his stomach.
4
“Come on, let’s get into your costumes.”
Children squealed with joy when the mothers beckoned them to get ready for the festivities. They hurried to their rooms and donned their outfits. They were vampires and werewolves, neither of which sparkled or walked around shirtless. They were witches with warts on their noses and brooms by their sides. They were zombies—oh so many of them were zombies. Betsy Wallabanger dressed up as a corpse bride, her hair jutting this way and that way, her outfit a natural dirty shade, complete with stains across the front. Her mother had worn that very costume when she was Betsy’s age. There were no princesses or Batmans or video game stars. There were no cute little lions, tigers or bears, oh my. There was an Alice and she carried a bucket shaped like the tardy rabbit’s head that dripped blood every few steps she took.
They practiced the chants they learned from past Halloweens. Their voices rang up to the ceilings and none were off key.
“Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.”
Some of the older kids added extra verses. “If you don’t, I won’t cry. I’ll slit your throat and then you’ll die.”
Mothers gave approving looks and fathers ruffled the enthusiastic heads of the extra verse singers.
There were no idle threats of ‘behave or else.’ Those were reserved for parents in towns where Halloween was more of a burden than a rite of passage. Besides, the kids in Dreads Hollow knew the parents would never stick to their threats of no haunting the neighborhood if they behaved—it was just as much fun for the adults as it was for the children. Then there was always the one house at the end of Corpse Avenue that did something different each year. If anything, the parents wanted to see how Mr. Aver had decorated. If there were no haunts for the kids, there was no visiting the Aver residence for the adults.
5
Cade pulled away part of the flesh of Mason’s stomach. He bit down on a piece of it, chewed and nodded. “Tasty,” he said. Blood dripped down his chin. He wiped at it absently.
He looked inside Mason’s stomach. He had deadened the nerves and cauterized the flesh where he had carved away the precious meat. Blood still flowed from the chest cavity and Mason still breathed, though shallow as it was. The carved face was gruesome, but Cade hadn’t finished. He left a long slit beneath the reamed-out mouth. A mesh was sewn in place, holding Mason’s intestines in.
Cade looked down at the man who had once said, ‘Halloween is for the devil’s children.’ He wanted to correct him—oh Halloween was so much more than for the offspring of Satan, it was for everyone, young and old, tall and small. The day didn’t so much matter, but the spirit of Halloween, that’s what drove Cade and every other person who loved the day so much, to celebrate it. He slapped Mr. Mason’s face gently with a bloodied glove, leaving four red imprints on his face. “Stay with me, Mr. Mason. Your moment is coming soon, and you won’t want to miss it.”
Cade carefully moved Mason’s body onto a gurney he had procured from one of the medical catalogues he still received, though he hadn’t practiced his once chosen profession in well over seventy years. Mason moaned and opened his eyes. Gray bags clung beneath them, and he seemed to stare off at the ceiling, not noticing Cade at all. A few seconds later, his eyes slid shut and he was unconscious to the world around him. Cade pushed the gurney through the house and onto the front porch.
Out in the fresh autumn air, Cade took a deep breath. The cool air filled his throat but burned his ancient lungs.
“I love this time of year.”
He worked like a cautious burglar, careful not to set any alarms off and give himself away. In Cade’s case, he was careful not to jar Mason’s body and have his efforts ruined by an act of clumsiness. He slid his arms under Mason’s legs and back and carried him down the steps. Cade sat him on a sturdy lawn chair, not bothering to brush off the leaves that had fallen on it or the spider web that hung between one armrest and the seat. The spider on the web crawled from one sticky line to another until it sat on Mason’s forearm.
Back inside, Cade grabbed the accessories, chip wrappers and empty beer cans. He littered the area around Mason with the garbage and placed one of the cans in the man’s hand.
Cade stepped back and looked at his creation. The backdrop of his old house with its warped steps, shuttered windows and flaking paint would give anyone from outside of Dreads Hollow the creeps. Those people would cautiously walk away, their eyes not wavering from the sight before them, or they would run as if their hair was on fire. Cade smiled and shook with something akin to lust. His body tingled. His heart raced with excitement.
6
They walked the streets of the neighborhood, clothed in their homemade outfits and masks. Each child’s eyes beamed with excitement as they went from door to door. The welcome lights shone brightly at each house, luring the kids to knock and speak their chants. Neighbors opened doors, smiled, and played along. They oohhed and ahhed at the costumes; they told the children how scary and terrifying, and even how sickening they were; they gave them treats of lady fingers and animal eyes, of hair necklaces and cooked tongues.
“I got a rock,” one kid said when he left each house.
Tunes of Trick or Treat rang throughout the night until they reached the Aver residence at the end of Corpse Avenue. A dim bulb hung from the porch’s ceiling. It cast shadows that looked like pointy fingers stretching across the ground. Cade stood on the porch, his face covered by a mask made from the skin of Mason’s stomach.
Children approached the house. Their bodies hummed with anticipation and their eyes darted about the yard. Mason sat in the shadows near the porch, one hand wrapped around the beer can. He moaned weakly. The children stopped. Some of the parents leaned into get a better look.
“Welcome one. Welcome all. Let’s not delay this year. I hope you will not be disappointed with this year’s treat at the Aver residence. I call this Drunk Man.” Cade flipped a switch that lit up the yard.
Loud gasps echoed through the night as parents and children alike took in Cade’s work. Mason’s stomach had been carved out as if it were a normal pumpkin face, the lining of his insides burned black. A trickle of blood still washed down into the man’s briefs. Mason’s eyes had been sewn open and crusted blood clung to his face. His intestines, which had been held in by the mesh earlier, now dangled on Mason’s lap. It appeared as if they had been vomited out of the wide mouth of his belly. The cloth that had been in his mouth earlier was gone. Mason’s bottom lip trembled.
Betsy Wallabanger—six past a hundred years of age—approached the creation, cautiously. “He’s still alive,” she said with wide blue eyes that held childish excitement in them. She reached forward with one hand, then pulled it back quickly, uncertainty stretching across her face.
“Go ahead. It’s okay, he can’t move,” Cade said.
Betsy set her pillowcase bag on the ground and leaned down. She sunk her teeth into one of Mason’s thighs. A scream came from his throat as she worked her jaw from side to side. She ripped off a piece of flesh, her teeth coming out slightly. She shoved them back in place and chewed. After she swallowed, she smiled. “Delicious.”
Cade clapped his hands like the young child he no longer was. He motioned with his hands. “Come, little ones. Enjoy this year’s treat from the Aver residence.”
Children squealed as they lit in on Mason. His screams filled the night, much to Cade’s satisfaction. The parents looked on with a happiness reserved for their offspring.
“You really outdid yourself this year, Aver,” one of the fathers said before he walked away with his little boy. Blood soaked the front of the boy’s costume, and he licked his fingers clean of the blood that had been on them.
7
Cade sat on the porch in an ancient rocker that squealed like a wounded rat as it went back and forth. The sounds of singing, happy children had long since faded. What remained of Mason lay scattered on the lawn. There were bones here and there, a clump of hair by the sidewalk—the scalp had not been taken this year. One of the kids had bit off his privates. Or was it one of the moms? Cade didn’t know, and honestly, it didn’t matter. The birds and bugs would come and clean up the mess, leaving only bones behind.
On his lap sat a skull. Part of it was still pink from blood and meat. He pulled a piece of flesh off the cheekbone and popped it into his mouth. He chewed, then swallowed.
“Hmm … Delicious.”
AJ Brown is a southern-born writer who tells emotionally charged, character driven stories that often delve into the darker parts of the human psyche. Most of his stories have the southern country feel of his childhood.
AJ draws inspiration from every day events and conversations. The characters of his stories are drawn from people he has met or seen during his life. Some of the best stories are inspired by his two children.
Though he writes mostly darker stories, he does so without unnecessary gore, coarse language, or sex.
AJ is also a husband to Cate and a father to two kids, who often inspire him in the most interesting ways.
More than 200 of his stories have been published in various online and print publications. His story Mother Weeps was nominated for a Pushcart Award in 2010. The story, Numbers, won the quarterly contest at Wily Writers in June 2013.
It’s always been a pleasure to be invited along to Meghan’s House of Books Halloween Extravaganza. I’ve enjoyed it each and every time. This year I thought I’d do a short article about guising or, more particularly, masks.
On reading up on guising it seems that the tradition grew as a way for children, and adults, to avoid the dead when they visited on Halloween. Or something along those lines. Now I like that as a concept but there’s a different take I wanted to present to you, dear reader. And perhaps as much to myself.
We all hide our true selves from time to time. Some more than others. Often dependent on the situation we are in. So, your work persona might be very different to your persona with friends which again may be different to your round the house personality and so on. Some masks may be worn for self-protection in a world where prejudice is rife and the anonymity of social media (a mask in itself) emboldens the bigots who are out there. That is not my story to tell.
For many, masks develop in childhood. I was bullied as a kid. A lot of people were and, sadly, continue to be. For me, it was mainly for being a bit of a nerd (bright kid, crap clothes). That was probably the first time I learned to wear a mask. I learnt to dumb down and hide the fact I was clever. I know I am not alone in this.
Now somewhere along the line I got into horror. Probably around the age of 15 or so. I remember having the Gremlins Read Along audiobook as a vague dabbling into horror and progressed from there. Ended up reading the book adaptation of Nightmare on Elm Street long before seeing the films and have to admit my imagination worked far more effectively than the films in the end. So, where is the mask here, I hear you cry. Well, this is the mask from my family. My Dad didn’t really get horror and couldn’t really understand what I got from it. So, I don’t really talk to my family about my horror writing and therefore hide it away. Even when up for awards I don’t mention it. Whether this is really a mask or just hiding from a situation; discuss amongst yourselves.
With the advent of social media, as noted above, it is interesting to see the persona some people adopt and the masks people choose to wear (or indeed the masks people drop behind the distance a screen and keyboard present). So much can be hidden behind that avatar, so much of us presented as the best versions of ourselves. The thing is that you risk getting lost in this other you of your own making; a smiling personality which may be drowning in tears on the inside. And there is a fear of judgement should that mask slip and our vulnerability be revealed.
Okay, so the link to Halloween, and thanks for sticking with me so far, is that this is a day when we get to wear masks as we go out and about on the streets asking neighbours and strangers for treats. Yet, I would claim here that some of the masks out there are people being free to express the true them and drop their day-to-day societal masks. Societal norms are abandoned and we can fully embrace “us”. The same, I find is true of horror conventions. Places where I know I have found my tribe. A place, other than at home with my wife or out with close friends, where I feel I can be me. There is a natural coming together of the like-minded and, what I have found personally, the welcoming.
As said, this was a short musing as an offering to Meghan’s celebrations. There may be pieces in the above which chimed with you. Equally, there may have been rolling of eyes and a note of “just be yourself and let the world accept you for who you are”. This is sound advice. Yet there is something drilled into a lot of us as kids that fitting in is what is required. And it takes time to feel comfortable to let those masks slip – and there are always multiple masks – where that vulnerability dissipates and all that is left is the wonder that is you.
So maybe we should hold on to that freedom that the 31st October brings with it and take that as a mantra through the entirety of the year. I know it is something I shall certainly ponder.
Boo-graphy Phil Sloman is a writer of dark psychological fiction. His first story was published in 2014 and he has been writing ever since. In 2017 Phil was shortlisted for British Fantasy Award Best Newcomer for his novella Becoming David, and was part of Imposter Syndrome from Dark Minds Press shortlisted for British Fantasy Award Best Anthology in 2018, and edited the 2020 British Fantasy Award shortlisted anthology The Woods. Phil regularly appears on several reviewers’ Best of Year lists.
Richard leads a simple, uncomplicated life in the suburbs of London where anonymity is a virtue. His life has a routine. His cleaner visits twice a week. He works out in his basement, where he occasionally he kills people. Everything is as Richard wants it until David enters his life. What happens next changes his existence in its entirety and the lives of those around him. Is he able to trust anything to be true? And will he be able to escape David or will David take over Richard’s life completely?
Meghan's House of Books 