Tag: Halloween Extravaganza

AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Patrick Lacey

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Meghan: Hey, Patrick!! Welcome back. What is your favorite part of Halloween?

Patrick: Pumpkin beer. And pumpkin coffee. And also pumpkin English muffins. My favorite part of Halloween is all of it. It’s that you can walk into any grocery store or pharmacy and find at least one discount skeleton mask that’s probably painted with poisonous chemicals or one plastic rubber bat that’s probably…painted with poisonous chemicals. It’s that the entire world seems to be on my wavelength, which, lemme tell you, is quite often not the case.

Meghan: What is your favorite Halloween tradition?

Patrick: May I make this a two-for-the-price-of-one answer? If so, super! If not, this is awkward. I grew up in a horror household. My parents dug the genre and, lucky for me, they didn’t much care what I watched, R ratings be damned. So what we’d do is we’d go trick-or-treating but once the eggs started cracking and the tee-pee started rolling, we came back home and watched horror movies like they were going out of style. The real stars of the show were the snacks. I’m talking junk food like you’ve never seen. My mom persuaded me to eat relatively (insert air quotes here) healthy but on Halloween night, all dietary bets were off. We’re talking nachos, pizza rolls, and deviled eggs (emphasis on the devil). We’d shove snack after snack into our mouths until our bellies inflated and what’s better than that? What’s better than spending quality family time watching Kevin Bacon get his throat pierced with the sharp end of an arrow or Johnny Depp get swallowed by a bloody bed, all while eating things with more artificial ingredients than a can of paint thinner? Answer: nothing. It was during one of those marathons that I leaned over a lit pumpkin-scented candle and managed to catch my bangs on fire. I snuffed the flames out quick enough but have you ever smelled burnt hair? It’s a lot stronger than anything Yankee Candle carries. I surveyed myself in the mirror and yeah, there would need to be an emergency hair cut before returning to school, but you know what? Who cared? Burning bangs or no burning bangs, that night there were no problems. There were only slashers and junk food and is there anything else? To this day, if by some strange circumstance, I catch a whiff of charred hair, it zaps me back to that living room, to those snacks, to that wonderful night.

Which brings us to part two of this question, the newer tradition of carving a jack-o-lanterns with my wife and daughter. With my wife, we’ve been doing this since day one of us, but with my daughter, we’re coming up on Halloween II (the holiday, not the movie), so it’s about as new as new gets. Last year, I don’t think she was cognizant enough to understand why her parents were wielding chef’s knives and gouging large orange apples but this year—this year, all bets are off. She’s got about five non-mom and non-dad words in her vocabulary, one of which happens to be “pumpkin.” Really, it’s more like “pum pum” but she’ll get there. Any flash of orange, she lights up like a Halloween blow mold, so I’m thinking the carving will be one for the books this year. The best part is I’ve tried not to push the seasonal addiction on her, but the moment she saw her first Beistle cut-out, she smirked ear to ear. I think it’s been passed down to her, this addiction that comes from who knows where. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Meghan: If Halloween is your favorite holiday (or even second favorite holiday), why?

Patrick: Two words: spooky walks. There is nothing—I repeat—nothing better than taking a stroll around your neighborhood, town, city—whatever—once the leaves start to turn. What other time of year can you see gravestones and animatronic gargoyles in someone’s front yard? And that’s just one house, if you’re lucky. I adore pulling on a sweatshirt and grabbing a pumpkin beer and then hiding that pumpkin beer in a non-descript thermos so as to avoid being arrested, then going for a seasonal stroll. I always end up in a neck of the woods I never even knew existed. This one time, a few years back, I traversed a side street wherein every single front porch was decked out in Halloween bliss, but here’s the kicker: I could never find that street again, no matter how many times I searched, which begs the question: did I accidentally cross over into a parallel dimension or did I have a few too many of those non-descript pumpkin beers? Probably it’s the latter but a man can dream.

Meghan: What are you superstitious about?

Patrick: Everything. But there’s this one thing in particular. It’s maybe more innocuous than walking under a latter or spotting a black cat (which doesn’t bother me, seeing as how I’ve owned two or five). What it is, is the number thirteen, specifically how that number appears on my Kindle. I mostly read ebooks on account of my glasses are trifocals and the font’s easily adjustable. If I’m reading and arrive at the 13% mark, I’ve gotta keep going, if only to reach 14%, because if I stay at that cursed number, something insane will happen. Dead birds will fall from the sky. Every tree within a five-mile radius of my house will shrivel and rot. And the sun itself will burn out, dowsing the world in a never-ending cycle of darkness.

Meghan: What/who is your favorite horror monster or villain?

Patrick: Freddy Krueger, full stop. Here’s the thing. Freddy’s the reason I’m a horror fan. Like I mentioned before: my parents didn’t give a darn what I watched, for better and worse (mostly better). Because of this lack of parental advisory, one of the first movies I remember watching is A Nightmare on Elm Street. And let me tell you: it did a number on me. I had actual nightmares for days, maybe weeks, on end. But I couldn’t stop thinking about that glove and that fedora. So I watched it again. And again. Then I watched the sequels. And my revulsion turned to fascination. I loved the sense of nightmare logic. Because we’re dealing in dreams, the rules are less rigid and more fluid. Doors don’t lead where they ought too. Steps are made from oatmeal for some reason. And is that a goat over there? Yes, that’s definitely a goat.

Meghan: Which unsolved murder fascinates you the most?

Patrick: The Zodiac Killer has long been a morbid fascination of mine and I think it has to do with reading too many Batman comics, specifically those with the Riddler and how he always left clues and if you could just decipher them, you could stop him from performing whatever villainy was on his mind. But the difference is that Batman always solved said puzzles and real life isn’t so squeaky clean. I’m not exactly writing my thesis on the Zodiac but from what I’ve read, part of me wonders if the puzzles were intentionally unsolvable. He promised answers in there somewhere, all jumbled up, but maybe there never were answers.

Meghan: Which urban legend scares you the most?

Patrick: I’m from a small fishing town named Gloucester. It’s on the north shore of Massachusetts. And in my small fishing town, there was this tale making the rounds when I was a freshman, sophomore, somewhere around there. People swore there was a group of kids that called themselves the Gloucester Vampires. They congregated in abandoned buildings and under bridges late at night, when the town slept, and they did unspeakable things, performed rituals from texts so evil, reading a single page could make your mind burst like an over-ripe cantaloupe. Or so they said. Probably, it was a bunch of kids who wore black and were in the thick of their Hot Topic phase. But to my over-active mind, there was a cult in my small fishing town, a cult searching for new members. Once they chose you, there was no canceling your membership. I was so perturbed by this (probably) imaginary cult, I wrote a novel about it. It’s called We Came Back. It’s about to go out of print as of this writing but it’ll rise from the depths in a new edition soon enough.

Meghan: Who is your favorite serial killer and why?

Patrick: Care for a deep cut, so to speak? My wife’s family has a vacation home in Cape Cod. We got there twice, maybe thrice times a year, and in the neighboring town of Truro, there was once a serial killer who went by the name Tony Chop Chop, which, as far as serial killer names go, has got to be up there. The killings had a slight ritualistic bend, insofar that the hearts were removed from the victims. The case never gained the popularity that other killers of the time did, but Kurt Vonnegut wrote an article about Mr. Chop Chop in Life Magazine of all places, so the situation didn’t exactly go unnoticed. I’ve traveled to one of the supposed murder locations—a crypt long since busted open and cleared out—and you can’t deny the dread. It sticks to you like Laffy Taffy. In reality, serial killer culture deeply disturbs me, so much so that I wrote a novel (Where Stars Won’t Shine) to get it out of my system. And while I’m not exactly going to start a Tony Chop Chop blog, I do find the case fascinating.

Meghan: How old were you when you saw your first horror movie? How old were you when you read your first horror book?

Patrick: I’ll echo my earlier answer here. It was A Nightmare Elm Street, which I saw at the ripe age of way too young. But I’m not complaining. Thanks again, Mom and Dad. For horror books, it’s got to be Stephen King‘s Skeleton Crew but that only counts on a technicality. See, my mother had an dog-eared, spine-creased copy on her bookshelf. The one with that wide-eyed monkey and the cymbals. I’d pull it down, half-cover my eyes so said monkey couldn’t stare into my soul, and flip to a page at random. I loved what I read but I couldn’t read for long because I knew the book was alive, that it had teeth in some secret compartment, so it was better to place it back on the shelf where I found it. Years later, I’d give it a proper read and it would become a favorite. I still have my mom’s copy. Thus far, I haven’t seen those teeth. Maybe they just haven’t come in yet.

Meghan: Which horror novel unsettled you the most?

Patrick: It’s gotta be The Grip of It by Jac Jemc. I don’t see this one getting as much love as it rightfully deserves. It’s a haunted house novel, which is probably my favorite sub-genre, seeing as how I grew up in one (a story for another time). The horror that makes me all shivery is when bad stuff isn’t easily definable. Masked killers are fun but you can see a masked killer. What you can’t see are invisible forces working to unravel our minds one cold spot at a time. That’s what The Grip of It is. It’s a series of inexplicable scenes with no clear-cut answers. We, as readers, aren’t even sure if the house is haunted. And if it is, we can’t begin to theorize what’s haunting it. I don’t like it when authors tie things up in bow. I much prefer when horror is kept vague and it doesn’t get vaguer than The Grip of It.

Meghan: Which horror movie scarred you for life?

Patrick: Stick with me here. There’s this one scene in The Mothman Prophecies that’s always on repeat in my brain. It’s when Richard Gere is washing his face in the bathroom sink, huddled over the faucet. We see the mirror and in that mirror is a shape standing just behind Richard. The problem with that shape is you can’t see its face. It’s like a smear on the lens that became sentient. And I have this thing with smooth faces. The concept of person with no eyes, ears, mouth, just smooth flesh—heck no. So while The Mothman Prophecies isn’t exactly known a walk-don’t-run flick, that scene is burrowed beneath my skin. Even today, when I’m washing my face, I know he’s there in the mirror. Mothman’s there and this time my eyes are the camera.

Meghan: What is your favorite Halloween costume?

Patrick: My favorite Halloween was when I dressed up as a zombie this one time in eighth grade, which in and of itself doesn’t demand bragging rights, but I wasn’t just any rotting corpse. I was fourteen and it was the early 2000’s. Nu metal was having a moment. The most infamous practitioners? Limp Bizkit. And since I was a super fan, I dressed as the lead singer. Let me say that again: one time, two decades ago, I walked around dressed as a dead Fred Durst and asked strangers for candy.

Meghan: What is your favorite Halloween-themed song?

Patrick: Gonna cheat here and choose the original Halloween theme, composed by Mr. ball-of-sunshine himself, John Carpenter. Sure it’s not a Halloween-themed song but it’s a song in a film called Halloween. Take that, semantics. The thing with this theme is it makes anything sinister and brooding. Break it out at a party, and it’ll set the mood with those dueling notes and that odd time signature (I wanna say it’s 5/4 but my math could be wrong). But why limit yourself? Crank it while you’re washing the dishes. You’ll be surprised by the results. On their own, dishes are boring. But with John Carpenter in tow, suddenly that chef’s knife takes on a whole new meaning. It’s great for long drives, too, especially on a cool fall night when the trees are bare and the fallen leaves scuttle in the wind. And make sure you keep those high beams on because you know Michael’s out there. He’s always out there.

Meghan: What is your favorite Halloween candy or treat? What is your most disappointing?

Patrick: My favorite Halloween candy is candy corn and the most disappointing is also candy corn. Hear me out. I love the OG kind. And yes, I understand it tastes like melted candle wax mixed with high fructose corn syrup but don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. And if you have tried it, and you still hate it, then it’s okay to be wrong sometimes. Which brings us to the disappointment. It’s like I said: I love the original candy corn, but these weird new flavors? These fruity-flavored knock-offs? These caramel-flavored monstrosities? Not on my watch. There’s something so pure about candy corn and to mess with perfection only ruins the allure. So give me some CC all day long but make sure it’s the kind that’s been on sale since the seventies and is probably from the same batch.

Meghan: I just can’t imagine Halloween without you, Patrick, and some of these answers made me laugh out loud. Thanks for stopping by!! We’ll have to make plans for next year as well. But before you go, what are your top three Halloween movies?

Patrick:
Hack-O-Lantern
If you haven’t seen Hack-O-Lantern, stop reading this and go see Hack-O-Lantern. This thing is dripping with vintage Halloween goodness. You could make a drinking game wherein you pause and take a shot every time a retro seasonal decoration pops up in the background. Though, on second thought, don’t do that because I refuse to be held accountable. Also, it’s got heavy metal and satanic panic vibes, the chocolate and peanut butter of horror. If robed cultists, devil-masked killers, and incessant music video dream sequences are your thing (and they really should be), look no further.

Night of the Demons
Just the perfect movie to throw on for the big night. It’s got a spooky mansion, excellent demonic make-up effects from legend Steve Johnson, and a fantastic wraparound story in which a grumpy old man gets what’s coming to him. Director Kevin Tenney is on record saying he wasn’t even a horror fan when he came aboard the film. Could’ve fooled me. I watch it every October. And also every November and December.

Trick or Treat
Note the “or” as in not Trick ‘r Treat. This is another heavy metal horror flick and if you’re sensing a pattern, it’s because I’m a life-long metal head and horror head (which I’ve never seen in print and will most certainly not Google). In a nutshell, a high schooler’s favorite metal musician dies and inhabits our protagonist to then help him exact revenge against his bullies. Bad things ensue. Like the other two films, this thing is just begging to be watched on a cool autumn night in the presence of a pumpkin-scented candle. Unfortunately, because of legal issues with the heavy-metal-tinged soundtrack, this one can be difficult to track down. The DVD’s out of print and there’s no American Blu-ray, though there is a Spanish one with an English version of the film. What I’m saying is, it might take some effort to track down, but the pay-off’s worth it a thousand-fold.

Boo-graphy:
Patrick Lacey was born and raised in a haunted house. He currently spends his time writing about things that make the general public uncomfortable. He lives in Massachusetts, in a hopefully un-haunted house, with his wife, his daughter, and his ginormous cat. Follow him on Twitter.

Sleep Paralysis: A Collection
Sleep paralysis: A transitional state between wakefulness and sleep, accompanied by powerful hallucinations and muscle weakness, preventing one from moving.

A website that specializes in suffering. A basement filled with secrets and bones. An apartment housing much more than just ghosts. These are the places between reality and the unknown. These are the stories that stay with you long after you’ve read them. These are the things that visit your dreams. And nightmares.

GUEST BOOK REVIEW by William Meikle: 31 Days of A Night in the Lonesome October: Day 29

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A Night in the Lonesome October —
All is not what it seems…

In the murky London gloom, a knife-wielding gentleman named Jack prowls the midnight streets with his faithful watchdog Snuff – gathering together the grisly ingredients they will need for an upcoming ancient and unearthly rite. For soon after the death of the moon, black magic will summon the Elder Gods back into the world. And all manner of Players, both human and undead, are preparing to participate.

Some have come to open the gates. Some have come to slam them shut.

And now the dread night approaches – so let the Game begin.

Author: Roger Zelazny
Illustrator: Gahan Wilson
Genre: Fantasy, Horror, Gaslamp
Publisher: Avon Books
Publication Date: September 1, 1994
Pages: 280

October 29th

Jack tries to convince Jill to switch sides in the game, but she is determined to play it out the way she started, despite now having conflicting emotions about it all. They have tea anyway, all cozy and domestic, which unnerves Snuff.

Snuff takes a walk and makes a trip to the burned out ruin of the Good Doctor’s place to check if there is any trace of the man. He finds no burned bodies but, in the barn, finds the smell of the Big Man, and also discovers a sleeping bat, Cheeter, the Count’s familiar. It is intimated that the Count may not be as dead as first thought, and that they are still in the game. The bat and Snuff share information, but are disturbed by the arrival of the mad Vicar with a crossbow.

Snuff is in serious trouble, and despite the fluttering help of the bat it seems like the Vicar has him dead in his sights… until ‘Linda Enderby’ arrives, Snuff does his ‘I’m just a big daft dog’ act, and the Vicar is persuaded to leave.

‘Linda Enderby’ isn’t so easily fooled though. Revealing ‘herself’ as the Great Detective, Holmes makes it known he knows approximately what Snuff is, knows about the game, and is determined to try to save the Vicar’s niece from being sacrificed on the big night.

Snuff tries to tell him about Larry Talbot’s similar plan, but Holmes doesn’t trust the beast in Talbot, believing it will be too strong to allow Talbot to be rational on the night. Holmes asks Snuff to show him where the ritual will take place.

Snuff agrees.

So another alliance has been made. Holmes ‘feels’ like he should be a closer but there’s a streak of rebellion in the character that might yet show through. The pieces have almost finished being moved about now, and we’re approaching the endgame fast, with still no clue as to who might win, and still with more than a few wild cards determined to disrupt things.

Hang on to your hats, it’s almost showtime.

Boo-graphy:
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with more than thirty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries.

He has books available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, Crossroad Press and Severed Press, and his work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines.

He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company.

When he’s not writing he drinks beer, plays guitar, and dreams of fortune and glory.

Website

The Green & the Black —
A small group of industrial archaeologists head into the center of Newfoundland, investigating a rumor of a lost prospecting team of Irish miners in the late Nineteenth century.

They find the remains of a mining operation, and a journal and papers detailing the extent of the miners’ activities. But there is something else on the site, something older than the miners, as old as the rock itself.

Soon the archaeologists are coming under assault, from a strange infection that spreads like wildfire through mind and body, one that doctors seem powerless to define let alone control.

The survivors only have one option. They must return to the mine, and face what waits for them, down in the deep dark places, where the green meets the black.

William’s Halloween Giveaway

GUEST BOOK REVIEW by William Meikle: 31 Days of A Night in the Lonesome October: Day 28

megHan

A Night in the Lonesome October —
All is not what it seems…

In the murky London gloom, a knife-wielding gentleman named Jack prowls the midnight streets with his faithful watchdog Snuff – gathering together the grisly ingredients they will need for an upcoming ancient and unearthly rite. For soon after the death of the moon, black magic will summon the Elder Gods back into the world. And all manner of Players, both human and undead, are preparing to participate.

Some have come to open the gates. Some have come to slam them shut.

And now the dread night approaches – so let the Game begin.

Author: Roger Zelazny
Illustrator: Gahan Wilson
Genre: Fantasy, Horror, Gaslamp
Publisher: Avon Books
Publication Date: September 1, 1994
Pages: 280

October 28th

Snuff’s calculations are done. The central point is the same hill and tumbled old stones where he and Graymalk were transported to the Dreamworld. Not exactly a surprise, but it appears Snuff is the first of the calculators to figure it out.

He has a long talk with Bobo which serves as some more exposition about the nature of the game, discovering that Bobo has been paying more attention than most of the actual familiars. The game is ancient, and is indeed a battle to open, or close, the way for the coming of the Old Gods of Chaos. We also hear of a legend, of a wild man and his dog who are always there at the end.

At the end of the day Jack and Snuff reminisce about previous games they have played.

Just how old are Jack and Snuff? And how many games have they played. There was a mention sneaked in of Cain and Abel. Is that Jack’s curse? Is he the original murderer, cursed forever to weild a blade? Or have I just watched too many episodes of Supernatural? There was another allusion to a man on a hill and a last supper. is there a Judas lurking somewhere?

Whatever the case, this chapter was a short one, just to remind us of players and stakes and bring us back to the point of it all before the climax. But Snuff has made a pledge to stay friends with Graymalk whatever happens, and I suspect nothing will ever break his bond with Jack.

Three days to go, and all to play for.

Boo-graphy:
William Meikle is a Scottish writer, now living in Canada, with more than thirty novels published in the genre press and over 300 short story credits in thirteen countries.

He has books available from a variety of publishers including Dark Regions Press, Crossroad Press and Severed Press, and his work has appeared in a number of professional anthologies and magazines.

He lives in Newfoundland with whales, bald eagles and icebergs for company.

When he’s not writing he drinks beer, plays guitar, and dreams of fortune and glory.

Website

The Green & the Black —
A small group of industrial archaeologists head into the center of Newfoundland, investigating a rumor of a lost prospecting team of Irish miners in the late Nineteenth century.

They find the remains of a mining operation, and a journal and papers detailing the extent of the miners’ activities. But there is something else on the site, something older than the miners, as old as the rock itself.

Soon the archaeologists are coming under assault, from a strange infection that spreads like wildfire through mind and body, one that doctors seem powerless to define let alone control.

The survivors only have one option. They must return to the mine, and face what waits for them, down in the deep dark places, where the green meets the black.

William’s Halloween Giveaway

GUEST POST: John Boden

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A List of Films to Watch Around Halloween, None of Which are HALLOWEEN

How about that lame ass title?

It’s that time of year again, Boils & Ghouls. I was asked by Meghan to contribute to her yearly holiday blog series, and as usual I said yes and then flaked until literally the day before a piece is due. The grandest intention being to craft a fresh story or autobiographical sliver as I have in past years.

But, see, I think my brain is broken. Plague World and working retail have done it in. Focusing is hard and holding a captured thought is akin to catching tadpoles. So in true cop out fashion I give you this list of movies I love to watch this time of year that may or may not have anything to do with the holiday…okay, a couple of them do.

Ready? Here we go, in no rank or order…

Burnt Offerings. This amazingly gothic film concerns the account of a family whom rent an old mansion in the middle of nowhere only to discover it is not, exactly as promised. Lured by the unreal low cost, the trio learn about desires dark and hungry, about aspirations realized and locked away and never have framed old pictures of people not smiling ever been creepier. Based on the equally superb novel by Robert Marasco.

Dark Night Of The Scarecrow. A Made-For-TV movie that debuted on CBS in 1981. Starred the late Larry Drake as Bubba, a mentally retarded young man who falls victim to violence and prejudices in his tiny farm town…you think. But when the true reason behind his murder begins to show through “Vigilante” posse-runner, Otis Hazelrigg’s cracks (And my God, is it dark and icky for television) you find out it run much deeper. A fantastic cast and wonderfully creepy atmosphere have turned this into a cult favorite. Directed by Frank De Felitta.

Something Wicked This Way Comes. There is nothing that tastes more like October than this novel from the master. A deeply affecting coming-of-age tale about a town haunted. The haunts here are regret and disappointment. Are aging and absenteeism. Are wishes and I mean, we all know how long and hard a wish can clank about in the darkness. Two boys eager to be men, witness the arrival of a strange carnival one late October night. And coming with it are things that live on dreams…and barter for much bigger things. Perfection, this one!

WNUF Halloween Special. This recent treasure from Chris LaMartina is a pinnacle of “found footage/nostalgia itching.” An incredibly well-done trip down memory lane in the costume of a recorded-from-TV Hallwoeen special complete with commercials and static and rewinding and a fairly effective if pretty simple set-up and delivery. A ghoulishy good time!

The Funhouse. This 1981 gem is on here because I have always found it deeply creepy and it always gave me the Autumn feels, even though I think it might be set in late summer. There’s a thick vein of sleaze running through this slasher classic where a group of horny teens (always with the horny teens) decide to sneak into a carnival funhouse for a night of Bible study and crafts and by that I mean probably smoking weed and bumping uglies, only to find themselves pursued by the deformed son of the carnival owner. Not super high on gore but it makes up for it in gross close ups of drooling monster mouth and weird carny imagery.

The Other. 1972 film based on the splendid novel by Thomas Tryon. Set during the Depression, twin brother are at the center of a circle of bizarre events and murder in their rural community. The less you know going in to this one the better but it is absolutely fantastic and a gorgeous film to behold, literally.

I’m going to leave off with this one. The goofy and highly off-kilter Satan’s Little Helper. A video game obsessed little boy finds himself assisting a serial killer plundering his town on Halloween. The boy is all about a game where you help the Devil do bad things and since the killer is dressed as the horned one he thinks that’s what he’s doing. Sure this relatively tame flick has all kinds of logic holes and the acting isn’t the best. But it’s fucking weird. And a lot of fun. From Jeff Lieberman, the feller what gave us the killer worm classic Squirm and the slashery Just Before Dawn.

There. You’ve maybe seen these. Might not have heard of some. Or maybe just never gave them a thought as a Halloween watch. But seeing the white-painted Kirk face every year…hearing the doo-doo-doo-doo of the Silver Shamrock jingle…Watching that little dude with the burlap face chase Brian Cox around his house with a broken lollipop? Change it up. Add one or two of these to your last weekend’s viewing and I promise you you might find at least one new favorite to sew into your Octobers from now on.

And if not, Michael Myers will be waiting for you…as always.

Boo-graphy:
John Boden lives a stone throw from Three Mile Island with his wonderful wife and sons. A baker by day, he spends his off time writing or wasting time watching terrible horror films from the 70s and 80s. He likes Diet Pepsi, cheeseburgers, heavy metal, and old country music and often sports ferocious sideburns. While his output as a writer is fairly sporadic, it has a bit of a reputation for being unique. The books Dominoes, Spungunion, Walk The Darkness Down, and Jedi Summer are his doing alone. Detritus in Love, Out Behind the Barn, Rattlesnake Kisses, Cattywampus, and the nearly finished Black Salve… on those, he had assistance from Mercedes Yardley, Chad Lutzke, or Robert Ford. He’s easily tracked down on Facebook or the Twitter and as rumors have it, a pretty friendly feller… honest.

SHORT STORY: A Horror Trio by Jon M. Jefferson

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The Job

As he washed his blood from her shirt, he continued to mutter “never answering the want ads again.” It wasn’t that it was the worst job he ever had. But it was far from the greatest.

It started out innocent, until she brought out her “toys.” Those were her words. She had a penchant for pain and lots of money to pay him for taking it. He might not have felt so bad about it if it was just a kinky sex thing, but this was borderline crazy.

The last time, she tied him up, naked as the day he was born. She peeled back the layers of skin on his left foot. The pain was excruciating, but he refused to cry. For the money she was paying him, he would damn well take it.

After the left foot she moved to the right foot. It was still healing from the last time. So for this one she started with salt. The shards of pain shot up his leg, stabbing deep into his brain. As if that wasn’t enough, she turned to lemon juice. He blacked out as soon as the first drop touched his big toe.

The off days she would allow him to do the laundry and other light cleaning. She took extra delight as he hobbled around the house on his bandaged feet.

At times, he would remember the job market outside of her home. At least he was getting paid for this. Though, he often wondered how long before she tired of him. She hadn’t mentioned what happened to her last assistant. The possibilities seemed a bit less humane than keeping the status quo.

He had been thinking back to the day she hired him. It was late September. Indian summer was beginning to fade, the air turning a bit cooler. She had worn a black satin dress with conservative pumps, gloves and a wide brimmed hat. She never took her sunglasses off.

At the time he found it a bit disconcerting. Even now he still had not seen her eyes. A little shifty, sure, but she never missed a payment. She even gave him a great Christmas bonus. Though he did lose his pinky on Christmas Day. Slip of some equipment. It was an accident really.

She had been acting funny over the past week. Before the sessions they would walk the grounds, stopping near the pond in the center of the garden maze. This happened everyday around noon.

They didn’t talk. She wasn’t paying him for conversation. He would roll a joint, a special blend she had flown in. Everyday for the past week they would sit on a bench beside the pond, smoking the joint and watching the clouds float by.

Every night she would find a new torture. Over the entire week she never peeled skin away. This week it was thumbscrews, and then water torture. He missed the days of the peeling skin.

It was Thursday. Their walks hadn’t changed. He was rolling the joint, ensuring it was the way she liked it. “Frank?” she asked.

He wasn’t sure if he should answer. They spent so much time in silence it felt strange to break the mood. “Yes?” he answered. He felt it should have been something more profound but he didn’t have profound in him at that moment.

She lit the joint and inhaled deeply, then passed it back to him. She had taken her glasses off, looking into his eyes as she held the joint out to him. He took it even as his skin pimpled in gooseflesh.

Her eyes were white. The pupils and irises looked bleached. There was a dead quality to the stare coming from those blank, empty eyes. He took a long drag on the joint, holding it in.

“What keeps you here?” She did not turn away. Another long drag of the joint, she held it in, waiting for his answer.

“It’s all I have.” They finished and went back to the house. She did not approach him again over the next two days. They did not have their time at the pond.

On the morning of the third day he found a briefcase on the bedside table of his room. Inside he found banded stacks of 100 dollar bills, crisp and new. There was also a folded sheet of paper with a hand drawn map on it.

He knew right away that the map led to the pond in the garden. He dressed and ran down the stairs to the back door. The sun was already rising, the heat of the day rising with it.

He didn’t stop. He was in a dead run to the garden maze. He found her sitting on the bench beside the pond. The knife, that special knife, she had cut him so deeply with, lay at her feet. It was covered with the pooling blood that drained from her wrists.

Fragile

The dress, gossamer and white, had been her mother’s. It bothered her a little that she saw her mother when she looked in the mirror. Beautiful and full of life until the end, her reflection brought up too many memories, too much pain of the time before her end. Sarina loved her mother, but she missed her terribly. There was no justice in the world to take her so soon. She wasn’t done with her yet. They still had so much to talk about.

She turned away from the mirror and picked up the dress. With any luck this would be the dress she passed on to her daughter as well, a legacy from the old family. She slid into the dress and fastened the buttons as best she could. The top buttons were out of her reach and required a second set of hands. Lucy could get it when she let her back into the room.

She choose to wear her hair down, like her mother. And there would be no veil. Terrence would see her uncovered and whole when she joined him. This wasn’t a part of the traditions, but it suited her. She wanted the joining to be as much her as it was the traditions of her family.

She picked up the gloves from the bed, the last part of her dress. Long and white, a matched set to the dress, but the material was different, soft doe skin leather. Her grandmother had tanned the hide from her grandfather’s first joined kill. He provided their first feast and the materials to clothe them in the joining. Today, Terrence would hunt the first kill of their joining, another tradition.

Sarina turned and twisted in the mirror, an effort to see how the dress looked from every angle. So much like her mother, it hadn’t been altered and still fit her perfectly.

“You’re beautiful,” Lucy said. She stood in the doorway, the door knob still in her hand.

“You were supposed to wait,” Sarina said. “I wasn’t ready.” She crossed her arms. The leather scratched and chafed her skin so she let them fall to her sides. She motioned for Lucy to come into the room.

Lucy’s face filled with her smile. “Mother lives through you,” she said. The smile fell away when it was confronted by Sarina’s frown. “Sorry, it’s the dress. You look so much like her right now.”

Sarina turned back to the mirror. “Can you button the last few? I can’t reach them.”

Lucy brushed Sarina’s hair over her shoulder then fiddled with the buttons. “I still can’t believe that this dress has survived for so long,” she said. “You honor mother’s memory today.”

“Mother should be here with us,” Sarina said. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Lucy pressed her sister’s shoulders and spun Sarina to face her. “You lead the family now. Mother wasn’t your fault,” Lucy said. “Quit taking credit for the problems of the world.”

“I loved her,” Sarina said. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over to her cheeks.

“Be strong. It is all she has ever asked of you.” Lucy pulled her close and crushed her body in a tight grip. “I will always be here for you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sarina said. “You will have your own joining at some point. It is our way.”

“But we will always be sisters.” Lucy stared at their reflections in the mirror, noted but said nothing of the differences in their faces. She had gotten her fathers features, sharp, precise. Sarina looked so much more like their mother with her father’s nose. The differences were pronounced when they stood together, only their raven black hair of their mother displayed their shared heritage.

Sarina smiled at her sister’s reflection. “Go,” she said. “Check on the arrivals. I will be ready and be with you soon.”

Lucy squeezed her sister’s shoulder then moved to the doorway. “Be strong,” she said, then stepped out into the hall. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Sarina scanned her reflection one last time and took a deep breath. “You never told me that the joining would be so difficult, mother.” She glanced at the picture of her mother she kept beside the bed. “What was it like for you, at your first joining? Were you frightened? Did your mother prepare you?”

She knew the answer to that last question already. Her grandmother passed before her mother’s joining. Another tradition, another part of the life and heritage she wished she wouldn’t have to pass on to her own daughters. But it didn’t matter, the cycle repeats. One day her own child will stand before a similar mirror and question the future laid before her. She might even curse her mother that day, curse her and miss her for not being there on the day of her joining.

Sarina stopped at the hall door. She scanned the room one last time before she opened the door. “I will return,” she said. The room didn’t acknowledge her. The dust settled around her and the room as if she didn’t matter to the life that would go on when she was gone.

Music carried from the first floor, to meet her at the top of the stairs. As if on cue, the orchestra changed songs to announce her entrance into the hall. The collective gaze of the guests on the floor below turned to watch her entrance into their midst. The majority of the guests were inside the main hall. Those at the bottom of the stairs were old family and friends, close ties from her old life.

Lucy met her before the doors to the main hall. “Terrence hasn’t arrived yet,” she said. “I think he wants to make an entrance.”

“What should I do?”

“He will be here,” Lucy said. “He knows the traditions. Go. Enter the hall.”

Sarina bit her lip with a silent snarl, then followed the open path to the main hall doors. The music changed again, an announcement that she was about to enter. A sudden scrape and scuffle assaulted her ears from beyond the doorway as the guests in the hall stood at once. She bolstered her courage with a sigh and stepped into the hall.

As the tradition she walked the aisle to the join the waiting officiate at the front of the hall. She made it to halfway when a ruckus broke over the sound of the orchestra. Voices and shouts disrupted the proceedings. Terrence rushed into the hall from a side door. A small group of men followed in his wake.

He was dressed in a grew striped tuxedo with a velvet grey top hat. The suit was the tradition, the dress his father wore before him and his grandfather before his father. The tradition was completed with the bound girl over his shoulder.

Unlike the pomp and fancy dress that the guests and the bride and groom wore, this girl was close to naked. She wore a black nightie and gold cord bound her ankles and her wrists. If she had been sleeping, it didn’t matter now. She screamed and squirmed on Terrence’s shoulder but he held her fast. He marched at a hurried pace to the front of the hall, to join the officiate.

Once at the front of the hall he dropped the girl in front of him and placed a foot on her chest to keep her pinned down. She fought, squirmed, wiggled, begged, but could not break free. The guests ignored her and Terrence turned his attention to Sarina as she joined him.

Terrence took Sarina’s hand in his and looked into her eyes. “I have brought you sacrifice,” he said. The words of tradition, her moments of fear and dread slipped away as they stepped into the rites of their world.

“I accept your tribute,” she said.

Terrence pulled the girl from the floor and wrapped an arm tight across her upper body. He then gripped her chin and turned her head to the side to expose her neck. “Feast.”

Sarina’s fears and misgivings slipped away as she leaned into the waiting neck. She kissed it at first, soft and slow. When she caught the scent of meat from the offering, she licked her lips and then bit deep into the girls neck.

The Silky Edge of the Night

The black sedan cut its lights then pulled to a stop behind a copse of pine trees. In the cover of darkness he sought stealth over speed. Paid for his discretion and methods he didn’t like to leave an easy trail.

Barry grabbed his tools from the backseat and strapped the belt to his waist and then hooked up the harness. He released the magazine for his .45 for a quick inventory then snapped it back into place. He hated to carry it, only did for emergencies. Way he saw it, if he had to use it he failed to perform at his best.

Professionalism and discretion, hallmarks of the profession that garnered some steep fees for his efforts. Only once, one time, he screwed up, pulled his gun on a job. He finished it of course, but returned most of the fee for the job. Didn’t meet his standards, that’s what he told the client.

A quick jog through the woods to arrive at the outer edge of the trailer park. Barry chuckled at the thought, who hides in a trailer park? It’s where dreams go to die. But then, no one thinks to look for you there either.

In the end, hiding, life style choice, Barry didn’t care. He didn’t spend time questioning the merits of the job. Moral dilemmas got in the way of a clean shot. Worst thing a morality question could do on a job is cause him to hesitate. Hesitation in a kill or be killed world resulted in the latter.

The park was laid out in a figure eight pattern. A main road circled the park with a center road bisecting it. Trailers were on each side of the road, mostly double wides. The park owners invested in fancy street lights to give the place some old world charm. Haunting, soft light emanated from the lamps, like old world gas lamps.

The trailer he needed lay just beyond the edge of the woods. He scouted the location over the past few days to ensure access and then egress from the location. In order to insure as little fuss as possible he planned out every step of a job.

A quick look at his watch, told him he had a few minutes till midnight. Mr. Body habitually went to bed at a quarter to midnight. Barry wanted to give him a few more minutes. With good timing he could break into the trailer without waking his target.

“What ya doin’ runnin around in the dark Mr.?” He jumped into the air, when a girl stepped around the shed behind him.

He leaned against the shed as his heart hammered against his chest. “Don’t… sneak… up… on… people like that,” he said as he caught his breath again. “You could get hurt.”

The girl, young, her hair in pigtails, looked him up and down. “You probably shouldn’t be sneaking around like this,” she said. “Some of the people around here will call the cops at the drop of a hat.”

“I’m not sneaking around,” he said. “I was hoping to surprise a friend of mine. We haven’t seen each other in a few years.”

“You friends with Mr. Smith? My dad don’t like him. Says, my dad says, that he is a crazy hermit.” She lowered her voice. “I think he is hiding from the cops or something. I don’t even think Smith is his name.”

“Maybe you should head on home,” he said. “Isn’t your mom worried about you wandering off like this?”

“Oh my mom don’t care. She’s at work right now anyway.”

“Then who is taking care of you?”

“I take care of myself. Learned that a long time ago,” she said. “Only person you can ever count on is yo’self anyway.”

Cynical, so cynical, she couldn’t be more than ten or so, he thought. He couldn’t remember ever being that young but he wasn’t that bad back then, maybe. The memories hit him, a flash through his brain, unexpected, quick.

His father had come home, drunk again. “Wake up boy,” he said. “I said get up.”

Barry rolled over to find his father standing over him. He held a bottle in one hand and a back pack in the other. “Wha’?” he asked as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.

“Get yer shit and get out…”

He blinked, looked around. The trailer park came back into focus. The memories, they weren’t his. Where was the girl, he asked himself. He picked himself up from the ground and moved to cover behind the trailer. A quick scan told him he was alone again. “What the hell just happened,” he said into the night. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and forced himself to focus on his target again.

Voices floated through the night air from inside the trailer. The words unintelligible but he could make out at least two voices inside the trailer. The side door, no light above it, he could slip through unseen and still dispatch the target inside.

But the girl, he would still need to find her. She saw his face, knew he was there to see “Mr. Smith.” A soft breeze blew through the alley between trailers, no other movement suggested life around to worry about. She said her mother wasn’t home. He would take care of her next. Wasn’t his style to kill a child but sometimes the job needed him to step outside his comfort zone.

Barry slipped through the night to the side door and tested the latch. Unlocked, no barrier stood in his way.

“Aren’t you going to knock?” The voice, the girl again, behind him.

He turned to see her at the base of the stairs. “I told you I wanted to surprise him.” He kept his voice low.

“Now you’re just bein’ silly,” she said.

Her voice, in conversational tone boomed in his ears. A wave of nausea hit him, vertigo brought him to his knees. The memory crashed on the shores of his psyche. His girlfriend had left him at the beach.

Gulls called and jeered at him as he watched out into the waves, tears bled down his cheeks. She not only wanted to see other men, she was sleeping with his brother. Her words a knife driven through his heart. The dagger of confession twisted and turned to the sound of crashing waves.

The memory again not his own. He fought to stand, pulled at the hand rail to the steps to lift himself from the ground. Though he fell to the ground he didn’t feel broken or bruised, but the wind sent chills through his body as it dried the sweat.

A metallic, copper taste filled his mouth, his nose was plugged with the smell of it. Barry wiped away the sweat from his chin and neck and found his hand red with more than just his sweat. Trails of blood and sweat dribbled from the corners of his eyes and his ears.

The girl, gone again. He sat on the bottom step to catch his breath. They knew he was here, knew his intentions. The girl did it. Did she hunt him? The hunter now the hunted, when the prey changed the game without warning?

He pulled out his .45. Shoot her when she came back, a simple plan. He lost the element of surprise when she made her first attack. This had nothing to do with money anymore. The girl hurt him, attacked him when he was unprepared. Not this time. Barry chambered a round.

His body swayed with the wind as he stood. Vertigo held him in a loose grip but he fought it off. He looked up and down the alley between trailers but didn’t see the girl, so he walked back to where he first saw her.

“You can’t hide forever,” he said. At the edge of the woods his vertigo stopped. His sour stomach returned to normal. The dim light in the trailer park remained calm, steady. He could see no movement in the darkness surrounding the trailer. “This is crazy,” he said. “I’ll finish the damn job but their paying double for this one. I don’t care how messy it becomes.” He jogged back to the trailer, eyes open for movement.

No sign of the girl’s return, he slunk back to the side door for the trailer. The door still unlocked, no barrier to his entering the trailer. Now or never, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

A light came down the hall from the front of the trailer but darkness met him from the master bedroom at the back end of the trailer. Barry switched his .45 to his left hand and drew his K-bar with his right hand. The job might be messy but there was still a chance he could do it quiet.

He heard the drone of a television come from the front of the trailer as he turned toward the master bedroom. No turning back, he thought as he moved with the shadows into the back room.

The target lay on the bed, unmoving but for the steady rhythm of his breathing. A quick cut with the K-bar on the sleeping form and he could slip back out again with no one the wiser.

“Took you long enough.” She stepped from the closet further in the room. The smile, her smile, sent chills down his spine.

“Who are you?” he asked. The .45, he could raise it and fire in a blink, but he had to know.

“Just a girl,” she said. “Isn’t that obvious?”

Knuckles white on the grip of his gun, shoot her, shoot her, his internal voice screamed at him. He fought to raise his hand, to pull the trigger. His arm remained unresponsive.

She stepped closer to him, stepped closer without moving. So close, so very close, he could hear the gasping breaths that came from her lungs.

Chills wracked across his body as his flesh dimpled and puckered. “What are you?” he whispered.

She stretched out her arms and placed her hands on his temples. “I am the night,” she said.

Vertigo consumed him as he fell to the ground.

Boo-graphy:
Jon Jefferson writes Speculative fiction with forays into Noir and Bizarro. His stories have appeared in the 2013 Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Anthology, and on the Weird Tales Magazine web site. His work can also be found on Amazon and Smashwords. Flash fiction stories can be found at his site Misadventures in Strange Places and his anthologies, short stories, and novellas can be found at his Amazon Author page.

A longtime fan of Science Fiction and Fantasy stories in all their forms, he has spent most of his life looking for magic in the everyday moments of life. He hails from the tundra of Southwest Michigan. The monsters in his life include his wife, two daughters and grand babies.

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