Tag: Halloween

Halloween Extravaganza: Rachel Aukes: Halloween

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Halloween:
My Favorite Holiday;
My Dog’s Least Favorite Holiday

I love Halloween. Not for the treats, though I loved trick-or-treating as a child. What I love about the holiday is the chance for anyone to dress up any way they want; they can be any one they want. Now, I wish people treated every day as Halloween, but that’s not the world we live in, so I’ll savor the one night a year when the world goes wild.

My dog goes wild, too. Even though she’d prefer not to.

I have a fifty-pound Wirehaired Pointing Griffon. She’s a hunting dog. She loves to hunt, point, flush, chase, and retrieve. She is an outdoorsy dog that has terrified the local squirrel, chipmunk, and rabbit populations. She does not like dressing up.

She’s two and a half years old right now, which means she’s worn two costumes and will be wearing her third soon.

Ellie’s first Halloween came when she was only six months old. If you’ve never had a puppy, six months is the age of boundless energy, endless curiosity, and destructive playfulness. Knowing this, I bought her a simple harness with angel wings. I thought, she wears a harness on walks so this will be perfect! Nope. The wings lasted roughly three point two seconds before she figured out how to reach one. Her angel costume had become a fallen angel costume, which, looking back, does fit her personality better.

Ellie’s second Halloween came for an older and better trained dog. I found the perfect Halloween costume for her. She dressed up as her favorite character: the UPS driver. You see, we have Jimmy, the best UPS driver of all time. With every package he delivers, he’d leave a treat for Ellie. I swear, she could hear his truck from a mile away and would be waiting, in a perfect “sit” position, for her inevitable treat. And so when I came across a costume of a UPS driver in my dog’s size, I knew it’d be perfect.

She did far better her second Halloween. Her costume lasted nearly a minute before she’d torn into the mini package on the front of the costume. She was disappointed that there were no treats within.

(Note: I couldn’t get a good picture of Ellie in her UPS Driver costume as there were too many things for her to chew on: the hat, arms, package, you name it—it was truly irresistible to her. Attempt 1: Ellie was intent on shredding an arm. Attempt 2: I had to snap a picture the split-second after I said, “treat!” She resumed chewing immediately after the shot.)

For Ellie’s third Halloween, I haven’t yet picked out her costume, though I certainly will get her one. After all, it’s a tradition. So, help me! Give me ideas for Ellie’s Halloween costume. And maybe, your idea will turn into a costume my dog will model for at least ten minutes (fingers crossed) this year!

Rachel Aukes is a science fiction writer with over twenty books in print, including 100 Days in Deadland, which made Suspense Magazine’s Best of the Year list. She is also a Wattpad Star, her stories having over six million reads. Her popular Tidy Guides series covers tips on writing, editing, and publishing your first novel. When not writing, Rachel can be found flying old airplanes with her husband and an incredibly spoiled 50-pound lap dog over central Iowa.

Fringe 5: Fringe Legacy

It’s an age of heroes and sacrifices. 
The colonies won their independence.
But they are not at peace.

New enemies come at the fragile Alliance of Free Colonies. Assassination attempts. Kidnappings. Murder.

When Aramis Reyne is nearly killed, he turns the tables and hunts the hunters. He learns things are not as they seem. When Critch disappears, he must make an impossible rescue. 

If Reyne fails, the Alliance will fall. War will claim the colonies once again. 
The race is on and time is running out.

The Tidy Guide to Writing a Novel

Learn to write a novel in 30 minutes!

Do you dream of writing a novel, but not sure where to start? Have you been working on a book for ages but feel stuck? Despite all your best efforts, do you feel overwhelmed? The Tidy Guide to Writing a Novel brings you a no-nonsense approach to write your book right the first time. 

In this guide, you’ll learn how to: 
• Plan and organize your story ideas by breaking them out into easy, digestible bites 
• Use the simple yet mighty Little Ups approach to confidently write your first draft and subsequent drafts

The Tidy Guide to Writing a Novel is a 30-minute read that’s jam-packed with information essential for writers at any stage in their careers.

Halloween Extravaganza: Phil Sloman: The Bogeyman Is Dead, We Killed Him

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The Bogeyman Is Dead, We Killed Him

Halloween has a varied past depending on how you want to look at it. For some it is a pagan celebration, for others it is the night demons, witches and ghouls come out to play and wreak havoc on the world, and for the vast majority in our more commercial technology driven modern world it is an excuse to dress up in costume and go trick or treating. And in so doing we killed the bogeyman.

I remember as a kid being scared of the dark, or more accurately what lurked therein, walking along country lanes after school in the chill of autumn where the days are shortening and night is readying to be king, looking over my shoulder every minute or so as a new sound creaked or cracked in the shadows of the surrounding treeline. At the end of October, those shadows are already lengthening before you’ve sat down for your evening meal. And as you hit Halloween, you can bet your bottom dollar that your legs are going to be pumping like crazy to get home before the bogeyman comes to get you. But that was then.

Now I’m all grown up and somewhere along the line the bogeyman grew old with me and died without me noticing. Perhaps it is simply me being older and theoretically wiser. But I’m not so sure.

I think technology is largely to blame and especially the internet. We now live in a world where we demand proof for everything and that proof has to be delivered instantaneously. If you don’t believe me then just go and look at any online argument where links to evidence are demanded and that they must be rubberstamped with professorial endorsement. We didn’t have that back in the day, or not to the same extent. When I was growing up ,and even before that, all we had were grainy photographs taken from distance (think Bigfoot, think the Loch Ness Monster, think 101 varying ghost sightings) or apocryphal stories of ‘my friend said his cousin once saw a ghost in the cellar of the local pub’. And you believed them. Every single village where I grew up had its own ghost. Every. Single. One. You knew exactly where they were and what the conditions had to be for you to see them. And they were always going to be there if you were brave enough to stay up until midnight on 31st October. If.

Nowadays we all have video cameras sitting in our pockets hooked up to show the entire world within seconds what we’ve seen. But in that time has anyone captured a ghost on film, one which has made the national or international news, not the ones which are found on ghost-hunting programmes on the more isolated cable channels? Have we had more definitive images of Big Foot or Nessie or any of the other myriad mythological beasts and spirits which fascinate us so? And even if you were to capture something, to get a fleeting glimpse of the supernatural, would you simply be shouted down for lack of proof, accused of faking things with editing software? Probably.

So we back off from believing because we haven’t got the proof. And yes, the bogeyman tried to change with us as we changed, chain emails and websites which would bring death if not forwarded or shared for one example, stories of Slenderman for another, but our hearts aren’t really in it anymore.

Gone are the days where the bogeyman was going to get you. Now we live in an irrational age of rationality where Halloween comes and goes, where kids dress up as superheroes and celebrities, eager to see how much candy they’ve gained rather than glancing over their shoulder as the shadows creep closer and the bogeyman sharpens his claws. Yet with all good bad guys, and the bogeyman is the baddest of them all, there’s always a flicker of a pulse waiting to be reinvigorated no matter how many feet of earth they are buried under. So maybe, if you want the bogeyman to be reborn, hang out until midnight on Halloween in the dark in isolation and wait and wait and wait just to see if you feel his warm breath on the back of your neck.

Phil Sloman is a writer of dark psychological fiction. He was shortlisted for a British Fantasy Society Best Newcomer award in 2017 for his novella Becoming David. His short stories can be found throughout various anthologies and his collection Broken on the Inside has received widespread praise. In the humdrum of everyday life, Phil lives with an understanding wife and a trio of vagrant cats who tolerate their human slaves. There are no bodies buried beneath the patio as far as he is aware. Occasionally Phil can be found lurking here or wasting time on social media – come say hi.

Amazon US ** Amazon UK

Broken on the Inside

Phil Sloman’s BROKEN ON THE INSIDE presents a quintet of macabre mentality in:

Broken on the Inside
Discomfort Food
The Man Who Fed the Foxes
There Was an Old Man
Virtually Famous

Becoming David

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? A Novella from Hersham Horror Books

Halloween Extravaganza: Rebecca Besser: STORY: Historical Significance

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Historical Significance

Perry Roberts stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the black depths of his basement. He held the last box that needed to be stored down there, but he couldn’t make his legs move. The light was on when I went outside, wasn’t it? he thought. He knew it had been, but now it was out.

With a sigh, he sat the box down on the floor, reached into the slight gloom at the top of the stairwell, and felt the switch with his fingers; it was still on. Bulb must’ve blown, he thought to himself with another, deeper sigh.

Thinking hard, he remembered unpacking a box with spare bulbs earlier and headed to the laundry room to retrieved one, also grabbing the flashlight he’d stored there. Grumbling under his breath, he returned to descended into the dark depths of his basement. It smelled musty, damp, and slightly metallic; the air noticeably dropped in temperature with each step. The house was old, having been one of the first built in the small New England town, and the basement was designed to hold the cold so that home-canned goods and other food necessities could be stored there.

“Lots of history,” the real-estate agent had said. “Not many places like this left for just anyone to buy.”

Being the history buff that he was, he couldn’t help but be drawn to its charm, even though it had sat empty for more than a decade and had to be drastically updated before he could move in. One of the things he’d found most fascinating about the place was the old “player piano” sitting in the corner of the basement. He couldn’t figure out how it had gotten down there—the stairs were too narrow and the basement walls consisted of large, rectangle slabs of limestone that looked like they’d been there for hundreds of years.

With the help of his flashlight, he removed the old bulb and shook it beside his ear, and sure enough, he heard the filament rattle. Tucking the flashlight under his chin so he could use both hands, he slid the burned out bulb into the front pouch of his hoodie and extracted the other. As he screwed in the new bulb, he forgot the switch was still on and didn’t close his eyes. When the bright glow of the 75 watt bulb flared to life, he dropped the flashlight with a loud clang and squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

After a moment, he started blinking rapidly and looking around the room. Bodies in old fashion clothing lay everywhere—some holding bottles of whiskey or tankards of ale. Slowly they sat up and then stood with leering grins, looking him over like he was a succulent piece of meat. They advanced toward him and Perry spun around; he was completely surrounded and the closer they came the more the temperature of the air around him dropped. He tried to focus on them directly, but the light spots in his eyes prevented him from doing so; as his vision cleared the images began to disappear.

Almost in a panic, thinking he was being attacked, he spun around in a circle with his arms up defensively, looking for assailants. None were there. All he could see now were the leaning shadows cast by the stairs and the stacked boxes; the rough, bare rock of the walls and floor echoed his harsh breathing back to him, giving him a chill that had nothing to do with the climate of the room.

After dropping his arms, taking a couple of deep breaths, and doing another, thorough visual examination of the entire room, he shrugged the occurrence off as his imagination. He bent down and picked up the pieces of his flashlight—having broken it when he dropped it on the hard floor—before he went upstairs, dumped the ruined flashlight in the trash, and carried down the last box. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was down in the basement with him, and kept looking over his shoulder expecting to find them standing behind him, ready to hurt him. He was beginning to wonder if the house might be haunted, but then reminded himself he didn’t believe in ghosts.

With an effort, he forced himself to calm down, and after stacking the box with the others he had in the corner, he headed toward the stairs. Pausing, he glanced around one more time and ran his fingers over the now yellow keys of the player piano, wondering if he could get the old thing working. Once again he pondered on how the piano had come to be in the basement and couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation.

“Maybe the ghosts brought it downstairs,” he said with a mocking laugh.

As soon as the words left his mouth a chill ran down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the air around him suddenly dropped in temperature and he felt like he was being stalked again. Not needing any more encouragement, he jogged up the stairs and could have sworn he’d heard a deep, masculine laugh echo from behind him.

Back upstairs, he turned off the basement light and slammed the short, rough plank door behind him, making sure the old, wrought-iron latch was secure. He pressed both his hand on the door and leaned against it, taking deep, calming breaths, feeling silly about his reaction to his imagination running wild.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts… There’s no such thing as ghosts…” he repeated to himself over and over again, as if in saying it he could dispel the horrible feelings he’d had downstairs.

Perry heard a knock at his front door and almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden and unexpected noise; he stepped from the kitchen into the short, narrow hallway and spied his friend John through the door’s window.

“Hold on,” he yelled, rushing forward and letting his friend in, glad for the distraction. “What’s up?”

John grinned. “Five days ‘til Halloween! What do you think’s up? We need costumes and a lot of ghoulish stuff to decorate this spooky old house of yours.”

Perry laughed and all of his trepidation melted away as he focused on his friend and pushed everything else from his mind. “How could I forget?”

John smacked his forehead in a “Duh!” gesture and pointed with his thumb to his Chevy pickup parked at the curb. “I’ll be out there. Hurry up!”

With that John turned and practically hopped down the limestone block porch steps. He hadn’t been too happy when Perry had decided to move here, wishing his friend would stay closer, but he’d handled it well. They’d known each other all their lives and had just recently graduated from separate colleges. Over the past summer they’d spent a lot of time together catching up, and now they were separated again; growing up was indeed hard to do.

Donning a light jacket over his hoodie—taken from a hook by the door—Perry stepped out into the brisk October wind. Red, gold, and brown leaves littered the yard and street, leaving behind dark skeleton trees to moan eerily as their bare branches danced in the wind. He pushed his hands into the front pouch of his hoodie and his hands came in contact with the lightbulb he’d removed downstairs, and for a moment the memories of his experiences returned. He tossed it in the large trash can sitting in the corner of his enclosed porch, as if ridding himself of the bulb also discarded the disturbing memories permanently, and hurried to join John.

Their day went fast. They’d each found a costume they loved: John, a ghoul of disgusting proportions; and Perry, a very bloody looking zombie. They’d also picked up an array of fake tomb stones and bones to litter in Perry’s yard, to serve as decorations for the huge Halloween party they were planning.

“Stop by the library, would ya?” Perry asked on their way back to his house. “I had the librarian look up some historical information on my house and I need to pick it up.” He paused for a moment and almost continued, asking John if he believed in ghosts, but with a shake of his head he decided not to waste any more time on nonsense.

John raised his eyebrows at Perry’s undecided movements, but when he didn’t say anything more, he nodded consent and drove to the small, out-of-the-way library that served the town.

It took Perry less than ten minutes to retrieve the information he’d requested. John laughed hysterically as he watched his friend come stumbling out of the local library, weighed down with books and printouts of old newspapers.

“Are you writing a book series?” John teased as he leaned over and pushed open the truck door for Perry. “Looks like you have enough research there for five!”

Scowling, Perry managed to maneuver himself, and his load, into the truck. “I didn’t know they’d find this much. Now I feel like I’m back in school!”

John laughed again, shook his head, and drove them back to Perry’s place. They unloaded all their Halloween “goodies” and discussed the party briefly before John left; he had to work early the next day and he knew Perry was itching to get at the materials he’d picked up from the library.

For the next few days Perry poured over the books and old newspaper articles, learning about his new house and its history. He wanted to get through as much of it as possible before the party, and before he had to start his new job; he would begin his career as a website designer the second week of November. The information the librarian had gleaned was very interesting. Apparently the house he was living in used to be a small time, bar-like establishment. It was known for its many visitors of “questionable virtue” and after reading some of the articles, he knew that meant men who lived outside the law. A couple of people had even been murdered in the house, which made him again think of the occurrences in the basement.

One picture particularly interested him. It was taken on October 31st of 1872, according to the notation under the photo. The player piano was in it, but the photograph had been taken in his living room. The people in the photo looked like the ones he’d thought he’d seen in the basement, but he couldn’t be sure because most of them were wearing festive masks depicting demons. The clothing style was the same, as were the bottles and tankards, but he figured what happened could still have been just his imagination. After all, he’d seen plenty of the same in old movies.

The article beneath the picture spoke briefly about the Halloween party, and how wild they’d gotten, referring to a couple of “rough men” who were believed to have been associated with the occult. As he read on, he was disappointed to find that most of the article was missing due to the photocopier running out of toner, at least that’s what he ascertained from the spotty black ink on the rest of the page. With a crocked grin, he looked back at the photo, thinking it would be great to show it to John, since they too were having a Halloween party in the house. As he laid the paper aside, he didn’t notice the date on the top—for the article—was for November 1st, 1872, or that the rest of the article was printed clearly on the back telling of the horrible events of the night of that party, and how no one who’d attended had ever been seen again.

On the night of October 30th, Perry lay down in bed, excited about the party that would take place the following evening. Thoughts swirled through his head about all that needed to be done, and about a certain woman he’d invited, hoping she’d attend. Even with these thoughts it didn’t take his exhausted body long to fall asleep.

Shortly after midnight, icy hands gripped Perry’s ankles and fingernails penetrated his flesh like icicles, startling him out of his warm cocoon of sleep.

He cried out and struggled, feeling hot, slick, wet blood seep from his wounds and soak into his bed, but his efforts didn’t deter the grip that was dragging him out of bed with astounding force and strength. He screamed and grabbed at the sheets, blankets, and mattress, trying to save himself, to no avail.

He hit the floor with a hard, resounding smack. His head bounced off the hardwood with a loud thud that almost knocked him unconscious; blood gushed out of a gash on his head from where it had hit the metal bedframe during the struggle, falling into his eyes, and making the floor slick. Blinking rapidly, he tried to stay awake and twisted around to get a glimpse of who was assaulting him.

“Stop!” he yelled. “Who are you? Why are you doing this to me?”

There was no answer, no reply to his desperation and pleas.

The darkness prevented him from seeing anyone or anything, and the more he struggled the tighter the grip on his ankles became; he heard his bones crack and felt the shards of their splinters escaping the encasement of his flesh. Crying out from the pain, and imagining that his ankles now looked like pin cushions because of the protruding bones, Perry tried to grab onto anything he could, but it was no use. Every time he would get a grip on something his attacker would either yank him so hard that eventually his fingers broke with loud pops or he would be lifted slightly into the air and slammed back down onto the floor until he let go.

The violence continued as he was dragged down the stairs, and Perry suffered so much head trauma that by the time he was on the first floor the world around him was nothing more than a blur seen through drops of blood, flowing from multiple gashes all over his bruised head. And as he was dragged toward the kitchen—where he left a light on all night—he saw that no one and nothing was there; he was being attacked by an invisible force and thought for the first time that he might have been wrong about ghosts.

He heard the piano playing downstairs and laughter with it. What’s going on? he thought before he was finally knocked completely unconscious by a battering from the basement stairs.

Perry regained awareness slowly. He was lying on the cold basement floor in nothing but his boxer shorts. He shivered and tried to curl into a ball to conserve his body heat.

A harsh male laugh barked behind him, making him jump.

Turning his head sharply, he beheld a group of seven men and two women. They were all dressed in clothes from the 1800s. He blinked and frowned. His head hurt beyond belief and his hips, legs, and ankles throbbed. Weak and disoriented, he couldn’t focus or speak.

Desperation soon overcame his weakness when he saw them moving toward him. They didn’t have legs, but floated a foot and a half above the stone floor. The closer they got to him the more transparent they became. Frantically, he tried to crawl toward the stairs, hissing and whimpering at the pain in his ankles and head, but didn’t make it.

Cold seeped into his body, causing him to shiver more violently, as the “spirits” came closer, surrounding him and laughing.

“Sweet hot blood…” one of the men said.

“…and meat!” one of the women exclaimed and cackled.

“What should we do with him?” another of one of the men asked.

“Let’s eat him,” the first man said.

“Wasn’t he going to have a party tonight?” another feminine voice asked almost coyly. “Maybe we should possess him and have our fill of the guests!”

The group laughed and jeered in agreement; many to feast upon was better than one.

One-by-one the spirits drifted over Perry and sank into his body.

He screamed as his body temperature dropped and he felt his consciousness being forced deeper and deeper inside himself. He knew no one would hear him, but he still called out for help. Even if he had been lucky and someone did come to his aid, he knew there was nothing anyone could do.

“He’s damaged!” one of the women said inside him. “Someone will notice!”

“She’s right, you know,” said the other feminine voice. “We’ll have to clean him up.”

“I’ve got it,” one of the men said with a laugh. “I’ll have him fixed up momentarily!”

Perry convulsed in excruciating pain as his frigid body popped and snapped, healing itself of the wounds which had been inflicted upon him during the attack.

“Lovely,” the first female voice sighed.

“Please stop,” Perry cried out from the box inside himself he’d been pressed into; his consciousness was pushed back and he had no control over his body, but he could still feel everything that happened to his physical self. “Kill me, but don’t torture me like this… Please!”

“Oh, shut up!” one of the men yelled and the rest of the unwelcome spirits inhabiting Perry’s body laughed.

“What should we do with him until the party?” one of the male voices asked.

“He’s still all bloody… Why don’t we give him a bath?” asked one of the female voices.

“Oh, yes,” said the other female voice with a giggle.

“You ladies have your fun, but I want no part of it,” a male voice said with slight amusement and a bit of disgust.

The females giggled again and Perry felt himself rising up to a standing position. Awkwardly his body ascended the stairs and he noted that he could see everything around him, but still had no say or control over his body.

Before he was ready, they were in the bathroom and his shorts were being removed.

“My, my, what do we have here?” one of the female voices asked snidely. “Seems we have a naked man to play with.”

“Share!” the other female voice yelled. “You get one hand and I get the other.”

Perry could feel the women becoming more prominent in his body and the male entities slipped back and almost felt like they were sleeping.

“All right, all right,” the first female voice said. “I’ll share.”

They both giggled as they shut the door to the bathroom and found a full length mirror hanging on the door.

“Oh, what fun!” the second female voice squealed.

“Yes, indeed,” the other said with smug satisfaction.

Soon Perry’s hands were traveling all over his body, doing things to himself against his will.

“Please stop!” he groaned from deep within as he was forced to watch and feel what the female spirits were doing to him.

“Don’t you like it, luv?” one voice asked, and both the females laughed.

“Stop!” he screamed, but they just continued to laugh at him.

It took over an hour for them to play games with him and molest him in the shower, after which he felt more dirty than clean; they’d done unimaginable things to his body.

Later that day, John arrived to help with the Halloween party, letting himself in with the key Perry had given him when there was no response to his knock. As he turned from shutting the door, he spotted Perry standing silently at the top of the stairway in his zombie costume.

“Hey, man,” John said, as he jumped in startled surprise. “You scared the crap out of me!” He looked his friend over and grinned. “You’re costume is intense, but I thought we weren’t going to change until after we had things set up for the party.”

Perry’s body just stood there with its eyes staring down at John while the spirits inside argued about how to answer the question and handle this “newcomer”; they finally came to a decision.

“Hello, Earth to Perry,” John said, looking slightly worried and confused at the foot of the stairs. “You okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” Perry’s voice said, being controlled by one of the males. “I was excited and decided to don my festive apparel early.”

“You sound strange,” John said, his confused frown deepening. “What’s with all the ‘don my festive apparel’ shit? You sound old or something.”

Perry’s face sneered at John behind the zombie make-up as he descended the stairs toward him. When he reached the bottom step his arm shot out and he wrapped his hand around John’s throat, squeezing and lifting him off his feet.

“You’re a cheeky bloke,” a strange masculine voice said, using Perry’s mouth, no longer trying to disguise himself. “I don’t like being called old!”

John dropped the bags of stuff he was carrying and tried to pry the strong hand from his throat so he could breathe; he kicked and clawed at Perry’s hand and arm as he was lifted off the floor.

“Now we have to do something with him,” Perry heard one of the male voices say as they again began talking internally to each other.

“It is crowded in here,” another said, “maybe some of us should possess him, so we’ll have more space to move around and breathe!”

The other voices agreed and started to argue about who would go and who would stay. Perry broke into their argument…

“If you are going to do something, do it soon!” he yelled. “Otherwise you’ll kill my friend and have nowhere to go!”

The voices quieted for a moment and Perry’s hand loosened slightly on John’s throat, allowing him strained breathing rather than none at all.

“I think Ginger, Frank, Paul, and Peter should go,” one of the female voices said.

It was the first time Perry had heard them refer to each other by name and listened carefully. Something about the names seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place them. Then it hit him. Those were some of the names of the people who’d attended the Halloween party in the old newspaper article. He wished now, more than ever, that he’d been able to read the end of the article, so he could know what had happened, and was going to happen.

They argued some more and then Perry felt his small containment area expand. Four of the spirits drifted out of his body and into John’s, who was instantly released. He fell gasping to the floor and started thrashing around, screaming and clutching at his body. Finally he stilled and looked around with eyes that weren’t his own.

Perry cringed and whispered, “Sorry, my friend.” He wished John hadn’t gotten involved, and more than anything he wished he would have mentioned what had happened in the basement a few days before, thinking this wouldn’t have happened if he’d acknowledged it. He also thought about the horrible experience he’d had earlier in the bathroom and hoped his friend wouldn’t have to endure something similar when he changed into his costume; as if reading his thoughts, the female spirit who was still inside him laughed softly.

“He might like it, luv,” she said. “After all, you seemed to enjoy some of it.” She cackled with a perverse laugh and Perry didn’t respond.

It didn’t take the spirits long to master the control they had over Perry and John, and they extracted from their brains and thoughts all the things that needed to be done to prepare for the party; they’d just finished when the first guest arrived.

Nicole Winters—the tall, raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty who lived just down the street—stood on the porch with her coat hanging slightly open. Perry heart sank when he was forced to open the door and let her in. She smiled broadly, sporting a sexy fairy costume that would have made him drool if he hadn’t been possessed by crazy entities from the past; some of the comments the male ones were making about her made him panic and try to take back control.

“Run, Nicole!” Perry screamed. “Run!”

But of course, she couldn’t hear him, he still couldn’t control any part of his body, including his vocal cords.

“Shut up, you,” one of the males growled. “We’ll have our fun with this little tart and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Thanks for inviting me, Perry,” Nicole said, stepping inside and sliding off her coat, revealing more of her costume, or lack thereof. Most of it was sheer and see through; the male spirits were going wild.

“Ever seen any dressin’s like ‘em, fellas?” one of them asked.

“No, but I’d like to tear them off with my teeth and devour what’s underneath!” another exclaimed.

John entered the hallway, coming from the kitchen, and Perry saw a reflection in his eyes of what he was hearing within.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Perry’s pleasant voice said, as his hand was placed on her butt and he squeezed.

Nicole gasped and giggled, giving him a wink. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I love Halloween parties. They give me an excuse to dress up.” She was pressing herself against his body now and practically purring with wicked intent in her eyes.

“Oh, yeah, boys,” one of the voices said. “We’re gonna have us a slice of that Heaven.”

They all laughed.

Perry cringed and wished there was something he could do to stop all this, but he couldn’t think of anything.

John walked down the hall toward them and pressed up against Nicole from the back, trapping her between them. He bent forward and whispered something in her ear that Perry didn’t catch. He knew it wasn’t John doing any of it, but he still felt betrayed for some strange reason.

Nicole jerked and struggled, trying to break free, just before her personality flipped and she giggled and sighed, accepting the attention from both men. Perry and John realized instantly when their containment expanded slightly that the female spirits had both moved into Nicole’s body. She began to wiggle against and grope both of the men and pouted when someone knocked on the front door.

“Bloody hell!” she growled. “All these interruptions are spoiling our fun!”

Both of the possessed men laughed. None of them were themselves any longer and just watched and felt everything that happened around them.

Guests continued to arrive for the next forty-five minutes and none of them knew a thing about what was going on. If Nicole, John, or Perry did something strange, the guests would just shrug it off, assuming they’d already started drinking.

A couple times Nicole disappeared from the room with John, and a couple of times she left with Perry. No one really noticed, but Perry was devastated; he really liked and cared for Nicole, and the damned possessing spirts were making them both do tainted and lewd things to each other. He didn’t even want to think about what she was doing with John, knowing it was probably just as bad or worse.

“Why are you doing this to us?” Perry asked as he was again entering the living room where the party was, after being with Nicole. “Why not just kill us? Why play with us like this first?”

“Well, you see…” one of the voices started in a teasing manner.

“Don’t tell ‘im!” another barked. “Then he’ll know!”

“What does it matter if he knows?” another asked. “He can’t do anything about it.”

“Just shut up, you,” the second voice ordered. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Everything kept moving smoothly along until around midnight, and then Perry’s mouth announced that he wanted to show everyone the player piano in the basement. They were intrigued, so like cattle the twenty-three people at the party (including Perry, John, and Nicole) went down into the basement; Nicole was the last one and she shut the door tightly behind herself.

“What’s going on?” Perry asked from deep within himself. “Why did you bring everyone down here?”

“Shut up!” all the voices barked at him.

Everyone was ohing and ahing over the piano while Perry, John, and Nicole stood at the base of the stairs. No one saw their eyes glow bright red, and no one saw the humans’ bodies transform into red scaled monsters with vicious long claws and mouths full of long, sharp teeth. But they did hear the panting and growling that emanated from them; the guests all turned and screamed.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had human flesh,” the once Nicole growled, running her long black tongue across her teeth. “I want the first bite.”

Both the beings who were once John and Perry growled and stepped forward.

The crowd cringed and moved backwards, pressing themselves against the far wall.

The Nicole-demon lunged forward, and with one clamp down of her jaws, she ripped a woman’s head clean off. Blood dripped from her mouth and onto the floor as she chewed the skull and slurped out the brains within before swallowing it all. The woman’s body fell to the floor and her blood began to drain out onto the stones. Instantly a pentagram made of flames appeared on the floor, encompassing the entire room; the body burned and dissolved to nothing in the fire.

More and more bodies joined the first as limbs were torn from torsos and hips, devoured by the bodies that had earlier been possessed and were now transformed. They gorged themselves on the flesh of the frightened, screaming guests and didn’t stop until they were all dead.

The three stood in the center of the pentagram panting. Their eyes were ablaze with adrenaline and their bodies were covered in the guts and blood they’d spilt.

“It’s time for the last three,” a deep, growling voice said from beneath them as the floor disappeared and turned into a raging, licking fire.

“Yes, master,” the three growled.

The female spirits left the body of Nicole they’d inhabited, and instantly it turned back into the human form with Nicole at the helm once again.

She blinked in confusion and screamed as her body began to burn. Soon there was nothing left of her; the same happened to both of the men.

Once they were consumed the floor reappeared and the fire was gone. The spirits floated in the air, looking at each other.

“I guess that pays our debt to Hell for a few more years,” one of the females said.

“Yes,” a male said with a laugh. “Happy Halloween!”

Days passed and none of the cars in front of Perry’s house moved. Neighbors became angry and then concerned. The police were called and they finally contacted Perry’s family when they couldn’t reach him.

A search ensued for Perry, John, and all of the others, to no avail.

When nothing and no one was found, Perry’s house was emptied and sold.

No one noticed the newspaper article from long ago when it was thrown into the trash, and no one knew to be afraid of what lurked in the basement, waiting for the next Halloween.

Rebecca Besser is the author of Nurse Blood. She is a member of the International Thriller Writers Organization. She has been published hundreds of times in magazines, ezines, anthologies, educational books, on blogs, and more in the areas of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction for a variety of age groups and genres. Her nonfiction article on skydiving was picked up by McGraw-Hill for NY Assessments. One of her poems for children was chosen for an early reader book from Oxford University Press (India). Her short story, P.C., was included in Anything But Zombies! published by Atria Books (digital imprint of Simon & Schuster).

Rebecca’s main focus has been on horror works for adults. She writes zombie works, suspenseful thrillers, and other dark fiction related to the horror genre/community. She has also edited multiple books in these genres.

Amazon Author Page

Halloween Extravaganza: Suzanne Madron: A Night on the Town with a Voodoo Vampire

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A Night on the Town with a Voodoo Vampire
or, How I discovered My Halloween Parties’
Signature Drink

Some things stick in the sieve of my brain better than others. This particular piece of mental debris has clung to the inside of my skull and followed me from my time in Philly to where my travels eventually brought me. It’s a night that ended up infiltrating my Halloween party tradition.

It was a random night and one I chose to turn into yet another one of my infamous South Street Pub Crawls. They usually consisted of me announcing to anyone I happened to be near that I was wandering down South Street in Philly and drinking in every establishment I came across until I either found one I liked enough to sit in for more than one drink or had enough exercise and alcohol to get to sleep. My days in Philly were dark days.

Earlier that evening I had wandered down into Olde City, not necessarily in search of adventure or as I came to look upon it afterwards, misadventure, but there I was, sitting in a bar fashioned after a New Orleans Mardi Gras pitstop. I was already three bar visits deep, so I wasn’t necessarily looking for something to drink more than I was looking for ambiance and a place to relax and write. The bartender was nowhere in sight when I sat down, in fact, the entire place was empty except for me. I took a seat at the bar and admired the carved wood with mirror backdrop, then opened my notebook and started to write.

He appeared out of nowhere. One minute I was alone, the next minute there was this guy sitting next to me watching me write. And before we even go there, no, he didn’t have an accent, and as far as I know he wasn’t a vampire. Unfortunately.

We started chatting and then the bartender came back from whatever tear in space and time bartenders and waitresses go to when no one’s looking. My companion asked for a drink recommendation. The bartender smiled and said, “The Voodoo Vampire is popular.” I no longer remember the exact measurements from that night, I only know it’s a blend of vodka, Chambourd, Grenadine, and cranberry juice. I suspect my version of it may be stronger than what was served to us that night.

After watching the bartender mix up this intriguing blend, I asked him to make me one, too. And so it began…

My friend and I wandered through Olde City, and more people joined us along the way like some sort of pied piper of drunkenness. We spread the word of the vampire and ended up bringing the entire entourage back to the vampire bar with us to round out the night with a final drink.

Fast forward over a decade to my annual Halloween parties and the signature mixed drink that is just as charming and as dangerous as an actual vampire might be. The drink that united a band of inebriated misfits on the streets of Philadelphia. A drink that will leave you drained and half-dead the next morning if you dance too long and too far with it, and that’s the Voodoo Vampire.

Suzanne Madron is originally from the Bronx, NY, but grew up in northeastern Pennsylvania. Yes, the woodsy part. No, the other woodsy part. No, not the one with the pterodactyl sightings, the other one with the re-enactors.

When not writing horror, Suzanne writes hard-boiled noir and speculative fiction under the pseudonym James Glass and post apocalyptic stories under the name Xircon. Currently she lives on a battlefield with her husband and son in the less woodsy part of Pennsylvania. YEs, her house is most likely haunted.

Halloween Extravaganza: Thomas Vaughn: Halloween Quandry

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This is my quandary.

Mommy… Why are all those people’s heads on sticks?
Well, let’s talk about that later.

These are the types of conversations I hear on Halloween. Children sometimes have questions about things they don’t understand. Heads on sticks would fall into this category. The unspoken answer to this particular exchange might run as follows: “Because your father moved us from Michigan to godforsaken Arkansas, right next door to this redneck who has no sense of decorum.” Or something like that. You see, I don’t decorate for Christmas, Thanksgiving or Independence Day. These days pass much like all the rest on my calendar. I don’t resent these occasions or those who celebrate them, but they simply do not resonate with my experience. But I do decorate for Halloween. In fact, my house has traditionally resembled the mouth of hell. I specialize in mutilated body parts, agitating sounds, and menacing lights. I keep up with latest research trends as to what produces the maximum levels of cortisol in any potential visitor. No one walks away unscathed.

Some of the kids are too young, so they just stare at the lights and drool. Others stand on the sidewalk and scream as frustrated parents tells them it’s OK to ring the bell, their tears of fear sating the dark places inside me. As they get older the brave ones come to love the place and I have lots of repeat business. And yes, they get full sized candy bars. The normal response from parents when they see my house is something like, “Well, this is interesting.” Translation: “What the hell is wrong with you?” Yes, I’m that guy in the neighborhood.

The problem is that we’ve moved. I liked the old street. It was a subtle mix of blue and white collar families living the American Dream. But the new neighborhood is a little nicer. The people are a little friendlier. The rents are a little higher. Everyone is conscientious about recycling. A few folks even have solar panels. The children are all gifted and talented. You get the picture. Everyone couldn’t have made me and my wife feel more welcome. We even got a gift basket with gourmet cheese. What could be the problem you ask? My lovely wife, who is much smarter than I, broached the topic gently:

“Maybe you could think about toning it down a little bit this year.”

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

“I mean Halloween. Like maybe skeletons are OK, but the other stuff, the heads, the torsos, the intestines… Maybe that’s a little much.”

I am crestfallen. “What about the fog machine?”

“The fog machine is fine. Look, these people are being really nice to us. Do you really want to do that to them?”

I do not say it, but the answer is “yes.” Perhaps it is a profound moral failing. It’s just that I cannot abide half-measures when it comes to this issue. I look around at the happy ghosts, smiling pumpkins, and quaint scarecrows in the lawns of other houses and shake my head sadly. Every neighborhood should have that one house that scares the children. Fear is a crucial part of childhood development. They will not remember who gave them which piece of candy, but they will remember the person who made their heart race when that quivering finger approached the doorbell.

So, should I decorate or simply sublimate the darkness into some other activity—perhaps crafting or making myself a better citizen? I already know the answer, but it’s better to keep quiet for a time. I’ll go on smiling and waving. I’ll tend the roses. I will do everything I can to let these gentle people know that I mean them no harm. But self-expression is very important, isn’t it? After all, it’s only for one night.

Thomas Vaughn is an author of dark fiction who resides in the Ozark Mountains. When he is not writing stories, he poses as a college professor who teaches classes in apocalyptic rhetoric and doomsday cults. He has always loved Halloween and remains one of those stalwarts who refuses to let the tradition die. If you are curious about what he is getting up to you, you are welcome to visit him at his website.