Looking back, I don’t remember loving Halloween any more than my peers. Sure, pillowcases bursting with candy and trekking through my neighborhood after dark with friends was fun, and my mom was great at coming up with unique costumes she fashioned on her Singer sewing machine (a bushel of grapes, a fortune teller, and an evil queen are a few that come to mind). But for the most part, Halloween was one more exciting day in a childhood that I was extremely fortunate to experience as having its fair share of them.
Still, I did enjoy the darker aspects of other youthful pastimes. My bookshelves and OG TBR, i.e., the Scholastic book fair newsletter, were full of Bunnicula volumes, Nancy Drew titles, and the R.L. StineGoosebumps and Fear Street series, and this appreciation for horror literature eventually morphed into a love of horror films. I saw John Carpenter’s Halloween a few months after I turned thirteen, and the Scream / I Know What You Did Last Summer / Urban Legend era of the late nineties solidified this infatuation. Now, twenty years later, my adoration of All Hallows’ Eve and all things horror is fully-formed and multifaceted. Here are the top five reasons why I love Halloween… maybe you love the holiday for some of the very same reasons.
1. The General public expresses their appreciation for all things spooky.
From November to September, my house is not going to be confused with the Halloween section of Michael’s, however, my wardrobe usually revolves around one particular end of the color spectrum and my home office remains decorated year-round with Stephen King-inspired artwork, black flowers, and skull-and-raven bookends. Some late weekend in September, I cart the Halloween bins up from the basement and let the black cats and cotton cobwebs infiltrate every corner of my house. The remote-control tray on the coffee table is replaced with a black-and-silver skull dish; the salad tongs become skeleton hands, the soap dispensers get their witch hats on, and every single candle is swapped with its pumpkin spice or cinnamon apple-scented counterpart.
The best part of this transformation? Pier 1, TJ Maxx, Target, The Home Depot, pretty much every well-known chain and massive department store is packed to the rafters with dark delights. Ouija board throw pillows, tombstone yard accents, Gothic tea sets, and creepy clown dishware, you can find any manner of Halloween or horror-themed household item as easily as you can buy a loaf of bread. I love strolling the aisles of Home Goods and running into an Ann-Taylor-garbed housewife with a shopping cart full of yoga mats and leisurewear reaching for a bat-bedecked candelabra worthy of Morticia’s dining room table. When school starts and the September equinox looms, mainstream America offers up affordable tricks and adorable treats for perpetual horror lovers and Halloween-enthusiasts alike.
2. Horror film snobs relax their horror snobbery.
I’ve expressed my annoyance at this phenomenon before, but one of my biggest pet peeves is when people turn up their nose at the horror genre then claim their all-time favorite movie is The Silence of the Lambs. “That movie can’t be horror,” they say. “Did you know it won the Oscar for Best Picture?” Cue eye roll. October is the one time of the year when movie lovers seem to relax their highbrow opinion of horror films and embrace vampires, serial killers, and buckets of (fake) blood. Zombieland: Double Tap was released this October, though I can all but guarantee that scores of folks too busy and uninterested to see earlier horror releases of 2019 will stream The Curse of La Lorna, Pet Sematary, Us, Happy Death Day 2U, and The Prodigy before the month is out. Similarly, The Terror, Castle Rock, The Haunting of Hill House, and American Horror Story will likely see an uptick in viewers.
And you know what? Bring it on. Sure, it’s obnoxious when some know-it-all film buff wants to eschew horror will simultaneously discoursing on the genius of the Duffer Brothers, but I will talk all October long with every summertime-horror-hater and Christmas-splatter-film-skeptic about their theory that Hopper is still alive or whether the ending of the Pet Sematary remake was better than the original. You know why? Because there’s room at the table for the fair-weather-horror fans, and, as my next section will detail, Halloween equals love.
3. Horror-centric couples express their love for one another.
So why do so many real-life couples and fictional sweethearts find that horror and/or Halloween strengthens their bonds? Marriage is no cakewalk, and yet plenty of newlyweds find themselves unprepared for the trials that come with long-term commitment: steep mortgages and the rising cost of living, the decision of whether or not to have children, illness and loss, in-laws and the ebb and flow of friendships with other people, growing old and keeping your relationship new. Couples that interweave commitment with the acknowledgment of inevitable death could potentially be more in tune with the bleaker but necessary aspects of the human condition. What’s a bit of adversity when you know your partner can stomach Cannibal Holocaust, or that they once performed a madcap but heartbreakingly unsuccessful experiment to try and resurrect their childhood dog, Frankenweenie-style? They do say that the couple that slays together, stays together (I think the ‘they’ in this sentence refers to the marketing team behind Santa Clarita Diet, but hey, it works, and Sheila and Joel Hammond are another great example of a couple made stronger by ghouls and gore).
4. Haunted attractions become the norm.
Here are some of the Halloween activities in which I have partaken: haunted hayrides, haunted corn mazes, haunted houses (or a haunted factory, or asylum, or whatever that year’s or location’s theme happens to be), a paranormal excursion and theatrical séance at the Stanley Hotel, an overnight stay at the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast Museum, a daytrip to Salem, Massachusetts, a visit to the gravesite of alleged vampire Mercy Brown, a journey through the nationally acclaimed Jack-O-Lantern Spectacular at Roger Williams Park Zoo in Providence, and a historic ghost tour in that same city.
All those haunted houses and ghostly tours were, if not actually frightening then completely entertaining, but according to Halloween New England, I haven’t even scratched the surface of haunted attractions in Rhode Island or the surrounding states. Here is a (radically incomplete) selection of activities across New England that I still have left to pursue: in Connecticut, the Trolley Museum’s Pumpkin Patch ride; in Maine, a special FX make-up class or a ghostly Bangor walking tour; in Massachusetts, a flashlight maze at Connors Farm or a date with the Ghost Hunters Paranormal Society; in Rhode Island, a Ghosts of Newport excursion; in New Hampshire, Screeemfest at Canobie Lake Park; and in Vermont, a haunted hayride at Gaines Farm called Vengeance in the Valley that promises both the undead and flesh-eating extra-terrestrials. I’ve now lost the thread of this paragraph on haunted attractions and must systematically enter the ten different Halloween New England website-sponsored giveaways as well as purchase tickets to the Haunted Graveyard at Lake Compounce before I can move on to my final point.
5. The boundary between the living and the dead is penetrable.
My final reason for loving Halloween is not commercial, social, or societal in nature. When you strip away the candy and the costumes and the Stephen King movie marathons on AMC, when you remove the ghost-dog dish towels and witch-cat coffee mugs from the shelves of TJ Maxx, Halloween is the time of the year when the boundary between the physical and the spiritual worlds is the thinnest. It’s the perfect time to engage in respective personal and cultural traditions, whether that’s baking soul cakes, leaving an offering for a deceased relative, or lighting a bonfire in celebration of Samhain. If spirits and faeries can enter our world more easily at this lush, liminal time, than I am of the mind to give them the widest possible gateway through which to pass.
Tarot cards, oracle decks, candle magic, Ouija boards, graveyard séances, scary stories around a campfire, or any of the other tools employed for spiritual enlightenment and fulfillment throughout the year take on new meaning once darkness descends on October thirty-first. So, this Halloween, gather up your friends and dance a danse macabre in honor of death. I hope your path to the grave is one of mind-bending horror movies and cider-scented hayrides, of delicious cupcakes with R.I.P. frosted across Peppermint Pattie tombstones and relationships on par with Gomez and Morticia’s l’amour vrai. In other words, I wish you one long, spooky, spectacular walk past the ghosts and goblins, through the dark and cobweb-draped corridors, and all the way to the end of the haunted, hallowed corn maze.
Christa Carmen’s work has been featured in anthologies, ezines, and podcasts such as Fireside Fiction, Year’s Best Hardcore Horror, Outpost 28, and Tales to Terrify. Her debut collection, Something Borrowed, Something Blood-Soaked, is available now from Unnerving, and won the 2018 Indie Horror Book Award for Best Debut Collection. Christa lives in Rhode Island with her husband and their bluetick beagle. She has a bachelor’s degree from the University of Pennsylvania in English and psychology, a master’s degree from Boston College in counseling psychology, and is an MFA candidate at the Stonecoast Creative Writing program, of the University of Southern Maine. You can find her online at her website.
Setting is such a vital component of any horror story, to the extent that the place in which the narrative is framed can become a central character.
Take, for example, the eponymous building in Shirley Jackson’s 1959 novel The Haunting of Hill House, which she describes so chillingly as being “not sane.” Susan Hill’s 1983 ghost story The Woman in Black finds protagonist Arthur Kipps shacked up and shivering in Eel Marsh House, a haunted pile that is accessible only via the ominously named Nine Lives Causeway. In these narratives, the setting becomes an omnipresent, living (or un-dead) force to be reckoned with. The Queen of all horror storytellers, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, describes a body of water in Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (1818) as, “a vast sheet of fire…beautiful yet terrific.” This mirrors the spark of life that gives Victor’s creature his agency, but also foreshadows the elemental fury and revenge that takes hold of him as he searches for the meaning of his existence.
When the time came for me to write my fifth novel, the folk horror Hearthstone Cottage, I knew I had to go back to the rural west coast of Scotland featured in my third book The Jack in the Green. I used moodboards of photos from my travels, and watercolours of old crofters cottages to paint a picture of the building and its surrounding landscape in my mind. Story discussions with my friend, director of photography Alan Stewart, decided that the region should be the Kintail Mountains with its dramatic lochs and peaks.
But I also needed a stone circle in the story and drew on my many pilgrimages to the Rollright Stones and Avebury in England in order to create my fictional ‘Spindle Stones’. As any academic folk horror book will remind you, isolation is a key element to this sub genre, and I needed a title that would help to convey that feeling of being alone in the landscape. I sent a shortlist of cottage names to my editor, the wonderful Don D’Auria, and he picked my favourite — Hearthstone Cottage.
Fast forward to summer of this year when i took a well earned break after editing the book. The road led me to the Wales/Shropshire border, where I’ve traveled many times.
There’s a white-knuckle inducing road, with a lovely old cottage on the corner. So every time I’ve driven past it, I’ve felt that jolt of fear from the road, along with the aesthetic beauty of the cottage. This time around there was a tractor in the road, causing all the traffic to slow down.
And for the very first time, I saw the name of the cottage I’ve driven past so many times over the years…
“2 Hearths Cottage!”
Beauty and terror rolled into one place. I wonder if the name had subliminally become etched into my subconscious, until it was ready to emerge in the waking nightmares of my new novel.
So, when you stay the night at Hearthstone Cottage, be warned — it really does have a history of terror.
“Lee creates an atmosphere of unease and foreboding that culminates in explosive violence and terror. Rife with frightening imagery, ghosts, and visceral horror, this tale will please the most ardent of horror fans.” – Booklist
Mike Carter and his girlfriend Helen, along with their friends Alex and Kay, travel to a remote loch side cottage for a post-graduation holiday. But their celebrations are short-lived when they hit and kill a stag on the road. Alex s sister Meggie awaits them in the cottage, adding to the tension when her dog, Oscar, goes missing. Mike becomes haunted by a disturbing presence in the cottage, and is hunted by threatening figures in the highland fog. Reeling from a shock revelation, Mike begins to lose his grip on his sanity. As the dark secrets of the past conspire to destroy the bonds of friendship, Mike must uncover the terrifying truth dwelling within the walls of Hearthstone Cottage.
Hearthstone Cottage is out now from Flame Tree Press: Amazon ** Flame Tree Publishing ** and all good stockists of haunted cottage novels
Frazer Lee is a novelist, screenwriter and filmmaker. His screenplay credits include the acclaimed horror/thriller feature Panic Button, and multi-award winning short films On Edge, Red Lines, Simone, and The Stay. Frazer’s screenwriting and story consultant engagements have included commissions for Movie Mogul, The Asylum, Mediente, eMotion, and Vanquish Alliance Entertainment.
His film and television directing credits include the multi award-winning shorts On Edge and Red Lines, and the promo campaign for the Discovery Channel series True Horror With Anthony Head. He was awarded the Edgar Allan Poe Gothic Filmmaker of the Year Award for his film The Stay. Frazer was named one of the Top 12 UK directors in MySpace.com s Movie Mash-up contest by a panel including representatives from 20th Century Fox, Vertigo Films, and Film Four.
Frazer is Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at Brunel University London and is an active member of the Horror Writers Association and International Thriller Writers. His guest speaking engagements have included The London Screenwriters Festival and The Guerilla Filmmakers Masterclass. Frazer Lee lives with his family in Buckinghamshire, England just across the cemetery from the actual Hammer House of Horror.
Last year, R.C. Rumple wrote a fantastic story – one that really had me giggling – so when this year’s guest post opportunity came around and he said he was writing me a story, I was seriously giddy in anticipation of what he would send me. And he did not disappoint. One of the best ones yet. I love the way this man’s brain works.
Halloween Lottery (You Gotta Play to Eat)
When ghosts and goblins hit the streets With empty bags awaiting treats And witches fly high overhead Cackling their laughter to wake the dead
For Halloween brings smiles to most Costumes covering each little host Children believe it’s all in fun Saying, “Boo” to scare everyone
They have no idea it’s all so real So precious their bodies that we steal In Hell we know whom to choose Which kids will win and which shall lose
We wait in shadows on sides of streets Watching them taste their candy eats Knowing our hunger will soon be sated With flesh from those for whom we waited
“So, how did you do in the lottery?”
All day long, that seemed to be the standard question asked around Hell. It was almost nice to hear something besides, “How many more friggin’ new arrivals are coming in today?” Oh, true, bitching about the way things were in Hell was normal. But recently, all of us demons were stressed out.
See, Heaven was getting extremely picky about who they let into their so-called Golden Gates. St. Peter had finally let go of his precious book and moved into the computer age, about twenty years behind everyone else. When he had once been slow to find reasons to keep out Heaven’s new applicants for entry before, now, all their bad deed files were so easy to find the bastard had basically locked the gates and thrown away the key. (Damn thing probably fell through the clouds and into a missing CIA file labeled, “The Truth About Weapons of Mass Destruction in the White House, 2001-Present.”) We demons were overworked with the torturing Satan required for new arrivals. Day and night, we whipped and beat them until it wasn’t the fun it had been. It’s pretty bad when torturing becomes torture. Kind of like the networks having to produce another Steve Harvey television show.
Anyway, with Hell becoming Hell for even the employees, Satan figured we demons needed something to look forward to. He had already tried broadcasting comedy returns on our IDGAF Network… shows like “Modern Healer Family” and “Christian Science: Aliens from Space,” but those were too predictable. Even the shows, “Hell’s Got Talent” and “Dancing with the Demons” drew poor ratings. So, a few year’s back, he’d started a lottery figuring it would give us something to look forward to each other year. You know, to keep us from going on strike and picketing… kind of like raising hell in Hell. Anyway, ten tickets would be up for grabs, each having a different value, but all giving their owners a chance to feed on the fresh blood of a human child. And, not just any child, but one whose spirit was deserving of early entrance to Hell!
Hot and spicy food… who could resist?
Anyway, the drawing date was set for noon on Halloween. For weeks, every demon in Hell fasted. We wanted to be ready to enjoy the grand prize… three “fresh meat” children to savor in one night… without being too full to enjoy them. Nothing could interfere with the weeks of joyous heartburn to follow the feasting.
So, a few minutes before noon, all of us gathered with our tickets, paid for by the compilation of screams of pain and “Help me, Jesus” profanities we’d been able to collect from our torture victims. (Two-hundred screams and one “Help me, Jesus” equaled one ticket earned.) Satan took the microphone and drew the numbers from an open torso of a new arrival, just for kicks. As the final ticket was read, the misery of the moans and groans from the losers put a big smile on the red guy’s face. “There’s always next year,” he announced, watching the demons trudge back to a fresh load of new arrivals being delivered. As his laughter roared through Hell, most gave him the honorary salute he deserved, a raised middle finger.
Ten of us walking away hid our smiles. We were the winners, the holders of the lucky tickets! But, to let the losers know would invite a mass attack. With the rule of Hell being, “Survival of the fittest,” we needed to keep our luck a secret. Otherwise, our tickets would end up in the claws of those who’d been there much longer. (See, in Hell, you continue to enlarge in size as a demon each year, so those there the longest would be larger and the strongest. I know it’s common sense, but since that’s in short supply anymore, I thought I’d fill you in.) I continued at my work, torturing some kid who’d committed suicide after being disappointed about living with his parents for years after graduating college with a degree in Political Science and thinking he was entitled to more. Try as I did, it was hard to keep my mind on my job. Deep inside, the joy at knowing I’d soon be biting into hot & spicy youngsters kept me going.
Returning to my pit after my shift, I filed down the scales of my wings to a nice point and sharpened the claws on my feet and hands. Checking out my image in the mirror, I was amazed at the great looking demon who stood there. I was one hot son-of-a-bitch, if I do say so myself. My eyes, with their red glow set on Medium, were ominous enough to bring fear, but not bright enough to be mistaken for a Harley Davidson set of taillights. My ears, long and pointed, cast a very nice shadow on the wall behind me, as did my dragon style wings. I had almost been ashamed of my appearance before I’d cleaned up. Flying home, my shadow had looked like a friggin’ flying elephant in a Disney cartoon. I flossed one more time, peeling away a month of plaque I’d accumulated from fasting, to ensure it didn’t mix with and taint my later meals. Popping in a breath mint, I was ready. I hated to lose the gangly odor of rotten breath, but the last thing I needed to do was have some kid smell my rot and alert them to my presence. It would ruin the surprise for them I’d planned.
Flying out of my pit, I joined the other lottery winners at the gate. Some had won the chance at one kid, others two. The lowest ticket combination had the least chance of success, while the Grand Prize winner was assured of at least some feasting.
I was that winner.
Yes, as Grand Prize Winner I had won the opportunity to feast three times… three! The temptation for my taste buds was totally tantalizingly tremendous. (I know, a play of words within an info dump. How callous of me. You were expecting friggin’ Stephen King?) I could hardly keep my tongue in my mouth. Yet, as with anything Satan cooked up, the quest for food wouldn’t be easy. I, and the others, would have to hunt for our food and follow a few rules.
Rule Number One stated we had to have our asses back in Hell at Midnight. After all, that was when Halloween ended. It made sense. But, I hoped to have an ace in the hole on that one. The time of Midnight was based on the local time of our victims. By being the Grand Prize Winner, I might just have the advantage of each being in different time zones. Rule Number Two stated we couldn’t harm any human besides our target. This took some of the fun out of the havoc and carnage I had hoped to indulge in, but rules were rules. Friggin’ Michael Myers had already put a hurt on the number of Trick or Treaters out and about, so I guess it was for the best. None of us wanted new year’s lottery to be called off for lack of victim participation. Rule Number Three is the toughest of them all. No one can see us but our prey… no one. That one’s a bitch! With all the scumbag meth-heads on the streets these days, parents are getting harder to avoid. All these damn millennials think it’s cool to go Trick or Treating with their kids and if a parent doesn’t, they’re reported to Social Services. I miss the good old days of conservative evangelism with Jimmy Swaggart and Jim Bakker’s PTL Club. Parents in those days were so naive about giving other’s their trust. Now, ANTIFA has everyone scared to trust anyone. Friggin’ liberals!
As the seconds before the first gate opened ticked away, I couldn’t help thinking about what lay ahead. Three kids… human veal… tender, sweet, and oh, so good to eat. I needed to control myself. My eyes were already beginning to glow brighter with anticipation, as were those of the others around me. (If we stayed this way, we’d make someone think they were following a friggin’ motorcycle gang.) Oh, don’t feel sorry for the little bastards. Like I said, most of the ones on the lists we were to be given were on their way to join us in Hell, anyway. In fact, rumor had it, Satan had gotten this whole idea from Santa Claus.
What? You roll your eyes at that? Shows what you know. Santa has elves, right? Elves are lazy bastards. Santa would do better to go to the Mexican border and hire his help there. At least it wouldn’t take two hundred of them to put together a friggin’ Transformer toy. Anyway, Santa uses elves to go through mail and decide who’s naughty and nice. One day, this elf says to the fat man, “Hey, why don’t we get Satan to eliminate some of those requests? He could send his demons out to feed on the naughty ones and cut our workload down a little. Every little bit helps!” So, Santa decides to use as his clean-up crew to help out his poor, overworked elves, and to save him from having to pay out for overtime hours.
Now, I hate to give the lazy bastards credit for anything. (It’s like, “How many elves does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Ten… all telling Mrs. Claus to get up off her big ass and do it!”) This, however, was a good idea. The first year of the lottery, Satan only allowed one demon to feast. Santa really bitched about that. So, the big red guy has annually increased the number we take.
A loud screeching overhead indicated the first level gate was open. This was to our prep and planning area. One by one, we showed our tickets to the guards and were given our individual victim/target lists and exit passes. Oh, my Devil, you wouldn’t believe the moans and groans, especially from the three millennial demons in our group. They always felt they were entitled to more than what they got. You know, crap like, “I want a big pit not a small one. It’s not fair they get one and I don’t. I went to college and they said we should have more than anyone else.”
There are times I wonder what’s happened on the surface world. It’s sure gone to Hell since I left it a couple of centuries ago. Our population explosion down here is proof of that.
I overheard some talking about their low chance of scoring a meal tonight. One had been given targets who were in juvenile detention and others in gang ridden neighborhoods. Both were unfavorable toward success. I envisioned Satan laughing his ass off when he had come up with those. It was his way of putting the Trick in the supposed Treat. Still, others had to pick theirs out of crowded city streets and apartment complexes… all again with huge chances of being seen. I was afraid a few would return to Hell as hungry as they’d left it. Taking the chance of breaking the rules and being seen would carry the penalty of losing their “Demon” status and returning to human form to be tortured. No meal was worth that.
My list showed promise. Being spread from East Coast to West, my hopes were granted with the advantage of having a three-hour difference in time zones. True, there was travel time involved, but with good weather, I could easily cover the ground necessary for a three-course meal. First, I had one in Providence, Rhode Island, then one in Oklahoma City, and then one in California in Huntington Beach. If I could snatch the first one quickly, I’d have no problem reaching the other two with time to spare.
“Demons, Start Your Wings!”
Lights were flashing and electric guitars were twanging… it was almost time. All of us, even the moaners, began flapping wings like crazy, hovering just in front of the starting line. (I hadn’t had such anticipation since watching the British light the first torch to burn down the Presidential Mansion in 1814.) When the lighting flashes in front of us, the race was on. You never saw a group head so fast up to the surface in your death… err… life. It was a mad rush, each pushing and shoving the others, like there was only one commode in the bathroom and we all had a bad case of diarrhea.
I immediately headed to the East coast. I had little time to waste, so I engaged myself to lead the pack. One by one, they faded away into the lights of the cities below, the last of them being two of my friends from work. Neither had much chance of feasting. New York was a nightmare. Few dressed up for Halloween there. With all the Drag Queens and Kings, half the population dressed like it was Halloween daily.
Within minutes, I was over Milford, Connecticut with the lights of Providence looming just ahead. I did a quick review of the directions on my phone and headed onward. (How demons ever got around before MapQuest is beyond me.) My first challenge to this target would be to locate him outside of his apartment. This would be my only complex dweller, the other two residing in their own houses. Plus, Providence was larger than I had remembered it.
Oh, my devil, I neglected to tell you how we were to know which kid was our target. (Yeah, time for another info dump. I’m practicing my skills, can’t you see?) Hunger does that to a person… makes them forget things. As children perform bad deeds, they earn an aura which can only be seen by selected demons, like myself. The more evil they do, the brighter the aura. First, it’s white, then yellow, then orange, and for the really bad ones… our targets… it’s bright red. This aura can be seen through every type of vehicle or structure. So, if we’re flying overheard and the target is inside the building, we can see exactly where they’re at. Bad thing for us is the aura only illuminates the evil one, no one else. (See, you were afraid we’d fly overhead and see you screwing around on your spouse with your battery powered lover, weren’t you?)
Locating my prey, he appeared to be going down an inside stairway and headed out onto the street. The best I could hope for was that he was alone.
He wasn’t.
Out from the building comes this eleven-year-old, with another youngster tagging along beside him. I’m guessing it was his sister, much smaller and younger… and without my aura. First thing this boy does is yank her so hard he damn near disconnects her arm from her shoulder socket. Of course, she starts crying, so he slaps her and yells, “Shut your fucking mouth!” He then drags her to the alley and sits her ass down in a puddle of dumpster rot, before taking off his vampire costume. It’s easy to see he could care less about Trick or Treating. This kid plans on scarfing up by stealing the candy gathered by others. (I almost hate to eat him. Such a nice lad.)
It’s early in the evening yet, so foot traffic on the street is light. Gradually, tired of being smacked around, his sister rests her head upon her knees and cries herself to sleep. No longer having her to pester, this kid takes his position at the alley entrance and keeps a lookout for any Trick or Treaters with full bags of treats. He has it all planned out. Well, almost. He never factored me in the equation.
I wait until just before the streetlamps are switched on and then silently swoop down into the alley behind him. I do a double check to make sure his sister is asleep (reminding myself to thank the kid for doing what he had to help me not be seen by her) and slip up behind him. I reached around, cover his mouth with my hand, and snap his neck, all in a split second. (Yeah, I have a bad memory. So much for thanking the little bastard.) As the boy fell back into my arms, I dug my claws into his shoulders and took flight. Just outside the city, I find a wooded area to land in and partake of my first meal.
I enjoyed stripping away his flesh and carefully chewing each mouthful, but hoped his taste wasn’t an indication of things to come. At eleven, he was borderline human veal. Kids seem to lose some of their sweetness as they get older. (Just look at Miley Cyrus.) Still, I couldn’t complain… fresh meat is fresh meat. Still, a little barbecue sauce would have helped nicely.
Feeling a little better with something in my stomach, I took to the friendly skies and made my way to Oklahoma City. Of all things, I ran into one hell of a rainstorm… more like a fuckin’ monsoon. The wind blew me halfway to Dallas and came close to putting me behind schedule with my luggage on another flight. Avoiding being dumped by overbooking, I finally made it to OKC. Checking my Smart Watch, I saw Trick or Treat time was nearly over. Plus, the storm I had been thrown had a sister here… and she was bringing a tornado along as a companion. I would have to hurry to make this one my second course.
My target was a young lady. While most little girls play with dolls, this one loved playing with animals… puppies and kittens to be exact. This seven-year-old got her jollies by dropping them off bridges, throwing them out of haylofts, and even pulling their legs from their bodies… one by one. She had taken her baby brother from his crib and bounced him down a flight of stairs while her mother had been playing a video game, and claimed he had managed it all by himself. She had the beginning of a future serial killer, for sure. This “Mommy’s Little Angel” had an extremely bright aura for a girl, even surpassing that of Lizzie Borden in her younger years.
Anyway, there she was being driven from house to house by her father, trying to hit as many homes as possible and get as much candy as she could before the weather shut her down. I knew I’d have to hurry. I’d already had a problem flying in the wind of the storm and a tornado would spoil my evening without a doubt. (I’d probably end up in Kansas with a damn little dog humping my leg while I clicked my heels together saying, “I wanna go home, I wanna go home.”) My only chance would be if I could get her father to shift his gauze away from her for a second or two. Thinking fast, as the girl walked up to the next house, I nose-dived at full speed, snapped a small limb off a tree, slammed it into the glass of his driver’s side window, and, while his attention was drawn the other way, plucked up his daughter, all in a split second. (Yeah, fuck Superman and the Flash, I’m faster than both of those suckers.)
Doing my best to get away before the storm caught up with me, I shook my head knowing I had almost messed it up. I had been traveling at such a rate of speed that I came close to snapping the girl’s head from off her neck. I’d have been pissed if that would have happened. Not only would it have left evidence as to what had taken place, but I would have missed out on sucking down her little brain. (Brains are a delicacy. All I do is fix my lips to her left ear and suck really hard. It’s my version of a Slurpee, minus the straw.)
With two decent meals under my scales, I pushed on to the West Coast singing,
“California here I come, gonna eat me another one. So tender, so helpless, oh they taste good. So sweet now, so young now, just like they should. California here I come, have me waiting another one. California here I come, I’ll wipe my mouth when I am done!”
I know, but I’m a demon. You expected Taylor Swift? (Maybe, next Halloween.)
The last stop on my list was Huntington Beach. Ocean beaches, vacant shopping malls, and miles and miles of Chinese restaurants offering special combo platter pricing. (A city where the loneliest man in town is the dog catcher.) Passing over a car dealership, I realized I had a few extra minutes and headed out over the ocean, hoping to see a shark grabbing a bite from a night surfer or swimmer. Once again, California proved itself to be all talk and no show as none were feeding. Disappointed, I turned back and went to seek out my third course, or dessert, if you will.
This target was indeed a special child. Barely six years old, she had already been showing powers far beyond those of many residing in the management offices of Hell. It was rumored that Satan himself had been her father on a visit to the human realm. Her mother, a topless dancer, had loved the size of his wallet and taken him home for a night. Yeah, you and I both know it only takes once.
Unknown to him, she’d set up her phone camera to record the event. Under threat of blackmail, Satan gave in to her demands of support, seeing how he knew how a trial would come out. (OJ had lucked out, but he had a glove. If Satan had worn a glove, he wouldn’t be in such a mess.) So, he had managed to indirectly provide the woman with cash whenever she ran short. Once, there had been a suitcase full of cash tossed in her yard by drug smugglers being chased by the police. Next, an armored car had smashed into a tree and caught fire next door. By some quirk of fate, one of the main deposit bags had flown through her bedroom window and never sought by the authorities. He had even set up her finding a mouse in a bowl of fast food chili. That had brought in a huge payoff. But, no matter how much she got, it was gone before you could ask, “Harvey Weinstein did what?” No, the mother was no angel, now or in the future. Satan couldn’t wait for her day in Hell. He was paying now, but she would pay later.
The daughter was following her mother’s example, but with powers most humans never had. The first incident took place two years before, during a kindergarten class. After stealing another girl’s doll, and ripping the appendages and head from its torso, she had gotten mad and turned the doll owner’s hair into the color and smell of vomit. It had stayed that way… even after being shaved and new hair had grown in. (To this day, the girl’s parents accept donations from those who think the youngster is going through chemotherapy.) Another time, she had been mad at being teased by a neighbor’s boy while visiting at their pool. When their parents had gone inside to prepare drinks, she had levitated the boy high above the pool and then dropped him. Sad thing was he missed the water, and instead, landed on the concrete side, instantly killing him. (Gotta admit, she had perfect aim.) Those two instances were just the beginning of things to come. Over the last couple of years, the young girl had gotten progressively worse.
Satan wasn’t the type of guy to handle fatherhood well. He was sick and tired of the girl’s mother blaming all the girl did on him never being around and providing his daughter with the proper guidance. (Yeah, she was a millennial as well… a real blame shifter.) The big guy just wanted done with the whole mess. Being ever so coy, he had listed her as my third victim of the night. There was one catch. I had to restrain my appetite to the point of saving him one of her legs and thighs to munch on. Something to do with the expression, “A family that eats together…” or something like that. I forget.
So, I soon found myself flying over the section of Huntington Beach once known as “Little Saigon” by the locals. Having been home to Vietnamese refugees at one time, several generations still made the area their home. Locating my target, her aura nearly blinded me. In fact, it temporarily destroyed my night vision. I was flying blind as a bat and looked like one, too. After a few minutes, I regained my sight and could see the girl’s mother taking her door to door, doing the Trick or Treat thing. I had to chuckle a at an elderly woman who had originally come into the states from Asia and rejected the candy giving custom. As the youngster walked away empty handed, the trees in the old woman’s yard became magically covered with rolls and rolls of toilet paper. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it had been used and stunk to high Heaven!
Now, where the carload of young hoods came from, I have no idea. I have my suspicions the big red guy might have had a hand in it, but have no proof to that. I have to say their entrance couldn’t have been timed any better. As the girl and her mother walked along the section of sidewalk where the streetlamps had mysteriously burned out, the car slowed and those inside began shooting at the house behind the two. The loving mother dropped to the ground instantly and covered her head, forgetting about her meal ticket… err, daughter. Panicked, the young girl went running off across the street and tried hiding in the bushes. No, didn’t make a lot of sense to me either, but who’s complaining? With all attention being on the car and the house being shot at, I swooped down and snagged the girl.
Boom-wacka-boom-wacka-boom… just that easy!
I sat on the beach, watching the waves rush into the shore, eating my ever so sweet third course, and enjoying my Slurpee. About halfway finished, I found myself getting a headache, probably from too much MSG, and decided to not only save the requested parts, but to add in the heart and an arm as well for my boss. It never hurt to brown nose a little, even with a red guy.
The peaceful calm of the ocean began to grate on my nerves. Yes, I missed the screams of those being tortured back home in Hell. Having had my fill of the fishy smelling ocean breezes, I took flight, returned home an hour early, and made my way to give Satan his snack. I think I made some brownie points with him. He especially enjoyed the girl’s heart.
Retiring to my pit, I folded up my wings, lay back against the rocks, and patted my bloated stomach. It had been a wonderful Halloween. I’d eaten well, traveled and seen places I hadn’t visited in a while. Plus, I’d made my boss happy.
Lying here, I wonder, since I have been such a good demon, what Santa is going to bring me in a couple of months. I hope it will be the winning numbers to next year’s Halloween lottery.
“Yummy, yummy, yummy … more kids for the tummy!”
* P.S. Dear Santa, take that damn eggnog and shove it up Rudolph’s ass. That shit sucks!
What happens when a Yankee transplants to the South? What happens when Rhode Island meets New York City meets Bloomington, Indiana meets Mobile, Alabama meets Lexington, Kentucky … with Europe in between? What happens when a 70’s radio DJ becomes a stand-up comedian, and then a corporate training director and manager of sales? Richard Rumple!
“The advantage of living in many places is that you get to experience the best and worst each has to offer. From that, you get to know the people and what makes them tick. You’re able to look at life from the outside and see various points of view instead of living life wearing blinders.”
People and their stories are the essences of his writing. Relationships are the basis of his tales and the rest, be it the horror of reality, or horror of the paranormal are added to spice things up. His stories don’t end with the dismissal of the foes. They end with life moving on and your interest in where they may go from there.
It’s a different style of writing. Don’t pass by without experiencing it.
A book that will have you wondering every time a door slams in your home! Horror Across The Alley isn’t the typical book you’ll find on Amazon. It contains a cast of characters you’ll either love or hate, as well as those oddities you’d never want to meet.
Renters move in but quickly move out … either on their own or by ambulance. Now, a recent military veteran moves in and finds another enemy to confront. Will he and his group of acquaintances survive, or will the spirits of the house claim more victims? You’ll need to “Add To Cart” to find out!
Summer vacation 1966… time for fun and excitement… NOT! “Stand By Me” meets “Cujo” when four pre-teens have to deal with a pack of man-eating dogs, venomous reptiles, a local thief and kidnapper, and much, much more. Action packed horror thriller that will have you wondering if you’ll ever go in the woods again!
Thirteen tales of horror from Gabriela’s past lives and those she’s heard in Hell while waiting to be reborn into her next. Demented human monsters as well as beasts of folklore, legend, and technology await you in these twisted stories. Advance readers have said, “I couldn’t sleep for days”, “You’ve got it down, now”, and “God, what a visceral read.” Don’t gamble with fate. Tame the demon cat before she seeks you out!
From deranged minds come twenty-two horrific tales of misery, torture, and savage acts. Stories to give you nightmares… stories to make you wary of what lurks in the dark. How will the shadows you see out of the corner of your eye haunt your very soul? How will those you trust plot your demise? Are your demons real, or only in your mind? The pages within provide answers to your questions. Are you brave enough to take the demented journey? Do you dare?
One of the last wagon trains heads west facing numerous dangers. The wagon master has dealt with most on previous trips… disgruntled travel companions, terrible weather, deadly reptiles, vicious wild animals… all common to him. Yet, there is a new beast stalking in the darkness. A creature created by the magic of the medicine men of numerous tribes, more savage and dangerous than he’s ever faced. Will any survive?
Steven Wynne is a very talented guy, and to have the honor of sharing another one of his shorts during my Halloween Extravaganza frivolities makes me happy. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. And make sure you check out the interview with him.
Man, you must have really fucked up to get yourself down here. Like, really fucked up, as in ‘I’ve been down here a long, long time, and I’ve never seen ’em bring anyone else down here’ kinda fucked up. You start a riot out in general, or something? Kill a couple guards? I mean, there are protocols and procedures for things like that, but those guys usually just go to solitary. I would love to hear what the hell you did to get yourself next to me.
Don’t worry, the guards are gone. Once they drop you off, they wait around about 15 minutes before they head back off to wherever. I like to think they stick around because they like my singing. I got this great little number for when they drop off my food. You wanna hear it? No? Ah, don’t worry. Chances are you’ll be here for a while. You’ll get to hear it soon enough. I’m a great singer. You gotta keep yourself occupied in here, you know that. You can lose your mind if you don’t have something to fill the time and keep you thinking. I’ve seen it happen. It ain’t pretty. Believe me, I’ve been here a long goddamn time, and I’ve seen my share of psychotic and schizophrenic breaks among you younger guys. You’d better start singing, or get a rock or paperclip and start etching the walls or something. Get your mind working, son, or it will unravel.
I know I don’t look old at all, fella. Shit, they ain’t talking about me up there anymore? Jesus, did all the lifers I knew back in the day die already? What year is it? 2015? God damn, that means I’m how old? Shit. . .
Well, sorry for whatever brought you down here. If you’re anything like me, it wasn’t entirely your fault. Sure, you might have fucked up, and fucked up pretty badly, but circumstances just happened to let the absolute worst people to see it saw it. Lo and behold, you find yourself in the Chokey.
No, that ain’t what this place is really called. Just a nickname, can’t remember where it came from. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think this place has a real name. Maybe it did, at one point, when confinement like this didn’t fit the definition of ‘cruel and unusual punishment’. I guess it is really called the Chokey now, seeing as we’re the only people here who call it anything.
So, tell me. What’d you do? How’d you wind up down here with little old me? Hmm. Quiet type, I see. Well, no worries. I can do the talking until you’re ready. You’ll talk. Everyone talks. You may have lost your mind by that point, but you’ll start spilling some kinda beans. For both our sake, please try to find it in yourself to talk before then. You’ll be glad you did.
Shit man, you ain’t that old at all. Young, snotty, arrogant, all full of yourself, thinking you can throw yourself at the world and make it flinch. I got that right? Well, bang-up job so far, kid. And, if what brought me down here is any indicator, you’re down here because you’re never getting out of this fucking place, either. Lifer, right? At your age, too. Bad luck, man.
I can already tell, looking at you now, you’re gonna be an ugly one. You’re gonna keep them walls up, keep them emotions and feelings locked in. Hell, you might even be able to keep ’em up until the end, but they’ll crumble with you like a failed state. And man, it’s gonna hurt, knowing you could have just avoided some goddamn pain and opened up, told someone about who you were. You’ll die, and the last thing you’ll hear is me, sitting here, counting down your last breaths, and I’ll just tell you, ‘We could have had something, you and I’.
Oh, shit, where are my manners? This is no way to make an introduction. Please accept my humble apology, my dear young murdering neighbor. I hope I’m wrong about you, and you come to treasure my company as I’m already enjoying yours. My bed’s actually a lot nicer than the ones were out in general, when I was still out there. By the looks of it, yours is the same make. If it weren’t for this fucking light they’ve got on 24/7, you could actually get some decent sleep. C’est la vie.
You a praying man, newbie? Religious at all? I used to be. Don’t do a whole lot of good in here, I don’t mind saying. I don’t mind that my folks took me to church when I was kid, though I hated it. Every fucking Sunday, waking up to go to some goddamn stuffy building with shitty organ music and some dick in a robe telling me how I’d be going to hell for not giving him my money, and then Satan would buttfuck me for jerking off.
Oh, that reminds me: you can jerk off if you want. Just let me know when the urge hits. I can look away, if that makes it easier. No judgment. We all got our needs, and ain’t one of us higher than the other.
Don’t look at me like that. Just being honest, man. Look, all I’m saying is I wanna be as respectful as possible, but you’re gonna see me jerking off. I ain’t gonna stop that on account of you being here, but I just want you to know that it’s completely normal, and we’re both adults who can take care of ourselves. You ain’t gonna go to hell for it.
Where was I? Oh, the preacher, right. Well, he talked a good game. Getting people over to his side, scaring em all with that hell talk. Satan wants to torture you, God’s all love, and he loves you and wants your love too, he made you just the way you are and set everything in motion, yadda yadda, hell, thou, sin, torture, love, heaven, paradise, all that jazz. You’ve heard that all before, right?
Well, lemme learn you something, kid. It ain’t all bullshit. There is a God, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. He’s the whole reason I’m in this place. Well, I guess he’s the reason everyone’s in here, that whole ‘plan’ of his. Well, whatever good that whole ‘plan’ is worth, anymore.
See, they say God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent. Shit, God himself says that, but I can tell you something right now; one of those is a lie, another is impossible, and I can’t figure on the last. I don’t know about him being in all places, but I think there’s something else going on with that one. However, I can tell you that God doesn’t know everything about everything and everyone all the time. He might have some ways of finding that shit out, but at best, he’s just good at sniffing out lies and looking around.
Now, as for being all-powerful, that’s a wrench in the spokes of an already shitty argument. See, you can’t be ‘all-powerful’; it ain’t possible. I heard some apologists and bible bangers stopped saying ‘all-powerful’, and started saying ‘maximally powerful’, because I guess someone called ’em on their shit, and they realized they had to move the goal posts. That ain’t right, though; God ain’t maximally powerful. They had it right the first time, when it was a contradiction.
Get this: If God is all-powerful, can he make a rock so big he can’t move it? If the answer is yes, he ain’t all powerful because, well, he can’t move it. If the answer is no, well, shit. You get the idea.
Now, get this: the answer to that question? Can God make a rock so big, even he can’t move it?
Yes.
You go on, pacing like that, acting like you don’t hear me. As long as I keep talking, it’ll give your mind something to work on, and you’ll stay sane. If I stop talking, and if we just sit in silence like kids at a Pentecostal dinner, then you’ll lose your shit. So, keep listening.
See, the whole reason I’m here is I fucked up God’s plan. He’d been building that big-ass rock up for so long, and he was just so in love with the fucking thing, he didn’t even notice what he was building it on top of was totally unstable. So, when the ground got ripped out from under it, and he couldn’t do anything about it. And all because of little old. Just some eighteen year old kid taking his Dad’s Tucker out for a drive.
Oh, that get your attention, did it? And no, don’t look at me like that, I ain’t a spoiled little brat. This was years ago. You weren’t even born yet, I guarantee. Shit, your parents might not have been born. Tuckers were still rare then, but not entirely out of place with the time.
All this took place on May 16th, 1956. Eisenhower and Nixon were in office, and I destroyed a plan set in motion at the dawn of time by just being a stupid fucking kid.
Yeah, I told you I was older than I looked. No, I ain’t crazy.
I was out with some friends at a party. Just about to graduate high school, and we were letting loose and kicking back some drinks, having a good old time, thinking about where we’d go to college and plans for the future. We were good kids, for the most part. Wish I knew what happened to any of those guys, Brian and Mike, but they kinda steered clear of me after everything went down.
So, it’s well after midnight, and I’m trying to keep this bastard on the road. Tied one on pretty good with the guys, and the road’s crawling everywhere under the tires. I start drifting in and out, the coffee I had before I left isn’t helping one bit. Maybe I take a couple turns too sharp, maybe I run a stop sign or two. I don’t remember what happened or what I did, but suddenly everything explodes. The steering wheel tries to pull my spine through my chest, the windows turn into snow and fall all over me, and the world stops spinning so fast, vertigo rips everything from my stomach and throws it onto the dash.
For a few seconds, I’m frozen. Somewhere, metal is crumbling and crashing, then stops. Blood, bile, gasoline, steam, and smoke kick me in the nose and jerk me back into consciousness. In the blink of an eye, I’m sober as a judge. There’s a full moon, and it’s giving enough light to see the Tucker’s fucked like it spent the night with Fatty Arbuckle. I can’t open the door, so I knock out the rest of the glass that’s still hanging on and climb out the window. My chest and ribs hurt, my head’s bleeding, but that’s about all that’s wrong with me. I’m looking around, trying to see what the fuck I hit when all of a sudden, the Sun comes out.
It comes from behind the moon, some impostor satellite that gives no daylight, and it starts speeding down to Earth, and I swear, I can tell this thing is heading right for me. Lights start dancing ahead of me, a little off to the left. There’s a bridge just ahead, and as the lights intensify, they reveal skid marks that shoot off the road and become torn earth.
A sound, a wailing, screaming din I’ve never felt before rumbles through my entire body as the missile keeps falling from above. I’m walking, following the skid marks into the grass, even though I don’t want to see what’s there. The tracks stop at a harsh drop, about twenty feet down into a rocky creek bed where a car is upside down and torn completely to shreds. Something’s sizzling and hissing from the exposed undercarriage.
This voice comes from above, and it’s screaming at me, ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ I’m already asking myself, What the fuck did I do? So, me and the big man are in agreement on this one.
And then, I find myself in the presence of God, hisownself. He’s staring me down, and lemme tell you, he is fucking pissed. Funny thing, though, he looks like a regular person, apart from all the glowing and floating bullshit. Anthropomorphic. Guess we were made in his image, after all. He looks at me, and then he looks down at the car I just smashed up, and for a while, he doesn’t move or speak or anything, just leaves me to piss myself in silence and confusion. I mean, picture it. You just wrecked your dad’s car and killed some other fella in the process, and all of a sudden, you learn God is real and you’ve pissed him off enough to reveal himself to you.
. . . I think I pissed myself before he finally spoke to me, but I’m not sure, I can’t remember exactly when that happened. But, he’s looking down at the wreck when he finally says, ‘You killed them all. They’re all dead.’
He turns his head and snarls, ‘You have ruined everything! Two thousand years of planning, of waiting for the right moment! Everything you know, everything you’ve seen, all of it wasted! You have doomed the entire human race!’
So, after I add a considerable helping of shit to my already soggy pants, I say to God, ‘What?’
So then, God screams at me and, holy shit, you have no clue how painful it is to hear God scream, but he screams, ‘The Antichrist was in that car!’
So, you know much about the Antichrist, end times, all that bullshit? Yeah, I didn’t either around then, just that the Antichrist was supposed to be some bad guy who brings about Armageddon and the Rapture and all that. So, I keep staring at God, because I’m completely following everything that’s happening and am not standing mute in awestruck terrified confused in twice soiled britches.
God goes on. ‘The Antichrist is dead! Now, there is no one to bring about the end times! No one to unite the world for seven years, no one to lead following the Rapture! His coming was foretold, the world was ripe for his leadership, and you cut him down before he was old enough to walk!’
Hell of a way to learn you killed a baby, man. I mean, the baby was gonna grow up to be a pretty bad dude, but still. Now, I don’t know what it was that got my head and tongue free enough to start talking, but talk back, I did. I think maybe, it was just trauma after trauma, shock after shock until some verbal bat hit me upside the brain stem and got me back in the moment. So, I say to God, ‘Can’t you just make another one?’
God turns red, all burning bright and angry, and screams again. ‘It has been foretold! Prophesied! You dare question, you dare challenge the Lord, Your God?!’
Me, I look back at God, and I say, ‘You’re God! Can’t you do anything? You can’t bring them back to life?’ They say he did that, you know.
He grows to double the size, right in front of me, and screams again, ‘It was a divine plan! A perfect plan! It cannot be altered in any way! It must be fulfilled exactly as it was foretold when Man first fell!’
And suddenly, he gets right in my face, and man, God sure can be a scary motherfucker. He says to me, ‘And you have doomed mankind, until the prophecy can be fulfilled once more!’
I say to God, ‘What?’ I’m pistol quick, bud. Believe me.
God tells me that the end times were gonna come about in my lifetime. Some shit with the Cold War, Russians and Communists and what all, and he would finally be able to wage war on Satan and reclaim his kingdom, bring all his children home, all the shit in the Bible. He tells me it has to happen this one specific way, exactly as it was laid out, and now, he’s gotta do it all over again. I mean, everything from the New Testament on, can’t do any of that old time Leviticus shit, nobody could get away with that now, man. .
Anyway, he tells me that everything’s going to happen again, and it’s going to take time. It’s gonna be a couple thousand years before another Antichrist can be born, and maybe this time, the divine plan won’t get fucked up by some stupid kid who apparently has the power to fuck up the pillars of Western Monotheism.
And, get this: the kicker is, he says, I’m gonna be around to see it. God says to me, ‘In my creation you shall remain until the divine plan is seen through, and my children return to me. Not a day shall you age; you shall languish in the lowest places. I shall mark you as Cain; no man shall harm you as you serve my sentence. As I have said, so it shall come to pass.’
Then, poof: God disappears. And that’s how the cop out on patrol found me; alone in the road, reeking of booze right next to two wrecked cars and three dead people. I get booked. It’s an open and shut case, and boom. Granted immortality just in time to get life in prison. How do ya like that?
I’m 87 years old, and I still have zits. They threw me down here, what, in the nineties? Guess the state didn’t want to waste time figuring out my shit. Budget cuts, can’t afford scientists to come and do tests on me. Can’t erase the graffiti on the rock God made so goddamn big he couldn’t fucking move.
So, pal, that’s my story. Out of curiosity, on the outside, has the messiah come back yet? He should have been here by now. Is he American? Something else? Come on, man, you heard anything?
Oh, shit, where the hell did you go? God damn, did you. . . huh. Guards must have dragged him off while I was monologuing. How the hell did I miss that? Jesus. Ain’t right to have a man locked away with nobody to talk to, or introduce a guy and yank him away just 10 minutes later. Up and vanished, just like that. Hey, guard! Bring back my neighbor! Guard!
I need someone to talk to. You could lose your mind, not having anyone to talk to.
Steven Wynne writes dark fiction. His short fiction has appeared here and there, online and elsewhere. His metabolism is slowing down, and he looks bad. Like, have you seen him recently? Someone should call someone. He resides in Central Pennsylvania with his pain in the ass cat.
I also have a short story, Escape Velocity, in the December 2016 edition of Sirens Call Ezine. (The link will redirect you to the .pdf that you can download.)
You can also find my short story, Fireflies, as part of a previous Halloween Extravaganza here, as well as my short Hallowen story, The Yellow Line, last year’s contribution, here.
Jeff Parsons was really interested in taking part in all of this year’s Halloween Extravaganza, but he just could not think of a guest post topic, so, joking around, I gave him some suggestions, in question form, and he answered all three. He has some interesting answers…
Meghan: What do you think is the worst Halloween candy ever created?
Jeff Parsons: Wax Bottle candy. Nip the top off, get wax on your lips, tongue, and teeth, spit it out in a slimy gob, and suck down the eyedropper squirt of bland sugar water. I think the sugar offsets the gag reflex, for undoubtedly, the liquid is some type of industrial waste discharge. Also, not part of any known food group is the related Candy Corn apostacy. Is it wax or non-fructose opioid? All I want to know is how to stop eating them…
Meghan: What was the best Halloween costume you wore as a kid?
Jeff Parsons: This will date me, but there was only one type of costume available. Store bought. The outfit came in a box that showed the costume through a clear cellophane window. The outfit was a plastic strap-on mask of Frankenstein, King Kong, Superman, etc. and a faux-silk matching tunic. The mask had two nose hole openings and a slit for a mouth. You couldn’t breathe. Sweat fogged up my glasses, further complicating the tunnel vision view. The mask’s rubber band bit into my head and broke too soon with a zinging snap to my ears. So, I’d have to hold the mask up to my face. After a while, I got tired of that. I’d just show the mask when the door opened to prove I was legit. By then, I was already exhausted by the marathon of getting as much candy as possible before the 6PM-get-your-butt-back-home curfew.
Meghan: Do you think it sucks for kids these days to not know the awesomeness of Halloween when we were kids?
Jeff Parsons: We were less jaded in the olden days. A good scary story really worked us over. Witches and goblins seemed to be a lot more believable back then… When I was young, seeing bizarre costumed people walking about on the street was like seeing a sign of civilizations sudden collapse into insanity. Nowadays, weird is normal and normal is weird. And, around late October, winter was on its way. When it got colder and darker, the leaves fell off the trees – my parents said not to worry, spring will return, but couldn’t it be they were protecting me from the awful truth… it may not return? Nowadays, everything can be Googled… no mystery.
This book’s title comes from the reality that – like a moth to the flame – we’re all just one event, mishap, or decision away from things that could change our lives forever.
What would you do if fate led you astray into a grim world where you encountered vengeful ghosts, homicidal maniacs, ancient gods, apocalyptic nightmares, dark magic, deadly space aliens, and more?
If you dare, why not find out?
Read for yourself the twenty-two gloriously provocative tales that dwell within this book – but be warned, some of my dear readers have experienced lasting nightmares…
Meghan's House of Books 