I can smell you my love, your scent heavy on the breeze of this night. You run in fear, but it is I who is afraid. Your scent; the smell of your sweat mixed with your choice of aftershave, a faint hint of alcohol. It is easy to track you, you are an easy prey. That is why I am fearful.
The autumn moon is ever so illuminated on this night of all nights, All Hallow’s night. I Children roam the streets clad in costumes and disguises, and here I am, free of my constraints. Free from the bonds of my own costume, my own disguise.
For years I kept the beast bound within me, kept the monster chained to my soul. I was able to fight the urges, fight the will to be free, to howl at the very moon that blesses us with it’s light. You my love were my tool to keep the beast chained. You tamed the flame of my heart, and with that taming you kept the wolf from escaping. You loved me as a woman, made me your bride, and for you, I kept my secret just that. My secret.
But you had a roaming eye, and another caught your attention. I could smell her in our bed. IN OUR BED, damn you. You tried to lie to me, and on that first day, the first lie, I took so much strength to restrain the beast. But I kept it chained to my soul, though I pained dearly for it. My flesh burned, my veins burned, my ears rang with the howl of the wolf within me. But worse that all the physical pain, my poor heart was broken.
And now I hunt you, I seek you, to rip my claws across your chest, your weak human chest. To taste your own beating heart, a heart that I for so long thought was mine and mine alone. But oh how I was naive. Young, in love. Naïve.
Oh, how fate has turned the tables. You chased me, for weeks till you had me, as your girl. I smiled for you. I laughed for you. My kisses, they were yours, and yours alone. My touch, my flesh, it was yours and no other man’s. The wolf inside begged me to be set free, to run, to howl to the heavens that had cursed me, but somehow, for the first time in my life, I was in control. The beast was cast aside for a man. You.
But the bastard you are, you son of a bitch, I hunt you now. You hide on hallowed ground, on All Hallow’s night, like God will protect you. You pray to your savior now, under your breath. I am so close I can hear it, the words exiting those lips I so loved to kiss. Now, I just want to taste your beating heart in your last moments of living.
We are so close to each now the beating of that heart is like a thumping thunder in my ears. I sniff the air and your scent is so strong, its intoxicating. That scent used to arouse me so, but not it angers me, I growl. You hear my guttural noise, the beast that chases you. The woman you loved, changed before your very eyes. You believed me to be an innocent girl who’s heart you could so easily break, you damn foolish bastard. I am a monster. A nightmare that hunts in the night, an animal older than your grandfather’s grandfather. And you have unleashed my primal instinct. And you are my prey.
I have faced downed men you dare to take my life. I have had lovers before, men who had the wolf in them like I, lovers who were bested by mortals with their silver weapons. I have lived as long as I have because of sheer survival. I am the top of the food chain, the greatest huntress of this world. No man may take my life, nor may any man break my heart. You, you damn fool, have done the latter. You have broken the wolf’s heart.
And here I have. Such an easy prey, you were no challenge to chase, to find, and to corner. Above you, a mighty stone crucifix, its shadow cast in moonlight upon the graveyard that lies upon this hallowed ground, this church yard. It’s fitting, that you my love, meet your end here, upon the dirt that holds the dead.
Tears run from your eyes. You are despicable. You cry, looking into my blackened eyes, as though those tears you weep will bring mercy from me. But for you, my dear, dear husband, you have brought no mercy from me, only the wolf that had broke its bounds. You have set free the animal which I kept chained to my soul, a monster that has plagued mankind since kings and queens were worshipped as gods. I was able to keep her tame, to quench her thirst for blood with love. Love kept her satisfied, but you have unleashed her. Now, I will not stop her. I have no need to.
Your screams, I must be honest, pain me to hear. My teeth and powerful jaws bite through your throat with such ease, the taste of copper strong as your blood flows into my jowls. I throw you to the ground like a child’s toy being cast away, and as I stand above you, the thumping thundering of your heart grows in volume, it increases due to your fear. Your dark blue eyes grow wide as you look up at me, the monster that claims you as its own. The monster that at one time, well, the monster who you once loved when she was a woman, or what you believed a woman.
I’m quick, my claws tearing your chest, but it is pure, your sweet flesh pure like a wedding dress. I remember our wedding day. When I took your name, and you took me in bed. I remember my dress, how easy you tore it away to get to the flesh beneath, to take me in the bed, to take me as your own. I howled your name, I screamed in sheer pleasure that night. But that night, that pleasure, it doesn’t even measure to the ecstasy that I am in at this very moment, the shivers coursing through me, my fur standing on end.
Your blood drips from my jowl, only to join the blood that flows from your chest, my claws having torn into you with such each. I sniff, the air about you filled with the smell of your blood, your innards, and the dead. The dead that lay beneath us. You can’t hear them, but I can. Their whispers in their graves. It is depressing. Tonight, they are returned to their bodies, and they whisper, the spirits beneath us, for they feel another coming to join their ranks soon enough. They know that you will die. And they fear me. Oh, my love, how even the dead fear the terrible wolf.
And now I get my sweet, so sweet revenge you bastard. Like Eve took a bite from that forbidden fruit, I bite into your heart, like I promised I would when I began to hunt you. And my dear, you cheating bastard, your heart is spoiled, sour to my tongue. I spit it out and growl to you, disgusted that I could ever love you, love a mortal like you.
The moon, so bright above us, so bright, I howl to it, I howl to it’s honor, the light of the sky goddess giving my power. The moon bringing forth the wolf. So I howl as you die. I live in, as I have killed you. They will find you, my love, bury you, here, in the very ground you have died upon, and know this. Just as I have been cursed for so, so long, you too will know my pain. For every All Hallow’s night, when you, a retched excuse of a man, return to inhabit your worm-ridden corpse buried six feet in this hallowed ground, I will stand above you, claw the very stone that bares your name, and I will howl. Because my dear, even the dead fear the terrible wolf.
About Jackytharippa
Hey, I'm Mike, and i love to write. It truly is the last known form to truly be immortal. I was in the Air Force, until a brain tumor forced my discharge. But even without that, I still have the almighty pen & paper. I write everything, but horror is my hobby, and poetry is my passion.Website:
Jackytharippa has written 31 articles so far, you can find them below.
A promise is forever
“Trick r’ treat Mrs. Summers,” the little boy said, Autumn unsure of who exactly it was, the mask hiding the child’s face and muffling his voice. A hideous mask, a Cyclops monster, the little one-eyed creature held out their plastic Jack-O’-Lantern bucket expecting candy.
“And just who is that hiding behind such a scary mask?” Autumn asked, giving her evening’s first trick-r’-treater a heartwarming smile. She knew it had to be one of her students, just which one. Getting a hearty handful of candy from the large, purple plastic bowl resting on her lap, she dropped the candy in, knowing that would make any child happy, though she knew she gave such a hearty amount since it was one of her students.
“It’s me,” the child said as they lifted their mask, revealing it to be Tommy Clare, one of her favorite students. Not the brightest, but the boy had been raised right. Well mannered and attentive, he made up in young character what he lacked in academics. “And thank you Mrs. Summers.” Pulling his mask back down, the boy told her happy Halloween and made his way back to the sidewalk and down to the next house.
The trick-r-treaters were starting early that year, but it was still slow, still a little too early in the evening, which was just alright for Autumn. Taking a sip from her beer, the Busch light she was hiding behind her back so kid’s coming up for candy wouldn’t see, she checked her phone, which she knew was pointless, the Iphone having died no more than ten minutes earlier. Looking to the baby monitor next to her, her baby girl April was still fast asleep.
Autumn Summers had lived in Cleveland, Ohio her entire life. She loved the city. Not the sports teams. She knew nothing about sports. No, it was the city itself. The people. It was why she had become a teacher. She loved the city’s people, but more so she loved children. Seeing the kid’s play on the playgrounds, hearing them laugh. And how smart they could be; she found herself everyday in some way astounded by something one her students would say or do.
A third grade teacher, she was also a happy mother, her baby girl April having been in her life for almost seven months. Her daughter asleep, Autumn had mixed feelings about Halloween, but that wasn’t going to stop her from handing out candy to all the children that wanted it.
After thirty more minutes, more and more kids and parents had begun to fill the street, all different kinds of costumes, most making their way up to her house where she sat on her front steps, letting the children reach in and take whatever pieces of candy she had to offer. Some like Tommy would address by her name, Mrs. Summers, and every time one would, just like when they did in the classroom, it made her swallow hard, forcing her fight back her tears.
Eight months had passed since the funeral, and even after eight months it wasn’t easy. Smiling to each and every kid, she wasn’t going to break down, not on her front porch, not in front of all the trick-r’-treaters. Ryan wouldn’t have wanted that. Halloween had been their night, and he would have wanted her to enjoy it she convinced herself.
“Happy Halloween Autumn,” Mr. Wilson said, bringing his two daughters up to the house so they too could get candy from Autumn’s candy bowl. Mr. Wilson lived down the street with his wife and twin daughters, Tara and Brittney. The girls dressed in cowgirls, the costumes were practically identical, except for the colors, Tara mostly in pink, Brittney mostly in aqua blue. Mr. Wilson, waiting as his daughters got their candies, looked Autumn over. While he was married and she was widowed, he couldn’t help but admire the young woman, him like most other men finding her very attractive.
Only twenty six, her skin was flawless, a natural tan only complimented by her auburn hair and chestnut eyes. When she’d fully smile, she’d smile so wide her eyes would squint, which was her cutest feature. Dressed in a burnt orange turtleneck, she was wearing a brown and lighter orange striped scarf. Autumn had a weakness for scarves, her bed and closet littered with too many to count. Her hair shoulder length, she always wore it down, more often than not her bangs falling down into her face, her ever the casually brushing her hair away, and more often than not another boy or man would notice it and fall in love with her that moment.
But for Autumn Summer’s only one man and one man only had ever won her heart. The father of her child, her late husband, and the man she loved more so than she could ever love another, Ryan Summer’s had met Autumn on that night itself, Halloween, four years prior.
She’d been at a party, dragged there by her friend Katie. Not really one for parties, she had half-assed her costume, putting on a cat-ear head band and mascara whiskers upon her face. Katie had wanted Autumn to dress a little more, as Katie had put it, “sluttier”, Katie’s intentions being that of finding Autumn a boy-toy for the All Hallows evening, though Autumn wasn’t to delighted at the thought of hooking up with a stranger. Having turned down wearing the Playboy Bunny outfit that Katie had wanted Autumn to wear “oh so badly”, Autumn was content with her half-assed kitten costume.
Having stood alone at the back of the party most of the night, Katie talking to one boy or another, and a few guys having tried their moves on Autumn, she just turned them all down as politely as she could and sipped at her red plastic cup of beer, the smile on her face never once vanishing. Though she wasn’t the party type girl, she was still enjoying herself, seeing all the other’s having fun. The music wasn’t terrible either.
“These things are always such a drag.” Another guy seeing if he was lucky enough to win over the lonesome “kitten” of the party. Tall, dressed in a half-assed werewolf costume, with a dog eared head band on his head, a leather jacket with a fabric dog tail safety pinned to his jeans, Autumn did think he was cute, but she was most likely gonna turn him down like she had the others that had tried earlier.
“Got that right,” she said, joining into the idle conversation.
“So how do you get an elephant into a safeway bag?” the question the boy asked leaving Autumn perplexed. She looked puzzling at cute boy, his face serious, or as serious as he could keep it. Unsure if she heard him correctly, she just stared at him till he repeated himself. “How do you get an elephant into a safeway bag?”
“How?” Autumn asked, not sure what the safeway bag was, but curious as to what the cute werewolf was going with his strange, very strange question.
“Well. It’s quite simple my little party kitten. You just remove the letter ‘s’ from the word ‘way’. And the letter ‘f’ from the word ‘way’. That simple.” Taking a sip from his own red plastic cup, the cute werewolf gave a warm grin as the obvious bewilderment on Autumn’s face became more and more obvious.
“What?” Autumn insanely confused by the solution the cute werewolf had just given her to his strange, random question. “There’s no ‘F’ in way.” As soon as she said the sentence, as soon as she heard the words exit her lips, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“Oh, but there is an F’in way,” the cute werewolf retorted, joining into the laughter with her, a boy across from the two seeing their shared laugh, irritated that the cute kitten girl had turned him away, instead falling for Ryan’s stupid elephant in a safeway bag joke. “I’m Ryan” the boy said, extending his hand for a handshake.
“Autumn Christmas,” Autumn said, taking her hand in his, his grip strong, but not too tight. In fact, as she held his hand, she felt butterflies begin to flutter in her tummy. “And that’s not a joke. That’s my real name. My parents have a strange sense of humor.”
“Well Autumn Christmas, in a strange turn of events, my last name just so happens to be Summers. Quite the kawinkydink if I may so myself.” Knowing he should let go of her hand, he, just like her had butterflies, something he’d never felt before, at least not from a handshake.
“Summers, huh?” Autumn took another sip of her beer. “Wouldn’t it be funny if we got married. Then my name would be Autumn Summers.” Rambling on, her normally adherent and logical thinking was somewhat hindered by the beer she was sipping at, and the uniqueness the cute werewolf had from all the other boys at the party. “Oh god! I just met you. I mean, I just found out your name, and I’m already going on about getting married. Oh god. Yeah, you can walk away with that ‘yep that chick was psycho’ look on your face and I’ll completely understand. It’s just that I’m slightly tipsy, and you are REALLY cute, and…”
Silenced when Ryan put a finger to her lips, he was quick to pull it away and take a sip from his cup, then give a warm smile. He found himself more attracted to this Autumn Christmas than he had any other girl. At these parties, he, just like his friends would see how many girls they could hook up with. And while that had been his plan when he had begun conversation with Autumn, that was long since abandoned, the butterflies in his gut making him think with the head on his shoulders, not the one in his jeans.
“You seem like you can hold a stimulating conversation. You want to get out of here? And I mean that in a ‘I-find-you-funny-and-cute-and-think-it-would-nice-to-get-out-of-here-and-get-to-know-you-better-not-a-get-you-alone-to-see-what-kinda-panties-you-are-wearing-though-I-wouldn’t-mind-knowing’ kinda way. A nerdy smile on his lips, Autumn couldn’t help but laugh and nod, agreeing to get out of there with this Ryan Summers.
Looking for Katie, the girl was nowhere in sight, most likely a “victim” to one of the other guys, just another number for the boy’s ego, not that Katie minded any. Knowing she would have to tell Katie all about Ryan the next day, she was more worried about what was going to happen, what story she was going to tell her friend.
Following Ryan through the crowd to the door, she took one last sip on her beer before she set it down, Ryan doing the same and opening the door, motioning for her to make her exit first.
“Such the gentleman.” Leaning in close, she could smell his cologne, and the fact that he smelled so good was just another reason she found him so very, very attractive. Feeling a little uninhibited, most likely from the few sips of beer she’d had (Autumn was a light weight when it came to drinking), she thought she could reward Ryan with just a tidbit of information. “And by the way, they are Pink, with frilly white trim, and these little red hearts on the cheeks.” Planting a kiss on his cheek, she pulled away with the biggest grin upon her lips, unbelieving what she had just said, but rather proud that she had, leaving Ryan to realize what he’d just been filled in on.
And when it occurred to him what she had just told him, he was quick to catch up to her, just as big a grin on his face, and his eyes wide as he pictured those panties on his “kitten”.
That night, the two had gone for a long walk, eventually Ryan giving Autumn his jacket, her loving the gesture, and the two walking and talking for hours. She told him about how she was so close of becoming a teacher, her dream. Explained what the ring she wore on a chain around her neck was.
“It had been my grandpa’s wedding band. He was my favorite person in the world, and when he died, my grandmother gave me the ring. It’s like my lucky charm.”
“Does it work?” Ryan asked, his hands in his pockets, and the goosebumps on his arms going away. He was freezing, but he wasn’t going to ask for his jacket back.
When the conversation turned to him talking, he told her about his parent’s divorce, how his little brother was a flute prodigy, and how in a week from that night, Ryan would be leaving for basic training in the Army. A military police job awaiting him, she seemed sad till he told her he was just a reservist, which made her feel a little better, but not the much.
At the end of that night, she exchanged number’s and shared a long, passionate kiss before parting ways. The next day Autumn had been the one to text him first. They met for lunch. Then dinner. And they saw each other every day till he left. And even then she wrote him a letter every day, well, at least one letter every day.
She went and seen him when he graduated basic training, meeting his parents and little brother. They talked on the phone every chance they could when he was in AIT. And when he finally came home, they were inseparable.
The next Halloween, a year after they had met, Ryan proposed, to which Autumn accepted and the two were married a week later, the two too impatient to wait. Giggling like a school girl when it was finally done, she loved her new name.
“Autumn Summers,” she would say over and over again to herself. “Mrs. Autumn Summers.”
The last pieces of candy taken by Optimus Prime, Autumn wished the child a happy Halloween and got up to retrieve more candy, a few more bags sitting right inside the house by the front door. Grabbing her beer as she stood, she paused to listen to the baby monitor, April still fast asleep. Taking a long gulp of her beer, Autumn had a foot inside the front door when she was stopped in her tracks, her heart skipping a beat when she heard what she heard.
“Knights in white satin, never reaching the end. Letter’s I’ve written, never meaning to send.” It was Ryan’s ringtone. Coming from her phone. Her Iphone that was dead. Dropping the candy bowl, dropping the beer bottle, she turned slowly, tears welling in her eyes and she looked down upon the phone, the screen black, but the song playing. “Beauty I’d always missed with these eyes before, Just what the truth is, I can’t say anymore.”
Knights in White Satin by the Moody Blues. Both Ryan and Autumn had had a love for seventies psychedelic music. And that song, it was Ryan’s favorite. In her phone, that song was his, and only his tone. Not that it mattered. Her phone was dead. There was no way it could be playing. No way, she thought.
Moving back to the steps, falling to her knees, tears running free from her eyes, she just looked at her phone, stared at it. It was impossible, was all her thoughts were. Impossible for her dead Iphone to be playing that song. Her husband was dead, like the phone. Just a month before their daughter had been born, he had been killed in a roadside bomb. Breathing hard, Autumn was scared, shaking her head as she clenched her eyes shut tight, just wanting the phone to shut up, but too afraid to touch it.
Reaching for her necklace, it was the first time since Ryan’s death she had done so, but her neck was bare, her grandfather’s ring absent from where it had hung for years. Before each of Ryan’s deployment’s she’d given it to him, making him promise to bring it back. She’d always believed the ring to be lucky, hoping it’s luck would keep her husband safe, bring him back to her. But apparently it wasn’t lucky enough.
Feeling her heart beating, thudding in her chest, the Iphone silenced as she was startled by another, a young child at the foot of her steps.
“Mrs. Summers,” the child had spoken, spooking Autumn, making her squeal and jump a bit. The little boy, Steven Price, another of her students, was dressed as a pirate, and standing there, he had an apologetic look upon his face, not meaning to startle his teacher.
“Steven. Yes, Steven,” she said, wiping her tears away, trying to remain calm. Giving the Iphone one last look, she wasn’t sure if she had been imagining the song playing, or if it really had been heard.
“Here,” Steven said, holding out an envelope. “The soldier man across the street wanted me to give this to you.” Autumn, reaching to take the envelope, looked across the street but only saw kids walking back and forth, no soldier. Taking the envelope, Autumn read the words written upon it as Steven just walked away, turning to move on to the next house for more candy.
A promise is forever. The words written on the envelope. Crying harder, Autumn recognized the handwriting. It was impossible for her not to. It was Ryan’s. Running fingers over the letters, it was impossible. Just like her dead phone ringing, it was impossible. Opening it, there was a letter within, but there was something else as well.
Pulling the letter free, Autumn turned the envelope over, and falling free, much to her shock, was her grandfather’s ring, still on the chain. Her breath caught in her throat, Autumn sobbed heavily. Large tears forming from her chestnut eyes, they ran slowly down her cheeks, meeting at her chin, coming together to fall, the large tear drop hitting the ring itself upon her lap.
Looking up again, there was still no solider across the street. Part of her wanted to see her husband standing there, while the rest of her wasn’t sure what to think. What was happening? She did believe in ghosts, but she never thought something like this would ever happen to her. Where she thought her grandfather’s ring had been lost when the bomb killed her husband, there it was on her lap. And still unread in her hand was a letter, Autumn afraid to open. Afraid to read what was written.
One more look up, still nothing to shock and awe her, just trick-r-treaters walking back and forth, she slowly opened the letter, her eyes closed the whole time, Autumn taking a deep breath before beginning to read.
Kitten.
I didn’t mean to scare you with the phone. Didn’t think you’d answer, but hey, a guy can hope, right? This is all so hard to believe, I know. But, a promise is a promise, and I promised to bring back that ring.
I miss you. And April. I watch you both, make sure you’re safe. You smile in your sleep still. And talk in your sleep. Incoherent gibberish.
Autumn laughed. It was definitely her husband’s hand that had written this letter. Even after death, he was still able to find a laugh in anything. Smiling so big her eyes squinted, forcing a few more tears from her eyes, she continued reading.
I’m sorry I can’t come home. I really am. I miss your kisses. I miss your touch. I miss you. I wish I could hold our baby girl, which April is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes upon. She gets that from you. And I bet she gets that weird star thing you can do with your tongue from you too.
Anyhoo, I’m always here with you Autumn. Always watching you, keeping you and April safe. So, I did come home, I’m just not going to ever clean out the garage for you babe.
And if you are thinking, there is no way your husband is a ghost, or your guardian angel, there is an “F’in” way.
I love you Autumn Summers.
P.s. Look up.
Doing as the letter said, Autumn looked up to finally see him, Ryan, standing there across the street from their home. Dressed in his service dress uniform, his hands were in his pockets and he was smiling. Looking at him, he looked handsome, but it was obvious that there was something otherworldly about him. Unnaturally bright, it was like someone had turned up the contrast on her husband.
Going to stand, going to run to him, he shook his head, not wanting her to be disappointed. She couldn’t hold him. Couldn’t kiss him. It was taking a lot of energy to just be seen by her. No one else could see him, and that was a helluva trick that took him quite a while to learn, him having practiced it on the old couple that lived down the street. The one’s that had always given him weird looks when he had been living.
Pulling his right hand free from his pocket, he placed his right index finger to his nose, and like it was a button, his tongue slid out through his lips and smile. Autumn laughing, she did the same. That had been there “thing”, doing that to one other whenever they were at gatherings, parties, too far away from each other to talk, but still wanting to be silly and showed they loved each other. His hand falling back to his side, Ryan mouthed that he loved her, a shiny tear falling from his eye.
“I love you too,” Autumn whispered, watching as he disappeared in a bright flash. Sitting there, holding her letter, more tears ran from her eyes, but these were tears of happiness. Putting the necklace around her neck, she felt a brush on her cheek, a familiar feeling, like Ryan’s fingers brushing her cheek, brushing her hair away from her face.
Taking a deep breath, sighing deeply, Autumn was happy. Watching kids walk by, laughing, some already digging into their candy bowls, Autumn heard something that didn’t scare her at all. Coming from the baby monitor, she heard Ryan, and focusing on his voice, she had missed it so.
“I love you baby girl,” Ryan said, talking to his sleeping daughter, the baby monitor picking it up, Autumn sitting, an audience to a ghost father’s love. “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s always gonna be here.”
Knowing her husband was there, knowing he was her husband forever, well after death did its part, Autumn knew she loved him just as much then as when he was alive. The amount of effort he had to have gone through to return the necklace, the write the letter, she felt that she had to return the favor. And she knew just how. Gathering the baby monitor and her phone, she would clean the beer and broken glass later. She had a pair of pink panties with white frilly trim to find. Her husband was going to get a show that night.
A “Are you seriously Serious?” kinda Halloween
“Show yourself mother fucker!!” Kurtis yelled, his knuckles white from gripping the wood axe tightly, the blood from the wound on his forehead running down his face, around his right eye, gathering in his goatee. His letterman ruined, his own blood staining it, he was pissed. More pissed that his head had been slammed off a corner of a kitchen cabinet, but his ruined letterman was coming in close second.
“Maybe we should, you know, try to get out of here,” Jayme whispered, her arms shaking from holding the shotgun. Firing the two rounds she had fired had rocked her body. She had never fired a gun before, and wasn’t in the least bit expecting the kick from the weapon. The only reason it hadn’t floored her was the amount of adrenaline running through her body. Just like Kurtis’ letterman, her skimpy playboy bunny costume was ruined, but the blood covering it wasn’t her own. No, the blood covering her, from her bunny-ear-blond-haired head down to her three inch healed feet was the blood of her gutted friend Laurie, who had been cut from throat to gut, like a deer, the blood spraying like a terrible horror movie.
“The doors are locked. And the windows are shatterproof. We need to kill this fucker and, I don’t know, get the keys off him.” Liam had a headache. Staring through his glasses with the left lens missing gave him a headache, his eyes trying to fight with each other over focus, his brain being the victim. But more so his right leg hurt, the stab wound in his thigh making it almost impossible to stand. The belt he was using as a turniquette only slowed the bleeding, but not stopped it, his jeans warm and sticking to his leg, the pants soaked through with blood. Gripping the fire poker in one hand, he had to fight to keep his free hand from shaking, trying to seem as calm and brave as Kurtis.
The bodies that littered the home were classmates, some friends of the trio, more so Kurtis and Jayme, a very few Liam’s. In ten of the rooms, playing on the televisions in each of the rooms, a Halloween movie was playing, the second of the original series playing in the living room that the trio was in. Trapped in the home that had earlier been the scene of the biggest Halloween party that any of the teenagers had been too, it had quickly become a living nightmare, all but the three killed by a Michael Myers impersonator.
“Come on you fucking pussy!” Kurtis continued to taunt their enemy, their own Michael Myers. “Let’s finish this!” Taking his axe to the television, he smashed the screen, cutting short the “real” Myers’ massacre through the hospital.
“Yeah, you pussy,” Liam yelled, not going to let Kurtis be the sole hero in the situation. He knew it wasn’t the best time to try and one-up the school’s star quarterback, but Jayme had always been his crush, and in that instance, if they lived and he had been brave enough, maybe, just maybe she would see him for more than just the horror-movie/ indie-comic nerd that he was. “You look like a douchebag in that mask! IT WAS A WILLIAM SHATNER MASK TO BEGIN WITH YOU ASSHOLE!!!”
“Who,” Jayme began, stuttering from fear, “who is William Shatner?” she asked. Both Kurtis and Liam gave her quick glances wondering why the hell she would be asking a question like that at a time like that. If they both made it through the night, Liam was so going to fill her in on the ol’ Kirkmeister.
Hearing a scream from the upstairs, the trio was startled, all three jumping, Jayme having to force her own scream to stay in her throat and had been just two more millimeters away from pulling the trigger on the shotgun enough to let off another round. Thinking everyone was dead, they knew that someone else had been found by the killer, and that someone had been killed by said killer.
“He’s upstairs,” Liam said, slowing making his way to the door that led into the hallway that led to the staircase.
“No shit dipshit,” Kurtis said, giving the nerd a narrow-eyed glare.
“Be nice Kurtis,” Jayme said, the head cheerleader not believing that in their time of needing to pull together, her hot-headed boyfriend was still being a dick to one of the many kids he was so regularly a dick too. “Where are you going Lee?”
“It’s Liam,” he corrected his crush, not at all upset that she still didn’t know his name, “And if he’s upstairs, if we, I don’t know, corner him. I mean. The two, or three of us, should be able to take him. Right?”
“I shot him. With a shotgun.” Jayme said, her first round missing the killer, but her second shock after she quickly and somewhat knew what to expect from pulling the trigger hit the target.
“And I stabbed him with his own knife man. Then got him twice with the axe. And he’s still coming! So fuck that. We stay here. He’ll come to us, or fuck man, the cops should be on their way. They have to be.” The three took a moment to listen, hoping to hear approaching sirens, or even creaky footsteps from someone coming down the stairs. Instead only their heavy breathing was audible.
“Where do you think he is?” Liam began, and as the final words exited his mouth, he felt the sharp pain of the large kitchen knife enter his back, just as he heard the words “behind you!” exit the mouths of Kurtis and Jayme. The knife being pulled free, Liam was pushed aside, the killer done with him. For the time being.
“Who the fuck are you!?” Jayme said, waving the gun at the killer, wanting to know who had killed all her friends. Instead of pulling the trigger again, her shotgun pointed right on the masked murderer.
Kurtis raising the axe above his shoulder like a baseball bat, he ran at the copycat Michael Myers, anger painted on his face, the quarterback’s plan to decapitate the murderer, knowing he had the strength to do the job, if only he could connect….
Swinging the axe, the blade missed, the murderer ducking, lunging forward and up, digging his kitchen knife into Kurtis’ throat, the football star dropping the axe, reaching for the knife buried clean to the hilt in his neck. Pushing Kurtis off his knife with three fingers against the quarterback’s head, blood squirted from the wound, splattering the murderers jumpsuit.
Jayme, the last standing, seeing her boyfriend squirming on the ground, blood from his neck wound pooling around him as he gurgled and was dying, then a quick glance to the nerd that had been dressed as John Constantine, though she hadn’t know that. He was still alive, wide-eyed looking at the murderer, the knife having severed his spine, leaving his paralyzed.
Squeezing the trigger, there was no gunshot, only that oh-so-familiar click that said the gun was empty. Frantically squeezing again and again, nothing fired. Tears running from her eyes, mingling with her dead friends blood that was caked on her face, Jayme couldn’t help but keep on squeezing that trigger.
“So you want to know who I am, do ya?” the murderer finally spoke, having not said a single word throughout the entire night’s massacre. Letting the arm holding the knife fall to his side, his free hand moved to remove the mask. Pulling it free, the killer looked at the last remaining, standing person left from the party.
“Mike Meyers?” Jayme asked, in shock that the killer had been one of Kurtis’ best friends. “Why? Why would you do all this? Why would you kill all those people? Kurtis? Lee?”
“Liam,” Liam managed to say from the floor, correcting the girl again though she hadn’t really been paying attention to him, her focus more so on Mike.
“Why!? Why did I kill all you mother fuckers!? I’ll tell you bitch. Mike Myers!! Helluva name, right? I couldn’t have been named Frederick Krueger. Or Jason Vorhees, or even FUCKING CHUCKY THE LIVING MOTHER FUCKING MY BUDDY DOLL!! No, my parents just had to name me Michael. They had to give everyone a reason to connect me to those stupid fucking Halloween movies!! I mean, the third one didn’t even have anything to do with Michael Myers, but still, that one dumb fuck had to say to me, ‘season of the witch, man’. I gutted him with a big fucking smile on my face! Liam was right. It had been a William Shatner mask that was the face of that mother fucker. Michael mother fucking Myers!”
“You, you killed all those people because your name is Michael Meyers? Are you fucking crazy?!” Jayme couldn’t believe it. Yeah, she had made a Halloween movie reference joke to Mike here and there, but everyone did. They had all just been jokes. Just jokes.
“Am I crazy?” Mike laughed. Laughed so hard it made his stomach hurt. A great chuckle had had at that question. “Of course I’m fucking crazy you dumb blond bimbo!! I killed more than half our classmates at my Halloween party because they made jokes concerning my name. If that ain’t crazy, then what the fuck is these days baby?!”
“Go to hell Mike!” Jayme said, squeezing the trigger one last, knowing nothing would happen, but hoping something would.
“You first doll!” Mike, lifting the knife and running leaping at her, he was stopped in midair, the floor below him, the spot where he had been standing erupting in an explosion. Floorboards and splinters going everywhere, Kurtis’ body flying till his corpse collided with the wall, his blood splattering like a paintball impact.
From the explosion, the source of the sudden change in events, a giant tentacle, wrapping itself around Mike, wrapping like an anaconda would it’s prey. Slamming the murderer into the wall, the floor, the wall, then violently waving the crazed teenager through the air like a toddler would a rattle.
“What the fuck!!!” Mike yelled, hearing his bones snap from the squeezing, the sound mixing with Jayme’s screams as she backed up quickly to get away from the writhing, strange, giant tentacle that had just burst out from the basement. Slamming Mike against the floor one more time, it silenced the teen before pulling him through the whole, the tentacle and teen disappearing.
In shock, not sure what to think, Jayme dropped the shotgun, her eyes not leaving the gaping hole in the floor. Shaking all over, she slowly moved to sit on the floor, unsure of what to do next. Closing her eyes, tears still falling, streaks running down her cheeks, she sobbed quietly, opening her eyes just in time to see another tentacle make it’s entrance into the room through the hole.
Snapping her way in the blink of her baby blue eyes, the olive green tentacle wrapped itself around her ankle, pausing only for a brief two and three quarter seconds before dragging the girl across the floor to the hole, which would then lead to her most certain, most likely gruesome and slow demise.
Gripping for her life to the edge of the hole, fighting against the tentacle pulling at her leg, she looked with terror into Liam’s eyes, her eyes growing wider and wider with each passing millisecond.
“Lee!” she strained to say, her strength draining quickly, the tentacle willing the tug-o-war battle. “Lee! Help me!”
“I’m fucking paralyzed!” Liam yelled. “AND MY GOD DAMNED NAME IS LIAM YOU DUMB BLOND BIMBO!!!” His irritated yell distracting her and surprising her momentarily, it was enough for her to be pulled into the hole from his sight.
Laying there, unable to move, not sure if a tentacle was coming for him, Liam just closed his eyes and lay there, not wanting to know what his fate was going to be. His body numb all over, his eyelids growing heavy, he was just about asleep when another sound stirred him from his almost sleep.
Coming from the other side of the room, where Jayme had slid down to sit, her cell phone lay, ringing, having fallen out of her short, short, shorts just before the tentacle that had taken her had taken her. Ringing, the song blaring from the bedazzled phone told Liam one thing and one thing only. He was in hell. Unable to move, unable to answer the phone, he had to just lay there and listen. Listen to….
“Mmmmm boppp, doo dada mmmmm boppp.”
“Noooooo!!!!”
The sea, how I long for thee
“Oh wicked sand how I have come to despise thee,” I said to the beach I sat upon, the handful of sand that I held falling through my fingers back to the mass that was the beach, the ocean, coming upon the sand but never touching my feet. I could reach to the water, run to the waves, but never would the water and I touch.
Standing, looking to the rising sun, a sight I have watched day in and day out since the curse was afflicted upon me. Three long years, only four more days till the actual three year anniversary of the wicked day that is the rue of my existence. Watching the burning rays kiss the horizon, the reflection growing as the ball of fire in the sky grew, I wished the sun itself could take me away, lift my feet from the island that was my prison, hold me in its fire embrace and free me. But not even the sunrise offered me any hope.
Walking my usual path, through the trees and brush, over the rocks and moss, coming face to face with the statue that cursed me, I stood before it, falling to me knees. Staring into the stone eyes, they stared back at me, I knew they were looking back upon my poor being. Every day I had looked into them I knew they were looking back.
“Goddess of the sea!” I shouted. “Free me, for all the love of the heavens above, free me! Hell, kill me! I am tired of this life. As your prisoner, so release me from your magical grip!”
Reaching behind my back, gripping the book that I had held by the brim of my shorts, I pulled it forth, throwing it to her feet, spitting upon the literature. Getting to my feet, I pointed a stern finger, directly into the face of my cruel captor.
“And your attempt of entertainment, Moby Dick,” I shouted, my finger moving from her face to the book and back, “IS MISSING THE FIRST THREE PAGES AND THE LAST TWELVE! HOW DOES IT BEGIN OR END!! I have read it, over, over, over, and over. I have made my own ending, my own beginning, but they make me only want to know how Melville intended the piece to be read! DAMN YOU!!”
The statue, who in a moment of pity possibly, moved her head to look down upon me, like the goddess she was, a goddess looking down upon a mortal, or a master looking down upon a slave. Or a cruel captor a caged, no, trapped animal. I am that animal, trapped on an island by a curse that is an unfitting punishment for a crime of ignorance and arrogance.
And knowing that I could sit and scream, stand and shout till the sun would pass over me heading towards its setting moments in the day, the goddess none the more going to answer me, I walked back towards the beach, resting upon the sand that I so damned at the start of my day.
Looking out towards the horizon, wishing I could dance upon it a dance of freedom, I more so missed the feel of the ocean itself. I was a sailor, a man born to ride the waves of the ocean, a lad who loved the roaring rage of a watery storm, who could write poetry about the serenity that was a calm sea. And yet, there I sat, no more able to walk into the very water I longed for than the devil wishes to rule the heavens above.
The sun, almost a full fiery ball, the very last bit of it clearing the horizon, something else was winking at me, something else that was hidden in the bright light that is the sun. Staring as hard as I could, my eyes could not make out what it was at first, but within hours, to my shock and at the same time excitement, the mysterious object was a boat. A beautiful ship sailing on the high seas. Directly to the island that was my prison home.
But my excitement was short and unsatisfying. The shock turned to heart wrenching disappointment, much like the other times ships had broken the serene calm that is the horizon. If they made it to the island, made it to where their feet would carry them out of the waning ocean onto the very beach I found myself more often than not sitting upon, they would never speak to me, nor see me. They would not acknowledge my existence. Like nothing more than a light breeze that they dare not feel, to the passengers of that ship, I would be nothing. Nonexistent.
The ship dropped anchor that night, the ship more beautiful in the moonlight, the sails rolled up, the masts like fingers pointing to the heavens, the sea just gently rocking the crew aboard to a silent sleep, the only noise they’d be hearing that of the boards creaking, the masts silent whispers as they groaned on deck. Oh how I missed those sounds, those night time noises that carried me to Slumber on so many occasions.
At first light they used long boats to come upon shore, twenty two men, one woman. Oh the beauty that composed that lass, her long blonde curls only outmatched by her pale blue eyes. Such a smile found a way to her lips as her bare feet touched the dry sand of the beach I sat upon, and looking at her, I knew she, nor her shipmates could see me. I could stand in their faces, shout. They would hear nothing. I could run at them and leap, I would pass through them as though I was no more a phantom spirit.
Falling to her knees, I knelt in front of her, admiring her smile, watching as she lifted sand and let it slip through her fingers back to the beach floor. Reaching out to touch her face, to grace her beauty with my fingertips, I felt nothing. She spoke to her shipmates, and though her lips moved, the men’s mouth’s moved as they spoke, I heard nothing. Not a single word.
The crew of the ship explored the island, finding nothing more than coconuts and rocks, they made camp, and after having one long boat return to the ship and quickly made a trip back to the island, a feast they did have, a feast of the likes I haven’t seen before. Walking amongst the laughing, hearty men, all with their gulls full of roasted pig and rum, I came to notice that the lass was nowhere to be found.
Making my exit, the feast and festivities only aching my heart, I walked till I found her, the lass, sitting upon the beach, the moonlight in the clear, starry sky bathing her. Standing over her for a long while, the wind made her blond locks dance freely, but in her eyes, was lonesome. She dragged a single finger upon the sand, and I knew that she longed for another’s finger to trace behind hers, another’s finger to lock with hers. And as I sat next to that lass, her none the wiser to my company, I just stared into her eyes, occasionally reaching for her hand, though every attempt was in vain.
In time she made her leave, and to be the proper gentleman, I followed her back to camp, making sure that none of her male shipmates got out of hand in their inebriated state. Some made conversation, and through a fake smile she made it to her tent, to which I didn’t follow her in, just standing among the still hearty men, watching as she prepared for sleep. Looking into the eyes of every man that was the crew of that ship, I swore to bring an unbearable death to any of them that dared harm her that night, though I knew it would be difficult with the state that my cruel captor had trapped me in. But I would have found a way.
When the lass would awake and look to the hand carved nightstand next to elaborate cot, she would most likely smile. And of course wonder who placed the oyster with the pearl in her tent for her. I wouldn’t go in as she changed, but to leave a gift. That’s a different story…
*
“I am tired of coconut milk and coconut meat witch!” I shouted to the stone woman as I threw the shell of the coconut that had been in my hand at her form, the statue making no movement to avoid the projectile. “I am tired of coconuts! For three years tomorrow, damn coconuts have been my primary food day in and damn day out! Why don’t you feast upon the vile meat, if it can be called meat that is the innards of a coconut foul goddess!? Did you not see the feast that was the crew’s magnificent meal last night? Did you goddess? Did your otherworldly eyes partake what was leftover, what they merely threw to the ground this morning?! Did you bring them to torture me further? When will my plight be ended? ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME DAMN YOU!!”
Every word, every syllable I shouted, she heard. But she gave not even a nod in response. I walked away exhausted from my rant, but more that exhausted I was frustrated. In one day’s time would be the three year anniversary of my terrible curse, and to make it the rue of my existence, the most beautiful woman I had ever laid my very eyes upon shared the same island I was trapped upon. And she knew not of my very breath, nor my very being.
“My woes begin with my lonely,” I whisper to myself as I walk into the foliage that surrounds the statue of the goddess. The island itself is covered in heavy jungle, but no animals inhabit the trees or dirt. Birds, seagulls do fly upon the island, but rarely. Looking to the sky, the sun was directly above me. Noon, or close to it.
Back on the beach, looking out to the anchored ship, my eyes noticed the absence of the long boats. Searching all along the beach, looking from one end to the next, they were in fact gone, having most likely returned to the ship. Running, I moved hastily to the area in which the ship’s crew had made camp, and upon my arrival, to my dismay, they were gone. The men, and the lass. All gone from the camp. Their tents gone, their tools, everything gone. Even the embers of their night fires were burned out and cold.
Breathing a lonesome sigh, I was again left by myself upon the damned island, left with the statue of a goddess who dared not speak a word to me. But then suddenly, at first my ears picking up on something that I believe to be nothing more than the hushed wind mixed with the song of the sea’s crashing, I came to learn it was something else.
Moving through the island jungle, focusing on the sound, making my steps as quiet as I could, trying not to lose track of what I was hearing, to my surprise, it was singing. Beautiful, glorious singing. Sitting alone upon a small build of rocks, looking out to the sea, opposite of the ship, to the open sea, with nothing but the waves themselves to observe, the beautiful lass was singing. And somehow, in some unexplainable way, I could hear her.
“And my heart sings out to my sailor dear, for the sea, the sea has brought me here.” Finishing her song, it was a tune I had never heard, but it was wonderful, though I only caught the end. Watching her, she looked sad, and I wondered if the song she sang was for a sailor that had captured her heart. If the sailor possibly wooed her, but had been taken away by a cruel sea, never to return to his love. Or possibly, he just broke her heart, leaving her to continue her life without his love for he had found another.
The lass, making her careful way off the stones, stood alone on the beach, with only me to accompany her, though she never knew it. I wondered where her shipmates were, but that wonderment lasted briefly, gone to admiration as I looked upon her beauty. Slowly strolling to her, standing behind her, I wanted to touch her, to speak to her. I wanted to hear her sing again, to speak. I wanted to hear her words. But, I guess most I wanted to know her name.
Finding a small stick that could have come from the jungle, or possibly been brought by the sea upon the shore, I quickly etched behind her a quick sentence, hoping she could read it, hoping the goddess didn’t leave my attempts to no outcome.
Together we stood for a long while, me behind her, her looking out to the sea. In time she turned quickly, and for a brief instance I swore she could see me, into my eyes with her pale blue crystals. But quickly I learned that she was looking through me, to one of the men that had come to retrieve her. Disappointed was painted heavily on her face, as though she would rather live on the island than return to the ship that was her vessel and transportation.
Disappointment began to fill me as I knew she was going to go with him, go back to the ship and back to the sea. But then, I saw her eyes move down, her gaze looking upon the sand as a small smile found a way to her lips. With a finger followed by her exit, the lass quickly wrote her name, then made her way to follow the man back to the long boat he had taken to retrieve her.
“Emma”, I whispered through a smile.
*
“Three years Matsu!” I shouted, upon my knees before the statue of the goddess. “To this very day, this very day! When will this punishment end? When will my otherworldly sentence come to its prayed for finish? Set me free Matsu! Please, I beg of you, I cry to the heavens where you rest, release me! Release me!!” Bowing before her, not in praise, but defeat, I remembered exactly why Matsu was punishing me. I had pushed the very memories from my mind, refused to remember, for the pain that came with those memories broke my heart.
I was at sea, a long voyage. Upon returning, I had found my love in the throes of another, my brother, the bastard. In anger, I beat him to near death, never saying a word to the woman I thought loved me. Returning to my boat, I took to the sea, knowing that a wicked storm was brewing, but I cared not. Driving my ship directly into the storm, I was startled when a woman appeared in a red gown, begging me to turn back. Begging me to venture no further. I asked her who she was, where she had come from, but her only answers to my questions were begs for my safety.
I didn’t listen, only instead driving the ship harder into the storm, in my anger and arrogance thinking that my skills as a sailor would protect me. The storm destroyed my ship, tore it to pieces, and yet I survived. Finding myself swept upon the shore, alive but battered, it took me a few days to find the strength the venture upon the island. In time I found the statue of the woman who had been on board my ship, and in longer time, I came to realize who she was.
Matsu, goddess of the sea. My cruel captor, whom kept me imprisoned for not heeding to her begging. A broken heart had led to deaf arrogance, which led me to the island. In the three year’s time I had been trapped with the statue, I learned from my mistake. I knew I had learned.
“Matsu,” I whispered to her, not in anger, but acceptance. “You are a caring goddess. And, I am sorry. The sea is my love, always has been. But I am man, and the sea cannot love me back. For that love, I need a lass. One broke my heart, which is why you brought me here. I am sorry Matsu. I am…sorry.”
Looking up from my bowed state, going to look into the eyes of the statue, she looked down upon me, then, for the first time since I’d been on the island, the statue moved more than just her head. Slowly at first, a foot moved, then a leg, the she stepped down and around me, walking on, ignoring me completely.
“Matsu,” I said, watching as she walked past me, my irritation growing with the goddess statue. “MATSU!” Getting to my feet, I followed her. “Answer me! Give me something! I apologized, what more do you want? MATSU DAMMIT!” Getting to the beach, the goddess statue continued into the water, not stopping till the water was neck high, the statue turning back to me. I had stayed behind her the whole time, shouting, trying to get her to acknowledge me. And in my anger, I didn’t realize that I had walked out into the water, the waves brushing against my legs.
Smiling, tears forming, I was overjoyed. It was over, I was free. Matsu, smiling, continued into the water disappearing beneath the waves. Laughing, I jumped into the water, feeling the cool touch of the sea.
“Thank you Matsu!” shouting, I splashed, laughed, jumped all around. Exhausted after several minutes, I just stood, breathing in the salt air. Running my fingers through my wet hair, it felt so good. So good to be back in the sea that I had so missed.
“Excuse me,” a voice said from behind me on the beach. I knew the voice. I had heard it singing just the day before. Turning, it was Emma watching me, a smile on her face. Strolling through the water to her, I stood before her, the wind a bit chill against my soaked figure. “Where did you come from sir?”
“Why do you ask?” I said.
“I came here, days ago with a small expedition, and no one was on the island, or, from what we saw no one was on the island. And I saw no other ship at sea. Where did you come from sir?” Looking over her, I was surprised to see that she wore a pearl upon a string as a necklace. Looking to her pale eyes, she had been watching mine as I had gazed upon the necklace, which I know she took note of the smile that had formed on my face.
“I have been here for three long years. Three years to this day actually.” Running my fingers again through my wet hair, I still couldn’t get over how bad I had missed the feeling of the sea.
“Three long years sir. That’s a long time to be on such a small island. May I ask you one more question?” Chuckling, I was in the best move I had been in, well, in three years.
“You just asked me a question, but, you may ask one more.” My response made Emma laugh.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Before answering, I looked around, behind me, looking to see something that was on my mind. Spotting the ship that had brought her, it was becoming smaller as I watched it, the masts full, heading back towards the horizon, leaving Emma on the small island.
“You may call me Arthur,” I said to her, listening to the crashing of the waves, wanting to run back out and jump in, but I was quite content with talking to Emma. Quite content indeed.
“Arthur. Well, it’s nice to meet you Arthur. My name is…” Before she could finish I interrupted her.
“Emma. Would you like to swim with me? For a moment or two?” Turning her head to the side, giving a half smirk, I figured Emma was wondering who I really was, what my story was. I figured we had plenty of time for me to fill her in about me. Plenty of time before another ship made its way past the island.
“I’d like that Arthur.” She said, taking me hand, pulling me into the water. “So tell me, what’s there to eat on this island besides coconuts?”
All Hallow’s Tales Conclusion: The Midnight Hour Cometh
Standing on the porch, puffing as he held the lit match to the tobacco packed into his pipe, Samuel got the pipe going, and upon extinguishing the match with the shake of his wrist, tossed it and examined his pocket watch. Sixteen minutes to midnight.
*
Tommy awoke slowly, his eyes heavy, but the boy was able to open them, his first sight the wall opposite the window with the shadows of all his toys casted upon it. Yawning, rolling over, Tommy smiled as he looked to the window. Moonlight spilling through open shades, the boys eyes closed as sleep attempted to overtake him again, but the boy had a spurt of curiosity.
Looking to the windowsill, there was something sitting there. Sitting up slowly, letting out another yawn, Tommy made his tired way to the window, to a piece of candy sitting there, one that he didn’t remember placing on the wooden windowsill, assuming that his Grandpa Sammy had done the deed for him.
Picking up the piece of chocolate, examining it, Tommy almost unwrapped it and ate it, but then he remembered rule number three. Holding it, looking around the room, in the shadowed corner, a faint glimmer caught his curious eye. Squinting, looking closer, Tommy smiled, unafraid and held his hand out with the piece of candy in his palm as an offering. Just as it was meant to be.
“Here you go Mr. Twix,” Tommy said, pronouncing the Others name incorrectly, but the child was unafraid. He adhered to the rules of All Hallows Night, he had nothing to be afraid of. “Well, it’s your piece of candy. Take it.”
Reaching out from the shadow, a black sleeved arm, to which a faded yellow hand attached with black razor nails pinched the candy between forefinger and thumb, taking it from the boy’s hand. Pulling back into the shadow, the face of the Other peeked from the dark into the moonlight, just enough for Mr. Twisp to give the boy a head nod.
“Your welcome. And happy Halloween.” Waving, the boy climbed back into bed, shutting his eyes for just a second, his eyelids growing heavy again with sleep. Upon opening them for the last time for the night, the glimmer was gone from the shadowy corner, “Mr. Twix” having made his exit of the boy’s room. “Nighty night Mr. Twix.” And with that, Tommy was back to sleep to dream what little boys dream about.
*
Checking his pocket watch again, puffing on his pipe, there was only eleven minutes left till the end of another Halloween. Looking up and down the street, some houses still lit up with decorations, some with television set lights spilling from their insides, Samuel’s sight was drawn to the silver corvette that was pulling up in front of the house.
Watching as the devilishly handsome man got out of the car, Samuel taking note of the man’s top unbuttoned oxford with the sleeves rolled up, he watched as the man took Ellen, Samuel’s daughter from the passenger seat of the car, asleep, and carried her up the steps to the porch swing, setting the woman down without saying a word to the waiting, older gentleman.
“Evening Dante,” Samuel said after his daughter was laying on the swing and the man was walking back past him to the still running car.
“It’s Richard now Sam,” Richard said, stopping in his tracks to pull out a cigarette, light it and talk to the old man over his shoulder. “Has been for a long time.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you, well. Don’t you think it’s time you pass the mantle on to someone else?” Samuel asked taking a long puff of the pipe, letting the smoke roll out past his lips.
“I’ll make that decision when I’m ready. You have a goodnight Sam. Tell Ellen I had a good time. And…”
“You have a good night now Dante,” Samuel said, eyes glaring as the man cut off the vampire standing below him. “And Happy Halloween.” Richard, flicking his half smoked cigarette, hurriedly, angrily got into his car, slamming the door, peeling off down the street to quickly be gone from sight.
Samuel, looking to daughter, saw she was waking up, slowly, most likely due to her date’s hurried, noisy leave.
*
Waking to an annoying tapping, Samantha pulled the blanket up over her head, pretending that she couldn’t hear it, but the sound was persistent, refusing to stop just because she merely wanted it too.
“Stop it Tommy,” she said, half asleep, the girl assuming her pestilent little brother had made his way into her room, only to sit there and tap, tap, tap to bug her. And while the tapping didn’t stop with her first demand, she said it again, angrier, this time sitting up to catch her little brother in the act. “Stop it Tom…!” Frozen in her speech, jaw wide; it wasn’t Tommy at all in her room. Not Tommy at all.
Tapping his blackened nails on the window sill, sitting in her desk chair, legs crossed, Mr. Twisp’s head was lowered, his face that wasn’t a face hidden under the brim of his moonless, midnight fedora.
“You…You…You…” Samantha stammered, in shock that the monster from the picture from her grandfather’s journal was sitting in her room, still tapping his nails on her window sill. “You…” Annoyed with the girl’s stammering, lifting his head so his face was visible, Mr. Twisp lifted his other non-tapping hand to his non-lips, pressing a long finger to where his mouth should have been, telling the girl without words to be silent, to which she adhered, shushing up quickly.
Pinching the piece of candy sitting on the windowsill between the now stopped tapping fingers, he lifted it, replacing its spot with a black, leather medical bag, the bag itself dusty and covered in cobwebs. Undoing the clasp keeping the bag closed, Mr. Twisp stood, opening the bag, dropping the piece of candy in, then reaching in, pulled out something in a closed fist.
Creeping over to the bed, standing over the girl, Samantha having pulled the cover up to the brim of her nose, her wide eyes following the suited man’s every move. Leaning down close, his eyes reflecting her, Samantha looked closely, and like her grandfather had said, there was something off, and upon looking closer, she was screaming in his eyes, screaming madly.
Running a single finger down the blanket starting at the girl’s covered shoulder, Mr. Twisp grabbed the blanket, pulling it down to expose the sitting girl. Poking her closed hand, she understood, opening it, afraid to not do as the monster wanted.
Setting something in her hand, Samantha couldn’t look down at what it was, her eyes entranced by his black orbs, with her screaming reflection. Mr. Twisp, lifting a hand in view of her, in between their stares, pointed down at her palm, she holding what he had left in her hand.
Looking down, it was hard to see, but lifting it to some moonlight that was spilling into her room, it was a button, just like the one her grandfather had given her. Wondering if it was the same one, remembering going to bed with the one her Grandpa Sammy had given her, Samantha looked around, seeing the one given to her by Samuel on the bedside stand. But the one in her palm had the initials S.S. as well.
Tears forming in her eyes, fear finally boiled over in her, not sure what was happening, or whom the new button had belonged to, Samantha looked up at the Other who stood by his bag, closing it up. Turning towards the girl, taking off his hat, revealing his bald, vein laden head, setting the hat down upon the seat he been sitting in, the monster stretched out its fingers, the nails at the end of each elongating.
Scratching the window with elongated nails, the screeching hurting the girl’s ears, Samantha’s breath quickened, but not as quick as her hammering heart beat. Gripping the button in her hand with a white knuckle grip, taking a deep, deep breath, Samantha slammed her eyes shut, and prepared to let out the greatest scream of her life…
*
“Ugh,” Ellen said, sitting up, feeling like she hadn’t slept in weeks, her body weak and frail, stiff and sore. “How’d I get home?” She asked, realizing she was waking up on her porch swing, her father standing in front of her emptying out his pipe, having smoked the tobacco up that had been packed into it.
“That gentleman of a date of yours brought you home,” Samuel said, trying to cover up his obvious distaste for the vampire. “Quite the catch he was.”
“The kid’s in bed?” Ellen asked, rubbing her throbbing head, ignoring her father’s comments about Richard.
“Have been for a while. Almost midnight kid.” Samuel, impatiently checking his pocket watch, only had six minutes left till midnight. Seeing a Delta 88, a cigar boat of a car, with the bottom rusting out, the paint fading roll up in front of the house, Samuel smiled as his granddaughter Carrie-Anne, also smiling, exited the car.
The girl, leaning in over the passenger seat after she’d gotten out, gave the driver a kiss, and made her exit, closing the door, allowing the car to drive off into the night. Walking up to the porch, her closes stained a dark red, a black rose in her hands, she stopped next to grandfather to look confused at her exhausted mother.
“You okay mom?” Carrie-Anne asked her mother, her grandfather looking her up and down with a humorous, puzzled look upon his face.
“Yeah babe,” Ellen said, really wishing that she didn’t have to talk, each word a challenge to get out, but she didn’t want to be rude to her daughter. “How the show go?”
“Fantastic. Unforgettable. Yeah, unforgettable.” Looking down at her rose with admiration, a single tear left her eye, just one, lonesome tear.
“And who was that that dropped you off kiddo?” Samuel asked, his smile widening.
“Goodnight Grandpa,” was all the girl said as she entered the house, whistling the Angel’s song that was stuck in her head.
“Why don’t you head in Ellen?” Samuel said to his daughter, looking to his pocket watch. Two minutes. Walking over to her, helping her up, Ellen had to take a moment, her head spinning, grasping her father’s arm trying not to fall down.
“I think I’m going to do….” And while she was going to say “just that”, she was cut off by the blood curdling scream made by her youngest daughter from the girl’s room. Eyes widening, looking from her father to the front door, Ellen made her way as quickly as she could to Samantha’s room, never before hearing such a horrific, terrified scream come from one of her children, the sound making her forget about her exhaustion in an instance.
Looking past the porch swing to the driveway, a figure stepped out around Ellen’s parked minivan. Watching the suited man walk down the driveway, leather doctor’s bag in hand, Samuel whistled to the Other, Mr. Twisp not stopping, just giving a wave and a tip of the hat.
“Happy Halloween to you too Slender man.” Checking his pocket watch for the final time, looking up to see the Other vanished, Samuel clicked the pocket watch closed, returned it to his pocket, and walked to the front door, grasping the handle of the door left open by his daughter that had been in a hurry to get inside. With only seconds left, the man watched as the candle in the Jack O’ Lantern on their porch was blown out by a sudden gust of wind, and Samuel Shelley entered the house, closing the door behind him.
*
“Halloween, All Hallows Day, The Day of Samhein. It’s more than a day. It’s a doorway, a second chance, a romance, a terror, a dream, a nightmare, a dance, a blood curdling scream, all in the October Night. Until the midnight hour comes to be, keep your Jack O’ Lanterns lit. Set a piece of candy on the windowsill, and tell the passing dead Happy Halloween. And remember kids, there is always next year.”
Ha, ha, ha….
****Halloween Writing Contest Entry****
All Hallow’s Tales 4: Too Ghoul for School
“Mortals usually don’t adhere to the dead, the rules of the dead, the rites, of the dead. But the unusual, those who have their beliefs, those who believe that there are those on the other side, that the dead do indeed return on All Hallow’s Eve. Those who believe, are indeed for a shock kiddo, cause I’ll tell you…. The dead are real, and they believe in you. So remember the rules at all times.”
Never Disrespect the dead. Never.
*
Playing her bass guitar, or rather just strumming the strings to kill time, letting her mind wander, Carrie-Anne still couldn’t believe she was going to playing for her school at the Halloween Dance that night. The disbelief wasn’t from sheer overwhelming joy, but rather self-confusion, Carrie-Anne having more than enough hatred for her peers that she would rather beat them to death with her guitar than play it for them. But for some reason, she felt compelled to do the show.
Though it had all been at the guidance counselor, Mr. Burton’s, suggestion to play the show, like it was going to be some form of helping therapy to help her get over losing Georgie. Just strumming away, her thoughts drifted to the boy who was gone, had been for two weeks to the day.
“Damn bastard,” she said to herself, fighting the tears that dared streak her cheeks, something she had furiously grown accustomed to since her late boyfriends passing, if it could be called that. Georgie’s mother upon returning home had found her only son hanging from the tree in the backyard, death by the noose he tied around his own neck. And he didn’t even tell Carrie-Anne goodbye. That was what hurt her the most.
“I hope that’s not your opinion of me,” the girl’s grandfather, Samuel said from her open doorway, having snuck up and been standing there for several minutes, Carrie-Anne never noticing. Startled, she gripped her guitar tightly, almost dropping it from a small jump she made in her seat, her head quickly snapping to look at the smiling, elderly man looking into the room at the girl.
“No grandpa, it’s not,” Carrie-Anne said, looking back to the guitar as she played a quick note then another. “I was just talking to myself. Shouldn’t sneak up on people anyways, nearly scared me half to death.” Samuel, walking into the room, sat on the bed, examining the many band posters that littered the teen girl’s walls.
“Tonight’s the big show huh?” the man asked, just making idle conversation.
“Sure is,” Carrie-Anne responded, halting the idle conversation.
“Listen,” Samuel’s voice grew serious and hushed, almost as though he only wanted his teen granddaughter to hear him. “I know you miss Georgie something terrible. I know you do. And, well, it being Halloween and all, I got reminded of a story. One from when I was damn near your age kiddo.”
“I’m not in the mood for any stories Grandpa.” Strumming the bass strings loudly, she wanted to be alone with her thoughts and teenage angst.
“I was out walking on Halloween night,” Samuel began, not caring whether or not the girl was in the mood to hear. She didn’t stop him, just kept strumming, but she was listening. She loved her Grandpa Sammy’s stories. “Passing down Mill’s Creek Road, you know, the ol’ country road leading into the woods there right outside the city limits,” his granddaughter nodded her head. Their family had been rooted in Poet, Washington for almost six generations, with Samuel’s great-grandfather being the founding patriarch of the family’s place in the town’s history.
“Anyhoo,” Samuel continued. “I was walking down, minding my own, taking in the air, when out of the corner of my eye, a faint light grasped my attention, and on the night wind, I could hear the faint whispering of a woman. Halting in my very steps, I listened carefully, even stopped my breathing to listen better. Coming from the woods, the voice being carried by the wind, I knew it. I knew I did. So I snuck up, crept as quietly as I could, hiding behind trees. Hell, those trees are still here today, I could point ‘em out too you, but that’s beyond the point.”
“I crept up, and peeking, it was Elizabeth King, a girl I went to school with. Standing there, with candles lit all around her, dressed in a gorgeous white dress, her chestnut hair held up with a white ribbon, she was chanting something into the All Hallows Night. Listening, making sure I wasn’t found, not sure what Elizabeth was up too, I picked up one thing that she said that night, and it’s stuck with me ever since. Well, and I wrote it down that night.”
Pulling out a leather book, undoing the leather strap that held it shut, the man set it on the desk that Carrie-Anne was resting her feet on. Kicking her feet off, leaning the bass guitar against the wall, she looked closely, reading from the page that her grandfather had left the journal open too, all while he said the words aloud.
“With All Hallows candle lit
The blood of thy fingers pricked
May your bonds be shattered from the Othersides
So revenge may be ours on this night.”
“Wow,” Carrie-Anne whispered, such a shudder running through her which was all too obvious to Samuel, who smiled and reached over to rest a hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“I had the same feeling when Elizabeth had spoken those words. Such a shudder, a tingling in the air, like the night itself had come to life. But, I’ll tell you now, I know what was happening. I know kiddo.”
“What was that Grandpa?” Carrie-Anne was smiling, her grandfather being such a good story teller, getting into the tales, spinning the words with emotion, facial expressions. And Halloween was his favorite holiday, favorite time of the year, when he told his best stories.
“The Othersides were letting go of one of the Other’s. Releasing them into our world for exactly what those words said. Revenge. And that night, I saw someone who I thought I would never see again. Matthew Reed.” Upon speaking the name, Samuel paused, taking a moment to remember the face of Matthew Reed, a face that was burned into his memory that Halloween night. “And that night kiddo, what they would call the worst crime in Poet’s history occurred, and I’ll tell you I know it was by Matthew’s hands. I know it for a fact.”
“Are you talking about the Halloween murders of the Sterling family?” Carrie-Anne said, sitting up in excitement, fully drawn into her grandfather’s story at that moment. The murder’s that she was asking about had taken place in the fifties, with an entire family, the aforementioned Sterling’s, slaughtered in their home, found two days later by a neighbor. The grisly remains were almost beyond recognition. Samuel just gave a subtle nod. “If you knew it was Matthew Reed Grandpa, why didn’t you ever tell anybody?”
“Cause no one would have ever believed me,” Samuel said, grabbing the journal off the desk, standing and making his way to the doorway. Stopping, he let his granddaughter ask the obvious question.
“Why not?” Carrie-Anne asked, watching her grandfather prepare to exit the room.
“Matthew Reed died two weeks prior to that Halloween. Who would believe a dead man murdered an entire family?” And with that question posed, Samuel made his exit, leaving a teenage granddaughter to question the validity of the story, and to think about the poem she had just read to a grandfather’s narration.
*
Elizabeth stood in the woods, the candles lit, prepared to say the chant that her Aunt Rosaline had told her. Part of her was still in disbelief, but she had nothing to lose by trying. She was far enough out from the town she should be left alone, but even if anyone saw, they would pass it off as Halloween games.
Dressed in her best white dress, her hair up with the very ribbon given to her by Matthew, she prayed that the chant would bring him back. But how could it? She had asked her aunt, Rosaline merely telling her niece to believe in the magic’s of Samhein, and leaving it at that. So, Elizabeth was putting her faith in her aunt, and in Samhein.
Elizabeth knew the truth. And she was the only one who did. Matthew had told her everything. He had told her that Mrs. Sterling’s had been trying her hardest to get the boy to sleep with her, to relieve her of “her pent up sexual aggression, something her worthless husband couldn’t provide.” And by rare chance, Elizabeth had been walking by when she saw the accident. The wrecked car, Mrs. Sterling’s moving of Matthew’s body from the passenger seat to the driver’s seat. She would go on to tell her husband, everyone in Poet that the teen had forced her into the car, forced her to drive with him until he crashed. She swore the teen had been making advances on her for weeks, when her husband was at work, when Matthew would be tending to the family’s lawn.
Elizabeth had run to the car, tears streaking her face, and upon looking at the bloodied remains of her boyfriend, the girl was speechless, with nothing to say to Mrs. Sterling, though the woman had plenty to say.
“You tell no one what you saw,” the woman had sneered, inches away from Elizabeth, spitting blood and sweat in the teen’s face. “You hear me! You didn’t see anything!” And Elizabeth listened and didn’t tell anyone, knowing no one would believe her, not with Mr. Sterling believing his wife, and the man being the town’s judge, and the first choice for governor of the state in the next year’s election. So Elizabeth told no one, yet Aunty Rosaline still came to her with the chant and instructions, telling her that Matthew would be back.
“He’ll come back for what’s rightfully his,” Rosaline had said with a wicked tongue through a sinister grin, somewhat frightening her niece. But there Elizabeth was in the woods, preparing to follow her aunt’s instructions and say the chant.
With all the candles but the final one lit around her, taking a deep breath, Elizabeth was finally ready, having practiced the chant over and over in her head, under her breath in class, on the way home, at home while doing homework and chores. She had every word memorized. Taking the knife that she had taken from her father’s work table in the basement, she pricked two tiny dots on the first two fingers of her left hand, the stinging just bearable, small droplets of blood forming, Elizabeth squeezing them till they fell to the foliage floor at her uncovered, bare feet.
Lighting the final candle, taking the top off the carved Jack O’ Lantern in front of her, lowering the candle down inside, Elizabeth began the chant.
“With All Hallows candle lit.”
Replacing the top of the Jack O’ Lantern, the light from the candle that spilled forth gave the carved face an eerie life.
“The Blood of thy finger’s pricked.”
With the knife pricks still giving small droplets of blood, streaks were left on the pumpkin from setting the top back over the hole, the streaks making the Jack O’ Lantern appear ever more menacing.
“May your bonds be shattered from the Othersides.”
While the Elizabeth knew nothing of the “Othersides”, not sure of the meaning of the word, what or where it was, it didn’t matter to her. When asking her Aunt what the Othersides were, Aunty Rosaline merely left it at, “no need to know of the Othersides, leave it at that child.”
“So revenge may be ours on this night.”
Though the revenge was more so for Matthew, Elizabeth felt that whatever happened that night, if anything happened to the Sterlings, she wouldn’t give or feel any remorse for the family. They had it coming, the girl thought to herself, feeling an otherworldly chill pass over her, all the flames on the candles snuffed out, all but the Jack O’ Lantern’s light.
*
On November 3rd, 1956, the newspaper headlines in Poet, Washington read of the deaths of the running up governor’s death, along with that of his wife and three daughters, all gruesomely slaughtered in their homes, the walls of their individual rooms painted in blood, and body parts found all over the home. Most noted and remembered by any who saw the scene, the one thing that escaped the headlines and newspapers articles…
“Lies, lies lies, see you on the Othersides…” written in the blood of Mary Sterling, with her severed head resting below the message that to this day still leaves the Poet police detectives confused, and sick to their stomachs.
*
Checking herself out in the mirror as she tied her black hair back in her pony tail, letting the pink streaks she had dyed in her hair hang down either side of her face, Carrie-Anne gave herself a smile, closed up the case of her bass guitar and headed out of her room and down the hall.
Stopping outside her mother’s bedroom, looking in on her mother in a moment of vainness, Carrie-Anne’s mother, Ellen, was looking good in her best little black dress. Though Ellen had always wanted her oldest daughter to be more of a girly girl, cheerleader and such, Carrie-Anne had gone for a darker path, taking on the punk look much to her mother’s dismay.
“I’m heading to the dance mom. Got a date tonight?” Since losing her father, Carrie-Anne hadn’t been the biggest fan of any candidates her mother had brought home for the possible “step father” role, and this newest man, Richard, was a mysterious character, though Carrie-Anne had to agree with her mother that the man was devilishly handsome.
“I do,” Ellen said, actually quite anxious as time just seemed to creep on as she waited for Richard to arrive. “And is that how you are going to the dance? You’re going to be on stage, why don’t you dress up some babe?” Ellen wasn’t a fan at all of her daughter’s attire choices for the evening, the girl going for the obvious “Punk Rock Queen” look.
“Whatcha talking about, I am dressed up,” Carrie-Anne said, setting down her bass guitar, taking a pose like an over-exaggerated model, blowing her mother a smart-ass kiss with a smile. Ellen didn’t have anything to say, just giving a smile right back, walking across the room to her daughter and planting a kiss on Carrie-Anne’s forehead.
“Have fun babe,” Ellen said, running her fingers through one of Carrie-Anne’s pink streaks. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” Carrie-Anne said, picking the bass guitar back up. “And nice spider clip thingy. I dig it.” Giving one last half smile, Carrie-Anne made her way down the hall to the stairs without a second glance at her mother, rather surprised her mother would even wear the Halloween styled hair clip, her mother not being the biggest fan of the holiday, most likely burned out from all the years of Carrie-Anne’s grandfathers stories.
Down the stairs, Carrie-Anne was about to walk out the front door right as her grandfather and two younger siblings were walking in from trick ‘r treating. The younger sister, Samantha, was dressed up as Wonder Woman, much to Carrie-Anne and their grandfather’s disappointment, but Tommy made up for it with his simple sheet-ghost costume.
“TRICK OR TREAT!” Tommy shouted from under his sheet, jumping at Carrie-Anne who played being scared, then quickly dipping into Tommy’s candy bucket, pulling a few pieces out for herself, much to the boy’s disdain though he knew better than to speak up to his oldest sister.
“You guys have fun out there tonight with all the ghosts and goblins?” Carrie-Anne asked, opening up a bite size candy bar and munching on it while the kids gave quick accounts of their nights.
“It was okay,” Samantha said, looking up at Carrie-Anne, “but ol’ Miss Weikart gave us apples again this year.”
“Yeah, who gives out apples on Halloween!?” Tommy shouted.
“Yeah, really,” Carrie-Anne added, laughing as she finished the candy bar she had been chewing.
“Alright kids,” Grandpa Sammy interrupted the children’s conversation. “Head in the living room for some of Grandpa Sammy’s famous All Hallows Tales. No need to hold up your sister any longer.” The younger children, excited for the stories, hurriedly ran into the living room finding their spots by the unlit fireplace, leaving their grandfather and Carrie-Anne who was preparing to make her exit of the house.
“Have a good time tonight kiddo,” Samuel said to the girl, who was halfway through the front door. “And hey…” He said, getting her stop and look back at him.
“Yeah,” Carrie-Anne said, in a hurry but willing to hear what her grandfather had to say.
“Play a classic for me tonight, will ya.” And with that, he turned, and walked to the living room to join the youngsters, all the while whistling a tune that Carrie-Anne just couldn’t put her finger on right at that moment.
Getting out to the street, looking up and down it, she was waiting for her band mates, Nate and Ashley to pick her up. Finally seeing Nate’s van rolling down the street, Carrie-Anne smiled, nodded, and hopped in through the side door, resting her bass case on her lap.
“You sure to want to play for our ‘awesome’ peers tonight?” Ashley said the second Carrie-Anne was in the van and they were moving down the street towards the school, her voice so thick with sarcasm it was almost obnoxious.
“Absolutely,” Carrie-Anne said, looking at the case on her lap, staring at every one of the stickers that adorned the case. Every single one of them given to her by Georgie. “Let’s give these bastards one helluva show guys. For Georgie.”
“For Georgie,” the two in the front said in unison as Nate turned up his tune’s to deafening levels. Just the way the teen’s liked it.
*
“Tonight,” Mr. Ferguson, the principal of Poet High, said into the microphone to the mass of costume wearing teen’s waiting for the band to play. Some wanting to actually hear the music and dance, to enjoy the Halloween Dance. Some just waiting to laugh and mock. “We have a special treat for all you monster’s waiting to mash!” The man’s joke received maybe one or two laughs.
“Tonight,” Mr. Ferguson continued, “Our very own will be playing for us tonight, treating us with their musical talent. So, without any further delay, here is Prison Riot Soundtrack!” Upon saying the band’s name, the cheers were almost believable, though some were, but most were just mocking.
*
Making their final preparations, Carrie-Anne and Ashley tuning their guitars, Nate checking his drum set and making sure everything drum wise was secure, they were ready to play. Well, almost.
“I got it!” Carrie-Anne shouted, figuring out what song her grandfather had been whistling, wondering if it was a cryptic message that he was trying to tell her. Thinking about the story he had shared before she had left, and the poem she had read from the book, Carrie-Anne thought, why the hell not.
“You got what? You tuned?” Ashley asked, thinking that Carrie-Anne’s outburst was about her guitar.
“What, yeah. Nate, let me see your knife and lighter.” Carrie-Anne asked, and though the drummer of the band was confused, he adhered and handed over his pocket knife and Zippo lighter.
“Why do you need…?” And Nate would have finished his question of why Carrie-Anne needed his items, but her suddenly pricking her fingers stopped his words before he could finish his sentence. “What the hell C.A.?” Nate asked, not sure why the hell the girl had just committed self mutilation on herself.
“Yeah, what the hell Carrie?” Ashley asked, a bit disturbed by the act, small droplets of blood forming on her friends fingers, Carrie-Anne just looking at her wounds.
“Ashley, light that candle inside that Jack O’ Lantern,” Carrie-Anne said, handing the lighter to the guitarist, pointing to one of the many carved pumpkins that were decorating the schools stage, ignoring the questions her friends were asking. She wasn’t going to explain herself, I don’t need to.
Carrie-Anne had been told since she could remember the rules of Halloween. Every year her grandfather made her recite them like prayers. She knew the importance of the Jack O’ Lantern’s candle. Her grandfather had told her, how the light guided the Others, the ones from the Othersides, the monsters, ghosts, ghouls, all the creepy’s that wait for Halloween to come to our world for one day of tricks and treats.
Ashley, lighting the candle, placing inside the pumpkin, handed Nate back his lighter just as Carrie-Anne handed him back his knife. From the other side of the curtain, Mr. Ferguson was getting ready to introduce the band.
“Again C.A.,” Nate said. “Why the cutting of the fingers?” Spinning his drumsticks, the act had been overly strange, even for his tastes.
“It’s All Hallows Night guys. Why not get a lil blood on the bass strings.” As she said this, Mr. Ferguson presented the name of the band to the crowd, the band knowing the cheers were fake, the curtains opening, and the three waiting to play a bit nervous, but excited none the less. “Let’s rock the hell out of these bastards.”
*
After a pretty decent set of covers, the band not having any of their own song’s they were comfortable enough with to play in public, there had actually been a very good number of students dancing and singing along with the Prison Riot Soundtrack.
Preparing to play their final song of the evening before turning it over to the d.j. for good, the man having played a few songs while the band tuned between songs, Carrie-Anne recited the poem from the journal under her breath, all the while looking from the still lit pumpkin candle and the blood red bass strings on her guitar.
“Alright folks,” Carrie-Anne said into the microphone as the d.j. ended his slow song, finally getting the nods from Ashley and Nate that they were ready, the poem having been silently spoken by her, all but the final verse.
She had made the decision to play their final song at the last moment, with Ashley and Nate both surprisingly knowing the beat and chords, and neither asking for any reason why the song was added last minute. They just went along with it, Carrie-Anne the band leader and lead singer anyways.
“This last song is dedicated to my late boyfriend Georgie.” With her sentence, an uncomfortable silence, and nasty sneers from the preps, the jocks, the ones who made fun of his suicide in the hallways, as Carrie-Anne walked by them, heard their insults in class. Insulting the dead, as her grandfather would tell her, “is the worse damn thing you can do. And on Halloween, it’s even worse.”
“So revenge may be ours on this night,” Carrie-Anne whispered the final verse, and strangely, the lights in the auditorium flickered, and like a wind blew through, every candle that was lit around went out, all but the Jack O’ Lantern candle that Ashley had lit at Carrie-Anne’s request. Beginning a heavy bass riff, Ashley came in on guitar, and Nate with a soft drumming, all to Carrie-Anne’s opening dialogue of their final song for the night.
“He left, and you hung around, and bothered me….every night. And when I wouldn’t go out with you… You said things, that weren’t very nice…” The song that Carrie-Anne chose to be the band’s closing song, the song Samuel had whistled as he had left her to her exit from the house, “My Boyfriends Back” by The Angels.
And just like it was an invitation that travelled beyond reality itself, through the back doors of the auditorium that swung open violently on their own accord, with a heavy, heavy fog rolling in, a group, at first silhouetted by a beaming crimson light, seven figures made their entrance into the dance to the music being played on stage.
The seven figures, all getting stares from onlookers in the crowd, many stopping when they realized who was standing at the lead of the group, looked like they had walked out of a demented remake of Happy Days or Grease. With four males, three of them looking like greasers with their leather jackets, black shades and each with a cigarette in their mouths, they stood there with teeth bearing grins, the cigarettes held between clenched teeth.
The females, three of them, with their black hair all held in pigtails, their tight leather pants showing off unnaturally amazing curves, their shoulder-less pink shirts just as revealing of cleavage. But most odd of the three males and females, the tints of their flesh, the male’s grey and the girl’s crimson red, all of them having green, glowing eyes.
And the final male, standing out from the group with his Letterman jacket, red and white in color, black shades like the other males, only his were resting on top of his head, Georgie stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling as his peers wondered just what the hell he was doing standing in the auditorium with them.
Still playing her bass, singing the words to the song, Carrie-Anne wasn’t in as much of disbelief as everyone else, but she still couldn’t believe her eyes. Her band mates halting in their playing, they were quickly relieved of their duties when a grey male and crimson female made their way from behind the stage to scare Ashley and Nate away from their instruments, Carrie-Anne still playing along with her new otherworldly band members.
“My boyfriends back and he’s coming after you…” Carrie-Anne sang, the crimson female on back up guitar singing backups.
“Hey now, hey now, her boyfriends back!” she sang, her voice like a succubus harmony.
“It’s time to boogie gang,” Georgie said, the males snapping their fingers behind him, then leaping into the air to land in the crowd on top of screaming students. The females, all blowing kisses to other students, grabbed those closest to them, digging fangs that were hidden behind crimson lips into the throats of squirming, costumed teens.
Georgie, pushing through the panicking crowd, the doors of the auditorium refusing to open to anyone, he made his way to the front of the stage, where he stood with a black rose in his hand, looking up at his performing girlfriend. Looking down at him, singing, Carrie-Anne could see the lynch marks on her undead boyfriends neck, and though he looked the same, his eyes were the same glowing green as the massacring Others.
“…My boyfriends back!” Carrie-Anne finished the song, but no cheering was heard, instead the screams of her classmates. Screams made by those whose throats were getting ripped out, screams from one student dressed as Zorro who was having his heart torn from his chest. Screams from trapped students watching their peers get torn to bloody shreds, all the while they waited to be the prey of these unknown ghouls.
“Get down here doll,” Georgie said, his girl obliging, setting her bass on the stage, leaping down into his waiting arms, her lips finding his, his kiss full of electricity, but so cold her body covered in goosebumps in seconds. “I heard your call all the way from the Othersides. Got here as soon as I could.”
“See you brought company,” Carrie-Anne asked, not at all phased by the gruesome carnage taking place around her, instead just happy to see Georgie.
“Just a few friends. I know, I know. They know how to crash one hell of a party don’t they?” Looking around, the reunited couple smiled as they watched their peers die at the hands of the Others. The ones that had been on stage playing with Carrie-Anne leapt, the female finding her prey to be Ashley, and though the girl had been both Carrie-Anne and Georgie’s friend, she had said things about Georgie and his suicide that had hurt the mourning Carrie-Anne. So seeing Ashley’s grisly demise, which would involve her throat being torn open with razor sharp claws, and gargling to death on her own blood, didn’t affect Carrie-Anne near as much as she might have thought it would have.
“Die zombie!” Nate screamed, running up behind Georgie, stabbing his pocket knife into the undead boys back. Though it didn’t cause any pain, more annoyance than anything, Georgie spun quickly, grabbing Nate by the throat, lifting the boy from the ground with little effort. Gripping one arm, tearing it free from the body, a spray of blood like a fountain, Georgie dropped the twitching limb and the screaming boy to the ground.
“Could you get that for me doll?” Georgie asked, in reference to the knife jutting out of his back. Carrie-Anne, gripping it, pulled it free, all the while examining the back of the Letterman jacket Georgie was wearing. Smiling, she couldn’t help it, reading what it said:
THE OTHERSIDES
#00
GEORGIE
“Here kid,” Georgie said turning back to his girl, but having to look back over his shoulder to the screaming, writhing Nate. “Shut up cry baby! You’ll be dead soon enough. Where was I?” he said turned back to Carrie-Anne. “Oh yeah, and so is this.” Handing her the black rose.
“How romantic,” Carrie-Anne said, actually flattered by the gesture. “It is good….” Pausing, Nate was still screaming, literally on her last nerve. Turning the blade point down in her hand, she bent down, stabbing the wide eyed boy multiple times till he was finally silenced and dead, his last thoughts why the hell his two friends, one undead, would torture, yell at and kill him. “Shut up Nate! I am trying to talk to Georgie!” Carrie-Anne shouted as she dug the knife in a few more times after his heart had already stopped beating, her clothes, face covered in the boy’s blood. “Now, where was I…” She said, standing up.
“You got something on your face,” Georgie said, wiping a few drops merely streaking them on her cheeks. “And you were saying it was good.”
“Right, it was good for you to show up. I almost thought I was going to have to actually find a date for this damn thing.” Kissing him on the cheek, the two were in their own little world. The screams of the teens, while still taking place all around, were somewhat covered up by the music blasting from the d.j. booth, which was being manned by one of the grey skinned Others, one who had grown bored of the slaughtering after ripping the heads off of three screaming cheerleaders, who hadn’t even put any effort into their costumes, just wearing damn cat ear head bands.
“What do you say we blow this pop joint babe?” Georgie asked, taking Carrie-Anne’s hand, his glowing green eyes looking into hers.
“Yeah. Let’s do that,” she said, letting him lead her to the doors that had allowed his entrance, the same doors opening up, allowing for only his and hers exit, leaving what was left of the high school student body with the corpses and Others that were having a gruesome, bloody blast.
At the front of the school, the sounds of the music and screaming long since not audible, Georgie led Carrie-Anne to a running, faded-yellow painted car, which Carrie-Anne noticed had the personalized license plate that read SWTDRMS.
“Your ride?” she asked, Georgie being a gentleman, walking her to the passenger side of the car, opening the door, the radio playing a cover of “Sweet Dreams” by the Eurhythmics, the vocals that of a haunting female vocalist.
“Borrowed it. By the way, Love ya doll.” Kissing her, Carrie-Anne wanted to more than anything to ask him why he had hung himself, but she told herself it she was better off not knowing. Here he was in front of her, holding her, kissing her. And inside the school were the bastards who had mocked his death getting what they deserved. Yeah, some of them didn’t do anything to deserve such a wicked death, Carrie-Anne thought as her tongue wrestled with Georgie’s. Maybe they’ll make it out. Who cares?
Getting in the car, Georgie shut her door, and made his way to the driver side, getting in, revving the engine, and looking at his girl with a grin. Throwing the cigar boat of a car into drive, he narrowed those glowing green orbs, and placed his hand on his girl’s thigh.
“Happy Halloween doll.” Georgie said, finally tearing out of the parking lot of the high school.
“All Hallow’s Night baby. All Hallow’s night!” Carrie-Anne shouted into the October night as she drove on with her undead boyfriend.
****Halloween Writing Contest Entry****
All Hallow’s Tales 3: Rule # 3
“The traditions, values and rules of Halloween, the day of Samhein, are sacred, not be broken. Never, to be broken. To break them, incites the wrath of those who are not meant in the living world, those who will deliver a punishment fit for disobeying, forgetting, breaking the rules.” So remember. On Halloween, respect the dead.
Never blow out the candle in your Jack-o’-lantern till the midnight hour.
And always leave a piece of candy on the windowsill for Mr. Twisp.
*
Placing another log on the dying fire, the wood crackled as Samuel poked it, Samantha and Tommy watching and waiting in anticipation. Tommy, having finished all the chocolate in his pumpkin bucket, didn’t want any more candy, his stomach already beginning to ache. Climbing out from under his ghost costume, throwing the sheet behind him, he wanted Grandpa Sammy to tell them the story of “Mr. Twix”, as Tommy had heard it said.
“Mr. Twix grandpa?” Tommy asked, Samuel unable to sustain a smile. Still poking the fire, the old man, looked at his grandson, then to his granddaughter. He wished his oldest granddaughter Carrie-Anne could be there, the girl having loved his stories, but Samuel knew she had a very important night ahead of her.
“No, Mr. Twisp,” Samantha corrected her brother. The girl had a habit of doing so. “And that’s not a scary name grandpa,” the girl said, having barely touched her candy, finally reaching in and grabbing a piece of chocolate.
“It’s not?” Samuel asked, acting shocked. “When I hear that name I get scared. Especially if I know that Mr. Twisp is around. Oh boy do I get scared.” Trying to hide his smile, it was no good, Tommy and Samantha smiling as well, both knowing that nothing scared their Grandpa Sammy.
“Yeah right Grandpa! If that Mr. Twix ever messed with you you’d send him packing all the way back to his mommy!” Jumping up, Tommy punched the air, pretending to be his Grandpa beating up an ol, mean, “Mr. Twix”, as the boy continued to pronounce wrong.
“Glad you think so,” Samuel said laughing. “But, first, I wouldn’t be able to send Mr. TWISP to his mommy cause he never had one. And two, I wouldn’t stick around long enough to even wave a fist at him. I would high tail it out of there, let me tell you.”
“He never had a mommy?” Samantha asked, the question making her think what it would be like if she didn’t have a mommy. She had already lost her daddy, but that was when she was little, littler than Tommy. Losing her mother as well would shatter the girl’s world, but she didn’t want to think about that.
“Never ever,” Grandpa Sammy said, shaking his head for emphasis. “No one really knows where Mr. Twisp came from. But he is a bad, bad man, no. Monster. That man is more of a monster.”
“What’s so bad about him?” Tommy asked, still throwing fists as his imaginary opponent.
“Well, he’d snatch you up if he’d thought you’d make a nice treat. See, Mr. Twisp loves the taste of children, because of their fear. And to him, nothing is more delicious than fear. Children’s fear.”
“I ain’t scared of him,” Tommy said, flexing his muscles just in case Mr. Twisp was watching from the shadows.
“I ain’t either,” Samantha spouted out, not letting Tommy be the only brave one.
“Good, good,” Samuel said. “But even if you ain’t scared, that Mr. Twisp has ways to just make the fear boil right up inside you. That he does. His black eyes, like orbs from outer space, will grip your reflection, like polished mirrors, but if you look close enough, just close enough, your reflection won’t be right. It will be off, showing you scared, quivering, frightened.
And his flesh, his skin, is like a melted candle, just molded to look like a man, with a face that isn’t a face. No mouth, or nostrils. No ears.”
“No mouth? Then how’s he gonna eat up the kids he takes?” Tommy asked. He returned to sitting down, tired of beating up the imaginary Mr. Twix.
“Oh, he has ways. But if you ever cross him, you’ll know who he is by the suit he wears. Blacker than a moonless night, where even the stars above are hidden. With a black hat to match his suit. And his nails, sharper than any razor, just as black as his blackened suit.”
Pulling out a leather bound book, no bigger than your average journal, Samuel untied the leather strap that held it shut, licked his thumb, then flipped through the pages till he found just what he was looking for. Turning the book towards his grandchildren, the picture before them showcased perfectly who Grandpa Sammy had just described. And Samantha, looking to the drawn orbs that were the eyes, could swear that they were reflecting the light from the crackling fire, but that was impossible she thought, the picture being hand drawn.
“Did you draw that Grandpa?” Samantha asked, hypnotized by the eyes, unable to look away from them till Samuel turned the pages back towards him, taking his own turn at looking at the drawn Mr. Twisp, his eyes narrowing, the man taking a deep sigh.
“I did, when I just a child, just about your age Samantha,” closing the book quickly, the snap of the pages made the two children jump, which in turn made Samuel smile. “I saw Mr. Twisp with my own eyes, on Halloween have you. And you know what saved me?”
“What?” Tommy was the first to ask. “What saved you? Why didn’t he eat you? Was it ‘cause you weren’t scared?”
“No, I was scared alright. It was because I remembered the rules of Halloween, the sacred rules which must never be broken. The same one’s I’ve told to you since you could listen to me. The same rules my grandfather told to me, and that his grandfather told to him. What are they now? Samantha.” The man knew his grandchildren knew them by heart, but it was always nice to have them recite those sacred rules. Have them remember to adhere to them.
“Always respect the dead,” the girl said.
“Or else…” Samuel added.
“Or else they dead will get angry, and then they could hurt those who disrespected them.” The girl finished her sentence, and proud of herself, nodded and smiled, crossing her arms, knowing she was correct.
“That’s correct. And Tommy, rule number two.”
“Never, ever, blow out the candle in the Jack o’ Lantern till midnight.” Sticking his tongue out at his sister, he hated how she was so smart and right all the time. He was smart too, just not as smart.
“Or else…” Samuel asked Tommy this time.
“Or else the Others will get lost going back to the Othersides, and that’s a sad, sad time for them. Cause then they will cry forever, and no one will be able to hear them.” Samuel leaning back in his rocking chair, closing the book, rocked for a moment before posing his last question.
“And rule number three…” he asked, looking from grandchild to grandchild to see which answered first, and it was Tommy in his excitement to beat Samantha.
“Always leave a piece of candy on the windowsill.” Sticking his tongue out again at his sister, too proud for beating her in answering the question, she did her best to ignore him and see what else Grandpa Sammy had to say.
“Always leave a piece of candy on the windowsill,” Samuel repeated out loud, acknowledging the truth. “For Mr. Twisp, so he’ll spare you, and not snatch you up, and take you away to be a snack!” And upon finishing his sentence, Samuel leaped from his chair, arms high, scaring the children for his own amusement. Samantha, screaming, fell backwards, kicking over her bucket of candies. Tommy, wide eyed, found the sheet that had been his ghost costume, climbing underneath it for safety. In short time, both children were laughing, right along with their grandfather whose hearty laugh outdid theirs.
“GRANDPA!” the children said in unison. Tommy, lying on the floor, peaked his head out, the sheet now his blanket, Samantha sitting up, picking up her candy and putting it back into her bucket. “Did you really see Mr. Twisp?” she asked, not sure to believe her grandfather or not, a sign that the girl was growing up. But even so, part of her believed, and wanted to hear more.
“Would I lie to you?” Samuel asked, a smile still on is wrinkled face, even as he settled back down again, returning to a steady rocking.
“Nope,” Tommy answered, Samantha just shaking her head.
“I saw him alright. And I’ll never forget that night…”
*
He should have been asleep. Sammy knew it, in his heart that he should have been asleep, had been told to go to sleep, but for some unknown reason, maybe fate, he stayed awake, merely shutting his eyes, pretending like he wasn’t awake.
Halloween was coming to its close, having passed by beautifully, just like every other Halloween. Sammy, having gotten his full of goodies, scares and stories from his own Grandfather Samuel, had been told to go to sleep before watching the candle in the family Jack O’ Lantern get blown out, something which he thought he was finally old enough to stay up and be a part of. Lying in bed, the minutes just dragged by as Sammy just knew that at any moment the candle on their porch was going to get blown out, signifying the end to Halloween for the family for that year. But Sammy knew it meant more than just that.
His grandfather had told him stories, made his remember the rules of All Hallows Day. Sammy remembered them. And the candle, which was never, ever, ever to be blown out till the midnight hour, was for the Other’s, all the one’s from the Othersides, all the monsters, ghosts, ghouls, oogy boogie’s; The candles lit their way home.
Fed up, tired of trying to even fool himself, Sammy sat up, preparing to try and sneak downstairs, maybe catch a peek of his father, mother, brother and grandfather blowing out the candle. How come Robert is old enough? Sammy thought, finally sitting up in his bed, the boy definitely not expecting to have company in his room.
Breath stolen from his very lungs, heart pounding in his ears, Sammy didn’t know the man that wasn’t standing in his room, if he could be called that, a man. Wide eyed, Sammy watched as the man, or black suited what-ever he was turned to return the gaze, only his black orbs that were eyes reflected the moonlight spilling in through Sammy’s window.
Never looking away from the child in the bed, the man monster reached down, and pinching the mint between its fingers, picked it up, and dropping it into his pocket, tilted its head to the side, setting a bag, a doctors bag on the windowsill where the candy had just been sitting. Unclasping the metal clasp holding the bag shut, opening the bag up, reaching inside, the monster pulled out something held in its clenched fist.
Walking towards the still silent boy, Sammy too frightened to even scream, the monster pushed up the brim of its black hat with a black nail, leaning in close to be within inches of the boy, holding out the clenched fist, waiting for Sammy to do something. Sammy, not moving his face, just his wide eyes, looked down at the fist, reached a quivering hand out, opened, waiting for whatever the monster was holding.
Opening its yellow finger’s, dropping into the palm something that Sammy couldn’t see, mainly because his frightened gaze had returned to the dark orbs, the monster pulled away, returning to its bag, closing it, and just grabbing the handle. Standing still, back turned to Sammy, the man rotated its head, and with the tilt of its head, the monster was gone, like a shadow turned into a wisp of smoke, carried off by a quick, strong wind blowing through the room, and though Sammy wouldn’t know it, the midnight hour had arrived, and Mr. Twisp was satisfied for the night.
Screaming, finally able to, Sammy wanted someone to come to his room, someone to hear what had just happened, someone to hear who had just been in the room. His parents, brother and grandfather, all running, thundering up the wooden stairs of the home, burst into the room, Sammy’s mother running to him, holding her screaming baby.
“What is it Samuel?” she asked, hugging her crying son, the older men just looking into the room, seeing nothing that could have scared the boy. “What is it?”
“There was a man mama! A monster! In a suit, and hat! He had black eyes, like a spider. And his skin, it was yellow, like a candle stick.” Crying heavily, Sammy had never been so scared in his life.
“Samuel, there was no one in here,” the boy’s father said, convinced it was probably a nightmare that had frightened the child, one brought on by his father-in-law’s stories. “Now, go back to sleep, you have lessons in the morning.” Stepping out, Robert followed his father, leaving the whimpering boy with his mother and grandfather.
“He was here mama, I swear it! He gave me this!” Finally opening the fist that had been clenching whatever the monster had dropped, on the boys palm rested a button, one that the mother didn’t recognize from any of the boys clothing.
“Where did you get that Samuel?” his mother asked him, obviously not believing his story on the origin of the button.
“Mr. Twisp,” Sammy’s grandfather answered, getting a look from his daughter.
“None of your stories father,” the man’s daughter said angrily, having long since grown tired of the childish scares that came from the stories. “Samuel is scared enough. I think you did your job, giving the poor child nightmares.”
“No mama,” Sammy was quick to object, “really. The man was standing right there,” Sammy pointed at the windowsill. “He took the candy that I had left there!”His mother, getting up, walked to the window, and looking, saw that the candy was in fact gone, but she believed it to have been taken by another culprit, her son.
“Go to bed Samuel,” the woman kissed her son on the forehead. “You ate too much candy and you shouldn’t take your grandfather’s stories to heart. They will just make you see things in the dark. Now, goodnight.” Kissing him again, she made her exit, but not without shooting her father a warning glance. Waiting for his daughter to walk down the stairs, Sammy’s grandfather walked over and sat on the bed, looking at Sammy’s outstretched hand, and the button he was holding.
“That right there I haven’t seen since I was your age,” Sammy’s grandfather said, taking the button from the child’s palm. “And it was the last time I ever saw my brother, your great uncle.” Examining the button, Sammy’s grandfather put it back into the boys palm, and the man’s eyes filled with serious sternness. “Be glad you remember the rules of All Hallows Day Samuel. They saved you. Mr. Twisp is not an Other to be trusted, but you did well, leaving a candy for the man on the windowsill.
“See, my poor brother didn’t believe in the rules, the sacred rules. No he didn’t, and what happened to him. Mr. Twisp came and took him on Halloween, and looks what’s left of him after all this time, nothing but a button. And how do I know that’s his button? Look closely.” Sammy, doing as he was told, looked at the button, using the moonlight through the window as his light. And on the button, were the initials, S.S.
“Those are my initials grandpa,” Sammy said, still looking at the button.
“And those were your Great Uncle Samson’s as well. Our mother had these buttons made for our church coats, and on that Halloween, on that Sunday, Samson had gone to sleep in his coat, and had forgotten to follow the rules. Samson was a rotten child, my poor brother rest his soul,” Sammy’s grandfather said, shame in his voice, shaking his head. “Having gone out for a night of tricks, smashing Jack O’ Lanterns, he found his way to a graveyard, and disrespecting the dead, he taunted those who were buried by dancing over their graves while whistling a tune. I knew better, watching him from the gates, telling him to come back and stop. I swear to this day I could feel the cold presence of Mr. Twisp with us that night. The next day, Samson was gone forever.”
Standing up, leaving it at that, Sammy’s grandfather stopped right in the doorway, hand on the knob of his grandson’s door. Sammy, sitting up still, heart rate gone down, clenched the button of his Great Uncle Samson.
“So, Mr. Twisp is real grandfather?” Sammy asked, just before his grandfather exited for the night.
“You saw him with your own two eyes. I’d have to say he is Samuel. Goodnight. Don’t let the vampires bite.”
*
“The next day,” Samuel said, rocking in the chair, Tommy having fallen asleep on the floor, Samantha still awake, but just barely, intently listened to the story, “I drew the picture I showed you the moment I woke up. And when I asked my mother about my Great Uncle Samson, she said that he just disappeared when my grandfather was young. She never did believe me about Mr. Twisp. But he had been there, that I promise you.”
“And what about the button that Mr. Twisp had given you Grandpa Sammy?” Samantha asked, following her question with a long yawn. Reaching into the pocket of his pants, Samuel pulled out the very button from the story, handing it to his granddaughter. Looking at it, Samantha read the two initials.
“I have carried it with me every day, and now, it’s yours.” Elisa, astonished that her grandfather would give her something like that, didn’t know what to say, so instead, she just yawned again. “And that child, is a sign that it’s time for bed.”
“But grandpa,” Samantha whined, making Tommy stir in his sleep. “I want to blow out the candle!” Whining, the girl was in fact tired, it already being past her bedtime, but still a few hours from midnight.
“That is still too long for you to stay up child, now, time to go to bed. Your mother will hang me from the ceiling if she found out I let you stay up this late.” Picking Tommy off the floor, Samuel led the way, a pouting Samantha following behind. Once up the stairs, the girl went straight for her room, Samuel taking Tommy to his. Setting the boy down on his bed, Samuel told the sleeping child goodnight, then made his way to his granddaughter’s room.
Crying under her blankets, still in her Wonder Woman costume, Samuel sat down on the edge of the bed, knowing just how Samantha was feeling. Sighing deeply, it got the girls attention, Samantha peeking a head out from under the cover.
“Next year, you will be old enough,” Samuel said, looking at her with a smile, but it was no use. Samantha wanted to blow out the candle in the Jack O’ Lantern. “Oh, what did we forget?” Samuel asked, remembering the rules of Halloween. The girl still crying, thought for a moment, then realizing what they had forgotten, jumped out of bed to stand on the floor next to her grandfather.
“We forgot to put candy on the windowsills,” Samantha said, forgetting about the candle for a moment. Samuel, telling her to hurry, smiled wide as his granddaughter rushed down the stairs to her bowl of candy, grabbing only one piece. For herself. Tommy fell asleep, she thought to herself, running back up the stairs. This will teach him.
Placing the candy on the windowsill, she climbed back into her bed, climbed under the covers, and waited for a goodnight from her grandfather, the sudden excitement from remembering the third rule having passed, leaving her more tired than before.
“And where is your brother’s piece?” Samuel asked, the smile gone from his face.
“I,” the girl thought for a second, making up a lie, but too tired to get too creative. “I forgot about his.” Shaking his head, Samuel didn’t have time to say anything before the girl was fast asleep. Tucking her in, he opened her palm and took the button from her sleeping grip, laying it on the stand next to her bed. Walking out of her room, flipping off the lights, he left the door cracked, allowing the hallway light to sneak into the room.
Walking downstairs, picking out two pieces of chocolate from his granddaughters bucket, he walked back upstairs, leaving one on the windowsill in Tommy’s room, and opening the other to eat. Leaving the door slightly ajar for his grandson like he had for his granddaughter, Samuel checked his watch, with only an hour till midnight.
Back downstairs, back in his rocker, Samuel stared into the fire, being alone in the house with the children asleep. He had told them stories, told them legends, the rules of All Hallows Night. Even showed them a picture from his book, something he had only ever done once before. Earlier that night, with his eldest granddaughter. Smiling, rocking away in his chair, the old man just waited till it was time to blow out the All Hallows Day candle. Smiled and waited…
****Halloween Writing Contest Entry****
All Hallow’s Tales 2: Intercourse with a Vamp
“Halloween isn’t merely a holiday on the calendars. It’s every gateway, doorway, archway between here and the Othersides opening at once, for a brief day. But, there are some Others who are here always, who are cursed to walk the earth, staying hidden in the shadows while humanity grows around them. And just like humanity, they have needs, wants. Passions. Lust.”
Just like humanity. They have lust.
-Samuel Shelley, to his daughter Ellen at age 13
*
Checking herself out in the mirror, working the spider hair clip into her shoulder cut blond hair, Ellen was quite pleased with herself. Looking good for her age, a woman in her mid thirties, Ellen couldn’t help but shoot her reflection a smile, the woman looking back at her looking damn fine, in her opinion, wearing her little slim dress and all dolled up.
“I’m heading to the dance mom,” Carrie-Anne said, standing in the doorway, watching her mother in her moment of narcissism, but even Carrie-Anne had to agree her mother looked good. “Got a date tonight?”
“I do,” Ellen said, taking a glance at her daughter, the girl holding her overly stickered guitar case, which inside held the girl’s bass. Her daughter, which Ellen called her “Punk Rock Queen”, was in her usual hoodie, cut up jeans and chuck’s, but with the addition of a black dress vest, and her black hair tied back in a ponytail, leaving the two strips died pink to hang down either side of her head. “And is that how you are going to the dance? You’re going to be on stage, why don’t you dress up some babe?” Ellen almost knew it was futile to try, but she was going to give it an attempt. Maybe I just might get through to this girl.
“Whatcha talking about, I am dressed up,” setting the guitar case down, doing a small pose and blowing her mother a kiss, Carrie-Anne was showcasing her normal attitude, which basically was that she didn’t give a shit about what other’s thought about her. Ellen just smiled, walking over, kissing her daughter on the forehead.
“Have fun babe,” Ellen said, her daughter’s band playing a live show for the school’s Halloween dance. Ellen was surprised when Carrie-Anne had told her she was going to do the gig. Very surprised indeed. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” Carrie-Anne said, picking her case back up and making her way down the hall to the stairs. “And very nice spider clip thingy. I dig it.” Without looking back, the girl was down the stairs, leaving her mother alone only to smirk and shake her head. At least Samantha will be my girly girl.
Walking back to the mirror, checking herself out one last time, Ellen turned to the bedside alarm clock, checking the time. 8:27. Her younger children, Samantha and Tommy would return form trick r’ treating soon with their grandfather, Samuel, Ellen’s dad. But more importantly, not that her children weren’t the most important things to her, but in the next twenty minutes, her date, Richard would be pulling up to take her on a date, which she had no clue what he had planned for their night together.
Excitement and anticipation brewing inside her, she had only been on a few dates before with Richard, but he was a stunning man, handsome, sophisticated and mysterious. And, he was the first man since the children’s father that Ellen had really found herself attracted to.
Looking at the clock again, five minutes somehow flying be while Ellen had been admiring herself, she hurriedly made her way downstairs, seeing her children sitting on the floor in front of the living room fire, her father in his rocking chair preparing to tell one of his Halloween stories.
Heading into the kitchen, searching for her house keys and cell phone, Ellen could find neither, the prime reason being they were in her purse and that was nowhere to be found either. Frustrated, strapped for time, knowing that just any second Richard would roll up and be waiting for her, she focused on where in the Sam Hill she put that purse.
“Where is it?” she whispered to herself, checking every surface of the kitchen, thinking it was the last place she had left the thing, even going as far as to check the fridge, though she knew all too well that it wasn’t in there, but just have to be sure, she thought.
Sneaking into the living room, the tapping of her heels giving her away, it was no matter, no children paid no heed to her, their attention on their grandfather, and on their trick r’ treating treats. Samantha, dressed as Wonder Woman, was Ellen’s little brain, the girl being very, very smart for her age, making her mother proud, but at times aggravated, her daughter’s intelligence proving to lack common sense at the most inappropriate of times. And Tommy, her little sweetheart, was still under his simple white sheet, ghost costume, munching away at his candy. Ellen knew he would have a stomach ache.
“….Revenge.” Ellen had walked in just to hear her father end his sentence with that word, revenge. Such a strong word, Ellen thought, seeing the smile on her father’s lips, knowing all too well that it had something to do with the story he was about to tell.
“Revenge, dad,” Ellen said, glancing around the room, still in search of her lost purse. “Do you think they are old enough to hear about revenge? Why not just tell them a ghost story?” When Ellen was a child, nothing was more exciting than her dad’s stories on Halloween, but over time, she grew bored with them, instead finding more excitement with hanging out with friends, then seeing what mischief she could find with boyfriends. She did have to admit to herself it was nostalgic seeing her own children hear the same stories that her father had told her. But I don’t remember any that involved revenge…
“But this is a ghost story dear”, Samuel said, stopping in his rocking to watch his frantic daughter, Ellen still not finding her purse, but having a feeling that it was somewhere in that living room. “One you haven’t even heard before. Why don’t you sit and listen?”
“Yeah mommy,” Tommy said through a mouth full of candies. “Sit and listen to Grandpa Sammy’s ghost story with us.” Tommy, with that sweet little voice of his just pulled at the strings of Ellen’s heart, but she still had her date with Richard, and she was about to give up on the damn purse, but eyeballing behind the couch she made a beeline for it.
“I can’t baby,” Ellen said, bending down, picking her purse up, wondering just how it had found its way behind the sofa. Adjusting her dress, worried about her make-up and hair, she finally had her purse, but had to find the closest mirror to check herself out again. “Mommy’s got her date tonight with Richard.” Walking out of the living room, heels clicking against the hardwood floor the whole way, Ellen stopped in front of the hallway mirror, having a perfect view out the front door, where she would see just when Richard was pulling up. “And please don’t sit under that sheet and eat all your candy. You’ll get a tummy ache baby.”
“Okay mommy,” her baby boy said. Ellen, smiling, could hear him feeding another mouthful of candy into his lips. It’s Halloween, she thought, and he’ll learn, Ellen knowing of the stomach ache that was too follow later that night. Her makeup fine, her hair still perfect, the time was ticking by and still no Richard. What is taking him?
And just like that, she saw his silver corvette pull up in front of the house, making her heart pound like crazy, just something about Richard did that to her. Heading down the hall, glancing into the living room, one last look at her kids sitting crossed legged on the rug in front of the fire, Samantha begging her grandfather to tell the story, Ellen smiled, knowing it was going to be a good night. Telling herself, it was going to be a good night.
“It’s going to be a good night. A very goodnight,” she said under her breath, making her way out to the door to her waving, waiting date.
*
Ellen couldn’t stop smiling, and her leg, bouncing in anxious anticipation, was rocking the car at every stop, making Richard smile just as much as his date. Having gotten into his car hurriedly, not wanting to keep him waiting, Ellen kissed Richard, but then, she was surprised when he pulled out a blindfold and without saying anything, placed it over the woman’s eyes.
“At least give me a hint,” Ellen said, Richard having only told her to not take the blindfold off, not giving any hints as to where their destination was or what the plan for their Halloween evening was going to be.
“No, no hints love. You just have to wait, and no peeking now,” Richard said, the smoothness in his voice giving Ellen chills. The man carried himself well, his voice proud, almost egotistic, but not too much. Richard, a very successful writer, had met Ellen when they had bumped into each other in the only book store in Poet, Washington, then before she knew it, she was head over heels for the man who was just as mysterious as the people he wrote about.
Turning up the car radio, possibly as a notion for Ellen to stop attempting to get hints, Richard just continued to smile as he bobbed his head to Nick Cave’s “Up jumped the Devil”, a very fitting song for the evening, he thought to himself. Reaching over, placing a hand on Ellen’s exposed thigh, she couldn’t help but jump, not expecting the move from the man, but more so a shiver ran up her spine and goosebumps formed from the sheer touch of him, the ice coldness that was in his fingertips.
“My lord you’re cold,” Ellen said, not able to stop herself from a light shake as it seemed the man’s hand just wasn’t getting any warmer on her thigh.
“Terrible circulation,” he said, his smile growing a bit wider.
*
Getting help out of the car from Richard, Ellen, still blindfolded, felt a small burst of the night wind blow through her blond hair, and she could almost swear she could hear whispers carried with it. The wind, felt good though, a contrast to the very uncommonly warm October night that they were experiencing, the first warm Halloween that Ellen could ever remember.
Having lived in Poet her entire life, it was much like most other Washington cities. Rainy, chill and the very occasional beautiful sunny day. Taking a deep breath of the open night air, she was getting impatient, waiting for whatever Richard had planned for the two of them.
“I can’t take it,” Ellen said, her hand grasping his, a light sweat built on her palm from her anxiousness, his hand still so unnaturally cold. “Let me take this off, please!” Reaching up with her free hand, going to take the blindfold off, and though she knew it could ruin the surprise, I don’t care. I want to see!
Stopped just as her fingertips found the cloth of the blindfold, she felt Richard’s free hand grab hers, stopping her, but he wasn’t aggressive in the act, gentle, just wrapping his finger’s around hers and pulling her hand away, while at the same time leaning in to whisper into her ear.
“We’re almost there Ellen,” his whisper again sent a shiver up her spine, but at the same time, a feeling in her stomach and chest of pure erotica, Ellen not able to find her breath for a moment. His breath on her ear, was just as cold as his touch, but still, so arousing.
Pulling her just a few more yards, he stopped, and releasing her hands from his, found a hold on the small of Ellen’s back, pulling her in tight for a heavy kiss, his tongue pushing itself through her lips to find her tongue. While they had kissed before, the first being on their first date after he had walked her to the door like a gentleman, that kiss was something all in its own, a kiss that was more than a kiss. It was passion incarnate in that man’s lips.
“My lord,” Ellen whispered, finally able to catch her breath, pulling a few inches away from Richard’s lips. Legs shaking, not from the cold but from the adrenaline passing through her whole, Ellen had never found herself so aroused from just a kiss. My lord, that was amazing.
“Not tonight,” Richard whispered back through a grin. Leaning her back slowly, Ellen at first was startled, not expecting him to make the motion, but she trusted him, and allowed him to continue till she was lying upon what felt like a slab of stone, cold and rough to her skin. Running his hands through his eyebrow length black hair, the moonlight reflecting off his cobalt eyes, Richard examined his date, looked over every inch of the woman utterly attracted to him.
And for a mother of three, Ellen was gorgeous, stunning in fact. Having kept in great shape, a self-conscious woman, she made sure she took care of herself. And lying on the stone slab, one knee up, the other leg dangling over the edge of the stone, Richard just looked from her heels up her legs, over the end of that black dress, and all the way to the smile, listening to her fingernails tap impatiently on the stone.
“Well?” She asked, wondering what was going to follow that amazing kiss. Feeling his hand run down the lower leg of the leg bent on the stone, he began kissing just below her knee as he pulled one heel from her foot, then the other. Kissing up around her knee, just inside it, slowly up her thigh, he only made it a few inches before he stopped, and when he stopped Ellen realized she was holding her breath. “Why’d you stop?” Her fingernails had stopped tapping, and instead her hands were spread flat on the stone, the woman unbelievably aroused.
“Trick or treat,” Richard said in an almost sing song fashion. The words confused Ellen, wondering why the hell he would say a child’s phrase at a time like that. And then, off to her side, she heard music begin, wondering who had started it, but figuring it was Richard waiting for him to return his attention to her. Still blindfolded, she was now refusing to take it off herself, actually enjoying not being able to see what Richard was going to do, the surprise adding to the erotica of the acts.
Still nothing from Richard, Ellen just listened to the song, recognizing it from somewhere, and after a few seconds, knew it from the film Queen of the Damned, one of her favorite films. And though she didn’t know it, the song “Excess,” by Tricky was just the right song to put Richard fully in the mood.
Rolling up the sleeves of his black oxford, unbuttoning the top button, he leaned in, kissing again right where he had left off on her inner thigh, the other just running up and down her dangling leg, the backs of his fingers just grazing her flesh.
“Give me something good to eat,” Richard whispered just loud enough for Ellen to hear over the music. Blowing lightly, the man had kissed his way to her panties where she was so moist that his breath made her moan. Ellen tilted her head back on the stone, not caring where she was, or if anyone but Richard was around to hear her.
Kissing through her panties, pushing his lips hard against the wet, black lace, he could taste her, and licking his lips, she was sweet on the tongue. Grabbing both her legs, lifting them on his shoulders while at the same time pulling her closer to the edge, Richard just sat there, waiting for her to give another impatient response.
“Why’d you stop!?” she said again, her hands in fists now, Ellen knowing it had been a very, very long time since a man had gone down on her, giving her all the attention for once, and dammit, I want you to keep going!
“If you don’t,” Richard whispered again through a grin, making sure each and every breath was on those moist panties, each syllable making Ellen moan. “I’ll pull down your underwear.” Running his hands up her legs, hooking his fingers through the edge of her panties, he slid them down slowly, pulling them off and dropping them to the ground to join her discarded heels.
Kissing up her leg quicker than before, Richard got straight to business, taking only a moment to admire Ellen, seeing the moonlight glisten from how wet she was. Kissing her just above her clitoris, he worked his tongue out and began with that, focusing on spinning and rotating, Ellen’s eyes rolling back into her head, her breath literally robbed from her lungs. She had never felt a man so good with his tongue, and Richard was just getting started.
Moving down, using only his mouth, using his hands to keep Ellen laying down, the woman arching her back in pleasure, he rolled his tongue in unison with the music, the motion making Ellen orgasm almost immediately, another thing that she had absolutely never experienced before, no matter how long it had been since the last time she’d been with a man.
His mouth soon becoming not enough, sexual urges taking over, Ellen needed more of him, wanted more of him. Reaching, blind, she felt his hair, and running her fingers through, she let him continue for a few more minutes, but finally wanted him inside her. Grabbing the shoulders of his shirt, she yanked him up while at the same time lifted herself to a sitting position, managing to find her lips to his, rivaling his kiss earlier.
Her tongue assaulting his, she could taste herself on his lips, tongue, and to be honest with herself, it turned her on even more. Running her fingers through his hair, grabbing, pulling, she moved his head to her neck, Richard taking the cue and kissing aggressively, even going so far as to bite a little, his teeth stinging, but even that just turned Ellen on more and more.
Moving from her neck to her collar bone, he worked the straps of her dress free from her shoulders, leaving them to dangle on her arms. Biting her collar bone like he had her neck, he bit a little too hard, drawing a droplet of blood. Wincing at the pain, Ellen instantly forgot about it, Richard occupying her thoughts with his fingers, the tips of his left middle and ring finger entering her, hooking and pulling out, the motion making her pull his hair and scream in satisfaction.
“My god, don’t you dare stop,” moaning, Ellen felt like a teenager again. She couldn’t see, wasn’t sure where she was, but I don’t give an unholy damn! Richard, licking the blood droplet from her collar bone, pushed his fingers into her as far as they would go, then pulled them free, a look of disappointment and maybe fury painted on Ellen’s face. “Dammit Richard!” But before she could complain anymore, the man had his pants undone and his member out, the tip grazing her lips, his full erection quivering as it touched her.
Leaning in close, she licked his ear lobe, and running a hand down his chest found a grip on his erection, squeezing tightly, Ellen more than impressed with the man’s size and girth. He literally has it all, she thought, lightly stroking him, the tip still pressed up against her now soaking wet vagina.
“Do you want it in me?” Ellen asked, teasing the man, seduction so thick in her voice it was hard to believe it was even her talking. Even Ellen surprised herself, never feeling like she was ever before, never wanting a man more than she wanted Richard right there at that instance. And she was in control for that one brief moment, holding him so tightly, feeling the quivers, the stiffness between her fingers and palm, and just the thoughts of it running through her brain made her want him more, and made her even wetter, which was good, considering she’d never been with a man as with as large a member.
“Don’t you?” he asked, Ellen in shock that though she believed she was in control, the dominant one for a brief moment, he had taken it away from her with just two words, and both smiling, Ellen didn’t say another word, just pushed the tip of him inside her and let him do what he wanted. Take control.
Pushing her back against the stone, Ellen was at the perfect height, Richard not needing to bend down or anything, just the right height for him to just thrust. Putting Ellen’s legs back on his shoulders, he began slowly, but in no time his thrusts were hard, fast, and Ellen was screaming, her second and third orgasm rocking her body. Grabbing her own hair, she was in such a pleasure she couldn’t even scream, the woman biting her lips, having to stop herself before she bit clean through.
Wanting to see Richard, tired of the blindfold, she ripped it off, throwing it, looking at the man still thrusting into her, his entire member too big for her to take all of him, a few inches left outside, but still, Ellen had never felt a man like him before. Ever.
But then the realization of where she was hit. A graveyard. All around, gravestones littered the landscape, with only a tree here or there to break the rows of stones. Knowing that she herself was atop a stone monument, the corpse of someone just below her, she felt the need to stop and ask just why Richard had decided to take her to a graveyard to have sex. But it is Halloween, and it is naughty. So naughty. Convincing herself, the thought of having sex in a graveyard where she could get caught made it even more arousing.
“Should have left that on love,” Richard said, not stopping in his thrusts. Ellen, admiring him, noticed he wasn’t out of breath, or sweating a single drop. She on the other hand was having a terrible trouble trying to keep air in her lungs, everything Richard did taking it right away from her, and her body was lightly covered in a sex sweat.
“Why, why?” she repeated the word through moans, her brain just full of him, Richard, and the fact that he felt so good inside her. So, damn good inside her. But, then like his words had taken away a veil she couldn’t see, an invisible blindfold that had been hiding another world, she began to see things in the graveyard.
Blurry at first, she thought it was the pleasure, the sexual gratification, the adrenaline even playing tricks on her. But the blurs became more and more visible, and in time, there were others in the graveyard where that hadn’t been other’s before. Shocked, she shut her eyes, kept them clenched shut, trying to pretend that those out there hadn’t just appeared, tried to focus on Richard still pounding away at her, his thrusts just getting harder and harder, faster.
But upon reopening her eyes, they were all still there. Naked, the people weren’t normal. There were men and women, all involved in acts of sexual intercourse, orgies taking place all over, the music playing drowning out their moans, but in time Ellen could hear them, just like she was able to see them.
The men, their skin a tint of grey, like covered in whole by ash, they were all bald and like Richard were giving into their sexual dominance, delivering powerful thrusts to the receiving females. And the woman, all moaning, screaming in ecstasy, had a blood red tint to their flesh, all their hair black, long, wild.
“What is going on?” Ellen stammered out, a moan or two still sneaking out, she in shock that Richard was continuing. “Richard, stop!” Trying to push him off, he did stop in his thrusts, but he stayed inside her, and this time the look of disappointment and aggravation were on his face.
“You should have kept the blindfold on Ellen,” he sneered at her, angry that she had made him stop. It would still be a while till he climaxed, but he had been enjoying himself.
“Keep the blindfold on? For what? So you could sneak me into a weird, graveyard orgy? Who are they?” The “they” she spoke of, the grey men and red women, were acting like she wasn’t there, oblivious to her questions, just continuing in their acts of fornication.
“They are Others. And it’s Halloween. Bask in the lust babe.” Attempting to begin thrusting again, Richard pulled out a bit, but did not expect Ellen to push back on the stone, forcing him to pull out all the way. “Come on Ellen, ignore them.”
“Ignore them Richard, what the hell is going on?” Ellen was frightened. At first the thought of sex in a graveyard was exciting, but this was something else, this was too much for her to handle.
“Alright, fine. You want the truth?” He asked, hanging his head, sighing, putting his already softening member away, fixing his pants and belt.
“Please.” Looking past him, the acts of everything happening around her was mind boggling, shocking, leaving Ellen in awe. No one paid any attention to her at all, all the couples, and some threesomes just focusing on their partners.
“The truth, and here it is,” Richard said, rolling his sleeves down as he walked around to sit next to her on the stone. Ellen, not scared, inched away as to not touch him, but was afraid to leave his side, not sure of the people, or whatever they were, in the graveyard. “I am a vampire, and the only one of my kind actually.” Right there Ellen stopped him.
“A vampire Richard, come on. I have seen you in the daytime.” The day they had met at the bookstore it had been close to noon.
“Why do you think I live in Poet Ellen,” Richard smiled at her. “The sun very rarely peeks it way through the clouds.”
“Like in Twilight? Are you crazy? What the hell is really going on here Richard?” Ellen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Was this some sick, sexual joke he was playing on her, or did the man she had so fallen for really believe himself to be like the vampires from the popular book series, one that like many women out there, Ellen was in love with.
“Who do you think inspired Stephanie Meyer to base her vampires here in Washington?” Smug, he was proud of that fact. “I am a vampire doll. And they are Other’s, those who can only come to the living world on the day of Samhein, Halloween. And they are so into their acts of sex, because on the Othersides, you can’t feel anything. At all. Poor bastards.”
Ellen, trying to take it all in, was left with nothing to say, not sure to believe him, or what. He sounded serious, sounded truthful, and the way the fornicators had just appeared did make them seem otherworldly, but even so, it was too difficult to believe Richard a vampire.
“Do you sparkle in the sunlight?” Ellen had to ask the question, such a fan of the novels.
“That is the dumbest damn thing she could have written down. No, I do not sparkle in the damn sunlight,” Richard was clearly annoyed by the question. “If I step into direct sunlight I will burn up instantaneously and be left nothing more than a pile of ash.”
“Why am I here Richard?” Ellen, still watching the Other’s, the Other’s still going at it, Ellen felt exposed, her panties laying at the ground, the wind nipping at her, the night air seeming to chill all around as fear really began to settle in.
“These are my people. I am a creature of lust Ellen. Sexual desire. I have lived so long, and nothing is more satisfying that to be in the company of them,” motioning with a wave of his hand to the Other’s in the graveyard. “It’s pure erotica. I have to pretend to be a human, a mortal. But tonight, I can be truthful to myself. And be what I am.”
“A vampire.” Ellen whispered, actually starting to believe him. “Prove it to me. Prove to me you are what you say you are.” Looking into his eyes as he turned to face her, he smiled wide, exposing his teeth, and as her eyes shifted down, she watched as his canines elongated, then back to his cobalt eyes as they turned a shade of blood red, matching the flesh of the woman in the cemetery. “My lord,” she said, finally convinced, the slight transformation something he couldn’t have pulled off for merely a joke.
“Not tonight,” Richard again said to Ellen’s response. Pulling her in, kissing her harder than his first kiss, biting her bottom lip just enough to pierce, he licked the blood clean, leaving it to bleed, leaving Ellen to taste her own wound.
“Are you going to kill me?” She had to ask. She just had to.
“I have to now. You’ve seen too much, know too much.” Tilting her head to the side, he brushed her hair away, and kissed her neck, planting soft, gentle kisses. “I didn’t want it to come to this.” Ellen had nothing to say. Her only thoughts were of her children. Carrie-Ann, Samantha and Tommy. But somehow, a thought of him inside her formed, but quickly she forgot it, knowing that the same man, or vampire, was about to feed upon her, stealing her life away in an ironic place; the graveyard.
Exposing his teeth, there was nothing else for him to say either, and just as he dug his fangs into her flesh, used the weapons of his bane, the tools of his curse, the Others in the graveyard in unison sang out in a climax, a sexual song. But, Richard didn’t plan on killing Ellen, not at all.
He had been with countless mortal woman before. And never once had he killed a single one. For his first kill with his fangs would be his last, with their final drop of blood, his curse would be passed to them, and he just wasn’t ready to move to the Othersides yet. Draining just enough to leave her weak, Ellen fell into unconsciousness, and upon waking, she would remember all of it just as a bad dream. Richard would call her, check on her, then end their relationship.
Drinking down her sweet life nectar, her blood, he stopped before doing too much damage, laying the woman back on the stone slab. Licking his lips, tasting the copper, his body warming, his belly on fire, he felt alive for one brief moment.
Looking to the Others who joined him and his sleeping date in the graveyard, they were all smiling, all satisfied. But there he stood, unsatisfied. Looking at his sleeping date, her dress up just enough to expose her, she was still wet. And having been alive, or unalive, long enough, Richard forgot what guilt was. Undoing his pants, the man had made her climax multiple times. It was his turn. Climbing on top, he slid inside her, all to the sinister approval of his otherworldly audience.
“Not tonight,” he said as he made the first, full mighty thrust.
****Halloween Writing Contest Entry****
All Hallow’s Tales 1: Adhere to the Rules…
“All Hallow’s Eve, the eve just before Halloween, the eve where impatience runs thick in every, single Other; the ghouls, ghosts, and monsters, all the creatures that we tell our stories about. They are real, but they are only allowed to come to the living world on Halloween, when the Church Bell’s toll at midnight on All Hallow’s Eve, and with the final bell chime, the doorway’s open, the graveyards come to life, and from the Othersides, all those creatures that go bump in the night return and frolic for tricks and treats, for one day; the one day that they wait for every, single year.”
*
“But Grandpa,” Samantha asked, the little girl still dressed as Wonder Woman, a costume her grandfather had shown open distaste for, saying the costume didn’t “have any Halloween spirit in it at all,” which had hurt his granddaughter’s feelings, but he hadn’t cared. “Aren’t all those monsters bad? Why would they come back for trick’s and treats?” Sitting in the living room in front of the fire, Samantha and her younger brother Tommy, who was dressed as a ghost, with just an old white bed sheet with the eyeholes cut out, they listened as their Grandpa Sammy was preparing to tell them ghost stories.
“Yeah,” Tommy said, his mouth full of candy that he was shoveling in from beneath his bed sheet costume. “Monster’s don’t eat candy Grandpa. Do they?”
“Oh, they do Tommy. And of course not all of the Others come back for treats. Some come back to play kind hearted tricks on us. Nothing harmful, just good humored. But then, there are those who come back for more nefarious reasons.” Rocking in his old, wooden rocking chair, Halloween was Samuel Shelley’s favorite holiday. Always had been.
“Nefarious?” Tommy asked, the boy oblivious to the definition of such a big word, his six year old vocabulary not that extensive yet.
“Its mean’s bad, stupid,” Samantha quickly told him, the girl very smart for her age, which was nine.
“Always picking on your brother Samantha,” Samuel said. “He isn’t stupid, that was my mistake for using such a grown up word. But, back on subject, your sister is correct. Some of the Others merely come back to do bad, bad things.”
“Like what?” Samantha asked, heavily intrigued, always loving to hear Grandpa Sammy’s stories. Especially on Halloween.
“Like revenge for instance. And I have one such story that has to do with just that. Revenge.” Smiling, Samuel had never told the children this story, but they were old enough, and it was one of his favorites.
“Revenge, dad,” Ellen said, the mother of the two listening children entering the room, looking for her purse as she waited for her date to arrive. “Do you think they are old enough to hear about revenge. Why not just tell them a ghost story?” Ellen, having listened to her father’s stories for as long as she could remember, had grown tired of them, their scares having no effect on her any longer. Now, it was her children that were her father’s audience, and sometimes she felt he forget that they were just that, her children.
“But this is a ghost story dear. One you haven’t even heard before. Why don’t you sit and listen?” Samuel knew his daughter would refuse to listen to his story, having not done so since she was a teenager, but he still felt it didn’t hurt to ask, just in case she would have a sudden change of heart.
“Yeah, mommy,” Tommy said, his mouth again full of candies, “sit and listen to Grandpa Sammy’s ghost story with us.”
“I can’t baby,” Ellen said, finally finding her purse which had somehow found its way behind the couch. “Mommy’s got her date tonight with Richard. And please don’t sit under that sheet and eat all your candy. You’ll get a tummy ache baby.” Returning to check on her makeup, the clock was tick tocking away and still no sign of Richard.
“Okay mommy,” Tommy said, ignoring his mother’s wish, shoving another handful of M&M’s into his open, chocolate covered lips.
“Tell us the story Grandpa! Please,” Samantha begged.
“Alright kids,” Samuel began, rocking a bit harder in his chair, the creaking of the old wood in perfect, spooky harmony with the crackling of the living room fire. “It was All Hallow’s Eve…”
*
John had to get out of the house. He had felt like it was closing in on him, an unfamiliar sense of claustrophobia setting in, the feeling of eyes from behind the walls staring at him. He had lived in his house for years, and for the first time, the feeling like it wasn’t his home forced him out, but merely for a few minutes, just long enough to go for a run.
Figuring it was just exhaustion from work mixed with the atmosphere built around him by the season, Halloween being the next day, John reasoned a good jog would work the stress from his body, and upon returning to his home it would again feel like his home, instead of just a house that had chased him out.
Rounding the corner off his street, Chestnut, onto Rogers Lane, John saw a couple teenagers walking on the opposite side of the street, the kids most likely up to no good, smashing pumpkins or other tricks that kids found themselves in on All Hallows Eve.
Passing by all the decorated homes, the sounds of the fallen, dead leaves crunching beneath his feet mixed with the sound of his shoes slapping the concrete of the sidewalk numbed his mind, relaxing him as he focused on his breathing.
Running down Rogers Lane till the sidewalk ended, making his way onto the side of the street, John felt eerily alone, though he knew how late of an hour he was out at. Slowing his pace, looking behind him, the teenagers gone, John was startled to see how dark it had gotten from the way he had just come, the road behind him pitch black, nothing visible.
Stopping, focusing, looking back down the road, it was completely dark, as though something had swallowed every ounce of light from the area, leaving it hidden in black. Confused, having just run through there, with streetlights that had been casting down from above, porch lights from the homes he had run past, and now, all of it was gone. Extinguished and hidden in the night.
Peering at the houses that were around him and still visible, they were all dark inside, no light spilling through window blinds or window decorations. Shaking his head, thinking that maybe the same stress that had chased him from his home was playing more tricks on him, making him just think there was darkness everywhere, upon opening his eyes, John was blinded, two painfully bright lights tearing towards him down the street.
Jumping to avoid the lights, John was clipped, tossed to the side of the road as the screeching of breaks brought the car that had just hit him to a sudden halt. With the smell of hot rubber and exhaust fumes in the air, John let loose a string of obscenities as he made sure nothing was broken, his arm and leg just sore, but he was still able to stand and bend his arm.
On his feet, looking at the car, the red lights from the breaks bright in contrast to the darkness that was strangling the ends of the street, John was able to make out the license plate, reading it to himself under his breath. SWTDRMS. The car, a 1978 Oldsmobile Delta 88, was a cigar boat of a car, the yellow paint chipped and rust adorning the bottom the vehicle.
“Hey, are you out of your mind or just blind!?” John yelled to whoever was driving the car, wondering why they hadn’t gotten out yet to check on him. If it was going to be just a hit and run, they wouldn’t have slammed the breaks; so cautious, John stood behind the car to see just what the driver was going to do.
Having to react again quickly, jumping out of the way before clipped for a second time by the vehicle, the Delta 88 quickly and surprisingly drove in reverse, running over the blacktop where John had just been standing and yelling. The brakes slammed again, the sound of the tires squealing, John was shocked and frightened, but more so angry that they had tried to hit him for a second damn time. On his feet, heading for the stopped vehicle, John tried to the see the driver, but the light given off by the car’s high beams were blinding, John having to shield his eyes with his hand as he approached.
“What the hell are you doing?” John began to yell, making his way around the cigar boats hood. “Are you trying to kill me?” Able to see, the headlights behind him, John was shocked to see no one in the car, the driver side door shut, the car running, but no one behind the wheel. Leaning against the glass of the driver side window, looking in, no one was in the car, yet it had been running, and had nearly killed him. Twice.
Opening the door, peering in for a closer look, there was no one. The radio was on, just barely audible, and after listening for a moment, a chillingly haunting cover of the Eurhythmics “Sweet Dreams” played through the car, only seeming ironic as John thought about the license plate. Looking at the clock inside the car, it read 12:09. It was finally Halloween, or nine minutes into the holiday.
Pulling back out of the car, looking around, John had not seen nor heard anyone get out of the car, making him wonder where the driver was, or if there had been one to begin with, why had the car itself attempted to kill him.
“I really hope you’re name isn’t Christine,” John said jokingly to the car, patting the roof, almost expecting it to rev it’s engine or honk it’s horn in response, but, the car just stayed running, the girl’s voice whispering through the speakers. “…some of them want to use you…”
With both ends of the street shrouded in unholy darkness, it would be impossible for John to see if anyone had just left the car and ran off into the night, evading the whole scene and possible police involvement, though John hated the police and the “idiot driver” of the car had left the car itself there at the scene, running.
Thinking the driver’s information would be in the car, and seeing that the car was there anyways, John climbed in, thumbing through the glove-box and center console, with no papers what-so-ever. Sighing, rubbing his eyes, the whole situation was strange and he wanted to wash his hands of it, his injuries not being too serious and there being no real need to involve the law. Going to climb from the car, he was stopped, the door slamming shut, nearly catching his leg as he was preparing to step out.
“SHIT!” he shouted, jumping back into the driver seat, trying to catch his breath after being startled by the sudden slam of the door. Attempting to open it, the door wouldn’t budge, the window wouldn’t roll down. And no matter how hard John slammed his shoulder into the door, attempting to use all his weight to get the door open, pulling on the handle, punching the glass, he was stuck in the Delta 88. Exhausted, attempting to catch his breath, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, damning the car under his breath, all the while listening to the radio, the song still “Sweet Dreams”.
“..some of them want to be abused…”
“Shut up!” John yelled at the radio, like it was going to listen to him. Attempting to turn it down himself, it was just as futile as his attempts to exit the vehicle. “YOU GOD DAMN DEMON CAR! JUST LET ME GO!!”
And as though the car had heard his yells and feeling a moment of compassion, the door, just as it had slammed on its own, opened up on its own, John moving quickly to get out before the Delta 88 had a change of heart.
Stepping away from the car, the music from inside the vehicle seemed to increase in volume a little bit with each step John took, as though the music itself was trying to stay just barely audible to his ears. Stopping, John just listened, trying to get a grasp on what was happening.
“…Are made of these… Who am I?” Listening closely, John thought just below the music he heard something else. Stepping closer to the vehicle, though he thought twice about it, the car already having attempted to kill him and trap him, he knew he had heard something else just underneath the music. After several long seconds, with only the female singing away at the song, he heard it again, and telling himself it wasn’t what he was hearing, there was no denying what the sound was.
“Impossible,” John said, shaking his head, telling himself he was just hearing things, the noise not really there, his father’s laugh not really coming through the speakers of that car’s stereo. Slowly making his way back to the car, seeming in a trance from the music and the subliminal laugh, John was quickly leaning in, staring at the clock inside the car, the clock no longer reading a time, the soft green symbols of the clock changing to unrecognizable jibberish. “Impossible. Stop,” John pleaded with the car. “Stop!,” he told it again, “STOP!” he finally had had enough, snapping, punching the console with all his fury, trying to smash the radio and kill the song and that laugh, his father’s laugh. His dead father’s laugh.
“STOP IT DAMMIT!” His knuckles bleeding from punching the console, the music jumped to deafening levels, forcing John to cover his ears and retreat out of the vehicle. Ears still covered, the music didn’t seem to soften when the car door slammed shut again, the vehicle putting itself into drive and roaring off down the street into the darkness like a bat out of hell.
Left alone, John looked around him, not sure what was happening, wanting to just go home, back to the place which hadn’t felt like home, but at that moment, he thought it was the safest place for him to be. Shaking, the cold October night air nipped at him, John asked himself why he had gone running so late, why he had just up and had the urge to get out.
Was it stress?
Am I that stressed out? What’s going on? Work? Life? What?
John felt like he was going to have a meltdown, like everything that was filling his mind was going to overflow and spew through every orifice of his head, leaving him dead on the street till he was found in the morning. Shaking his head, as though that would shake those thoughts away, John couldn’t quite remember what street he had ended up on, the houses around him not looking familiar, though he hadn’t run far from his home, and he had run on every street in his neighborhood plenty of times, enough times to certainly not have the feeling of loss and confusion that hung over him like the dark shrouds that clung to the ends of the streets.
“Where am I?” John managed to get past his lips, a sudden feeling of tired hitting him, the man finding it difficult to keep his eyes open, but John pushed to walk down the street, aiming to find a street sign with the name of the street on it. Slogging down the street, stumbling more than walking, John couldn’t explain what was happening, his whole body feeling as though it was fighting to walk through a pool of jell-o rather than the cold Halloween night air that was all around him
Poking out from the darkness, the green and white that was the street sign was just barely readable. Elm Street, which John knew he hadn’t run down, not even knowing of any Elm Street’s in his neighborhood. Ignoring the blasphemous sign, John looked into the darkness, squinting, as though that would allow him to see through it.
And like he was standing on a beach and the point where the ocean meets the sand was where he stood, the darkness in front of John just ended mere inches from him, closer than an arm’s reach. Not daring to reach into the dark, not sure what could be lurking within the shroud, John decided to maybe try one of the homes, see if there was maybe a living soul that could assist him.
Stretching as he walked, trying to shake the feeling from his body, the feeling like he had just finished off two fifths of vodka, and then some more alcohol, John couldn’t get his body to feel right. Stumbling, falling to his knees, catching himself before his face met the concrete, he gave up on his mission to make it to a house, deciding to just lay there on the street and yell till someone came to him. Or the car came back to finish him off.
“HELP! For the love of all things holy somebody help!!!” Screaming, doing so till his lungs ached, John broke down and found himself caught with a bout of uncontrollable laughter, the man coming to the conclusion that he was losing his mind, or that he was lost in his own mind, his subconscious placing him on a metaphorical Elm Street with no obvious escape.
Clenching his face, covering his eyes, praying that when he opened them he was in his bed, safe and sound, all this having been one lucid dream, upon opening them, John was surprised to see children trick or treating around him, some kid’s even stepping over him, none paying any heed to the man laying out on the concrete convinced he was losing his mind.
Sitting up, looking to both ends of the street, the dark shrouds were still thick, but the children were coming and going through like it was nothing to them, while John had been afraid to even stick his hand into it.
“Hey kid,” John said, speaking to a child dressed as a prisoner, with black and white striped clothes on. “Hey, kid, I’m talking to you.” Ignored, John attempted to get the attention of another child, noticing that all the kids were dressed the same. Black and white striped prisoner costumes. Getting to his feet, watching as the kid’s approached the homes, stood with their goody bags out, the door’s to the home’s opening, but no one there to hand out candy. After a few seconds, the children would step back, giving room for the next child to step up to receive nothing, only to walk away and to the next house, till all that was left was the darkness to walk into.
Grabbing one child, looking into its face, the little boys eyes were sunken, deep bags hanging from his sockets, the child looking up at John as though in a trance. Letting the child go, John ran up to a home, trying not to stumble and fall again, making it to the porch, pushing his way past the children waiting to get nothing, walking into the home, no furniture inside, instead thousands of carved Jack O’ Lanterns.
Taking one last quick glance at the little prison costumed child waiting on the porch, the boy put his finger to its lips as if trying to tell John to stay quiet, then the child was gone with the slamming of the front door of the home, leaving John alone in the home with the pumpkins.
“Hello?” John whispered, and then like his word had been a command to awaken, every Jack O’ Lantern came to life with light, candle glows spilling from carved eyes and mouths, the shadows played on the walls menacing. “Hello? Anyone there?”
And from the upstairs of the home, John heard the laughing that he had denied hearing earlier from the car’s speakers. His dead father’s laughing. Coming closer, the laughing getting louder, John’s eyes were glued to the stairs, waiting to see his father walk down, waiting to see his DEAD father make an appearance.
“Boo!” the voice said from behind John, John jumping clean off the ground, the heart trying to do the same from his chest. Laughing followed, but not his father’s. No, this laughing was higher pitched, like thousands of children laughing at a school yard prank. John, still startled, having trouble catching his breath, realized it was the pumpkins laughing at him. The god damn pumpkins.
Turning around, looking his father right in the man’s eyes, John was at an utter loss for words. His father, dressed in the police dress uniform that he had been buried in, stood smiling, the same smile that found its way onto the man’s lips when he had been alive. And heavily intoxicated.
“Good to see you Jonny boy,” John’s father said, John not believing, not being able to believe, that it was his father in front of him, the two surrounded by laughing Jack O’ Lanterns.
“You’re dead.” It was all John could think to say.
“Yep. That’s the obvious thing to say. Seeing as you killed me,” hearing his father make the accusation, John felt old memories begin to stir inside his head. Memories he had buried away, forgotten about.
“It had been an accident.” Sitting at the kitchen table, a thirteen year old John watched as his mother and father argued, a sight that was common in their household, but the drunken tirade that John’s father decided to take on that night was harsher than before, more frightening.
“Had it been Jonny?” his father asked, the dead man’s voice beginning to sound hollow, as though he was trying to talk through a wall. John, his mind still taking him through those memories, remembered watching his father hit his mother, smacking the woman to the ground, but not stopping there, proceeding to kick the woman, in front of their child, something that John’s mother had pleaded with her husband to not do. Acting on instinct, the gun having been sat on the table after John’s father had gotten off work, John picked it up and without a second thought or warning, pulled the trigger, painting the kitchen cabinets with his father’s brain and skull matter.
“It had been. The gun had gone off. That’s what everyone said. It had been an accident.” John, knowing the truth, knowing he had pulled the trigger to save his mother, had convinced himself every single day since the incident that it had been what everyone had thought it had been, nothing more than a drunk officer’s son handling a gun, accidently blowing a hole through his father’s head.
“How is shooting your father in the head an accident, Jonny? How is killing your daddy an accident? You can convince everyone else, but you can’t convince yourself, or me, boy.” Tilting his head to the side, John’s father, smiled, cracking his neck as a hole began to form on the side, just below his temple, black liquid oozing out over the shoulder and chest of the uniform. Sticking one hand under the dripping liquid, the dead man licked it clean from his fingers. “Wanna taste?”
John disgusted, backed away, horrified by the sight taking place before him. Running to the door, pulling the knob, twisting it, the door wouldn’t open, the pumpkins laughing at him, knowing it was no use. Feeling his father’s presence behind him, John stopped, closed his eyes, leaned his head against the door and sang the only song that he could think of, trying to not think of what was behind him, waiting for him to just turn around.
“Some of them want to use you,” he sang. “Some of them, want to be used by you.” Clutching the knob of the door with a death grip, his already bleeding knuckles turning white, covered with blood from his attack on the stereo earlier, John just kept on singing, hoping it would make it all go away.
“I was a good cop Jonny.”
“But a terrible father,” John got out, stopping his singing, but returning quickly shaking his head, feeling a fear that he hadn’t felt since a child and hearing the screams of his parents fighting from down the hall of his childhood home.
“I was a damn good cop. Took down the worst killer in our city’s history. Remember that, boy?” John remembered. The Chainsaw Kiddie Killer. That was what the media had dubbed the psycho that had butchered twenty something kids. Kids that John had gone to school with. Kid’s he had played with. Kids that he had just seen outside trick or treating.
“I remember dad,” John said.
“You know. There is no heaven. Only this hell, where every single dead person just sits and waits, sits and waits. Sits and waits. Charlie, or the Chainsaw Kiddie Killer, he was here, waiting for me. Wasn’t much he could do to me. Me being dead, thanks to you, and well, him, being dead, thanks to me. So we had plenty of time to talk, get to know each other. Let me introduce you to him.”
John refused to turn around, instead singing louder and banging his head on the door, keeping his eyes shut, both hands finding the door knob, twisting it with all his strength, pulling it, adrenaline from fear not even enough to get him out. Singing loudly, it wasn’t enough to be heard over the roar of the chainsaw started up behind him, the scream of the power tool bringing John to tears of fear, the grown man crying, sobbing his song out, trying to wake up from the nightmare he had jogged into.
“…Seven seas, and everybody’s looking for…” Trying not to hear the chainsaw, the laughing of the pumpkins, John felt the nasty bite of the tool as the ripping teeth, the tearing spinning metal, tore into his back, tearing through his shirt, flesh and bone with ease. Screaming, his eyes opening wide, he saw the chainsaw exit his belly, the gore splattered on the door in front of him made up of his blood, guts and insides.
Pulling up on the chainsaw, cutting up the man’s chest, finishing the job with the woodsman’s tool turned weapon slicing through John’s shoulder and neck, the man falling over dead on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out quickly, the dead man’s dead father couldn’t help but look down and smile, watching as his son twitched, coming back to life in this life-after-death world.
“Welcome to hell Jonny Boy.” John’s father spoke, John not being able to speak, his vocal chords no longer attached to his throat.
*
“Grandpa Sammy,” Samantha said, a look of disgust on her face. “That was gross.”
“That was cool,” Tommy said, picturing the man getting torn up with the chainsaw in his imagination. The thought didn’t frighten Tommy, video games having desensitized the boy much like most of the youth of the nation, another shame Samuel thought.
“Where was the revenge Grandpa?” Samantha asked, having been listening to the story, trying to piece it all together. Samantha knew that the story had been a grown up story, and it had been the first like that that her grandfather had shared with her and her brother, though she knew Tommy had been oblivious to most of the details, just listening for the gore, or cheap scares.
“John’s father got his revenge with John’s death. Do you know why his father wanted revenge?” Samuel had left out many details from the story, wanting to only give the children the bare minimum, enough to make them think, maybe enough to give them chills.
“Ummm,” Samantha thought. Looking up at the ceiling, as she did whenever she was thinking, the lil Wonder Woman eventually thinking she had it figured out. “He was angry that his own son had murdered him?” It was more of a question than an answer.
“Close,” Samuel wasn’t even going to ask Tommy, the boy already having lost interest, feasting on more candy from goody bucket. “The father wanted revenge because John had forgotten. John had convinced himself that it had been an accident, not murder. And that kids, is disrespect to the dead. And never, ever, disrespect the dead.” The lesson Samuel wanted to teach the children. The most important lesson to be learned, especially on Halloween.
“And why again shouldn’t we disrespect the dead grandpa?” Tommy asked, chewed up bits of licorice flying out of his mouth.
“Then the Chainsaw Kiddie Killer with get you with his chainsaw!” Samantha yelled, jumping at her brother, knocking him down, making a chainsaw noise with her mouth as she stood over him, preparing for her imaginary kill.
“Now, now,” Samuel said laughing, watching his grandchildren find fun from his story. But, there was a lesson for them to heed, to take to heart. “The Chainsaw Kiddie Killer won’t get you. But, someone else will come for you. Someone worse. That’s why we have Halloween. To pay our respect to the dead, to make sure that this someone won’t ever, ever come for you.”
“Who will come?” Tommy asked, sitting back up, as Samantha was sitting back down, hoping that another story was about to be told.
“His name is Mr. Twisp…”
****Halloween Writing Contest Entry****
The Majestic Imagination
“Wake up.”
“Wake up.”
“WAKE UP!”
“WAKE UP!!!”
Waking up slowly, feeling relaxed, the man rubbed his eyes from under his glasses, refreshed, stirred from a sleep that felt like the best sleep he had ever had. Stretching his legs, arms, he wondered what had woke him, his sleep, that perfect sleep, he thought, being so deep, he couldn’t remember what had woke him. And coming to think about it, he couldn’t remember much of anything else.
Looking at his hands, the watch on his wrist, the jeans he was in, one knee tore open. The Converse chucks on his feet, he couldn’t remember, or the orange shoelaces laced through them. His name, where he had come from, nor where he was. None of it was coming to him.
“Well hello, hello sleepy head,” a voice said from above him. Looking up, branches stretched out from a large, old tree like arms reaching for the sky, the leaves littering those arms a deep green, a healthy green, casting a cooling shadow over all that was under them. Wondering who had spoken to him, assuming it was someone sitting up in the branches, the man who couldn’t remember anything stood, looking up, not seeing anyone.
“Hello?” he said, his own voice unfamiliar to him, something that was strange. Not knowing your own voice, almost like never hearing it before.
“Hello, again.” The voice wasn’t coming from above, but rather in front of him, directly from the tree. Looking to the source, noticing for the first time a face carved into the wood of the tree. Eyes, a nose, mouth. All the features of a face, in the tree, the bark cut away. And while it was an amazing sight to take in, it was unbelievable to think “it” was what was speaking to him.
“Are you talking to me?” the man asked, not sure if the tree would answer him or if it was someone behind the tree merely playing a joke.
“I think I am talking to you,” the tree said, making the man jump back in disbelief. “I mean, what if you aren’t here, and I am just talking to thin air, imagining that I’m talking to you.”
“Of course I am real,” the man said, stepping towards the talking tree, not seeing any danger in approaching. If it was a killer tree, it would have killed him while he slept under it. “But, how are you real? I mean, how are you talking?”
“With my mouth. And my voice. Isn’t that how everyone talks?” The tree asked, a smile crossing its wooden lips.
“I mean, yes. But, how are YOU, a tree, talking?” Touching the tree, it felt real. The bark was rough to his hand, feeling like bark should feel. Part of him thought it was clever animatronics, like in a Hollywood movie. Maybe I stumbled onto a Hollywood movie set. Or maybe, I’m the star of a movie, who got in an accident and can’t remember his name. Maybe I’m Brad Pitt?!
“I don’t understand your question. I’m talking like you are talking. I’m just, talking. Duh!” The tree’s playful demeanor only reinforced the man’s beliefs. Nodding, thinking it was all a gag, everyone on set knowing he was in an accident, deciding to have a bit of fun with him, “pull his leg”, he was going to go right along with it. Sitting down crossed legged, he was going to see how far they were willing to go with their little joke. Mess with a guy with amnesia. Sick people in Hollyweird, let me tell ya.
“So, what’s your name talking tree?” he asked, wondering at the same time what his name was, not too sure if it was Brad Pitt, hoping it was. Brad Pitt is such a badass. I really hope I’m him.
“Birch.” Smiling, the tree was proud of his name.
“Birch?” The man laughed. The tree, old, tall, was no birch, instead being an oak. Whoever is doing the voice is clever, but doesn’t know their tree’s too well. “How’d you get your name Birch?” The last time he said the tree’s name it was with a sarcastic tone.
“Maddie named me, mister. And since you keep asking me questions, let me ask you one. What’s your name?”
“Well,” thinking, the man said the only thing that felt right at the moment, “Brad Pitt. My name is Brad Pitt.”
“No it’s not. You don’t look like a Brad Pitt at all.” Birch shrugged its eyebrows, knowing the man was just saying a name, knowing all too well he didn’t know who he was.
“How’d you know? Do you even know what ‘a Brad Pitt’ looks like?” The man felt like he was arguing with a child, but instead he was arguing with a damn talking tree.
“I don’t but I bet it doesn’t look like you. See, I think you look more like a…. An Albert. Yeah, you’re definitely an Albert.” Sticking out its tongue, Birch definitely acted like a child.
“No, I know I don’t look like an Albert. I am not an Albert.” Crossing his arms, but only for a moment, the man stood, uncrossing them, not daring to stoop down to “their” level, “Their” being the ones who he thought were working the tree. Now I’m starting to act like a child.
“Do you know what you look like? No. Which means you don’t know what an Albert looks like. AND, you don’t know who you are, I know you don’ t, so don’t lie Albert,” the man kept silent, the talking damn tree correct, he didn’t actually know who he was. “Which means you don’t know who you aren’t, SO, you could, or could not be an Albert. Until you can prove to me you aren’t, you mister, are Albert.” Sticking out its tongue again, “Albert” realized he had just lost an argument over his identity to a talking tree.
“Then Albert I shall be,” he gave in, just letting “them” win. “Who is Maddie? You said Maddie named you Birch?”
“Oh, you know Maddie. We all do. She’s the reason for all us Majestic’s.” Albert, confused, had no idea what Birch was going on about. Wow, they are good, he thought, still thinking it was an animatronic tree being used to mess with him.
“Let’s pretend that I don’t know who Maddie is,” which Albert wasn’t pretending, he really didn’t know, but since the tree, Birch, was acting like a child, he would talk to it like he would a child. “Tell me about her.”
“She is so smart. And gifted. And a great story teller. She used to sit and tell me the best stories. She could make up anything, and the way she told it. If it was sad story, I’d want to cry. A happy story I’d laugh. And don’t get me started with the scary stories.” Closing its eyes, Birch didn’t want to think about the scary stories. Nightmares for days would follow.
“Wow, she seems, cool.” Cool was the only word Albert could think of to describe Birch’s take on this Maddie person.
“Oh how she is cool. So cool Albert.” Smiling, Birch always smiled when he thought of Maddie.
“And you said she’s the reason for all us Majestic’s?” Albert asked.
“Stop asking the poor sapling so many questions lad,” a new voice came from behind Albert, making him turn to again stand in disbelief, a unicorn there. The beast, a white stallion with a sparkling horn was breathtaking in its own right, but the checkered sweater vest and monocle were confusing, making Albert raise an eyebrow. This has to be the strangest practical joke in history.
“Now a talking unicorn.” Albert was almost speechless, only able to point out the obvious.
“I do have a name good sir. I am a dignified individual, not just a beast.” The unicorn, speaking with a thick British accent, chin high, horn catching the light, shimmering and twinkling in all its glory.
“And your name is?” Albert said.
“Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letters K-W-U.” Bowing in greeting, Albert couldn’t help but laugh.
“Mr. Q?” he asked, still laughing, the unicorn a bit irritated by the man’s rudeness.
“No Albert. Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letter’s K-W-U,” Birch corrected the man.
“Or, just Mr. Q for short,” Mr. Q finished. “And to answer the question you asked the young sapling before I intervened, we, as in you, I, Birch, all of us here in the Fields, are Majestic’s.”
Looking around, everything around him came into realization, all the sights hitting his brain like a cement truck, almost too much to take in at once. A group of violins floating through the air off in the distance playing on their own; a man in a violet suit floating on what looked like a colorful cloud at first, but upon closer inspection the colorful cloud being hundreds of violet and silver butterflies, flying below the man, holding him in the air while he inspected his nails.
A two story farm house, run down, old, the windows broken; a storm cloud above it, rain falling in sheets, lighting cracking the sky. And that was the thing that made that scene so strange. The storm was only happening above the house, the dark, ominous cloud ONLY above the farm house.
And then the fact that he was talking to a tree and to a unicorn, a unicorn in a sweater vest and monocle, none the less. And they were both talking back. Looking from Mr. Q to Birch and back, then to everything else in the field, Albert didn’t know what to think, but he knew he wasn’t Brad Pitt, nor part of a hollyweird set joke.
“What is going on? This is a dream, it’s all a dream. Just a drug, or heavy alcohol induced dream,” Albert said to himself, trying to get a grip on what was happening.
“Nope. Not a dream,” Birch said, giggling at Albert’s sudden distraught behavior.
“Not even close sir,” Mr. Q added. “WE, as I just stated are Majestic’s. Created by Maddie, and this is the Fields, though it’s only one Field, making you wonder why the name is plural.”
“No, this is a dream. OR, this is a story, and we are characters.” The thought was crazy, but so is a talking tree and unicorn. A UNICORN IN A SWEATER VEST!
“Oh please Albert,” Mr. Q began, insulted. “Do you really think we are nothing more than some minor characters in some whimsical story being written as we speak. I am insulted sir.”
“YOU ARE A TALKING UNICORN WITH A NAME THAT MAKES NO SENSE!” Albert yelled, his confusion turning to anger and frustration.
“And you are an angry man who doesn’t even know his name. Do you even know why Maddie thought you up? Huh, do you? And you dare yell at me. I sir walk on all four legs because I am PROUD to be a unicorn, but you don’t have to call me one simply because. Hmph.” Galloping off, Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letters K-W-U, left Albert and Birch, Birch laughing at the two’s ended argument, Albert even more confused.
“I know why Maddie made me,” Birch said, voice thick with proud enthusiasm to tell about his creation. “Maddie wanted to tell her stories to someone. And her neighbor, Old Mister I-Don’t-Remember-His-Name had a tree with a face he had carved into it. So one day Maddie gave the tree life, and a personality, and a name. Guess what name she gave it?”
“Uh, Birch,” Albert said, his brain hurting from trying to figure out just what the hell was going on.
“Yeah, yeah. It was Birch. You’re smart Albert. Maddie named me Birch, and she would tell me stories, the best stories.”
“Here, she would tell you them here?” Albert asked, wondering if he was a made up creation from the mind of this Maddie person. Come on man, you are not a made up “thing”.
“No silly. I didn’t come to the Field’s till after Maddie got tired telling me stories. It was a sad day, but she moved on. I’m better now. I can still remember every single one of her stories. Every one of them!”
“And Mr. Q? Why’d she think him up?” Looking in the direction of where the unicorn had galloped off to, he was nowhere in sight, having disappeared among the tall grass of the never ending field.
“I was thought up to assist with high school English homework,” the voice came from behind Albert, startling him, the man not even realizing the unicorn had returned.
“English homework? Why would she imagine a unicorn for that?” Albert asked, none of it making any sense at all.
“She had a unicorn bookmark, and she loved to study in the woods. So she created me to assist her. Now you’re turn. Why did she imagine you? Hmmm. Please share. I would love to know why she would imagine such a rude, amnesiac bipedal creature? You’re not even unique from other humans.” Naying in an insult like manner, Mr. Q had done the trick, making Albert ponder his existence. Albert didn’t believe he was made up, but if he was, why wasn’t he unique, like a talking tree, or a prick unicorn in a sweater vest.
Though he couldn’t see himself, or remember what he looked like, to a normal person, Albert would look just that, normal. In a t-shirt, jeans and chucks, black baseball cap and thick black rimmed glasses, he wasn’t overly attractive. His eyes were just sky blue, his hair chestnut brown, and his smile was just a smile. He didn’t have any extra limbs or fingers, and he couldn’t do anything spectacular, which would explain why he couldn’t believe he was just a made up creature, or a Majestic as Mr. Q had called them.
“I don’t know why. The last thing I remember is walking down a crowded street.” Thinking as hard as he could, thinking about that crowded street, walking through and past the people, bumping elbows with folks he would never see again, looking at faces he wouldn’t remember, one face stuck out in his mind. One face that was perfectly remembered. “And then there she was.”
“Maddie,” Birch and Mr. Q said simultaneously. “Blond hair, perfect smile. Pale blue eyes that you can just swim in.” Mr. Q spoke, describing in perfect words exactly what the girl looked like that Albert was remembering. “I think I get why you were imagined Albert,” Mr. Q said, one eyebrow raised, the eyebrow above the monocle, his British voice thick with a ponderous tone. “You are the first Majestic to come to the Field’s since the Violins Magnifico.” Motioning with his head, his horn pointing off in the distance to the floating, playing violins, Albert looked at them, silent, their beautiful music just barely audible on the soft breeze that was blowing through the Field’s.
“Oh how I love the Violins Magnifico!” Birch added, interrupting Mr. Q’s train of thought. “Maddie thought them up to help her with her violin practices!” Birch, so proud to help out.
“Yes yes Birch. I love them too,” Mr. Q continued. “Anyways, where was I…. Oh yes, first Majestic in a while. You sir, are what I believe to be her, oh how I don’t understand this but I shall say it anyways…. You are her perfect man.” Not believing what he had just said, it seemed only logical to Mr. Q, Birch only able to giggle at this conclusion.
“How can I be her perfect man?” Albert asked, “I don’t even know anything about her.” It was true. All he knew about Maddie was what Birch and Mr. Q had told him about her. That, and he guessed she had been the one he could remember from the street.
“The only thing you can remember is walking down the street right?” Mr. Q asked Albert, Albert nodding his head. “And the only person who can remember is her?” Again, a nod from Albert. “See. Maddie is all grown up. And she is lonely. So, she imagined her perfect man, for one moment, walking past her on the street, and you blew it. You walked right on past her. So just like the rest of us, you were sent to the Field’s, cause she moved you from the real part of her mind, back to the imaginary.”
“How,” the coming question the only thing Albert could think to say, everything else being too much for his brain to even attempt to process at once. “Can this Maddie person imagine us real? I mean, I feel real.” Reaching over, touching Mr. Q, who felt real to the touch, Mr. Q not pleased to be touched though. And thinking about Birch, Birch had felt real to his touch.
“We are real Albert. Quite real indeed. And we are real, because Maddie is a special girl. She has a gift…” Mr. Q, about to finish his sentence about Maddie and her gift, was interrupted by Birch, the child-like tree wanting to tell its new friend Albert instead of the unicorn.
“I WANT TO TELL HIM! CAN I TELL HIM!” Birch shouted, much to both Albert and Mr. Q’s annoyance. Both said yes quickly to shush the tree up and get it to just continue. “Maddie told me all about it. When she was a little Maddie, her daddy left, leaving her with her mean ol’ mommy. But before her daddy went away for forever, he told her one thing. He told her, if she ever needed anyone, anyone at all, they would always be right here, and when he said right here, he tapped his head, and those anyone would come to be there with her. But little Maddie didn’t understand when her daddy tapped his head with his fingers, so she asked him, ‘daddy, what do you mean they will be here?’ and she tapped her own head with her fingers. So her daddy told her.”
“I’ll finish now lil sapling,” Mr. Q said, Birch not happy with being interrupted, but letting the unicorn finish, not wanting to be mean, though Mr. Q was being awful mean for not letting him finish, Birch thought. “Maddie’s father told her to use her imagination if she ever needed anyone. And she took the last thing her father had said to heart. And so, anytime she needed someone, when no one in her life would listen to her; when little Maddie was invisible and needed a friend to be invisible with her, she would think of one of us.”
“So, we are her invisible friends?” Albert asked, thinking he was beginning to understand, but still not believing that he was a made up friend of a little girl.
“No, no, no Albert.” Mr. Q was losing patience with all the man’s silly questions. “It’s really not that hard to grasp. Maddie was invisible to everyone around her. Her father had been the only one who was there for her, so when he left, she was left alone. But from what he had told her, she was able to make new people. People who were there for her. To help her. To listen to her. To help her grow. We are real, but we are created from her imagination, so when she doesn’t need us anymore, when we have helped her best we can, we go back to the imagination. But we are too ‘real’ to just go back to just any imagination. Thus…” Again interrupted by Birch.
“THE FIELD’S! Home to us Majestic’s!” Birch exclaimed loudly. Floating over on his cloud of butterflies, the man in the violet suit seemed uninterested with anything going on around the excited tree, looking more than bored with what seemed like everything.
“Why are we called Majestic’s?” Albert asked, this time the man in the violet suit answering.
“You sure do ask a lot of questions. It is rather annoying if you ask me,” the violet suited man spoke. Lounging on his cloud of butterflies, he wore a top hat, the same shade of violet as his suit, his skin bone white, black tattoo’s adorning his face. His fingernails, which he admired all the while he spoke, were black, with flecks of silver in them, the silver glittery in the light, much like Mr. Q’s horn.
“Nobody asked you Sandman.” Mr. Q replied, the unicorn not a big fan of the violet suited man, usually avoiding him in the Field’s.
“The Sandman was made to help Maddie sleep one night during a thunder storm. Her mommy wouldn’t come tuck her in or give her a kiss or nothing…” Birch began, excitedly, but the Sandman finished.
“So I came and looked over her. The lightning frightened her, but I made it better, telling her stories about Dreamscape, and the wonders of the world of Dreams.” Oozing with egotism, the Sandman was overly proud in that fact, that he had helped Maddie find sleep on stormy nights.
“Alright, I accept it then. I was made up by Maddie, and if what you say is true Mr. Q, then I’m her perfect man, or was, until I blew it.” Albert felt a pain that he couldn’t describe. It’s almost unfair. I blew something that I didn’t even know I was supposed to try at. What the hell? How is that even right?
“Way to go,” The Sandman spoke. “She loved everyone of us, you know. But she loved us as friends. You, she wanted you to love her more than a friend. She wanted someone she could love back, with all her heart, and whelp, you messed that all up now didn’t you?”
“Wow, you really are a pompous dick aren’t you? Must not of liked you too much, you’re here in the Field’s too, aren’t you?” Albert wasn’t liking the Sandman too much, and though he had retorted back, his remark getting quiet, terribly hidden laughs from both the unicorn and the tree, the Sandman finally looking up to glare at all three of them, Albert couldn’t deny what the Sandman had said was true. Maddie had been looking for a new kind of love, and he walked right on by her. “But I did mess it all up. She made me up to be there for her, like all you had. And right on by I walked, right to here, back to not even being a real person anymore.”
“And you had the chance to be real too,” Mr. Q said. “I’m a unicorn in a sweater vest. What chance do I stand in a crowded room?” His voice sad, it was really the first time he had ever thought of it that way. “You don’t belong here Albert. You belong with Maddie.” When he said this, Birch, and even the Sandman agreed.
“Yeah Albert, you got to make her happy and love her, and stuff,” Birch said.
“We were there for her, but the unicorn with the stupid name is right,” the Sandman said, Mr. Q muttering under his breath about him at least having a name. “None of us could stand a chance in the real world with Maddie. At least you’d have a chance to be there forever.”
“But, here I am, in the Field’s, just another forgotten Majestic.” Sitting down, Albert was unhappy. First, he couldn’t remember who he was. Then, he lost an argument to a talking tree about who he was, not being Brad Pitt, disappointedly, instead being named Albert by the said talking tree. Finally, after learning he was a made up person, he had failed in his one task as said made up person. His short existence was a sad, depressing one. “This sucks.”
“But wait!” Birch exclaimed, in the already expected, annoying excitement that Albert expected from the tree. “There might be a way for you to go back and try again Albert!” Albert, curious, looked to the tree, waiting to hear more.
“Don’t even say it tree,” the Sandman said, floating off, finished speaking to the three, knowing that if what he thought the tree was thinking of was about to be brought up, he wanted no part of it.
“Yes lil sapling, leave it be.” Mr. Q knew exactly was Birch was going to say, and thought it would be best to leave the idea alone, not even mentioning it to the newest Majestic.
“No, what is it?” Albert asked, wanting to know.
“Let me tell him, please. PLEEEEEAAAAAAASSSSSEEEEEE!” All the while Birch said please, Mr. Q kept repeating the word no, over and over, for several minutes, till Albert couldn’t stand it.
“JUST TELL ME DAMMIT!” he shouted, the two creatures shutting up, Birch sticking its tongue out, Mr. Q doing the same, then snorting as he again galloped off in anger and defeat.
“See that ooky, spooky house over there?” Birch’s eyes turned towards the house. As Albert turned to look at it, knowing the house the tree was speaking of, having looked it over earlier in his initial take of the Field’s, the Violins Magnifico approached, the violin’s playing a haunting song, only adding to the effect. “Inside, there is a nasty old witch, and they say that she holds a treasure. The treasure is said to be there to let one of us go to Maddie without her calling them.”
“What’s the treasure?” Albert asked, having goosebumps, the look of the house and the haunting violin music having the effect on him, a slight shiver crawling up his spine as his mind made up what the witch looked like, if there even was a witch at all.
“There is no treasure,” Mr. Q said, yet again sneaking up on Albert, making the man jump clean off the ground, much to the unicorn’s amusement.
“Jesus Christ in a half shell, would you stop that!” Albert yelled at the unicorn, his hand over his heart, making sure it wasn’t going to jump from his chest, the damn thing beating so hard. “And are you just saying there is no treasure so I don’t go in there, or do you know that there is no treasure?” The unicorn avoided answering, his attention on Violins Magnifico. “Well?”
“Fine, there is a treasure. But, the witch will rip the flesh right from your bones, and then drink you blood mate. It’s crazy to go in there. Suicide.” The unicorn shuddered, clearly shaken by thoughts of the witch.
Looking at the house, Albert’s mind was made up. I failed you once Maddie. Not again. Determined to go into the house and find out if what Birch was saying was true, and if it was, then he was going to love the woman that made him to love her.
“I have to go. Maddie needs me.” Looking to Mr. Q, then to Birch, they both understood perfectly why he had to do it. They were created by Maddie to be there for Maddie. And just like them, Albert was created for her, and he had to do what he thought was best for her.
“Go get that treasure Albert!” Birch exclaimed.
“And do be safe lad,” Mr. Q, whispered. “And tell Maddie hello if you do succeed.”
“And tell her I said hi too,” Birch added. “And that I miss her stories. And ask her how’s she’s been? Well, never mind. I guess you won’t be able to tell me huh? So tell her I’ve been good. And that I miss her, bunches….” Birch continued to yell things for Albert to tell Maddie, but Albert was walking through the Field’s, heading to the house to face the witch, the Violin’s Magnifico behind him, Mozart’s O Fortuna playing off their strings, only making him more determined to succeed.
“It’s time to kick a witch’s ass and get some treasure,” he said to himself, a cocky smirk forming on his lips as he turned his cap backwards, the music from the violins getting his “jacked”. Balling his hands into fists, he took off into a run. Let’s see if you can keep up Violins Magnifico. Man that’s a badass name. And these were Albert’s final thoughts as he ran to meet his only chance to get back to the woman he was made to love.
*
She sat on the park bench, idly watching people walk past her, the gaze of her eyes telling anyone who paid attention that Maddie was daydreaming, thinking of someplace else, rather than the here and now. Her hair, blond, almost white, was tied back in a pony tail, and her glasses reflected what mid-afternoon sun broke through the canopy of tree leaves in the park that day.
Maddie felt as though her life was missing something, but then again, she knew what it was missing, trying to pass the feelings of emptiness off as an upset tummy. She needed someone to love, and someone to love her back. She had, like most people, had her fair share of failed relationships, and it had been over a year since the last catastrophe that she had been a part of, with a certain arrogant prick named Rick.
Her mind bouncing from here to there, thinking about so much at once, she finally got it to slow down, Maddie remembering a man she had passed earlier that week on the street. He had smiled when he walked by, his face shaded by a baseball cap, his gorgeous eyes behind thick framed glasses. When Maddie had seen that smile, she blushed. She didn’t even know why. She hadn’t blushed since she was kid. After walking past him, or, after he walked right past her, she felt that emptiness, the emptiness that could only be filled by three little words from someone else.
I.
Love.
You.
Maddie mouthed those words while she imagined that man, imagined what he would be like. Kind, sensitive, funny, caring. Staring at her hand, the free one, her other clutching her notebook as it so normally was, a picture was starting to take shape from thin air, an old Polaroid, the black of the picture coming into shape from tiny, black flecks, almost like sand swirling around her hand.
After the Polaroid itself was formed, in seconds mind you, the image on the picture itself began to come too. Maddie watched, as at first it was hard to tell what it was of, the image white, the color of it becoming evident, as though the picture really had just been taken moments before.
In about a minute’s time, held between her forefinger and thumb, Maddie held the Polaroid, now captured on it a picture that was never taken, but one that she was simply imaging. Her and the man that had passed her. She was sitting on his lap, and he was kissing her cheek through a smile, a hearty giggle obviously spilling out from her lips past her own wide grin. The picture made Maddie smile, but, she knew it wasn’t real.
Blinking, the picture was gone. She had always had an overactive imagination, able to create anything with just the power of her mind. It was why she was perfect at what she did. An author, and a best-selling one at that, taking that over-active imagination and putting it to some damn good use. But it had been a while since she had written anything. She just wasn’t inspired like she used to be. She needed something, almost magical, to step into her life to get her back on her feet.
*
Hiding, Albert held his breath, praying the beast didn’t find him. In the midst of what he thought was going to be a single man, brave assault on the house holding the witch, Albert hadn’t expected any “problems” to arise before he even entered the house. But anyone would think an eight foot tall Minotaur in a pin striped suit with a Tommy-gun was a problem.
Having stepped out from around the house, acting as a guard, the Minotaur had seen the foolish man running up, followed by the Violins Magnifico, but the instance the beast made its presence, the instruments high tailed it in the opposite direction, and the man disappeared in the high grass, falling to his stomach. The Minotaur could only laugh a deep baritone laugh.
“Why the hell would she imagine that goddamn thing!?!” Albert whispered harshly to himself, utterly lost on what pretense Maddie would think up a BIGASS MINOTAUR WITH A MACHINE GUN! COME ON!!
Just lying there, prone on his stomach watching the monster through the blades of the high grass that also served as his hiding grace, Albert’s rush of “badassery”, which had mostly been fueled by the Violins Magnifico music, was all but vanished completely. He knew he stood no chance against the minotaur alone, but lucky for him, so did the other Majestic’s.
“I do believe it’s time to fall back and re-strategize,” Mr. Q whispered, making Albert jump, the man not hearing the unicorn even approach. Crawling on his stomach, staying low, Mr. Q had seen the minotaur appear, and also saw the cowardly move made by Albert to hide, although Mr. Q thought, Cowardly, but smart. Though running in there alone was a stupid idea to begin with. Men and their ideas of valor and chivalry. Bollocks if you ask me…
Albert and Mr. Q crawling back, the Minotaur could see them, making an escape, and he could’ve cared less. Just laughing that deep, baritone laugh and snorting, the monster returned to the back of the house, going down into the cellar until the foolish man attempted another brave assault.
Back at Birch, Albert was breathing hard, having military crawled until the grass was a bit smaller, and only after looking back and seeing the beast gone. Turning his cap back around, trying to catch his breath, he had to ask the obvious question.
“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!?” he asked, pointing towards the house, both Mr. Q and Birch knowing that he was asking about the Minotaur.
“That sir, is Valentine,” Mr. Q began. “One afternoon while Maddie was watching a documentary on the infamous Al Capone, she had thought she heard the word ‘monster’ instead of mobster, making her wonder what would happen if a mobster was a monster. Hence, the big bad Minotaur that perceives itself a gangster.”
“And how long did that thing stay in the real world. I mean, an eight foot tall, walking BULL IN A FEDORA MIGHT ATTRACT SOME ATTENTION!!!” Albert was distraught. He had thought he was going to be facing a witch, maybe a witch with some nasty spells and magic, but he had believed only a witch. NOT A GODDAMN MINOTAUR WITH A MACHINE GUN!!!
“It was only for a brief moment. Maddie had imagined him, never even looked at him or acknowledged him, and then poof! He was here in the Field’s with us. And not a happy camper for being ignored.” Mr. Q shook his head, feeling almost bad for the beast. Almost. “So the witch took him in, and now, from what you just saw, he acts like her self-appointed guardian.”
“Well, Valentine,” Albert thought the name was slightly comical as he said it, “could rip me in half if he wanted to. So I need a new plan.”
“I got an idea,” the tree said, speaking for the first time since Albert had returned from his quick failed attempt to get the treasure.
“And what’s that?” Albert asked, curious to see what the tree would say, thinking maybe Birch was smarter than his demeanor would lead others to believe otherwise.
“We use a catapult to launch you overtop the house, with just the perfect trajectory that once you are overtop, you release your parachute, floating down without being noticed, thanks to Mr. Q and I laying down your distraction. An assault from the front, after we release a heavy barrage of smoke grenades, concealing our own entrance. You go in through the roof Albert, while we take care of big ol’ mean Valentine.” Smiling, Birch was very satisfied with his plan, while Albert and Mr. Q stood dumbfounded, open jawed, and confused.
“That’s a good plan lil’ sapling,” Mr. Q began, Albert finishing for him.
“But we don’t have any of those things what-so-ever.” For a brief moment, the intelligence displayed by Birch had been phenomenal, but only for a brief moment, the innocent child-like personality returning as it realized Albert was right.
“Oh shoot. You are right,” Birch said, frowning. “Well darn it. Now what?” And Birch’s question was on all three of their minds. Now what exactly? Albert thought, not sure what to do.
“What if we help you?” The Sandman asked, floating over the trio on his cloud of butterflies. The question puzzled Mr. Q and Birch, who didn’t see the Sandman as one to offer any sort of assistance to anyone, but Albert was willing to use any help he could get.
“Yes, what if we help?” Mr. Q quickly added, not wanting the Sandman to seem like the savior of the moment.
“I want to help! HOW CAN I HELP!?” Birch yelled, overly excited for the situation. The Sandman, annoyed by the tree, had his cloud of butterflies fly him upwards towards Birch’s top, to which the violet suited man proceeded to break off two branches from the tree. “OUCH! YOU DICK!!” Birch called the Sandman for his action, having learned the word “dick” from Albert.
“Now, why did you do that?” Albert asked, the Sandman floating back down, the branches in his hands, a devilish smile on his bone white face.
“He wanted to know how he could help,” the Sandman said, looking to the angry Birch. Taking the two branches in his hands, closing his eyes, a violet glow emanated, so bright, everyone else had to look away. Albert, shielding his eyes with his hand, the light still seemed to find a way to get through the cracks of his fingers, so amazingly bright.
When it was all said and done, the brightness fading, Albert, Mr. Q and Birch looked upon the Sandman who stood, his butterflies gone, a sword in one hand, a cane in the other. The sword, sterling silver bladed, with a violet hilt, was gorgeous, the blade shining in the light, the hilt guard an entwined work of swirling metal. As for the cane, the stick itself was black, the head of it a miniature version of the Sandman’s head, one eye winking one would notice if the face was closely inspected.
“In the name of Maddie,” the Sandman said, holding the blade of the rapier like sword, allowing Albert to take the hilt, the moment his hand touched it, a tingling feeling passing through his palm, disappearing farther up his arm, almost like getting shocked.
“How’d you do that?” Birch asked, astounded by what the Sandman had just done.
“We are creatures of magic.” Raising one eyebrow, grinning, the Sandman spun his cane, and upon hitting the tip to the ground, a small show of violet sparks erupted. “Now, are we going to stop a witch and get this Majestic to our Maddie or are we going to sit here and be nothing more than imaginary friends?”
“Let’s kill us a witch and get this lad to Maddie!” Mr. Q said, bowing down before the sword wielding man, a motion for Albert to get on him. “I would be honored to be your steed as we rode into this battle.” Eyes closed, the unicorn waited for Albert to get on, but Albert was hesistant.
“I can walk there. I mean, I have this sword, and I don’ t want to ruin your sweater vest. And…” Making up excuses, Albert didn’t want to admit that he would just find it weird to ride a talking unicorn wearing a sweater vest.
“Just get on dammit!” Mr. Q insulted, the man already wasting time. Albert listening, awkwardly got on, and the unicorn standing back up proudly, Albert positioning himself to where he wouldn’t fall, they were almost ready.
Feeling something in the air, something coming at him, carried on the light breeze that was blowing through the Field’s, Albert, lifting his hand and without looking, snatched the picture from the air, the Polaroid held between his fingers and thumb.
Looking at it, it was Maddie sitting on his lap, him kissing her on the cheek, both smiling like teenagers in love. The picture gave him butterflies in his stomach. Putting the picture in his back pocket, tucking it in so it wouldn’t fall out, Albert was ready.
“Let’s kill us a witch!” he stated proudly, holding the sword in the air, Mr. Q’s head up, his mane of white hair flowing in the wind, his horn shining. Letting the monocle fall the ground, the unicorn would have looked the part of a majestic steed, if not for the sweater vest.
“Not just yet,” the Sandman said, snapping his fingers. From around Birch, the Violins Magnifico slowly appeared, the group of flying violins almost appearing frightened, shaking violently. “Yes you, come here,” the Sandman spoke to the instruments. “Now, when Albert speaks, you will begin our epic battle theme.”
“We have a battle theme,” Birch, Albert and Mr. Q all asked at the same time.
“Of course we have a battle theme. Now, are you going to lead us into battle lover boy?” The Sandman’s words were almost as inspiring as the music played earlier by the violins on Albert’s first attempt.
“LETS DO THIS!!! MAJESTICS HOOOOOOOEEEEE!!!!!” And on that note, Mr. Q launched into a hard gallop, Albert held the sword high, and the Sandman was left standing with Birch wondering what the hell the man had just yelled. Shrugging he leaped, his butterflies returned, carrying him to the house as well, the Violins Magnifico behind the trio, playing Europe’s Final Countdown.
*
“…It’s the final countdown!” Maddie’s cell phone rang out, the ringer set on high, a few people around her turning her way to wonder why a girl looking like her had a ringtone like that. Smiling, she loved those looks, hence the reason her ringer was always on high.
“Hello Ruth,” Maddie said, answering the phone to her editor and manager, whom she’d been ignoring for the better part of a month.
“So she does answer her phone!” Ruth said, not too happy that it had taken so long to get in touch with her favorite author, although that said favorite hadn’t written anything in almost six months. “How are you Madeline?”
“Just fine. Just enjoying my tea,” Maddie said, taking a nice long, loud sip from her cup of green tea with just a splash of peach juice. Delicious. Ruth was a few years older than Maddie, and while the two could have been best friends, their relationship had always remained professional. Except for the night that Maddie’s first book made the New York Times best sellers list. That night a lot of Peach Schnapps had been consumed between the two. And Maddie could honestly say that would be the only time she’d ever kissed another woman. Or better yet, made out with one.
“Maddie, you really need to get back into your groove thing girl. Are you working on anything? Anything at all.” It was always business with Ruth. Maddie, setting her tea cup down, opened up her composition notebook, flipping through the pages of hand written poetry and short stories, small doodles drawn sporadically throughout.
“I’ve got one thing coming, but, yeah.” Maddie had been working on a short. The story being one she’d been working on for a bit of time. The ending just wasn’t coming to her.
“What do you mean, ‘yeah’?” Ruth asked.
“I’ll get back to you on that Ruth, got my tea to enjoy,” Maddie said, hanging up, a smile on her face knowing just how angry her manager was at that moment. Pushing her tea away, she wasn’t really in the mood for it, and she was still waiting on the waitress to bring her the bagel and cream cheese that she had ordered twenty minutes before.
Going to the last page of the notebook, seeing where she had left off, she had to figure out what was keeping her from finishing it. It was by far the best short story she had ever written, in her opinion anyway, since no one had ever read it. I just need my inspiration to come along. That’s all I need.
*
Valentine had been alerted by the witch that the idiotic man was again attempting an assault of the house, but this time he was accompanied by the unicorn and Sandman. And the violins. Valentine hated the violins.
Coming around the house just as the “heroes” and the damn violins were closing in, Valentine dug his hooves in, and opening fire, unloaded a barrage of rounds from his Tommy-gun, the only noise louder than the rattle of the expended shells being that of his deep, psychotic, baritone laugh.
Albert, seeing the Minotaur appear, knowing what was coming, wasn’t sure how they were going to get past the monster. Expecting that the Valentine was going to open fire on them, Albert hadn’t been expecting for the rounds to stop in the air in front of the still moving group, the bullets colliding with what appeared to be a magic shield. Every time a bullet was stopped, for a brief instance, a ripple of blue could be seen, showing the magic shield that was protecting them.
“What’s stopping those bullets?” Albert asked.
“We are magical creatures after all,” Mr. Q said, eyes narrowed, the thrill of the assault passing through him, helping him in channeling his magic, his horn shimmering the same blue tint as the shield ripples. “When we get close Albert, roll off. I’ll take care of Valentine!” Albert just nodded.
Close enough that the smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, Albert rolled off, staying low in the grass, the magic shield not protecting him anymore as Mr. Q galloped forward to face the Minotaur one-on-one.
Picking up speed, pushing all his might into his magic, pushing that magic through to the shield, Mr. Q made a bee line for Valentine, the Minotaur in turn focusing all his rounds on the unicorn, none of the bullets doing any damage, all stopped by the magic shield. In the moment before the two collided, Valentine, tossing the gun, not needing it, dug his hooves in even more, and tearing the fedora from his horned head, hands and arms extended, waiting for the unicorn to meet him, he let out a mighty roar, saliva flying from his mouth.
In an ear deafening clap that rivaled even the thunder roaring above the house, Mr. Q crashed into the awaiting Minotaur, the magic shield shattering into a trillion blue specks, all dissipating in the air as the two mythological creatures flew through the front of the farm house, into the home. Rolling around inside the home, in the cobweb infested living room, tossing, snorting, grunting, the two beasts battled, leaving Albert and the Sandman outside, waiting to see who would emerge victorious. But more so on Albert’s mind, he wondered where the witch was.
And as though his thoughts had been screaming out to be heard, the front door of the home swung open, and though Albert and the Sandman were expecting one of the mythological beasts, instead stepped out a woman who couldn’t have been older than her mid thirties, but the strangest thing about her, she looked as though she had stepped right out of a black and white movie. Stepping through the door, the only two colors on her whole were grey and black.
Instead of walking, it appeared almost as though she was floating, but once clear of the doorway and the crumbling overhang that hung over the decrepit porch, the witch showed her true form, eight long spider legs extending out from under her black dress, the legs just as black as the dress upon her grey figure.
“Company. I’ve been expecting company,” the witch yelled, having to over the thunder claps from above and the battle still taking place inside her falling-apart home. The lightning flashes above made her appear ever more menacing, though it wasn’t difficult to be frightened by just her in general, the witch standing well over nine feet tall with her spider legs extended, the full body of a spider exposed, the abdomen and all. It was like something out of a horror movie.
Inside the home, the two beasts were leaving ruins of anything their tussle came into contact with. Valentine swung with his mighty fists, connecting with Mr. Q’s sides, but the Minotaur had taken a tremendous blow before they even entered the home, when the unicorn had driven his magical shield directly into the Minotaur. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see if the gangster beast would tire before pummeling the sweater vested unicorn into submission. Or worse: death.
The unicorn, realizing he was going to have to do something, working himself free of the Minotaur’s grip, and spinning quickly, turning to put his rear towards Valentine, all the while dodging more blows, Mr. Q, with the last of his strength, in a great kick, connected both back hooves with Valentine’s face, the monster stopping dead still, then, like a statue that had been pushed over, fell, smashing through the floorboards, the floor too weak to withstand that much weight coming down at once. Mr. Q, moving quickly to not follow the Minotaur down, was quite pleased with himself, though tired and in plenty of pain.
“Undignified beast, walking on two legs. NO RESPECT FOR YOURSELF.” Preparing to go outside, having seen the witch walk past him and the Minotaur earlier, paying no heed to the two battling beasts, Mr. Q pondered how Albert and the Sandman were fairing. But before stepping out, Mr. Q, looking down into the hole, seeing the defeated, still unconscious Minotaur, lying upon the stone basement floor, had one more thing to add. “AND GOOD DAY SIR!”
Back outside, the witch controlling the very lightning from above, laid down a mighty barrage of strikes, wherever the white hot bolts touched, flames erupted, the grass floor of the Field’s around the home quickly becoming a death trap to Albert, who was having to dip, dive and dodge the bolts. The Sandman, flying on his butterflies, had the witch’s attention, blasting her with orbs of violet energy from his cane, and though the bolts were being directed towards the Sandman, Albert almost felt as though he was the primary target, most of the bolts connecting just mere inches from the man, keeping him on the move.
“Why don’t you just die already!!” the Sandman yelled, blasting another energy orb at the witch, more irritated than anything that his magic was nothing compared to hers, the witch doing nothing more than wincing at every orb that connected with her body.
“Now, now,” the witch said, laughing, her voice a demonic screech. “This is a fun I have been looking forward too!” With both hands out, a giant bolt called forth from the cloud found its way to the Sandman’s butterfly cloud, the beautiful insects bursting into a quick ball of flame, disappearing, leaving the Sandman to fall to the ground many feet below.
Albert, using this as his opportune distraction, sprinted to Valentine’s discarded Tommy-gun. Picking the gun up, the weapon heavier than expected, Albert was forced to drop the sword, but the gun seemed a better weapon choice to him anyways.
Pulling the trigger, the Minotaur had made the task look simple, but the recoil rocked Albert’s body, forcing him to grip the gun with all his strength, his muscles quickly getting soar. But it was worth it, the bullets fired entering the witch’s spider abdomen, the witch screaming out in agony, quickly turning to see her attacker.
“I’ll rip your goddamn head from those shoulders and use it as a volleyball!” the witch sneered through gritted teeth. Making a dash towards Albert, her spider legs clicking as they moved almost too fast for the eye to see, Albert had to abandon the heavy gun and move, but not before picking up his sword, rolling just as the witch trampled over where the man had just been standing.
Running, thinking that he had to do something, Albert turned around, only to look up into the witch’s grey eyes, the spider-woman looming over him, having caught up to him with no effort, anger from the pain he had caused her showcased on her face. Lifting her arms high, summoning lighting to her clawed fingers, she wanted to deliver the killing blow onto the man herself, instead of sending a bolt from the cloud above.
And like the Minotaur, Albert had to wonder how or why the witch had come into existence, had to wonder why Maddie would imagine something so dark and evil. And though he would never know, the story behind the witch’s creation was a simple one.
*
Night of the living dead, by Romero, one of Maddie’s favorite films, even though she was only nine. Her mother would most definitely yell if she knew Maddie was watching, but that was only if her mother cared enough to walk into the room at all. Maddie couldn’t remember the last time her mother had given her a goodnight kiss, or even a goodnight. Most nights she would fall asleep with only the television to comfort her.
Rolling over, Maddie could remember a time before she had a television in her room, a time when she would sit and think about things, about her mommy, and how she missed her daddy. Then the Sandman came and told her stories. He made it better to fall asleep at night. No need to think of all those sad, bad, and miserable things.
When Maddie’s mommy got a new television, she allowed Maddie to have the old one in her room. It was only a matter of time before Maddie didn’t need the Sandman anymore, the yarns played out on the television whispering her to sleep. And that night, it was Romero’s yarn that was whispering to her.
With the volume down low, Maddie didn’t really focus on it, her back turned to the t.v. as she felt her eyelids getting heavy. Maddie had seen those nasty zombie’s trying to get into the white farmhouse over and over, knew what was coming, how it ended. She just liked having it on as she tried to go to sleep for the night.
Opening her eyes for what she thought was going to be the last time for the night, just to see the lights on the wall from the black and white film playing out on her television, an unfamiliar shadow crawled down the wall that caught Maddie’s eye, pulling her from her almost sleep to a more awake state of being.
Rolling over, Maddie had never seen such an icky, hairy, or just plain big spider in her life. Just crawling down the screen, the zombies walking beneath the spider’s legs didn’t scare Maddie what-so-ever, but that spider, it was a different story.
Screaming, she couldn’t help it. The spider was just too big and Maddie was afraid it was going to jump off that screen. Jump off onto her bed, and then who knew what it would do. Crawl up to her, with those long, nasty legs. Fangs dripping venom, all eight of its creepy eyes reflecting her frightened face.
Her mother, still in her night gown, who herself had been sound asleep when she was stirred awake by the blood curdling scream she had heard from her daughter’s room, Maddie’s mommy was not happy the least bit when all it had been was a spider. One little spider.
Scolding her daughter for overreacting, then for the movie on the television, Maddie’s mommy pulled the plug on the television, telling her daughter no more television at night, and then told her to grow up. “It’s only a damn spider Maddie. Grow up.”
Slamming the door behind her as she left, leaving Maddie in the dark room alone, little Maddie crying, upset, hurt that her mommy hadn’t come in to protect her from the nasty spider, instead telling her to just grow up, Maddie was hurt. But in the darkness, she could hear something. Thinking it the Sandman, the clacking sound she could hear from the dark corner of her room told her differently.
“It’s time to go to sleep baby,” the voice said from the darkness. But it confused Maddie. It sounded just like her mother, but she had just seen her mother walk out of the room. The slam of the door had only made that fact more real. Yet, Maddie could hear her whispering from the dark. But what was the clacking noise. The clacking of something moving maybe?
“Mommy?” Maddie asked, just for the sake of asking the question. Stepping into what little moonlight sneaked into the room, Maddie’s mother was most definitely in the room, but there was something off about her. The tint of her skin color, the blond in her hair gone, turned grey. But maybe it was just the moonlight?
“Hehehe. Of course baby, now. Go to sleep.” The last words to come from this different mommy’s mouth weren’t just words. They were growls. And they scared Maddie worse than the spider. Where was the Sandman at when she needed him? Why did the men she loved and needed disappear when she needed them the most?
*
Arm’s raised, lighting captured between her hands, the witch was ready to strike down the man below her, the man that had hurt her. Smiling, the thrill of the kill was the most sensational feeling that had ever made its way through her body.
Holding the sword up, knowing it was probably futile, Albert thinking the witch’s magic stronger and deadlier than the Sandman’s sword. Falling backwards to the ground as his eyes were glued to the witch’s hands, the light trapped between them mesmerizing, like lightning caught in a glass ball.
Just seconds before the blow found its recipient, just before Albert was to be shocked to death with the voltage familiar inside lightning, Mr. Q was suddenly standing above Albert, the unicorn rearing high on its hind haunches, steed looking more mighty and grandiose than ever before. Colliding with the falling orb held in her hands, the witches lightning orb was stopped by Mr. Q’s magic shield, the brilliance emanating from the two lights, the intense white light mixing with the soft blue light, it was beautiful to partake.
And then a wicked explosion, a blinding explosion, Albert’s vision left blurry afterwards. When he could finally see again, the witch was gone, and Mr. Q was on the ground, his horn broken, eyes closed, making Albert fear the worse.
Crawling to the steed, petting his mane, the man let out a sigh of relief when he realized that Mr. Q was breathing, but unconscious. Looking to the Sandman, the violet suited man on his knees, recovering from his fall, Albert was on his own, though he was questioning his worth.
“What are you waiting for you bloke?” Mr. Q asked, eyes still closed, the words a struggle to get out. The pain shooting through his head from his broken horn was unbearable, but he somehow found the energy to get the words out.
“I don’t think I can do it. I’m not magic like you or him,” Albert said. He was scared, and starting to feel like he had failed Maddie again. He had just fallen over, watching the witch prepare to kill him. I did nothing to protect myself. How could I protect Maddie?
“You don’t have to be magic Albert. Just go. You have love on your side.” Barely opening his eye, Mr. Q looked upon Albert for one brief moment, his words having no use to persuade the man to try. Try and find the treasure.
“What does love have against something like that?” he asked concerning the witch. Dropping the sword, Albert was losing all hope quickly. The Sandman, sick of the man’s depressed whining, planted a foot in the man’s shoulder, kicking him over. “Hey!” Albert asked, wondering why the hell he had just gotten kicked by someone whom he had thought was his acquaintance.
Reaching down before Albert could move, the Sandman grabbed and pulled out the Polaroid of Maddie and Albert, holding it in front of the man. “This is what love can do you idiot!” the Sandman said angrily. “Love can do the impossible, create things out of nothing, travel worlds. Save lives. Create life you fool. She is waiting for you. Maddie is waiting for you!” Poking Albert in the chest with his cane as he said “you”, the Sandman got through a little bit better than the unicorn had, which might have angered Mr. Q if the steed had fallen back in exhausted sleep.
Inspiration back, Albert got to his feet, picked up his sword, turned his cap backwards, and taking a deep breath, found a way to convince himself to finish what he had started. What he had dragged two other Majestic’s into. He had to finish it for all of them.
Turning, going to enter the house, finish the witch off once and for all and claim the treasure, but before he took his first step to head towards the house, he turned back to the Sandman, snatching the Polaroid from smiling Sandman’s hand.
“That’s mine,” Albert said, returning the smile, putting the picture back into his pocket after looking at it for a moment. Giving a farewell nod, he was off to kill the witch and claim his treasure.
“Good luck kid,” the Sandman whispered, resting both hands on the cane, turning his attention to the still sleeping unicorn. “And I’ll say this while you’re asleep, good job Q. But lose the sweater vest. It’s ugly.” Making his way off towards Birch, snapping his fingers, his butterflies gone, the Sandman would need some entertainment while he walked.
Coming up from hiding in the non-burned patches in the Field’s grass, the Violins Magnifico went to the Sandman to follow him, playing a random symphonic masterpiece by Tchaikovsky, the Sandman whistling right along with the song as he walked off. Opening one eye, having heard everything, Mr. Q smiled. “Well, your suit is tacky,” the unicorn said before allowing himself to fall back to sleep.
Making his way into the destroyed home, one hand upon the sword, the other out in front, forefinger and pinky extended out like “devil horns”, to anyone who didn’t know, Albert looked like he could handle his own with a sword, but the truth was, he had no idea what the hell he was doing trying to fight a nine foot tall spider woman with magic powers with an oversize, shiny “sandwich tooth pick”.
The battle that had occurred between Mr. Q and Valentine was all too evident, the furniture destroyed, holes all throughout the house, the most obvious being the one in the floor. Looking down in, Valentine was still unconscious on the basement floor, Albert breathing a sigh of relief upon the sight. Only the spider bitch to deal with.
Creeping through the house as slowly as he could, it was almost no use, the floor boards creaking beneath his feet, the rusty old nails squeaking loudly, every squeak making him wince, making Albert think that the witch was just waiting to pounce and pin him down with one of her long, black spider legs.
“God I hate spiders,” he said to himself, vowing to kill every eight legged little bastard from there on out, if the queen of spiders didn’t get him first that is. Seeing nothing on the first floor that could either be a witch or a treasure, though he had no clue what the treasure even looked like, Albert came across the spot where the steps had been at one point, leading to the top floor, but the stairs themselves were gone, having collapsed into the basement, leaving a cobweb infested space where they had once been.
Standing there over the collapsed staircase, Albert could see the basement door directly across from him, and below the door, the stairs leading down into the basement had also collapsed, the wood from both cases laying crumbled, broken on the stone floor roughly seven feet down.
Trying to figure out which was his best route to go to find the treasure, Albert thought he could hear something, though faint at first, he passed it off as just the sounds of the house, then thought it could have been the witch sneaking up on him. Looking all around, trying to stay as silent as he could, though he was in the open, an easy target, he was able to listen in more carefully, the sound being that of music playing below him.
Kneeling down, it was hard at first to hear the music, but it was just loud enough to faintly pick up. And along with the music, he could hear singing. The witch is singing, he thought, her chilling voice sending a chill up his spine. Realizing he had no better choice but to go down, Albert looked below, not liking the idea of jumping down onto the broken wood from the stairs, so instead, he returned to the hole made from the collapsed Valentine.
Hopping down in, after sitting on the edge of the collapsed floor, feeling the weakened floor boards giving way, not allowing Albert much time to consider his outrageous idea, the man just dropped down onto the minotaur, more gracious than anything his fall didn’t wake the beast. Rolling off Valentine as quickly as possible, making sure to not poke the monster with his sword, Albert breathed a deep sigh of relief, glad his stupid idea had actually worked.
Looking around, the basement was built like a stone labyrinth, but the way to go was simple, Albert just following the witch’s singing. Sneaking, moving on his tip toes, staying as quiet as possible, the witch’s haunting singing to the music was chilling, unnaturally beautiful, but still chilling.
Here’s a lullaby to close your eyes….
Albert could see a faint light ahead of him in the stone hallway he was sneaking down.
It was always you that I despised….
Leaning against the wall, Albert listening to the witch’s singing from the room just around the corner, he was almost hypnotized, closing his eyes to listen, a moment to allow the witch to continue. Continue before they faced off for one last time, with only one walking away.
I don’t care enough for you to cry….
“Here’s a lullaby to close your eyes,” the witch finished singing, the music dying to silence, the eerily sound of the echo being the only sounds left in the stone labyrinth, till even those were gone in silence. “You think you are good enough for my Madeline?” The witch knew that the man was around the corner, she could sense him, his fear of her. His love for Maddie. She knew he was going to face her, the fool, she thought.
“To be honest,” Albert said, stepping out from off the wall around the corner, looking into the room, the witch’s back to him, the faint light being that given off by two lit candles. The only thing in the room was a wooden table, and besides the candles, Albert couldn’t see what else was on it, the witch standing overtop the mysterious cause for the music. “I know I am not good enough for Maddie. She’s a special girl. But I will try my damndest to be the best man for her that I can be.”
Pointing the tip of the sword to the witch, Albert waited for her to turn and face him, wondering why she was stalling.
“You can try all you want. All you want, but it won’t ever be good enough.” Turning around, the witch’s hands were scorched, terribly damaged when the lightning ball she had attempted to kill Albert with exploded from Mr. Q’s interference. Looking Albert in the face, a single tear rolled down her grey cheek.
“Who are you to try and stop me? We are all supposed to do what is best for Maddie. Be there for HER!” Angry, this witch was delaying what Albert had to do, and that was to just get to Maddie.
“I do care for her! More than any of the rest of you! Madeline would never admit it, and though she hated her mother, despised her, my little girl hated that bastard of a father more!! The one who walked out on her, leaving her with that horrible woman who would dare call herself MOTHER!” Albert’s guard lessened from the witch’s monologue, he was nearly caught off guard by a lightning quick strike from one of the witch spider legs, Albert dropping low, rolling backwards through the door way, the leg slammed into the stone wall across from her with such force, pieces exploded away, cracks running across the wall’s surface.
Seeing no alternative other than to attack, Albert struck, swinging down with the sword, cutting clean through the leg, about three feet of the appendage falling to the floor, still wiggling on its own, the witch screaming in agony as he redrew her damaged leg back.
Jumping through the doorway, swinging blindly with a clenched fist, missing, the witch was crying more openly, the tears being those of fury. Albert, back on his feet, knew he had the upper hand, the witch’s hands damaged and him making a heavy blow severing one of her legs.
“Just give up,” he said, more up to talking her down than trying to fight the angry spider woman. “Allow me to go. I promise, I won’t walk out on Maddie. I never would do that.”
“LIAR! YOU ARE ALL LIARS!” Throwing more blind punches, just swinging madly, the witch refused to strike with her legs, afraid of what the man was capable of, surprising her with that first attack. Jumping at Albert, with one last lunge, the witch felt the worst feeling in her gut, Albert falling back, sword up, the witch falling onto the silver blade.
Pushing her to the side, rolling away, Albert almost felt pity for the witch, looking upon her tears, the sword in her belly, black blood just barely dripping out, a thin line running down the blade.
“I’m sorry,” Albert said, his apology not needed, but sincere. “I didn’t want it to come to this. I just want to get to Maddie.” Seeing the witch’s finger motioning for him to bend down, he wanted to at least oblige her with one last dying wish. Knelt down, he didn’t expect her to grip his throat in a death grip, pulling her face towards his, the clacking of her legs attempting to move deafening as the sound echoed in the hall.
“I’ll rip your still beating imaginary heart from your worthless chest!” Sneering, the witch tried to get to her feet, but the pain in her gut made it impossible, and the grip of death on her was just as strong on her as her grip on Albert’s throat.
Reacting instinctively, Albert grabbed the sword’s handle, pulled it from her belly, and swinging it in an ark, sliced through the witch’s arm, cutting off another of her appendages, and after getting some space between him and her, he had to put up a bit of a struggle to get the amputated arm off, throwing it to the floor.
“BITCH! I THOUGHT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY SOMETHING TO REDEEM YOURSELF BEFORE YOU DIED!! I MEAN SERIOUSLY, what the hell!” Kicking her arm towards the witch, Albert could hear her whispering, but didn’t care, he had defeated her. Turning his back to her, he walked back to the room, and looking into it, on the table was a music box, the box white and pink.
“It was always you that I despised,” the witch whispered under her dying breath, knowing that she had failed in her own self-righteous mission, trying to keep Madeline safe from any more men that might leave her, breaking her heart.
Staring at the music box, Albert knew it was the treasure that he had gone into the house for. Looking it over, then looking over himself, he was covered in the witch’s blood, his clothing torn up from the battles, and he was still clutching the sword in a mighty grip. Releasing the blade, he let it fall to the floor with a clang, and smiling, he had done it, placing both hands onto the lid of the music box.
Realizing he was holding his breath, Albert smiled, letting out a breath while he lifted the lid, the music beginning to play as the lid was opened fully, a little plastic ballerina spinning on one toe to the music. The box itself was empty, but a tiny mirror was inset on the inside of the lid. Looking at the mirror, Albert noticed he had no reflection, and thinking this strange he reached forward, touching the mirror, feeling like he had just got zapped with millions and millions of volts of electricity, his eye’s shutting closed quick, his breath stolen from his lungs, the music so loud it felt like it was in his head.
The witch saw a flash of light erupt from the room, knowing what had happened. The Majestic man had touched the mirror, doing what she had been trying to prevent since her arrival in the fields. The man was gone, having used the magic trapped in the box to go back to the real world, to go back to Maddie.
The music still playing as the light disappeared, the witch smiled, a part of her actually glad she had failed. Maybe the man was being honest, maybe he could make Madeline happy, maybe he wouldn’t break her heart. Crawling across the floor, leaving a trail of her own blood as she made it into the room, she looked up at the table, the lid open, music coming from the music box as the little ballerina spun.
Pulling herself up to a kneeling position, the witch looked upon the box knowing the truth behind it, being the only one who did. The box was the only real thing ever sent to the Field’s by Madeline. A box that she had found in her mother’s closet, a gift that her mother had claimed was from her “bastard husband and Maddie’s worthless father.” That day, that was the only day that Maddie hated her father for abandoning her, so she damned the box to the Field’s.
Closing the lid, the witch knew her time was very short, her last breath of life in her lungs as she fell back to the floor. Eyes closed, she let out that last breath with a final verse, allowing death to take her.
“Here’s a lullaby to close your eyes…”
*
Tapping her pencil, Maddie just didn’t know what to write. She had major writer’s block, and pissed off, she tossed her pencil, the writing utensil landing several feet away, catching the attention of a man who was enjoying a muffin. Picking the pencil up, he walked it over with a smile, and returned it to the very agitated woman, who found a way to return a smile.
“Thank you,” Maddie said, just catching a glimpse of the ring on the man’s left ring finger, telling her he was already another woman’s man. Damn, he’s cute too.
“No problem miss,” the man said, returning to his muffin without another thought. Maddie watching him walk back to his table and sit down, she let out a lonely sigh. She had been returning to the same corner café, ordering the same peach tea each day, a week passing by since her last phone conversation with Ruth. Maddie just felt like she needed to be there, but couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t helping her with her writing, at all. It just seeming to be a futile and pointless attempt to let something unexplainable happen.
Calling over the waitress to get her check, the girl whom Maddie thought looked too young to be out of high school, she thought about asking the girl’s age for a brief second, but decided not to, the idea rude. Thanking the girl, another item was with the receipt, which both things puzzled Maddie.
“Your tea was taken care of by a gentleman over there,” the waitress said, pointing behind Maddie. As Maddie turned, there was no one there. But the tea being paid for wasn’t what puzzled her. The Polaroid sitting underneath the receipt did. The Polaroid that she had thought she only imagined. Maddie always knew she had a very overactive imagination, and many imaginary friends growing up, but how is this real? she thought as she held the picture.
Turning back around, still no one at the table, Maddie didn’t understand. Confused, the whole matter surreal, upon looking back at her own table holding her notebook and pencil, Maddie was surprised to see the man from the Polaroid sitting across from her, smiling.
“Well hello there,” the man said, a smile on his face. Wearing a black oxford, grey dress vest and black cap, he mixed dress well with the casual, his black rimmed glasses only drawing Maddie to look deeper into his sky blue eyes.
“Are you real?” Maddie asked, having never seen the man before except for passing him on the street and having a strange Polaroid of the two together. Looking at him, head tilted to the side while she tried to unravel the mystery of what was happening, she couldn’t help but smile, the man’s smile contagious.
“I feel real, so you tell me if you think I feel real.” Getting to his feet, walking around the metal table sitting outside the café, the same table that Maddie had sat at for a week waiting for something to happen, she got that something she had been waiting for.
Picked up by the man, his hands finding their way into hers, she was on her feet, and before she could stop him, he was pulling her in for the most passionate, electrified kiss she had ever had the pleasure of being a part of. Feeling as though small shocks were traveling from his lips into hers, then through the rest of her body, Maddie lost her breath and could feel her heart just pounding in her chest.
“My god,” she said, once he pulled away, both of them keeping their eyes closed for a few more minutes, “that was too real. Surreal.” Smiling bigger than before, Maddie opened her eyes and had a loss of words, not sure what to say beyond “surreal”.
“You don’t know what I had to go through just to get that kiss,” the man said, leaning in and kissing Maddie on the cheek before returning to his seat across from her, Maddie taking a moment longer to regain her composure, then also taking her seat.
“I don’t. But first, what’s your name?” She had to at least know the name of her surreal stranger.
“Someone decided I looked like an Albert. So, name is Albert, and this pleasure is all mine Maddie,” reaching a hand across to shake hers, Maddie couldn’t help but giggle as she returned the gesture, lightly shaking his hand.
“You don’t look like an Albert what-so-ever,” and in her opinion he REALLY didn’t look at all like an Albert. “You look more like, an oh, I don’t know, a Brad maybe.” This made Albert laugh.
“It’s just funny you say that, but I have to tell you, I grew to like Albert.”
“Then Albert it is. But who gave you your name, Albert?” Maddie was curious. Everything else about this man was strange, so the origin of his name had to be just as interesting.
“You may remember him. He’s about thirty feet tall, has a child like demeanor.” Maddie at first was confused. How the hell can someone be thirty feet tall? And then like what Albert was saying was a spark that had ignited a fire in her mind, everything came flooding back to her. Birch, Mr. Q, or Kwu for those who like the letters K-W-U, and the Sandman. Valentine, and the witch. The music box. Her Majestic’s.
“All of you. You were all so real to me. You were all there for me.” Shedding a single tear, Maddie questioned herself, wondering how she could forget, pushing all her memories to the back of her brain, making her friends, the Majestic’s nothing more than figments of her childhood imagination, or so she had convinced herself.
“Hey now,” Albert said, reaching across wiping the tear away. “No need for tears. They are still there for you. Without them, I would have never of made it here doll.” Maddie, looking from Albert to her notebook, had to ask the only question that was on her mind.
“You defeated the witch to become real again?” It seemed crazy, but she knew it was all real. It was unexplainable, but she knew it was all real.
“You got it. Said I wasn’t good enough for you.” Albert took Maddie’s hand in his, and with his free hand pulled her notebook over, opening it up to the last page, reading the last few lines she had written, her story still needing an ending.
“And do you think you are?” Maddie knew that Albert was something she had imagined, and she knew that she had imagined her perfect man when she had brought him into reality for that brief moment on the street. But even Maddie didn’t know what it took for her perfect man to be well, perfect.
“To be honest, I don’t. But, I’ll try my damndest to make you smile every day. To wipe away every tear like I just did, and to make sure your story ends with,” and at the same time, both Albert and Maddie finished his sentence, “happily ever after.”
Grabbing her pencil, he began writing in her notebook, making her smile, and a look crossing her face, without words saying just what is it are you writing Albert? When he finished, he closed the notebook with the pencil in it, and pushed it towards Maddie, a playful grin on his lips, with a look of satisfaction in his eyes.
“And just how did you end my story?” Maddie asked, going to open the notebook, her curiosity overwhelming, but Albert keeping his hand on top of the notebook, waiting to say what he had to say before letting her continue.
“When you read this, imagine it in your head doll. Do that for me alright?” Albert asked, his little plan coming together, but Maddie still not sure what to expect from what he had just jotted down in her composition book.
“Alright,” she said, a bit of puzzlement in her tone. Finally allowed to open it, she cleared her mind, and let Albert’s words take her away.
*
The Majestic’s knew that Albert had made it back to Maddie. They had felt the kiss between the two all the way across the planes, passing from reality into the Field’s, world of imagination built by their beloved Maddie.
But Albert felt as though he owed everyone a debt of gratitude, his success being nothing without admitting it was all due to them, everyone of the individuals left back in the Field’s to only wish they could see their Maddie one last time.
And as she read the words written in her own notebook, the words written by a man that she herself had created, she smiled, feeling a tingle in her whole that she hadn’t felt since she was a child. With her mind’s eye, she was in the Field’s with her Majestic’s, with her friends.
Birch, casting a cooling shadow over the sitting Sandman, the violet suited man spinning tales much like he used to when a restless Maddie needed to fall asleep.
In a house that had been built to be haunted was changed to a beautiful home, a home that Maddie had never saw as her own, but in the Field’s it looked more welcoming. Inside, the sweater vested unicorn had found that he had a real talent to sing, and taking his teaching methods taught the Violins Magnifico a new tune or two.
And Valentine, the mobster minotaur. Thinking of how silly his creation had been, Maddie made the creature much more pleasant to deal with, the minotaur taking up singing as well, his deep baritone voice complimenting the unicorn’s perfectly.
And finally the witch. Albert knew reading just the mention of the spider legged woman would spur unhappy memories in Maddie, Albert still unsure of the witch’s creation, but better off not knowing. But, just like the rest, the woman was a Majestic like the rest of them, and even she needed happiness.
So, with Albert’s final written words, knowing that Maddie reading it, Albert wished for the witch to take the name Mother, and to have normal legs, long beautiful legs, and for her black and white color to be replaced with the color of a woman in her prime. And Mother, the woman who had been hell bent on protecting Maddie, had a new job. Look after the Majestic’s, loving them the way only a mother could…
*
“Will all that really happen?” Maddie said, closing the notebook, wishing she really could see all her friends again.
“If you want it too doll.” Albert, getting to his feet for a final time, pulled Maddie to hers. “Come on, I’ll make you dinner.”
“Where are you going to make me dinner?” Maddie asked, getting up.
“Turns out you not only imagined me, but also gave me an apartment not far from here. And a bank account. With a whole seven hundred dollars in it.”
“A whole seven hundred dollars in it huh? And just what name did I imagine for you, since you have this apartment and bank account?” He had to have a name to have either of them, she thought.
“Brad Pitt as funny as that is,” Albert laughed, Maddie as well.
“Welp, Brad, what’s for dinner?” Maddie, taking his hand, left the notebook on the table, not too concerned with how her story would end, content on just letting it play out for her to be surprised.
“Albert,” Albert said, “I prefer Albert doll.” Pulling her in, he snagged one last kiss before the two began to walk to his apartment.
“My apologies Albert. Off we are then?” For the first time, Maddie felt like she had found somebody real who was actually going to be there for her, even if she had imagined him.
“Off we are Madeline. Off we are.” And for the first time, Albert felt a feeling of success, having finally made it to the woman he was meant to love. And though neither of them would ever know it, the Field’s filled with wild roses, the velvet of the flowers springing up like an ocean, telling the Majestic’s left behind that Maddie was happy. The flowing red telling all of them that Maddie had finally found love.
“I knew you would do it Albert,” Birch would whisper.
“Way to go kid,” would slip out the Sandman’s black lips.
“Good job indeed,” Mr. Q would let out through a smile.
And without saying a word, just letting a single tear fall to the Field’s velvet floor, Mother knew that for the first time in her existence, she knew what the perfect failure felt like, having failed to stop the man, but knowing that she was all the more happy she had.
*
Walking up to the notebook, opening it and grabbing the pencil, the boy didn’t even read what was written. He didn’t have to. He knew just what to write without even having to read what was in that notebook. Jotting down the words, he closed the notebook, slid the pencil behind his ear, claiming it as his own, and skipped off down the street, leaving the notebook to soak in the coming late afternoon rain.
If anyone were to walk up before the rain ruined the book, they would find an unfinished story written by a best-selling author, a small narrative written by an imaginary man who had fought to become real, and a final sentence written by that boy. The final sentence being…
They all live Happily ever after…
The Recruiter
“You sit there, and just smile at me. You drink your orange juice, no pulp. You had to have no pulp. You sit there, drink your no pulp orange juice, pulling that unlit cigarette from your lips, putting it back, pulling it out to sip your juice, putting it back. But you won’t light it. Not once, you won’t light it. Just sit there, smiling, drinking, and…. Well, it doesn’t matter what I say now does it?”
He laughs at his companion’s agitation. It is amusing after all, someone getting so bent out of shape over things so little, because all he can see is a bigger picture, but even so, it’s blurred. Like a massive painting. From far away, he can make out a galloping horse racing through a sunlit meadow, but upon closer inspection, your eyes were fooled from far away. Upon closer inspection, it’s just a blur of colors, nothing spectacular, no galloping horse, not even a meadow. Just a big picture that isn’t what you think it is up close.
That’s how John thought.
Pulling the cigarette from his lips, sipping his orange juice, and smiling, Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder how in the world people got by thinking like John. There were so many, who lived by the “Big Picture” rule.
“That’s what you are John. A Big Picture kinda guy. You don’t look at all the little pebbles at the bottom of the pond and think, ‘man, there’s millions of pebbles on the bottom of that pond.’ No John, you walk up to that pond, stand on the edge and think one thing. Do you know that that one thing is you think John?” Pull the cigarette out, take a sip, set glass down, cigarette returned to the lips.
“That it’s a pond. Just a pond.” John said it, knowing that what Thatcher wanted to hear, that that was the answer he was seeking. And John would deny it, in his head, to the man sitting across from him with the loaded gun, with the cigarette and the orange juice. But, deep down inside, John knew that the man across from him was right.
“Exactly. It’s just a pond.” Cocking the hammer back on the gun, making John’s heart skip a beat, Thatcher relaxed back in his chair, running his free hand through his long, black hair. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Not in a long, long time.
“Why are you doing this?” John had to know. There he was, in his home, being held hostage by a man who had barged in, gun to John’s head, forcing the two to sit down. For two hours, to the second they had sat in silence, nothing said between them as Thatcher pointed the gun at the owner of the house. Then, precisely as those two hours were up, Thatcher pulled the unlit cigarette from his lips that had been there from the get go, introduced himself, asked for a glass of orange juice, no pulp.
“Ask yourself why the pond is just a pond?” Thatcher was smiling, still smiling.
“What does a damn pond have to do with you pointing a gun at me?” John couldn’t figure out for the life of him what he had done to make another man want to hurt him. The chance was there that Thatcher was no more than a crazy person, which was seeming more accurate a conclusion with each passing moment.
“The pond has nothing, and everything to do with this John. Here we are, two strangers, sitting across from each other, one has a gun pointed at the other, and the other has nothing pointed at the one. And then I ask you about a pond. Makes you wonder about the pond and why I even bring it up. Because John, right now, this situation is the pond. And it’s sink or swim time. Which are you going to do?”
John didn’t understand. What was happening? Was he about to die? Was he about to get shot by a man who didn’t even know, hadn’t met before, hadn’t even known existed before two hours and sixteen minutes earlier that evening.
“What are you going on about? Please, tell me what I did to deserve this? What did I do to you? Do you want money?” This only made Thatcher laugh harder, the cigarette almost falling from his lips, the man having to struggle to hold his mouth just right to not let the menthol stick fall.
“Please, all I wanted was your time, your ears and a glass of no pulp orange juice. I got all three, now all I want is for you to grasp and understand my reason for existing. We all have a reason, and this is mine.” All John could think was that Thatcher was out of his mind.
“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with. I can’t stand this bullshit. I don’t get what you are going on about. So do it, just kill me.”
“There it is John. Just a pond, no pebbles. ‘Just kill me, kill me already.’ And you are probably thinking I’m out of my mind too aren’t you?” John just nodded, his eyes glued to the gun still pointed at him. “John, look at this, and ask yourself why I’m here?” Pulling out a picture from the front pocket of his ratty jean jacket, setting it on the table between the two, John was in shock, not understanding how the man across from his had it.
“Ashley.” The picture was of John’s daughter, who, having just died three weeks before in a car crash, was still the only thing that her father could ever think of anymore. He missed her so much, and for this psycho, this Thatcher to taunt him with her picture, it was sick. John didn’t care if he was going to die, get shot, whatever. He was going to murder the psycho who dared to even bring up his daughter. “You bastard, where did you get this?” John held the picture like it was his daughter, though he knew all too well the real Ashley was gone.
“That’s not important John. What is, is the pond.” Cigarette out, sip of juice, glass down, cigarette back.
“The pond. The pond. What does the pond have to do WITH MY DAUGHTER!” Slamming his fist on the coffee table, the glass top shattered, glass flying everywhere, but there Thatcher sat, just smiling. “If you’re going to kill me, KILL ME! DON’T SIT HERE, and talk to me about ponds, lakes, whatever. Just DO IT!” Crying, John was through, spent. His mind hurt from trying to figure out what was happening.
“That’s just it John. You want to see her again. Would die to do so. You blame yourself. Think it was your fault. She was driving though John, you were at home. Drunk driver hit her, not her fault, certainly not yours. And you are just begging me to pull that trigger, thinking that it would me committing murder, not you committing suicide. You miss her that much.” Finishing the orange juice, Thatcher set the empty glass down, and stood, looking down at the sobbing man.
John cried heavily, falling to the floor onto his knees, his hand bleeding, his non-bleeding hand holding the picture of Ashley to his heart. Thatcher was right. Absolutely right.
“Are you my Angel of Mercy? An Angel of Death? Who are you?” John prayed to some God that man had been sent to reconnect father and daughter. John’s wife had left him years ago, leaving the man to raise his daughter alone, leaving the two to grow closer, to bond. And then, with Ashley stolen from him, he was left alone in a world that was cruel, harsh, and unforgiving. “Be my Angel of Death Thatcher.”
“I’m no Angel, nor do I want to be. Too much work taking care of those wings.” Laughing, Thatcher walked over, placing a hand on the crying man’s shoulder. “The gun was never loaded, it just helps to get people to listen. Everything, all this, this world, life, death, it’s all a pond. Sometimes, you need to look past that, and right there, amongst the water, the ripples, the fish, is one pebble just waiting to be found.”
John, looking up to the man whose voice was soothing, calming, Thatcher still smiling, the cigarette still between his lips, John was still confused. Thatcher, nodding with his head towards the seat he had just been sitting it, John thinking it was empty, but proven wrong as he looked to it, his daughter somehow sitting there, smiling and crying, looking at her daddy.
“Ashley,” John said, losing his breath, crawling around the broken top table to his daughter. She was there, he could feel her, hug her. She hugged back. Her hair, her long blond hair was in his face, but he didn’t care. It smelled of lilies, and rosemary. It was pretty.
“I miss you daddy.” Her voice, it was soft, but it was Ashley’s, only making him cry harder.
“I miss you too baby. I miss you too. And I love you. I love you so much. And I’m sorry. I’m so….” His daughter put a finger to his lips, hushing him. Shaking her head, tears that shined like crystals falling from her eyes.
“Don’t be sorry daddy. It wasn’t your fault. And Thatcher took me to a better place, told me I’d get to see you one more time. But, he said, for me to see you, you had to do something.” His daughter was there, there with him for one more time. John would do anything. He couldn’t explain it, how Thatcher had done it. John knew it was Ashley, couldn’t deny it. He had buried his daughter weeks ago, and yet there she was, right in front of him, he holding her. He would do anything. He owed the man anything.
“Anything. You let me see her again. I let me see her.” Kissing her cheek, John looked away, throwing a smile to Thatcher, feeling Ashley disappear from his arms. Looking back, the seat was empty, his little girl gone from him again, making his cry again, this time harder than before.
“I’m tired of collecting souls John. I’m ready to gallop through a meadow, or swim in a pond, instead of just collection pebbles to sit at the bottom. You sir, are my replacement.” Standing, Thatcher, finally lit his cigarette. Twenty three years he had been waiting to light it.
“I don’t understand. Collect souls? For, heaven.” John, still crying, said he would do anything, but, he didn’t quite grasp was he was being charged with.
“No John. I said I wasn’t an angel.” Laughing, taking a closed eyed, long drag of the menthol stick, Thatcher blew the smoke out passed a sinister grin. “It’s a bit unfair, how we trick ‘em. I bring Ashley up, you see her, you agree to anything. Terrible really. Unfair in my opinion. Don’t see it coming. You didn’t see it coming did you?”
“I don’t understand. What’s happening?” Standing, looking to the gun was sitting on the floor, the gun that Thatcher had said was empty.
“Welcome to Hell’s Recruiting Services. We borrow souls on loan from heaven, use ‘em to ensnare guilty souls, and drag ‘em to hell. Quite a profession, and we get dental. Here’s the book of regulations, rules, guidelines, do’s and do not’s. And by the way, orange juice helps with going from the living world to hell. Don’t know why. Just does. Just remember, always…”
“No pulp,” John said, mouthing the words, not sure what else to say but to finish the sentence with the obvious answer. His eyes had shifted from the gun to the book that Thatcher held, and the man’s mind was spinning. Was it all real? Had his daughter’s soul been loaned from heaven to a man from hell to lure him into the same profession.
*
“Can I help you sir?” The woman asked, answering the door to the stranger who had been loudly knocking for several minutes, and though she had tried to ignore him, it had been no good, the knocking just continued until she gave in and answered it.
“Hello Marie. I’m going to need a glass of orange juice, no pulp. And my name is John,” the stranger said, the cigarette between his lips bouncing as he spoke. Four weeks it had been there, and he was actually surprised that he was good as his new profession, Recruiter.
The Night Guardsman
The planes of life and death are many, with just as many planes of reality and imagination in between. Take for instance Mr. Goodman Howe, a kindly old man who has lost everyone in the world he loves, and yet he still goes on day to day. But, on the first day in a long time, something good will happen to Mr. Howe, only in- The Twilight Zone…
*
Sitting in his vehicle, the rusted out ol scrap that it was, more rust on the truck anymore than paint, Goodman looked at the near empty parking lot, only two other vehicles there besides his. One, the day guards, Ricks. The other, one he hadn’t noticed before. Must’ve been someone working late, he thought. Something that happened ever so rarely.
After the death of his wife a few years prior, Goodman found himself lonely, the isolation of sitting at home alone filling him with depression and grief. Needing to get out, he opened the papers one day, the papers being from days before, and yet still, he saw the ad, called the number, and got hired to fill the position, no problems. Night guardsman for an avionics production facility. A quiet job, and quiet was just what Goodman thought he needed. A quiet job, outside of his eerily, quiet home. But over time, he found that his little guard shack didn’t offer any sort of relief that he had been hoping for.
Finally climbing out from his rust bucket, the hands on his watch finally finishing their crawl to those two one’s standing side by side like two lonely men, the eleven o’ clock shift starting, another night of nick-at-night reruns and reading through the papers from days before.
Strolling up to the shack, Rick already outside waiting, much like he did most nights, his impatience overly visible in his body language. “Bout time Goodman,” the kid said. The kid, Goodman thought, like he could call him that. Rick was in his early thirties, and compared to Goodman’s early seventies, hell, he could call him a kid. Damn kid’s.
“It’s right on eleven,” looking to his watch, seeing it was eleven o’ two, Goodman damning himself, caught in a very minuscule lie, but a lie none-the-less, wondering how it had taken him two whole minutes to walk from the rust bucket to the shack. Was he getting that slow in what used to be a strong, meaningful stride?
“Alright,” Rick said, just playing it off, knowing it wasn’t worth getting irritated with the old man. “You have a good night now.” With nothing else, the man, or kid in Goodman’s eyes made his way to his car, in it, key turned, wheels quickly turning to leave the ugly truck and one other vehicle sitting alone in the parking lot.
Climbing into the shack, shutting the door behind him, taking his seat, realizing that he had grown tired of the job, with no one there at night, nothing happening, Goodman just reasoned that it was just best he stayed put, kept the job. It’ll just be the same anywhere else, he thought. Lonesome. Quiet.
Grabbing a newspaper off the shack’s little counter, the counter itself littered with candy bar wrappers, which Goodman supposed was Rick’s, the man looking to have never minded his weight, and a small t.v., the company nice enough to run a cable line out to them so they could zone out on the job with the trash that was on the boob tube, as Goodman’s son called it.
His son, Gary, had moved all the way over to the other side of the country, in California, where he designed video games, or something like that. Thinking about him, his graduation from high school, college, Goodman was proud of his son, but missed him dearly, having not seen him since Christmas. Of last year.
Wish he’d settle down, give me a grandchild. Goodman thought, hoping his thoughts would drown out the silence of the shack, not that it was completely silent, the humming from the light above him relaxing, once you got used it that is. After so long, the sound became torture, staying in your ears well after your shift has ended and you’re lying in bed trying to get to sleep. Back to his son and a grandchild, Goodman reasoned that even if Gary had a child, its grandfather would never see it. Gary had always been a momma’s boy.
The hours rolled by slowly, agonizingly slow. Unable to even fall asleep, even though that was a no-no on the job, something he had been warned about countless times the day he was hired, Goodman knew better than to expect anything to happen. Nothing ever did happen. Ever. Flipping off the light in the shack, the television not even on yet, Goodman not having reached that point of boredom to give in and watch reruns that he had seen countless times, he looked out the dirty window up to the sky and stars, wondering if Mary, his wife, was looking down on here, feeling sorry for her miserable, widowed husband. But he also wondered when he had missed his chance to do anything worth doing in his life.
Not that life hadn’t been good, but looking back on it, Goodman just couldn’t think of anything that had been worth his life, worth life itself. And it saddened him to think that his existence on Earth had been wasted. Deciding to change his mood and demeanor, depression something he had gotten used to but wasn’t in the mood for that night, he flicked the television on, turned it to nick-at-nite, and let the show’s he was only half-heartedly watch take the rest of the night away.
An hour passed by like that, when startled by a sudden knock at his door, Goodman about fell from his chair, was almost certain that he was going to have a heart attack, his old heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in a long, long time. Looking to see who had spooked him, a kid, and this time a young man, no more older than twenty three, stood, smiling, mouthing the word sorry through the door’s tiny window.
Motioning the kid in with a wave of his wrinkled hand, the door opened, the young man stepping in, apologetic. “I’m really sorry bout that,” he said. “Didn’t mean to give you a scare there.” Laughing, Goodman thought little about it, just glad to have someone to talk to for a minute.
“It’s nothing, needed it to keep me awake. Is there something I can do for ya? You the one working late in there?” Looking out to the car that hadn’t left yet, it was the logical thing to think.
“Yeah, that’s me,” the kid said, looking out to the car. “Ol thing ain’t starting up, was wondering if I could use your phone, can’t seem to find mine.” Goodman, not even seeing the kid walk out to his car and attempt to start it felt bad, the old man never owning a phone in his life, and the realization that his shack didn’t have one either. What good was a guard with no gun and no phone? He thought, they really must not expect anything to EVER happen out here.
“Sorry, but, no phone. Wish I could help. Got a key to get back in the building, they got phones in there.” Reaching for his keys, getting up to walk in, the kid wasn’t too worried about calling for a ride.
“Nah, don’t worry bout it sir, thanks anyways. I don’t live too far from here, and I can walk. Nice night out anyways.” Looking back behind him into the stars much like Goodman had been doing, a smile came across the kid’s lips that reminded the old man of better days, when he young, and thought he could own the world. Instead, the universe turned everything around on him, leaving him alone in a too-crowded world.
“It is ain’t it. Reminds me of when I was about your age. Owned a cherry red ’56 Chevy. White top, never had the thing on with nights like this to drive around. Love the feel of the wind making my way down these roads. Remember when this parking lot used to be nothing but fields, looked so nice in the moonlight.”
Goodman was in a very happy place thinking back to his days of his reckless youth, burning down the back country roads, back before they were asphalt and yellow paint, with Mary in the passenger seat, neither wearing a seat belt, the voice of Buddy Holly trying to beat out the roar of the engine and the howl of the young couple’s laughs. The best of times.
“Those must have been the days,” the kid said, still looking up into the sky. “Welp, I better get goin before the wife starts wonderin’. You have a g’night now sir,” the kid said, the sir surprising him, kids these days having no manners. Goodman just nodded, said a goodnight and a goodbye in response, his mind left wandering back to better days. His night would go by quick, the rest of his shift spent on back country roads with the wind blowing through his memory.
Two hours had grudgingly crawled by, leaving Goodman to wish he could return to working on his Chevy in his pa’s garage, or sitting with Mary the night of their first kiss, both nervous teens, just waiting for one to make a move. Mary made the first move, putting her hand on top of his on the hillside that looked over both their homes. They had lived close, their houses on the same street, their families went to the same church.
Seeing his rust bucket and the kid’s car being the only two in the parking lot again that night, he wondered if the kid’s car was still not running, left from the night before, or if the young lad was working late again, leaving the misses at home waiting.
Not in the mood to watch the television or read the paper that he had brought in with him, not that it was worth reading, the damn thing four days old, he instead walked out of the shack, stretching his old, tired legs, getting some fresh air. Stepping into the night, the air was a bit chilly, autumn creeping it’s way up on the closing summer, but autumn was Goodman’s favorite season. Most likely cause it had been Mary’s. She loved the colors of the leaves.
Very calm, taking deep breaths, taking in the stars, wishing he could just fly up there with them, around the planets, maybe take in the sight’s of Saturn’s rings, talk to the Man on the Moon, roast a marshmallow over the sun, Goodman jumped when he was surprisingly greeted from behind.
“Hey,” laughing, realizing he had yet again startled the night guardsman, the kid laughing, placed a reassuring hand on the old man’s shoulder, apologizing. “I’m sorry. Keep doing that too ya.”
“You’re gonna kill me one of these nights. Catch me just the right way and poof!, heart attack,” Goodman playfully grabbed his shirt over his heart, acting like his heart was giving out on his, going into full character with facial expressions and groans, getting a few more laughs from the kid. “Late night for ya again. Must love that overtime.” Finishing his laugh, the kid just nodded.
“Not really, but hey, could use the money. Takin’ in the night air?” he said, taking a deep breath himself, eye’s shut.
“Good night to do so. And those stars are just calling down to me. ‘Come play with us Goodman.’” Looking up at them, he knew Mary was up there.
“Goodman, eh. Well, I’m Matt.” Reaching out a hand for a shake, Goodman returned the gesture and was pleased by the strength in the kids, Matt’s, grip. A real man’s handshake Goodman thought. A gentleman’s.
“It’s nice to meet you Matt. You’re a good kid.” Goodman said it, instantly regretting calling Matt a kid, not sure if he would take offense too it or not. Kid’s these days, no respect and they take everything to heart. What happened to the youth of this over-crowded world?
“Same to you Goodman. Can I ask you something?” Goodman nodded. “You get bored in there, all by yourself at night? I mean, nothing ever happens round here. I mean, I say that like I know.”
“No, no, you’re right. Nothing exciting ever happens round here. They keep me here for my looks,” Goodman laughed, knowing his charm and good looks left him ages ago, replaced with wrinkles and worn out eyes. But back in the day, he was handsome. Could have been competition for James Dean, or Presley. And Mary, Mary had been so gorgeous. Could have a movie star, she could have. “Welp,” Goodman felt bad, holding the kid up with meaningless chit-chat. “Better get home to the misses now, don’t want to keep her waiting.”
“It’s okay. She’s prolly asleep anyways. I’ll stick around. You need the company anyways.” Goodman couldn’t argue with that. He wanted to tell the kid no, tell Matt to get on home and climb into bed with that girl, cuddle up with her and enjoy it while he had her. But it was only for one night.
“Not much to do round here at night. Got the little shack here,” Goodman said, slapping the door, like he was glad it was all his. “Got the television in there. That’s it. Not much for a young man like yourself. You really should be gettin’ goin.”
“Why don’t we sit out here and you tell me bout those days on these back streets, when these were fields in the moonlight.” Sitting down on the pavement, back against the wall, Goodman thought about and would be glad to tell a story, but he sure as hell wasn’t sitting on the ground. His old back wouldn’t last very long, and he’d never get back up. Grabbing his seat from inside, he made sure Matt wouldn’t be offended if he sat in it, the respectful young lad not caring one bit, just sitting cross legged like a young child waiting for a good story to be spun.
“Let me tell ya bout the time I was racing Charlie Everett…”
Life was good to Goodman. Going to work wasn’t so bad. Matt had stayed the whole night, heading home just before the sun came up, listening to the better days of an old man’s life, smiling the whole time. It was the best thing to happen to Goodman in a long, long time, and all the kid had done was listen, but, Goodman realized, Matt had done more than that. He let Goodman remember. Let the man go back to those days. Let him sit behind the wheel of his car. Racing down the back roads neck and neck with ol’ Charlie Everett in his Model T. Man, did Goodman smoke in at the end.
Walking up to the booth, Rick was outside waiting like he always was, although Goodman was fifteen minutes earlier than usual, a smile on his face, his whole demeanor just a little bit brighter.
“You look like a kid on Christmas morning,” Rick commented, wondering why the night guardsman was in such a good mood.
“I feel like it, that’s for sure.” Looking around the parking lot, he noticed for the first time since pulling in that Matt’s car was finally gone, not parked in the spot it had been for days. Maybe Matt had finally gotten it towed, or more than likely he had left early that day, not feeling like the overtime was worth staying late for. Goodman had to admit to himself, if the kid didn’t startle him that night, he would be a tiny bit disappointed, rather enjoying the young lad’s company.
“So, you hear about the accident? I swear they don’t tell us anything. I read it in the paper this morning,” Rick said, the excitement to tell his news almost sickening, Goodman knowing it couldn’t be any good.
“What happened?” Goodman asked, almost not wanting to hear.
“Kid died here a few days ago. Was working late, fell from a rafter while working on the tail of one of the birds,” birds being airplanes, “no one found him till yesterday morning. Company is trying to keep it secret. Can’t believe I didn’t hear bout it till I read bout it.”
“Kid. What kid?” Goodman asked, the part of him that questioned the unquestionable forming a name already, though the rational side of the old man’s brain told him it was impossible, but as Rick tried to remember, Goodman mouthed along with him just as the name came to him.
“Matt something or other. Young kid. Had a wife with a baby on the way.” Goodman couldn’t believe it. It had to be another Matt. Not his Matthew. It just wasn’t possible.
“Was there a picture of the kid?” the night guardsman asked, knowing a picture would prove the crazy assumptions going through his mind wrong, that he would be put to ease knowing his Matthew was home with his misses, doing what young couple’s do nowadays.
“Sure wasn’t. Damn shame though. Well, I need to get going. Have a good one Goodman.” And like that, Rick was gone, leaving an old man alone to wonder in a tiny shack.
An hour passed by when Goodman finally decided he couldn’t sit no more, staring out into the parking lot where a kid, no, a young man’s car had been parked the day before. Stretching his legs, hands in his pockets, he didn’t want to think about Chevy’s, or Charlie Everett, or the good ol’ days. He just wasn’t in the mood to think about those days, long and past.
Looking up at the stars, then to the moon, wondering what the Man up there was thinking about, Goodman was startled, nearing jumping off the ground by a “hello” from behind. He knew the voice, and knew that he hadn’t heard anyone walking up behind him. He also knew no one had been in the building working. No one. Turning to see Matt, the boy smiling.
“Sorry bout that. Bad habit I guess,” Matt said, looking at the sad old man before him. “You okay Goodman?”
“Are you bub?” Goodman asked the kid, only ever calling his son that.
“I’m fine. I mean, I feel a little weird, but I’m prolly coming down with something. Everyone is this time of the year.” Looking up from Goodman to the stars, his smiled turned into a small grin, an innocence present, a longing to be somewhere that he couldn’t get too. Goodman knew the kid didn’t belong there with him, was meant to be someplace else, with Mary. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. If Matt was supposed to be with Mary, wherever Mary was, the stars, heaven, wherever, he would go when he was well and ready too.
“So, want to hear about the time I got caught sneakin’ into a lasses room?” Goodman asked, the kid sitting down, cross legged, smiling and nodding. Grabbing his chair, Goodman was content. Maybe, just maybe, that was where Matt was supposed to be…
*
An old man left alone in an over-crowded world. A young man robbed of his youth in an accident, only to visit with a lonely man and hear about days long ago. There are many places we are destined to be in our lives, and in the times after our light has been extinguished. And sometimes the most important place we can be is there for someone who needs us. That is no more truer than in…. The Twilight Zone