He found the torch that was hanging by its strap on a hook behind the cleaning cupboard door. He gave it a shake to get the last bit of life from the batteries. It flickered into life, illuminating the mop at his feet he'd karate chopped to the floor as though his life had depended on it.
He felt something nip at his ankles. He squealed in pain and tried to point the torch to the ground to see what had bitten him. The torchlight flickered on and off; he couldn't see the cause of his pain. There was another huge clap of thunder which illuminated the passage. Mr Smith was shocked to see the door to his taxidermy shop was ajar. He crept towards it and pushed the door open.
"Hello? I've called the police," Mr Smith shouted.
The noises stopped.
"Is that you, young lady? A joke’s a joke now clear off and we'll say no more about it."
At this his torch went out.
"Damn cheap batteries!" Mr Smith thought as he banged it in his hand trying to bring it back to life. The noises started again, louder and coming closer to him at a fast pace.
Mr Smith banged at the torch frantically. Nothing. It was as dead as the dodo he'd always dreamed of stuffing.
There was another huge clap of thunder and the lightning lit up the shop front for Mr Smith to see his stuffed animals were coming toward him.
He let out a scream of terror. He couldn't believe his eyes!
The badger, the raccoon, dogs, cats, even stoats scurried towards him. He backed out the shop in horror.
He turned and ran straight into the menacing eight–foot-tall frame of the grizzly bear.
Mr Smith danced around the bear to get away from its mighty claws swooping down towards his head. It just missed him, but the shockwaves sent him stumbling backwards into the stairs. His shoulder blades and back took the force of the edge of the steps. He cried out in pain. The smaller animals were on him in a flash, biting and gnawing at his clothes. He shook his legs frantically, trying to kick them away.
He climbed up the stairs on his knees, the big bear following him. The dragging thud came as its feet moved up the stairs.
Slide... Clomp.
Slide... Clomp.
The raccoon jumped on top of the man’s head, its claws digging into his scalp. Mr Smith screamed in agony as he jumped to the top of the stairs, still with the raccoon perched on the top of his head like some kind of surreal Davey Crocket hat.
He grabbed the animal, which seemed alive but strangely dead at the same time. He threw the raccoon down the stairs towards the oncoming grizzly bear but the huge beast caught it and cradled it in its arms.
Slide... Clomp.
Slide... Clomp.
The bear continued its slow climb then placed the racoon gently on the floor at the top of the stairs.
Mr Smith rushed into the safety of his living room and slammed the door shut behind him. He leaned against the heavy oak door, his heart pounding in his chest. Blood trickled down his face from his scalp.
What on earth was going on? Was he dreaming, some kind of horrible nightmare?
He pinched himself in the vain attempt to wake himself up. But this was real: the dead animals he'd stuffed had come to life. Been somehow reanimated and they were hungry for blood.
There was scratching at the foot of the heavy door. He smiled, secure in the thought nothing was going to get through that.
A claw smashed through the door, just missing his head and waking him from his false hope.
Mr Smith backed away to see another clawed paw smash the door off its hinges.
The bear lumbered across the room. Like the slow-moving mummy from the horror movie he'd watched only moments ago, closer and closer the beast came. It towered over Mr Smith who cowered in the corner of the room like a wounded animal that had been stalked to its death. The bear raised its large claws and then it lunged down at him.
“George, I’m home,” Mrs Smith shouted as she struggled up the stairs with her overnight bag and her many shopping bags from various top London department stores.
She plonked them down at the top of the stairs.
She couldn't understand why her husband hadn't met her at the station as she'd insisted he did in her text. He hadn't replied to that either or answered her calls. She'd thought it even stranger that her husband hadn't opened the shop that day.
Mrs Smith walked into the living room and was surprised to see her husband was standing as calm as you like, without a care in the world, beside the fireplace. His hand perched on the mantelpiece with a broad cheesy grin on his face. He was stood in a pose that wouldn't look out of place on the front of a knitting pattern.
"There you are," Mrs Smith said as she dropped her mink shawl onto the couch and went to get her shopping bags from the hall. "Why didn't you respond to my text, or meet me at the station?"
She came out of her own world for a second to notice that the living room door was off its hinges and had been propped up behind the couch.
"I see you finally took that door off and got your finger out to do some DIY."
She stopped unpacking her shopping bags and went over to her statue-like husband.
"What's the matter, George? Cat got your tongue?"
She touched his hand; it was cold and felt strange, like the skin of the countless animals she had killed and passed on to her husband to embalm.
He stood motionless, didn't even blink, she touched his face; that was cold too. She gasped. Her husband had been stuffed, like the countless animals from all around the world which were housed in the shop below.
She turned and screamed in total terror, which is when she saw her mink shawl began moving across the couch and onto the floor. It was coming right for her.
IF YOU GO DOWN TO THE WOODS TODAY…
Written by Graeme Parker
It was a bright crisp autumnal day. The type of day when you can see one’s breath. I had been doing some writing in my country retreat in deepest darkest Devon. Well it wasn’t mine as such; it was an old gothic mansion that belonged to my Uncle Monty – I’d kind of went on holiday by mistake you could say. I’d been hold up for a few days and I was starting to suffer a bit from the old cabin fever.
The walls of the mansion were tall dark and foreboding. Cold grey, pictures of ugly, inbred relatives hung on the wall, god I had some pig ugly relatives, on my father’s side of course.
These old mansions took some heating, I’d basically locked myself up into the one room to save on heating. Eating cold baked beans from tins, reverting to my miserable student days. Also, I was a bit scared of the old gothic mansion as it was supposed to be haunted; one of the children many moons ago had fell down the stairs when sleepwalking in the night. They’d dropped their teddy bear and tripped over it at the top of the stairs.
Besides. I’d ran out of booze, the local shop wasn’t exactly local being five miles as the crow flew, ten if the average person tried to walk it over hill and dale. My old car had decided to break down.
So, I decided to go for a walk down deep into the woods. I needed a change of scenery; I was hoping for a big surprise. I’d packed my very own “special picnic” ... hoping to meet an old friend.
The wood was silent, not even the sound of a bird chirp or a flatulent fox fart. The sun was coming down sending strange shadows in front of my path. I entered a strange looking clearing. The wind was getting up wafting a strange smell my way. I could smell cooking food; like a barbecue. No wait it was more like burning flesh!
There was a rustle between the trees. I glimpsed some brown fur and a blur of blue and a dot of red as it hurried through the under growth. I was nervous. There was a smell of fear in the air. I let out a bit of my own nervous wind and there was an even worse smell in the air. ‘I’ve really got to stop eating so many tins of beans!’ I thought to myself.
As my nostrils got used to the smell I could once more make out the original charged flesh odour.
I looked behind me dropping my picnic hamper to the ground in sheer terror as I looked up
into the trees and saw hanging from the branches...
The bodies of three men! They’d all been skinned to flesh and bone. Blood dripped beneath them into a pool upon the forest floor.
I saw three rifles beneath the men that made me realise they were obviously hunters!
I staggered back in shock. I slipped on something on the ground that was soft and squelchy. I rolled over, arse over tit. Struggled to get to all fours. I saw in front of me the strangest thing; a now mushed with my footprint, a half-eaten marmalade sandwich!
Something sticky was on my face, I presumed it was blood from the human Christmas tree decorations. I struggled to get to my feet and then, just as I was about to head off at pace, a huge figure jumped into the clearing in front of me. I stood like a statue frozen in fear. It wasn’t human. Even the it wore human clothes. It was a bear! I was about to cry out when it gave me a massive bear hug. Lifting me up and squeezing me tight. I struggled for breath. My back made noises a dozen chiropractors would be proud of.
It plonked me on a tree stump in the middle of the clearing. It sniffed me with an enquiring nostril. Its face was just inches from mine, I could smell a sweet aroma upon its breath. I was waiting for it to open its mouth and bite and maul me to death. I held my breath. Its long tongue flicked out and licked my face tasting the sticky substance form my cheek. I touched what was left of the substance form my face; marmalade. I let it lick the remainder form my fingers. Then I was amazed when it offered me in return the rest of the half-eaten marmalade sandwich.
So, if you go down to the woods today you might receive a big surprise, especially if you are a hunter. So, leave those guns at home and pick up your camera and be one with nature. The moral of the story? Always have a good bear behind. Good night children everywhere.
PETER PUMPKIN HEAD EATER (PREQUEL) GRAEME PARKER
Peter Pulowski ran and ran as fast as his chunky little legs would carry him. The Bigelow Boys were right behind him and they were after his blood because he’d stolen and eaten all of their Halloween candy.
Peter's heart was pounding like a drum in his chest. He was only nine years old, but he was already grossly overweight and not in shape to be running for his life.
He’d lied to his mother that he was going to a Halloween party to watch a pirated copy of the recently released E.T. movie. He was, in fact, going trick or treating with the Bigelow gang. His mom had told him, ‘Keep away from those Bigelow boys, they’re nothing but trouble, y’hear?’
The Bigelow brothers had taken him trick or treating as they knew he’d grab more than his fair share of candy and the people wouldn't mind as everyone in the neighbourhood knew Peter Pulowski as a somewhat simple child. The boys had left Peter at the top of Mockingbird Drive, where all of the rich folks lived, to guard their huge haul of candy as they went to deliver a trick; egging and flour-bombing Judge Carmichael's house. Judge Carmichael lived at the bottom of the Drive and never gave treats anymore. He'd quickly realised that even if he did, the likes of the Bigelow boys would still serve him up with a trick, and he’d had enough of them toilet papering his house, thank you very much.
They’d left Peter to guard the stash because he was moaning that his feet hurt. He’d sat down on the curb and thought, ‘I’ll just have one little candy bar while they're away; they’ll surely not miss one.’ But then he’d eaten another one, and then another, and in the end Peter’s insatiable appetite made him eat almost the entire sack of candy they'd worked so hard to collect. When he realised the error of his ways and saw the Bigelow Boys, dressed in their Halloween skeleton suits, returning back up the Drive towards him, he flat-out panicked. Peter dropped the near-empty bag and started running blindly in the opposite direction.
It’s amazing how fast even a chubby nine-year-old can run when he thinks his life depends upon it. Because of his barrel-like physique, Peter's skeleton outfit only fitted where it touched. Most of his midriff was comically exposed as he ran, making him look like the most unlikely skeleton ever!
Behind him the Bigelow boys were shouting, “Gonna get you Peter, gonna get you, you big fat eater!” They chased him out of his neighbourhood, down the road a way and along an old dirt track that divided two farms.
Peter ran and ran, not daring to look back. Eventually he slowed down, as he couldn't run another step, stopping to catch his breath. He was breathing like an asthmatic pit pony. He saw the sign for Old Man Johnson’s farm. He'd been told never to go there, if he knew what was good for him. All the kids in Little Springs, Texas were scared to go near the place even during the day, never mind in the middle of Halloween night.
Peter crept into a pumpkin patch, which was barely lit by the distant streetlights. His feet got caught up and he stumbled over the root of one of the pumpkins. He fell to the ground. Peter looked up. Towering over him was a scarecrow dressed in an old overcoat and rags. The scarecrow sure looked scary with its head made from a big fat rotten pumpkin, cut out like a Halloween jack-o-lantern. Peter stifled a scream; he couldn’t afford to make any noise that gave his position away to the Bigelow Boys. He could now hear the boys nearby, crossing the field whilst talking to each other. They were asking each other where they thought he’d gone and none of them were brave enough to go onto Old Man Johnson's land.
Peter scurried like a frightened rabbit behind the scarecrow and hid himself there, its muddy old coat protecting him from sight.
“We’ll get you at school in the morning, Peter!” one of the gang shouted. ‘Peter, Peter, big fat eater! You see if we don’t!” They all joined in.
Peter thought about picking up the scarecrow and waving it around, making scary noises in hope he'd frighten the Bigelow Boys away. But he thought better of it as who in their right mind, bar say a dumb bird, would be scared of a little old scarecrow. Besides, he was too petrified to move. He stayed motionless for what seemed hours, praying that they didn't come to get him.
After a while he began to feel sleepy so he curled up into a ball and rocked himself to sleep, cold, wet and alone in a pumpkin patch. He wasn't going to forget this Halloween in a hurry.
***
"SQUAWK!" Peter woke up with a start from the sound of a squawk from a large black crow which was perched above his head on the arm of the scarecrow.
"Stupid crow, get away," he shooed the crow away. "Even you aren't scared of silly Mr Scarecrow."
Even though he’d eaten all of the candy, he woke up hungry. Peter was used to eating a lot,
and he hated having hunger pangs. He felt like he was starving. He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping. But his stomach was telling him it was time to eat.
He picked up a pumpkin and smashed it against the wooden base of the scarecrow.
“Take that, Mr Scarecrow,” he said, pretending it was one of the Bigelow boys, happily getting rid of his aggression on this inanimate object as he knew it couldn't fight back.
The pumpkin cracked open like an egg. Peter sat down on the ridge of dirt beside it and began scooping the innards out of the pumpkin and then began munching on the flesh. After he’d eaten a good seven or eight large pumpkins, he was starting to feel a bit queasy and again very sleepy. He drifted off to sleep sat against the base of the scarecrow.
***
Peter woke up in a panic and for a second he didn’t know where he was. He scrabbled in the dirt and sat upright. He was dripping in sweat and burning up with a fever. His stomach felt swollen and full.
Suddenly he noticed a voice saying, “You ate my babies.” The voice was deep and foreboding.
He looked all around the pumpkin patch, expecting to see the Bigelow Boys returned to torture him, but there was no one in sight.
"You ate my babies …” the voice said again.
Peter didn’t understand it. Where was that coming from? Had Old Man Johnson seen him and thought he was stealing? It was like the voice was above him, so Peter looked up to see the Scarecrow’s pumpkin head turn around to face him. Its deep, pitted eyes and jagged raz
or-cut mouth lit up as it said once more, "You ate my babies …”
Peter shook his head furiously and said, "No …"
"You ate my babies …” Scarecrow repeated, "... and now you have to pay!"
Peter jumped up in fear and ran away from the scarecrow as fast as his little legs would carry him. Just like before, while being chased by the Bigelow Boys, Peter dared not look back.
"You ate my babies. Now you must pay!” the voice said. It sounded like the scarecrow was right behind him.
Peter was so afraid he finally plucked up the courage to look back. The scarecrow was gliding over the ground towards him as though it was on rails, running him down like a hound after its prey.
Peter saw it moving towards him and he screamed in terror.
Faster still he ran, jumping over pumpkins in the patch like a hurdler. He was tiring and tried to jump one particularly large pumpkin. He clipped it with his heel and fell to the ground with a thud, twisting his ankle in the process.
Peter cried out in pain and terror, clutching his twisted ankle. He tried to get up but crashed straight back down into the dirt in agony. He couldn’t put any of his considerable weight on the leg. He tried to scramble away by crawling, but the scarecrow loomed over him.
He was helpless. He put his hands together, closed his eyes and prayed for salvation. He promised almighty God that he’d never steal sweets or lie to anyone ever again as long as he lived.
There was a terrific noise, a shotgun blast, over his shoulder. He opened his eyes in time to see the scarecrow’s pumpkin head explode into a million pieces. Pumpkin flew everywhere, covering Peter from head to toe in the bright orange flesh.
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