He raised the axe and swung it down with all his strength. The blade was buried in the pumpkin head a moment and then he wrenched it free. He was not going to lose this weapon like he lost his sword. The thing swiped at him and his jacket, shirt and chest were sliced thrice as if by knives. Francis let out a wild cry and swung the axe again, severing the neck stem of springy green wood and sending the pumpkin head rolling across the clearing.
The Fish children were at the edge of the woods and Francis was relieved to see the oldest had taken the baby.
The body of the Punkin Man had fallen flat on its back and was thrashing at the ground, golden sap bubbling and spurting from the neck stem. Francis went to the severed head and looked into the hole created by his first strike with the axe. There was something there, inside the pumpkin, fleetingly glimpsed in the light of the burning cabin. The light shifted, and he saw more.
“My God,” Francis said.
It was a writhing gray obscenity the size of a man’s hand. Tentacles reached out to all sides from the central pulsating mass, and down to the green stem of the neck. One of the tentacles had been slashed by Francis’
sword thrust and its blood was a thick amber liquid. As Francis watched, some of the tentacles began to pulsate and sway, and with a soft creak and muted clatter the body of twisted limbs stood and faced him.
Without thinking Francis reached down, plucked a hot coal from the ground and stuffed it deep inside the pumpkin head, the flesh of his fingers searing as he pushed the coal into the center of that writhing gray mass. The reaction was instantaneous. The tentacles thrashed madly, flailing like whips and tearing holes into the face of the pumpkin. The upright body staggered and collapsed again, this time falling into the burning cabin.
Ignoring his searing hand, Francis watched the gray blob of sinuous matter begin to twitch and shrivel. He heard the wagon pull to a stop in front of the burning house and then heard his wife soothing the Fish children.
He picked up the Punkin Man’s head by the stem and set it on the chopping block. Now the slashes in the rind of the pumpkin looked like malevolent eyes and a wide, gaping mouth
The Applebaker family and the Fish children stood together as the cabin burned, watching the hot coal glow within the pumpkin head of the Horror of the Territories and hearing the thing that gave it life hiss and die.
Lorna hugged Francis, her body trembling. “What if there are more of those things? How will we keep them away?”
“If there are more of them,” Francis said, “Let them come. We know how to kill them now.”
The remains of the tentacled thing began to burn freely, firelight jumping within the ragged eyes and mouth of the pumpkin.
“And to let them know we know how to slay them, every year at this time we’ll light a Jack Lantern like this one, and set it in plain view to serve as a warning.”
A CLOWN WALKS INTO A HALLOWEEN PARTY
C.L. Stegall
C.L. Stegall is the CEO and Cofounder of Dark Red Press, LLC, an independent publishing co-op. He spends his time creating and bantering with his DRP friends/co-workers/authors (John, Brian and Jack), developing new ideas and new ways to work for the author. He loves what he does and hopes to continue to help bring new independent authors into the public light. C.L. is the author of the paranormal fantasy novel, The Weight Of Night, as well as several novellas and shorter works. He lives in the Dallas area with his irrepressible Wife and two dogs who think they own the joint.
***
The clown with the short red Mohawk ambled along the sidewalk leading up to the porch. As he carefully made his way up the steps to Priscilla "Priss" Jones' house, his oversized shoes slapped down on the wooden slats. Twilight had come and gone an hour ago with an unsteady silence. Now as he stood frozen in thought for a long moment, the porch light glinting off the edges of his shoes, he closed his eyes and focused on the new elements permeating the night.
From inside came a strange mixture of eerie Halloween sounds—like creaking caskets and moaning ghosts—and the strains of Teeth by Lady Gaga. He fondled the items lounging deep in his oversized clown pockets.
Tonight. Tonight, memories would be made.
Priss had always loved Halloween. It gave her the ever-desired opportunity to throw a party and dress up in something sexy and thematic. A party girl from the time she could bounce to the beat of her dad's Zeppelin collection, Priss had the privileged upbringing of that rarest of creatures: a suburban princess. Although her mother truly loathed living outside the city, it allowed for an even higher style of living and, with her only daughter in tow, she lived the life of a modern day queen of the community. Priss took after her mother in her taste for fast men and hot cars, but little else of her personality mirrored that of her late mother.
She checked the MP3 player that sat docked in the stereo and, as the song changed to Tegan and Sara’s Walking With A Ghost, she swayed a little to the music and smiled.
As the clown ambled up to the tub of beer sitting enticingly close to the front door, the sounds of the party fell over him like a cloak and he winced a little. Shaking off the feeling, he raised his hand to knock on the door just as it flew open to reveal a short girl in a sexy bunny outfit, reminiscent of those in the sixties within certain gentlemen's clubs. She screeched, at first in fright and then in appreciation.
"That is one bitchin’ costume, dude!" she yelled too loudly, overcompensating for the music behind her.
"Thanks," he mumbled, nodding in response.
"You want a beer?" she asked as she squatted down in front of him and fished in the tub to retrieve her beverage of choice.
"No, I'm good for now," he replied.
She retrieved a silver can and quickly switched the beer to her other hand, attempting to shake the ice water from the first. "So cold!" Standing, she motioned him into the house party. “Come on in!” Her ponytail bobbed up and down as she pranced back into the living room, leaving the clown to wander in of his own accord.
He kept an eye on the bunny girl for a few seconds before scanning the rest of the partygoers. His fingers still playing over the tools in his deep pockets, he began to make his way through the thin crowd.
Priss wandered into the kitchen to make certain there were still plenty of hors d'oeuvres available for the guests. It was a smaller turnout than she had expected—due to that bitch Serena throwing her party on the same night and even the same time—so the counter remained replete with finger foods of various types and liquor bottles still three-quarters full. Priss placed her hands on her hips in exaggerated disappointment.
Last year, everyone had come to her party. There must have been forty-five people in and out. Glancing back towards the living room, she gauged less than half that number had shown up this year. She was losing her influence. That must be it. She'd talk to Misty about it and see what they could come up with to ensure they weren’t pushed aside and forgotten.
As she pondered the possibilities of more themed parties and maybe a charity bikini carwash, she felt herself sway and placed her hand on the bar to steady herself. One too many drinks, just a little too fast. She'd have to slow down in order to make it through the night without another incident like the year before last. She'd been afraid she would never live that down.
Although, it seemed most of her guests had been in the same state of inebriation at the time and all was forgotten. Almost literally. She gathered herself and headed back into the living room, adjusting her coconut bra as she went.
"What's your name, dude?" asked the drunk jock in the barbarian outfit.
"Drastic Red," he replied, snapping the red suspenders at the barbarian. "Get it?" He winked at the guy like it was an inside joke and the idiot took the bait, laughing and nodding rather violently.
"Awesome, dude!" He leaned in a little closer, to stare at the safety pins that held up each corner of Red's mouth in a permanent smile. "That is one seriously cool fucking effect." The barbarian began reaching out as if to touch
the pins, but stopped short at Red’s expression. It was difficult for a clown with a permanent smile to frown, but Red managed it with ease.
"Talk to you later," Red said, and the barbarian shrugged and meandered off to accost some girl in a cat suit. Watching the barbarian lean into the girl and her limbo-leaning response lessened any questioning of his decisions. Soon enough, he thought, placing the vial back into his pocket unseen. Memories made.
Red noticed Priss making her way from the kitchen. He maneuvered through the attendees as the smells of beer, wine and high-end perfume caused him no small amount of nausea. He watched Priss, keeping just outside of her line of sight, as she began to mingle with the guests. She almost looked the same, with those sparkling blue eyes and long blond hair.
Even from here, he could smell the coconut oil that she'd used to enhance her island girl outfit. That was Priss. Everything in the details.
"Did it hurt?" He heard the soft voice and noticed it came from below him to the right. Red turned to see a girl in a little witch's costume sitting on the stairs beside him. She had deep brown eyes that looked far too sad for such a high-spirited gathering.
"Hi," he replied. "Did what hurt?"
"The pins. They're real, huh?"
"A little," he admitted. "You're the first to recognize their validity."
"I figured it out when I saw that." She nodded her head in the direction of his pocket and the end of the box cutter that protruded from within. He shoved it farther inside, hiding it and looked back to the girl. She looked him in the eyes. "I have one just like it," she said, her eyes then darting off to the crowd and back to him. "Do you do it often? I mean, I just do it when it all gets too much."
"Every day," he replied, suddenly understanding. It wouldn't matter much now, he thought. He inched up his right clown sleeve. There were a myriad of cuts at various points of healing. The latest one was still dark red and slightly oozing. The girl nodded.
"I suppose it's nice to know I'm not alone. Still. Sometimes I wish it would all go away. Sometimes, I wish I was someone else. Anyone else."
"We are who we are," he replied, edging over to sit next to her on the stairs. "Never be ashamed of who you are. It won't make any difference anyway." She reminded him far too much of himself.
"Life is never what you expect it to be, huh?" She glanced over at him, one corner of her mouth lifting in a sort of half-smirk.
He nodded. No time like the present. He might as well begin the evening's activities. He wasn't sure why, but he leaned over and whispered into her ear and then stood, observing her expression. It took a few seconds, but then her eyes widened for only a split second. Her neutral expression rapidly overcame her shock at his words. She glanced out at the small crowd again, making her decision. She stood from the stairs. Even standing on the bottom step she was a couple of inches shorter than Red.
"It was nice to meet you," she said. She stared at him for a moment longer, as if burning his face into her memory. He could accept that. She nodded her comprehension and said, "Have a nice night." She then made her way through the guests and left through the front door. Red watched her through a window as she disappeared into the night and thought about what was to come. Time to get to work. He scanned the crowd for the Playboy bunny.
"Have you seen Misty?" Priss asked one of the other girls. She thought her name was LaDonna or something ethnic like that. The girl shook her head, and then turned to dance with Thad, who was clumsier than usual and dressed as a barbarian. Same damned costume every year, she thought.
No imagination.
Priss perused the room as she meandered through the party people and found no sign of Misty. She must have been in the toilet. Hopefully, her friend wasn't in there puking her guts out. Priss smiled at the thought that Misty might have finally overdone it. That girl was always too much in control, even for Priss. Priss liked to be in control, too; however there was always a time and place to relax and let your hair down. Yet, the one area she paid particular attention to was her associations. Priss liked to maintain a level playing field of friends. She'd learned her lesson as far back as middle school. But, she didn't want to dredge up those old memories. Now was the time to enjoy life. She headed for the front door to grab another beer.
Two down and one to go. Drastic Red's smile painfully widened, thin rivulets of blood seeping out of the pin holes and slowly making their way down to his chin. He moved to the kitchen entryway as he watched Priss step out onto the porch. Time to dirty this game up a little, he thought. As the current song ended, he reached over to the stereo and switched out Priss'
MP3 player for the one he kept in his pockets of goodies. The mood all changed as Rammstein growled out in German against the heavy backbeat and vicious guitars.
Priss had just closed the front door and taken a slow swig of her beer when the music changed dramatically. This was not on her playlist. It was angry and foreign and she wondered who the hell put this crap on.
Nevertheless, the dozen or so remaining guests were jumping up and down in rhythm with the angry beat. She stomped toward the stereo. This was unacceptable. As she closed on the stereo, someone closed in on her.
Suddenly, she was staring into the face of one scary ass clown.
Priss had never liked clowns. They freaked her out. All that weird makeup to make them look happier than everyone else just came across as arrogant and threatening to her. This guy had taken it to the extreme. The red, curved diamond shapes over his eyes set against the stark white face gave the impression of blood, and when she saw the safety pins pushed through his cheeks to hold his grin in place she felt a little nauseated.
The clown reached out and steadied her with strong hands. One of his eyes was a dark violet, the other a pale blue. It reminded her of...
"You don't like the music?" Red asked her. She stood wide-eyed, staring at him in wonder and revulsion and, perhaps, a bit of recognition.
"Not my style," she managed to respond.
Without another word, he swept her into a twirling, jolting dance. As he swung her this way and that, the crowd parted for their angry ballet. He couldn't help but notice how soft her skin was, how beautiful she was after all these years. He would have been aroused if it weren't for the fact that she still had not recognized him. Forget the makeup. There were several other clues. Perhaps she was just too drunk. Only one way to find out, he thought.
He increased their swaying and swinging and twirling. He watched as she tried to speak, to tell him to stop; however, as she opened her mouth, her eyes widened and she clamped it shut again. He ignored the first heave or two, waiting until he was certain there was no turning back. Then he let her go, aiming his release of her in the direction of the bathroom. Priss made a beeline for it.
The world was a menagerie of fireworks, drum beats and horrible sounds as Priss could not stop the violent retching. She tried to keep her hair back and out of the way of her projectile expulsions, but her coordination had evaporated with the onset of anatomical crisis.
She flushed the toilet and was about to stand when it came over her once more and she hit her knees on the tile, screaming in liquid anguish into the bowl. Her body shook with the effort and tears streamed down her face.
She would never drink like this again. Ever. And, she would sure as shit kick out that asshole clown once she regained control of herself.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of spilling her guts, Priss managed to make it to the sink, splashing cold water over her face. She was trying to clean her hair with water and a washcloth as she heard the music shift again to another angry metal type song. She was going to kill that clown, whoever he was. Why was he here? She didn't remember inviting him. Still, there was something familiar about him. And, those eyes. No, she thought. That’s just your imagination.
She finished cleaning herself up and stood facing the mirror. Her hair was a mess, now mostly wet from the efforts to remove the vomit. She reached into a drawer and retrieved a smal
l elastic band, wrapping her wet hair back into a ponytail. It would have to do for now. She adjusted her coconut bra and hula skirt, then turned and exited the bathroom.
Red waited as Priss took in the scene. He had spent his time well this evening. Thad and Misty had been secured away in the washroom off of the kitchen, safe and sound while he quietly spread the rumor that one of the neighbors had called the police. Drunken people are so very gullible, he thought. He kindly escorted most of them to the door himself, leaving only the extremely zonked out young boy in what looked to be a Cirque du Soleil outfit.
Now, the three guests of honor were sitting, facing the stereo, Indian-style with their wrists bound to their ankles with thick zip ties. Their mouths had been stuffed with silk scarves and duct-taped to prevent any arguments.
Red sprang between Misty and the Cirque boy to take Priss' hand, dragging her to the front of the assembled trio. Before she could get a grip on the seriousness of the situation, Red stuffed a scarf in her mouth and slapped more duct tape over it. He held her hands and looked into her eyes.
"Sit the fuck down. Do it nicely. Wouldn't want to mess up that gorgeous face, now would we?" His intent was clear in his duotone eyes, and she sat without further fuss. The zip tie was in place in the blink of an eye. After all, he’d been practicing for months.
He sat down in front of her and turned his head to the trio behind him.
"One more than expected, but it still worked out for the best. Now, you might be thinking, due to the arrangements here, that they’re your audience, right?" He saw the realization dawn in her eyes as tears seeped out and tracked the soft curve of her perfect cheeks. "Right?" he asked again.
She nodded.
"Wrong!"
She jerked back at the cold maliciousness of that one word. He leaned in, close enough that she could feel and smell his breath. Strangely, it smelled of strawberries.
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