Pumpkin Spice

by James Rasile

  Just as Dracula had feared, Wolf was approaching BOF. He had a sinking suspicion Michael J. Wolf would be asking Bride of Frankenstein to the dance. Even though he could have any monster at the school he desired, the Wolfman, like everyone else, lusts for what he cannot have. A person named Bride of Frankenstein was right up the Wolfman’s alley. He leaned in at BOF’s locker, his right elbow leaning against it. His chest hair flowing from his letterman jacket. She looked up at him, confused yet curious. “So, uh,” He began speaking before rolling his shirt sleeves up, “You wanna go to this lame-o Hallowe’en dance with me?” Bride of Frankenstein was speechless, she had never been asked to a dance with anyone before. Dracula and Frankie watched on, they both had a feeling how it would play out, but were hoping she’d decline the wolf’s invite. But of course, Bride of Frankenstein accepted the Wolfman’s offer, he was the most dope guy in school and Bride of Frankenstein could not say no!

  That night at the family dinner Dr. Frankenstein made pork chops. Frankie and BOF sat across from each other as they ate. Dr. Frankenstein asked how their day was. Frankie mumbled something, and Bride told her creator how Wolfman asked her to the Hallowe’en dance. The doctor was confused, he had created BOF to be with Frankie. He asked Frankie why he wouldn’t have asked her out, Frankie refused to answer. Bride of Frankenstein then proceeded to tell Dr. Frankenstein about Wolfman, and how he was the most dope guy in school, and how she would be the envy of all the girls. Frankie listened, the words coming from his future bride’s mouth were hurtful. He didn’t develop much of an appetite and asked to be excused from the dinner table.

  It was Hallowe’en night! Finally, the night of the big dance had arrived. Dracula and Frankie decided that they would go stag to the dance… not that either had a choice. As they entered the gymnasium that evening the party was rocking. Drinks were flowing, the punch was blood which excited Dracula, and the appetizers were electrically charged nuts and bolts which cheered Frankie up.

  On the dance floor they saw the witches dancing with warlocks, the mummy’s dancing with ghosts, and swamp things sitting on a folding chair in the corner with a round fish bowl filled with water above their heads. The lights dimmed, and a spotlight appeared, shinning ever so brightly on Wolfman and Bride of Frankenstein. Frankie couldn’t look. The DJ hailed the new couple as the king and queen of the ball. Dracula could see his dear friend Frankie was in a lot of pain. As his best friend and wingman, it was up to him to do something about it. Luckily, Dracula being the biggest baddest vampire of all, knew exactly what to do!

  As the dance continued Dracula began to take his true form: A bat. His ears became pointed, his wings black, his body round and furry, his fangs remained. He winked at his monster friend and flew up into the ceiling and hovered over to the skylight. The full moon was glistening down on the gymnasium floor. Dracula’s body centered the window, he extended his wings so his entire body would cover the site of the moon. Below on the gym floor Wolfman began to feel uneasy. Almost sick. BOF asked him how he was doing, but he couldn’t speak. Slowly his claw’s morphed into human finger tips, his pointy wolf ears into a human’s, his snout a nose. Soon the Wolfman the school had known was no more, he was just a man. He looked up at Bride of Frankenstein, then to his other school mates. They were all were laughing at him as he lay naked on the cold gymnasium floor. Bride of Frankenstein soon joined in on the laughing. Michael J. Wolf got himself up, and rushed out of the gymnasium. He was never seen or heard from again at Transylvania High.

  Frankie accidentally walked right into Bride of Frankenstein. He was nervous when he apologized. Bride could hear the trembling in his voice. She took his hand and asked him if he would like to dance. Frankie couldn’t speak, he was paralyzed. Aside from the dinner table at home this was the first time he would be speaking to BOF. Dracula swooped down and morphed back into his human vampire form. He told Bride that Frankie would love to dance with her, and if she would like he would even take her out for a milkshake. Bride smiled and agreed. She took Frankenstein’s monster by the hand and walked him onto the dance floor and they danced a mash.

  Dracula watched and smiled, maybe there’s hope for these two after all? The always hopeless romantic thought.

  COWBOY WITCH HUNTER

  The cauldron was beginning to boil over. A frothy green glow was emanating from top, a fire was burning bright below heating up whatever it was the witch was conjuring up. This witch had a dusty gray complexion, her hair was green and frail. She would have been a striking figure had it not been for the numerous warts and rashes on her face. Her left cheek was decomposing, and she had not cut her finger nails in several decades.

  The rat was stroking its tiny little arms frantically in the air as the witch carried it to the cauldron and tossed it in, she watched as the skin of the rodent dissolved instantaneously. The witch began to chant an incantation while plucking a hair from her eyebrow and placing it into a mortar. She then began listing the ingredients for her formula, “One witch brow hair.” She picked up a jar of green sludge, “one jar of puree toad.” She poured the gooey liquid into the mortar. “Half an ounce of infant teeth.” She placed several teeth into the mortar, “and finally” the witch hissed, “a snake. Whole.” The snake was still slithering as she picked it up and began crushing it in the mortar. She smiled and took a whiff of the wonderful foul stench that came from her formula. She pranced over to the cauldron and poured it in while reciting another incantation. A lavender smoke began to emanate from the cauldron, a wicked smile grew on the witch’s face.

  The door of her cabin was kicked in. She turned frantically to see the intruder. It was the cowboy. Witches had been telling stories of this mysterious vigilante figure. It was said he would wander the woods hunting witches. Most thought this was a myth, no man born of human flesh would so dare hunt a witch. Turned out they were wrong. This cowboy was a witch hunter, and he wasn’t taking any prisoners.

  The cowboy raised his shot gun and aimed it at the witch, she cackled loudly as he fired at her. The witch fell to the floor but immediately bounced back up. “Fool! Your mortal weapons are no match for--” The cowboy threw a machete at her and sliced her throat, severing her head from her body. The witch’s head rolled along the floor. Her arms raised up, her fingers gripped the wood floor and her fingertips walked her body back to her head. The cowboy ran and slid on his knees, gliding himself towards the witch. As he slid, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a vile of holy water. He poured the vile down the witch’s neck. The body froze, then crumbled and turned to ash almost instantaneously.

  The cowboy left the cabin. He removed a lighter from his pocket, ignited it and tossed it behind him. He never looked to watch it burn, and he wasn’t concerned if the fire would spread throughout the rest of the woods. These woods were haunted by witches, and he was their executioner.

  It had been years since he lost his family to the vile cursed beings of the woods. The cowboy made it his mission in life to rid them from the land, and he was all about keeping his word. The cowboy never kept count of how many he killed, nor did he know how many were out there. It seemed every new entry into their woods he would encounter double, even triple, what he had previously. They were spawning at an uncontrollable rate. Some were grotesque, others gorgeous. No two witches were alike. They feasted on infants, and killed for pleasure. The obsession of a witch was their potions and incantations. The cowboy was unaware of their purpose on this mortal earth.

  Killing a witch was easy. All you had to do was inject them with holy water. OK, maybe not so easy, but over time the cowboy had become quite the expert at it.

  For all the years, and all the bloodshed, the cowboy had little regrets. He wanted it to end, not for his sake, but for the worlds. Children shouldn’t live in fear. In all of his readings and findings nothing ever clued him into how to end witches once and for all. Perhaps they would always be part of the world.

  There was a pub located seven miles west of th
e woods. The cowboy was thirsty and wanted a pint of ale. Something cold and refreshing after a long day of witch hunting. The pub was filled with grizzled old men dressed in plaid, the smell in these folks could not have been from this world, but it was. The cowboy knew this was the closest place to grab a drink within walking distance, so he’d just have to plug his nose. He took a seat at a booth in the far back, he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself. The waitress walked up to him. She stunk of stale cigarettes, rum, and baby powder. Her hair was red, or used to be, and two of her nails were broken. “What can I getcha?” Her breath was worse than the odor in the room. “Beer. Cold.” He stated, trying his hardest not to make eye contact. She didn’t bother saying another word, she just walked away and grabbed his beer. She brought him both the bottle and a moderately chilled glass. The snout of the bottle was chipped, and in the glass, he could see a spider had caught a fly and was eating it for supper. He’d take his chances drinking from the bottle.

  An old geezer watched the cowboy sip his beer. The cowboy noticed him, but wouldn’t give the old man the satisfaction of looking back. Finally, the old man got up and walked over to him. He hovered across the booth from the cowboy, waiting for him to say something. The cowboy sipped his beer. “May I have a seat?” The man decided to make the first move. The cowboy looked up at the man, finally giving in and offering eye contact. The man sat. “So, you’re the cowboy witch hunter?” he asked with a smile. The cowboy placed his beer bottle on the table. “If that’s what you wanna call me, sure.”

  “Well, you got a name?” He did have a name, but he hadn’t used it for quite some time. He shook his head. “I got money. Could use your help.” This peaked the cowboy’s interest. “My cousin’s come into some witches. My name’s Barry.” The man reached across to shake the cowboy’s hand; he did not reciprocate. “What’s the pay?” the cowboy went straight to business, “One-Thousand if you kill her. Two if you bring me her head.” The cowboy chugged his beer and shook his head. “Can’t do that. When you kill a witch their body…pff… dissolve into nothing. No head, no body. Just peace on this god-forsaken earth.” He picked the beer up and took another sip. “Fine,” the man conceded, “Make it fifteen-hundred.” The man stared down the cowboy. It was evident he wouldn’t be leaving without the cowboy’s agreement. “What’s it to you?” The cowboy didn’t trust the man, “I fucking hate them witches, cowboy! They torture my cousin, she ain’t done nothing wrong!” The cowboy waved the waitress over. “Yeah?” Her breath hadn’t gotten any better, “Two beers.” The cowboy looked at Barry, “You want anything… Barry?”

  “I’ll have a whiskey straight up.” The cowboy sat upright in his chair. “I can’t help you.” The waitress set the drinks down on the table, Barry looked up to her “Put these on my tab, Isabelle.”

  “Look, I hunt witches and I want them all dead. But I ain’t no gun for hire. Can’t help ya, sorry.” He wasn’t sorry. He chugged his beer, then moved on to the second one before chugging it. He got up from the table, thanked Barry for his beers and went on his way.

  It was almost midnight when the cowboy turned his lights off in his motel room. The bed was the most comfortable one he had been on in a very long time. It was too bad he wouldn’t get any sleep in it. He could hear the witches screaming and chanting outside. He thought he was far enough away from the woods to get a good night’s sleep. He wondered; what sleep was anymore, anyway?

  The cowboy rolled over in his bed and grabbed a small handgun. He considered it his lucky charm. It was always on his person, never in sight. He placed it under his pillow, keeping his hand on it. He rolled to his other side, there beside him the face of a witch. Before the witch could grab him, he rolled off the bed. “What is this? The most famous cowboy? Have you come to hunt me dear cowboy?” The witch’s voice was annoyingly high pitched. The cowboy fired his lucky gun at her. She slid out of the way and waved her finger at him. The cowboy grabbed hold of his shotgun, aimed it at her fired. She stopped the bullet in midair with a spell. The witch then began rolling her hands around each other, her eyeballs rolling back in her head. As she spoke her cursed spell out loud the lights in the motel flickered. The cowboy could feel the ground beneath him shaking. He held onto the dresser to maintain his balance. The witch’s eyes rolled around and around in their sockets. Her hair began to rise up high above her head. As her spell was coming to an end her eyes stopped rolling and looked directly at the cowboy. Blood ran from the witch’s nose, her pointy finger tips were now directed at the cowboy. Before he could do anything about it, before he had a chance, the front door burst open. There was Barry dressed in his plaid shirt and blue jeans! He raised his arms at the witch and shouted “Ballasterous!” A pulsating white light flashed from his palms pulverizing the witch. Barry dropped to the ground. The cowboy raced towards him. Barry was breathing heavily. “Please…” the old man said, grasping for air, “help my cousin.” The cowboy nodded, “Who are you?” The cowboy asked, “I told you. I’m Barry.”

  “But who are you?” the cowboy wanted to know how this old man knew a spell as powerful as that. “I was born on the hills of Nepal. To no woman, and no man you would ever know.” Barry was running short on breath, “I am a sorcerer of the Nokatu. I have lived many moons protecting the men and women of this world from witches. I am too old and frail, I cannot help anyone anymore, not even my cousin. That burden is yours now, dear cowboy.” The cowboy was up for the challenge. With his last breath of air Barry looked into the cowboy’s eyes and spoke, “Protect my cousin, find the infans, bring peace, end the curse.” Barry closed his eyes. The cowboy had questions, but none of them could be answered. Barry’s body vanished into thin air.

  The cowboy walked all night to the residence of Barry’s cousin. He was never given a name, or description of who the old man’s cousin was, but he was smart and knew he’d figure it out. The directions brought him to an old warn out farm house, it was located just north of the woods. Very close to the woods, it was no wonder witches were causing so many problems, the farm house was essentially on their turf.

  He walked to the front door as the sun began to rise, and knocked. He took a step back and waited.

  No answer. He knocked again. No answer. He pulled his shotgun from his back and held it up for safety. He walked down the front steps and made his way to the side of the house. There was a storm cellar, he removed the cover and looked down the stairs. A trail of blood guided him to the interior. He raised his shotgun and walked down the stairs.

  The storm cellar was dark and damp, exactly how he expected. The cowboy waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He looked around; it was filled with old junk. Old dolls, clothing, the storm cellar was essentially a storage unit.

  The door slammed shut.

  The cowboy was surrounded by darkness. That was when he heard the cackling laugh of a witch. He was surely not alone down there. He held his gun up in defense. The witch cackled yet again. This occultist was not one he had ever crossed paths with. Witches had a tendency to be flashy, and show off. It was what made them so easy to kill. This witch wanted the cowboy to know she was there, but didn’t care for putting on a spectacle.

  The cowboy flung his gun around and came face to face with… himself. Himself? There he was staring back at him. He removed his right hand from the trigger of his gun and waved, the being in front of him did the same. The door was behind him. He slowly stepped backwards towards it, all the while his other self stepped forward. The two were inseparable. The cowboy didn’t know what to make of this. As he got closer to the door his twin began to grow in size. Soon it was twice his size in both height and width. He felt the stair on his back foot. He fired his gun at his duplicate and it suddenly burst into smoke. He turned around and ran up the stairs. The doors were jammed. Locked! He turned back. Once again, the room was empty and pitch black. “So, the cowboy witch hunter has come to kill me.” A voice echoed in the darkness. “Kill you? I’ve come to talk to you. Nothi
ng more.” The cowboy shouted. “LIES!” The witch replied as candles lit up on their own all across the room. Still no sign of the witch. “Why don’t you show yourself so we can talk?” The cowboy politely asked. “Why don’t you drink your holy water so we can talk?” The witch snorted. “If I do that we can talk?” The cowboy inquired as he held his gun up, “But of course.” The witch now sounded like a child. “OK.” The cowboy removed three vials of holy water and drank them. He dropped the glass vials on the floor beneath him and the glass shattered all over the floor. The flames of the candles were extinguished. The cowboy held his shotgun tight ready to pull the trigger if need be. A cloud of white smoke swirled at his feet. It grew higher and higher. Eventually the witch emerged from the smoke. “Hello, Mr. Cowboy.” The witch was beautiful, her eyes were pulsing blue, her hair dark as night, her skin tanned, perfectly smooth and clear. She smiled at the cowboy; he noticed her teeth were sharp as knives. This was enough for the cowboy to determine he didn’t need to speak with the witch. She was a witch and he was a witch hunter. He fired his gun at her six times. Her body dropped to the ground. He reloaded his shotgun, and shot her six more times. He reloaded one final time and shot the witch six more times. He then unzipped his pants and urinated into the holes he put into her. The holy water in his urine was activated and the witch’s body began trembling before exploding into dust.

  The cowboy used the butt end of his shotgun to break through the storm cellar doors. He looked around at the empty property and walked off. Lucky for the cowboy there was a church not too far from the farmhouse. When he entered the church a priest approached him, “Blessed day.” The priest smiled at the cowboy. “Cut the crap, I need holy water.”