by R. E. Vance
Haven’t Read Episode One or Two Yet?
No worries!
CLICK HERE and I’ll send you EPISODES ONE and TWO for FREE!
I really, really want you to enjoy the world of Paradise Lot. Unfortunately, reading Episode Three without having first read episodes One and Two may leave you a bit lost … So, if you’ve bought Episode Three without having read the proceeding episodes, well—as they say in Scotland—NAY BOTHER! I’ll send you both episodes for FREE. Simply click the link above and you’ll be whisked away to the world of Paradise Lot.
Find Out How Everyone Met:
OK—so we’re accumulating quite the cast. We have the angel Penemue, the succubus Astarte, the poltergeist Judith, the golden fairy TinkerBelle and the demigod of refuse CaCa, all living under one roof. But how did this come to pass? Well, I’m in the process of writing a series of short stories on how they all met. These stories will NEVER BE SOLD, but reserved for fans of the series.
CLICK HERE to STAY UPDATED and I’ll pass on everyone’s origin stories as they develop
The Premise :
The gods are gone. All of them.
Their last message to humanity was: "Thank you for believing in us, but it is not enough. We're leaving. Good luck." At first no one took them seriously. Until, that is, all the denizens of all the heavens and hells started showing up on people's doorsteps.
Creatures that were once thought of as myth are now refugees striving to adapt to life on earth. Trouble is, after eons of living forever, they're not very good at being mortal.
The following are just a few of their stories.
Paradise Lot
Presents
“Other Halloween”
by
Justin Lee Anderson
It’s Halloween and I’m sitting on my friend Lucy’s massive sofa. I’m still wearing my Princess Leia costume, though the itchy hair buns are lying on the floor, next to the plastic bag holding what’s left of the night’s haul.
Lucy’s mom is at a friend’s house down the street. She thinks we’re both responsible enough to stay in alone. I just turned 13; Lucy’s birthday is six weeks away. We’re watching something we shouldn’t be – one of the Amityville sequels, I think. It’s pretty bad.
Lucy’s house is amazing. Her mom’s a lawyer or something. They’ve got this huge living room, with a massive TV. Behind the sofa, past the kitchen door on my side, and the front door on Lucy’s side, is an equally huge dining room, which is completely dark and pretty creepy. I’ve always liked her house during the day but, at night, it feels a little too big. A little too … open.
It’s around eleven when Lucy’s golden Labrador suddenly stands bolt upright and stares into the dining room.
“Benji,” says Lucy, “Sit.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
“Benji,” she says, insistently.
He whines, but doesn’t move.
“Stupid dog,” she says, grabbing his collar. He lets her pull him towards her, but doesn’t sit. His eyes never stray.
Something creaks upstairs. Lucy and I both look at the ceiling, then at each other.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says, beginning to sound nervous. “Probably just the wind or something.”
Benji hasn’t moved. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something’s wrong.
“Lucy, how far away is your mom?” I ask, quietly.
“Stop it, Harmony!” she says, hitting me with a cushion. “You’re creeping me out!”
The small lamp right behind me isn’t very bright, but it’s bright enough that I know it will stop me from seeing what Benji sees.
He begins to growl, quietly. Barely loud enough to hear.
“Benji!” Lucy shouts, irritated.
He keeps staring. His eyes are fixed on one point in the black. My heart’s racing.
Calm down, I think, desperately trying to rationalise the rising dread. It’s Halloween, you’re full of candy and you’re watching horror movies. It’s probably a cat. I look at Benji’s face. He’s one of the most gentle, kind dogs I’ve ever known. But that’s not what I see in his eyes. I see danger and love and bravery. I see a guard dog.
“Lucy,” I begin, but as I do, something clinks in the dining room. Something metal. Lucy snaps her head around and looks into the darkness. She stands and moves towards it, frowning. She stops, screams, and runs for the door. Benji moves quickly behind her. His teeth are bared and the growl is deeper, louder. Lucy fumbles the door open and runs out into the night, the witch’s dress rippling behind her. I listen to her bare feet slapping on the sidewalk into the distance – until I can’t hear her anymore. Benji stays.
I want to run too, but I can’t. The fear overwhelms me. I’ve thought about it too much.
I stand and turn to face directly into the dining room. I can’t see far past the lamp. I was right; my eyes can’t adjust. But I can see into the kitchen. Through the kitchen. To the back door.
It’s open.
Then I hear the breathing. Low and raspy, so quiet I could almost swear it’s just an echo of my imagination.
“Benji,” I try to say, but all that comes out is a croak. “Benji, please,” I beg him quietly. He whines and backs slowly away from the front door, towards me, back into the light. I touch his back. He bristles and the low growl returns. I can’t look away from the dark. Not now. If I look away…
My arms are trembling. The front door is wide open. I can see the streetlights outside.
I’m staring into that vast space, listening to the breathing, feeling my heart pound in my ears and all I want to know right now, the only thing in the world that matters is …
What’s in the dark?
↔
“There’s nothing in there,” I say, turning to Azrael.
“What?” he asks, confused. “There definitely was. There was a body.”
I step to the side of the coffin and spread my arms, inviting him to see the large empty box for himself.
“I don’t understand, Harmony,” says the erstwhile Angel of Death. “It was there a minute ago.”
Azrael crosses to the box and bends his huge frame over it, perplexed.
“You’re right. It’s definitely empty,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, sitting, “because I wasn’t absolutely sure when I stood right next to it.”
“But, I don’t…” he turns toward me, his huge wings folded humbly behind him. “I don’t understand. I’ve never lost a body before. Not even when I was killing them first. I’m very careful.”
“Have you been drinking?” I ask. Angels are known for it. Since the GrandExodus, some of them have not transitioned well to mortality. And this guy used to dish out mortality, so it’s hardly surprising that he’s not entirely OK with having it thrust upon him by the Gods leaving him high and dry, with barely even a “So long, and thanks for all the worship”.
“I have not!” he says, almost indignantly. “I swear, there was something in this casket when I collected it.”
“Wait,” I say. “You collected the casket? It’s not one of ours?”
I’m 35 years old. I’ve been running the funeral home ever since the GrandExodus. Since my parents were … lost. And I’ve never known anyone to ask us to do a job where they supply their own coffin. This is weird.
“Who’s the client?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Morty took the call.”
Santa Muerte is one third of my little group of
death harbingers. I found them hanging around the graveyard after the GrandExodus. There’s something deeply unsettling about seeing a skeleton and an angel moping around tombstones. It was like watching a Renaissance painting play out in front of me. When I asked them why they’d come here, they both had the exact same answer: they didn’t know where else to go. At least Seòras, a few days later, had been able to give me something more tangible. He felt comfortable here. More comfortable than anywhere else, anyway. I suppose it was familiar. A sort of reminder of home – of their old lives. Before the gods abandoned us.
At first, I just wanted to give them somewhere to sleep – out of the rain. After a few days, Azrael felt guilty about “taking advantage of my hospitality” and started helping around the place. He’s extremely neat. After a particularly weird Other funeral, which I struggled to manage on my own, he suggested that maybe he could help with the business, too. Once I got over my initial, instinctive rejection of such a ridiculous idea, I realized it actually made a lot of sense. I’d been trying to figure out how to hire some full-time employees – and paying them in accommodation made it a lot more affordable. Like most of them, Mom and Dad’s insurance refused to pay out after the GrandExodus. “Act of God” they called it. Of course.
Thankfully, they had paid off the mortgage on this place years ago. Plus, having employees who understood the needs, quirks and cultures of the Others meant I could offer a better service – which meant more customers. Win - win - win - win.
Azrael does pickups, drives the hearse and digs the graves. Seòras is security – something everybody needs these days. And Morty prepares the bodies. She is also a complete loon.
Azrael pulls the order sheet from his pocket.
“Mister Callar, it says,” looking at me as if that should mean something.
“First name?” I ask.
“Just initials. E.S.”
It takes a minute to sink in.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, grabbing the sheet from him. “Mr. E. S. Callar?”
I look at the sheet. There it is, in her scratchy handwriting. Exactly as he said. I look up at him blackly.
“What?” he asks, confused again.
“Mr. E. S. Callar? Mysterious caller?”
“Oh, right!” he says, “Oh, yes, that’s quite clever, isn’t it?”
“Where was the pickup?”
“It was unusual, actually, now you ask,” the angel says. “It was south of the graveyard.”
South of the graveyard. I shiver just thinking about it. Almost every map I’ve seen of Paradise Lot since it was established as a home for the Others on Earth has just two words plastered over that area: “Largely uninhabited”. Most cabs won’t go south of the graveyard.
“And who did you deal with?” I ask.
“Well, nobody,” he says. “Look…”
Azrael hands me the order sheet, pointing to the notes section. It reads:
“Door will be open. Let yourself in and collect body if nobody home.”
“And there was nobody there?” I ask.
“Not a soul. In fact, the whole street was extremely quiet.”
My first thought is that Morty’s played a practical joke on him. But the wordplay of that fake name is too sophisticated for her. She’d have gone for something simpler, like Hugh Jass or Amanda Huggenkiss. And Seòras doesn’t do jokes. Ever.
“Somebody’s pranking you, Az,” I hand him back the sheet. “It’s Halloween, and you just got tricked.”
“Oh. Is that a thing humans do on Halloween? I hadn’t realised.”
“Not really, actually. They’re more likely to throw toilet paper in the trees or egg the windows. Is it a thing Others do?” I ask.
“The ones I know who have particular traditions tonight tend to have sex with, sacrifice or eat someone – a few do all three. Well, they used to, obviously. Michael wouldn’t tolerate that kind of thing now. Not even for All Hallows’ Eve. Except the sex, I suppose.”
He has a point. Who plays practical jokes on Halloween? April Fool’s Day, maybe. I’m thinking it might just have been Morty after all, when I realise we’re missing something. Literally.
“Are you absolutely sure there was something in the coffin when you brought it in?”
“Absolutely. It was much heavier than it is now.”
“So whatever was in there … must be somewhere. Right?”
We’re staring at each other, both, I assume, silently wondering whether we need to be worried or not, when I realise I can hear something odd; a sort of shuffling. I put my finger to my lips and then to my ear. Azrael cocks his head and nods curiously.
Slowly, I creep to the double doors that lead into the reception area. With my ear against the door, I can hear it a little better. There’s also a sort of low moaning. As I’m about to throw open the doors, I realise I’m the idiot in the movie who’s about to get their face impaled. And since I have a very large angel in the room behind me, that seems a particularly stupid thing to do.
“Az,” I whisper, stepping away from what I am now aware is a very flimsy door, “there’s something in there.”
Azrael nods and steps into my place. He counts down from three with his fingers, and throws open the doors. I am not remotely prepared for what we see.
Limping towards us, up the middle of an aisle of seats, is a short, naked man. But he’s … wrong. His naked body is crisscrossed with what look like autopsy scars, but as I focus more clearly, they seem metallic. And his skin looks like it’s melting - or at least sliding off. His body shape is odd; like his muscles are all out of place. I register all of this in about five seconds, which is also how long it takes me to realise I’m screaming.
“What in the Void…?”Azrael asks.
“It’s a zombie!” I scream, backing towards the cabinet where I keep the gun I’ve carried since I started living amongst the Others.
“No,” Azrael says curiously, “it’s not. What are you, little thing?” he asks the shambling mess.
It stops dead, raises its head and groans in a way that I feel in my guts. I lift the gun from its drawer and release the safety. I can tell from the weight that it’s still loaded.
“Az!” I yell. “Move!”
Confused, but still attentive, Azrael steps back from the door, giving me a clear shot at the zombie. From every zombie movie I’ve ever seen, I know I need to shoot it in the head, but my hands are shaking so hard I’m not sure I’ll even be able to hit the damned thing at all. I close my eyes and squeeze the trigger.
I’m even more unprepared for what happens next.
“Woah, woah, woah!” The muffled shout sounds scared. Do zombies get scared?
I open my eyes to see it scrambling frantically at its front. Azrael and I watch, incredulous, as it unzips its chest, reaches under its chin and pulls back its own face to reveal a bare skull, covered in intricate, Mexican decorations.
“Morty!” I scream at her. “What the hell are you doing?!”
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” she pleads, hands in the air. “It’s not weird!”
I realise I’m still pointing the gun at her and lower my trembling arms.
“What do you mean ‘It’s not weird’? What, about this,” I gesticulate at the naked body she’s wearing, “is not weird?”
“I did not kill him!” she answers, “He was already dead! I’m just wearing his skin.”
I look pleadingly at Az for some kind of explanation. He shrugs.
Santa Muerte unzips the rest of her macabre skin suit.
“What?” I demand.
“It is Halloween!” she says, as though I’m missing something blindingly obvious. “I am a human! Brilliant, no?”
Even for Morty, this is impressively insane.
“I could have killed you!” I scream at her, brandishing the gun.
She cocks her head.
“Not really,” she says. “But you have made a little mess of my costume.”
She raises her arm to show where
my bullet pierced a hole in her side. There’s flesh showing through.
“My Gods, Morty, this is not OK!” I scream at her. “Is this man one of ours?”
She nods.
“Do you have any idea how wrong this is? You’re wearing a man’s skin! And flesh!”
“Oh, no, no, no!” she answers. “That would be totally wrong!”
She reaches into the skin suit that is now folded over the back of a chair and pulls out a lump of meat.
“I got this from the butcher!” she says, confidently. “It was out of date, so he was throwing it away.”
I struggle to find the words to explain to a painted Mexican skeleton why wearing chicken fillets underneath a dead man’s skin is definitely still wrong.
“Morty, taking someone else’s skin is just creepy,” I begin. “It’s … disrespectful. What about his family?”
“What about them?” She answers. “The funeral was two days ago and they are having him cremated. I just postponed the cremation so I could borrow his skin for Halloween. I’ll burn him tomorrow and hand over the ashes. They’ll never know!”
I open my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out but a sigh. I shrug, looking at Azrael for help.
“I think you have misunderstood the human custom, Morty,” the angel says. “Dressing up for Halloween involves pretending to be something else. Actually wearing their skin is too much – for them.”
“Oh,” she says, disappointed. “I thought the idea was to be scary. That is what my friend Linda said.”
“Fun scary,” I say. “This is actually scary.”
“Oh,” she says. “What is the point of that?”
“It’s fun! Children dress up in costumes and get candy. They don’t want to be genuinely terrified!”
“So, where do the body parts come in?”
“What? They don’t!”
I realise I’m still waving my gun around, and carefully put it back in the drawer with the safety on.