All Hallows' Eve

by Hal L. O'ween

  *

  Iris was sitting in her favourite chair stroking Thomas who was sitting on her knee, the cat purred as his cheeks were being tickled.

  'I don't think I should go into the kitchen this year, I'll try to get through this evening without venturing in there' Iris told Thomas who kept purring as she stoked him.

  The cat suddenly sat upright on Iris's knee, his ears bent back and his fur bushed up, his size had increased with the thickness of his brushed up fur.

  'Beware of the Halloween spirit' the cat spoke, in a feline raspy voice.

  Iris jumped in surprise as the cat spoke, Thomas sprang off her knee.

  'Beware of the Halloween spirit' the cat repeated.

  'What on earth is happening, that can't be you speaking Thomas, what's going on here?'

  Iris was now doubting her sanity, was she going slowly mad living here on her own? She missed her husband so much and she only had Thomas for company.

  Unbeknown to Iris, her late husband's spirit had entered Thomas and tried to warn her, but his warning had not had the desired effect. Iris Waltham was still in shock from hearing Thomas speak, she backed away from the ginger cat and into the kitchen, that turned out to be a bad move.

  The evil spirit terrorized Iris, it conjured up images that her mind couldn't comprehend, Iris was terrified and couldn't do anything to save herself.

  *

  The evil spirit loved Halloween, this was the only time he was released from his living hell. He was earthbound and doomed to stay here in the grounds where he had once murdered a family. He had murdered his brother, his brother's wife and their two children. He had been jealous of his brother who had everything, the evil spirit had nothing. It was right here on this spot in a house many years ago, where he had murdered his brother's family before this little house had been built, where this kitchen now stood.

  His supernatural power had built up over the years gaining in strength as the years went on. He was more powerful and more evil than he had even been while he had been alive. When he was alive he was Alfred Cox, a murderer who had been executed for his evil crimes, now he was an entity to be reckoned with, no one could stop his increasing powers, no one knew he existed.

  He would finish this old woman off tonight, this was the grand finale. He rattled drawers, opened and closed cupboards, windows flew open and shut. The kitchen became a hive of supernatural activity. Alfred Cox was evil and very angry, he hadn't deserved to be condemned forever to an eternity of hatred, to an infinity of being undead. He was kept in a limbo state until Halloween when he was allowed one night to inflict whatever he wanted on whoever he pleased. This was pure evil, overshadowed by the devil himself.

  'Old woman you are going to die tonight'.

  'Go away, leave me alone, you can't be real, leave me alone'.

  'Old woman I have you now, you will die tonight'

  'Leave me alone, go away, go away....'

  Iris Waltham's body was discovered a few days later when the postman alerted the police.

  Thomas the ginger cat was lying beside Iris, on the kitchen floor. Iris had died of a heart attack but she had a terrified expression imprinted onto her face.

  Iris had left a will, the little house to her niece, Iris's niece loved the place and had adopted Thomas the ginger cat. Thomas was happy, he still had his place in front of the warm cozy fire. This little house was just what Iris's niece had been looking for after splitting up with her husband, she even had a cat for company.

  *

  Looking at the clock Elaine stretched and yawned, time always passed quickly when she was writing. She was so lucky to be here, this little house was her salvation at a time in her life when she needed a little luck. The cat was lovely, her loyal friend, cats don't argue they don't talk back. Elaine gave a sigh, looking back on her life it hadn't been ideal, but now things were beginning to look up for her.

  The last book she had written had been published and she had sold many copies, it was a great start to her writing career. Elaine felt truly blessed.

  'It's Halloween and we haven't had anyone come trick or treating tonight have we Thomas, it must be raining outside that would put the children off. I'll just finish this chapter and then we can watch a bit of TV. How does that sound Thomas'?

  Thomas stretched out on the rug in front of the fire. The light suddenly flickered on and off, on and off, on and off. Thomas stirred, Elaine was startled.

  Elaine Waltham stopped writing, she was certain she had heard something in the kitchen. Thomas had heard it too, his ears went back and his fur stood on end.

  'Beware of the Halloween spirit' Thomas warned.

  *

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  Chapter 36

  “A Tasty Twist”

  Stephen L. Wilson

  Eugene, Oregon, USA

  I was waking up. “Coming to” was more like it. My head throbbed, and my mouth was dry. What was that horrible smell? An organic, deathly permanent smell.

  Where had I been? Memories were fragmented, flashing in my mind like bits of archaic newsreel. My lifelong friend, Jason, was taunting the old woman, laughing as he pushed her against the dumpster in the vacant alley.

  “Who’s your daddy, Rumpelstiltskin?”

  Rumpelstiltskin. That was the name given to the woman by the kids in the neighborhood. She moved, broken and bent, with a cane. She always wore that stained brown pea coat covered in cat hair, and a drab, yellowing scarf wrapping her ancient head. None of us remembered her ever speaking; only glowering at our hateful antics with cold, black eyes which pierced our very souls. Oh, we would laugh and taunt, but with a nervous fear to drive our actions. Usually Rumpelstiltskin would stay close to her home, which was a tiny shack of an A-frame, hiding in a jumbled, foreboding nest of overgrown shrubbery and a few tired trees with branches dangling precariously over the withered and dismal dwelling. On the few occasions when one of us would boldly approach her, she would skitter to her sanctuary with surprisingly quick movements, staring; staring back at us with those shiny eyes once she was in the safety of her surroundings.

  Another memory flashed through my mind. Rumpelstiltskin, bouncing off of the dumpster, losing her balance. As she stumbled forward, she was unable to avoid a bar extending from the receptacle. Her head met the protrusion with a sickening crunch. As her body sagged and fell toward the Earth, her face held her up, as if in proud defiance. After a moment, it too gave up, and released her to the ground. She was moaning softly, making helpless motions with her legs. It was as if she was running in slow motion.

  I looked at Jason, who was clearly shocked. I turned back to Rumpelstiltskin, noticing first those eyes. Wide and glossy; hurt and accusing, framed by the black paint now covering her face. As she writhed, and the moonlight captured her expression, I saw that it was actually blood, which was now pouring from a cavernous dent just above her eyebrows. For the time, I heard her voice. It was raspy and crisp, like the clicking of a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle wheel.

  “Tasty…flies! Tasty…flies!”

  What the hell? Unless I was not hearing her right, that knock to the noggin must have been worse than I thought. Apparently it was, because no sooner had I thought this, than Rumpelstiltskin had expired. There was no need to check her pulse, or perform any type of test to prove it. Jason and I both just knew. Her legs had stopped pumping, and her black, glistening
orbs remained open to the world, staring through us even in death. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swore I saw the reflection of both of us in those deep pools of ebony, framed by the crimson of her lifeblood.

  Neither one of us spoke during the walk home. Jason was a specter, his face so white it was almost transparent. I couldn’t believe that we had just killed Rumpelstiltskin. I wondered what our fate would be, if the cops would know it was us, if I would ever live past this gruesome moment. When we walked up to my house, we looked at each other one last, grim time, and then I went inside. I quietly and slowly trudged upstairs to bed. Despite my experience, I fell asleep quickly. I must have been drained.

  And now I am awake. Again, that smell. That putrid, unhealthy, rotting and eternal smell. For the first time I realize that I cannot move. I cannot open my eyes. My arms are pinned to my side; my legs bound together. Where am I? Am I in bed?

  I am now alert and frantic. I feel like I am on some kind of trampoline. My body bobs in rhythm, as if to a slow, gentle imaginary beat. What is going on?

  There is a guttural noise to my right. Is that Jason? I feel the trampoline quivering, and a louder, more distinct groaning sound. Yes, it is Jason, but he is not saying anything; only making loud, indistinct noises. At once the trampoline bounces wildly and I thought I was falling. As suddenly as it began, the bouncing settles, and once again I am bobbing to that imaginary beat. Still, that God-awful smell, so unfamiliar to me, permeates my senses.

  I have to find a way to see what is going on. I realize that my face is covered with rope or gauze of some kind. Maybe there is some way to loosen it or at least peek around it. Even though my body is tightly bound, I discover that I can move my head a bit. Maybe I can work the rope loose enough to catch a glimpse of my surroundings.

  As I writhe my head around in an attempt to free my vision, I hear crusty words being whispered. I can’t quite make out what they are saying, but my heart quickens, and I increase my movements. The trampoline jerks suddenly, and I hear a crunching sound. Jason gurgles an unintelligible scream, which quickly fades to silence. Not exactly silence. His desperate wail is replaced with a steady slurping, which sounds like Jell-o being sucked through a straw. I close my eyes tight and increase my efforts to break free, my head now a wild, whiplashing metronome, moving to the frantic beat of an internal Danse Macabre.

  After a moment I lay still, my body gently bobbing on the trampoline. The ghastly slurping sounds have stopped. I open my eyes, and find that my efforts have paid off. The rope has slipped somewhat, and I see a couple of pinhole lights, which are stars in the black sky. I roll my eyes to the right, and see a long, tubular bar with rows of hairy protrusions. Before I can process this information, the trampoline bounces viciously again, and my eyes slam shut in reflex.

  The bouncing gently settles into the now familiar pattern of bobbing in time to a slow, silent waltz.

  “One-two-three. One-two-three.”

  I open my eyes. Directly in front of me are two long, yellow, pointed shafts, about a foot apart. As I focus, I look to the top of the shafts. I see what appears to be dozens of hemispheres in a variety of sizes, each one neatly imitating the next, arrayed in geometrical rows. They look hauntingly familiar. Then I hear the raspy, creaking whisper:

  “Tasty…flies. Tasty…flies.”

  I don’t know if my scream was audible. I just know I shrieked with my psyche and every fiber of my being as the fangs plunged into my chest. My fear became agony as I realized that the crunch I heard was my ribs breaking and shattering. I could feel the pain and pressure as Rumpelstiltskin withdrew my internal juices with her strong vacuum. The newly familiar slurping sound was all I could hear. As the life faded from my body, my last sight was the visible dent above those rows of eyes. Those probing, knowing, glassy eyes, shrouded by the smell of eternal death.

  *

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  Chapter 37

  “Written For and During”

  Bruce Hesselbach

  Newfane, Vermont, USA

  Take a look at yourself! I’m talking to you, Miss Victoria Smith! Your eyes are baggy; your hands are red and clammy; your tongue tastes like cotton; there’s stringy hair in your face; why, your very breath is evil! How long has it been since you’ve had a bath?

  Get a hold of yourself, girl; grab that pencil tightly; sit up; close mouth; wipe away that -- Now, now girl! Chin up! You’re shacking up at the old man’s. Cold – cold – Oh the hell with it!

  Goddam mirror never worth a shit anyhow.

  Funny story how I got here. Tell the story, girl! Oh, well, you know, I’m weird. So my old man says. Isn’t that strange when you look in the mirror and you can see two faces inside your eyes looking out at you, all distraught and pale, just faces disconnected? Well, never mind that.

  I was feeling pretty bad. No sleep, no food, no water. Threw up once into a paper cup laying outside an ice cream store. Nobody even wanted to look at me, I could see that. It was terribly cold, though I couldn’t stop sweating; it felt like it was freezing on my back. What a mess. Then I went over into the lobby of the Manchester Hotel. Cramps, as if I was having my period two weeks early. I could hardly walk for being drug down, yanking at me all inside.

  The paper boy was there. “Hey P-P-Powlo,” I siz, “throw me a f-f-few pills for Chrissake, anything.”

  “No go, Vicki. I’m broke.”

  “You can get me s-some, Powlo.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry my ass.”

  So I got out of there fast. Crummy place. The bar there sucks. Mostly only bums go there, cheap as all hell. But outside the hotel was what I wanted. Cabs usually come down there at nights. A cold wet night like that, nobody there but me. Coat I had on was too short. Shoes pinched, gave me a sore. The room I live in is so lousy I use my shoes to kick the big rats when we had them but they all died they starved to death.

  Waiting seemed like hours for a cab. Hell it was about 12 midnight the Phone company gets off then and cabs go away. Felt very cold and wet. I was shaking and sat on the sidewalk. God I wished I had some prune juice at least. That was colder and it hurt my back. Maybe I should go back inside the Hotel. If they threw me out it would be worth it and not freeze my ass off. But just then a cab came. Young cab driver, pretty good looking, so I said, get up, kid, do your stuff.

  “Okay, Lady, get in! Where ya going?’

  He had this long black hair, combed back at the sides. Out of the 50’s, you know. His face was cute and he was young for a cabbie.

  “Take me down ta Furrows Road in Goodwich.” The car had already taken off. Then he had to call up because Goodwich was far out of the city limits. A set rate to go there. I forget how much. I was just wishing I could fool around with his hair from the back and I would too if he’d stop talking and trying to get me to talk. Hell, I couldn’t follow what he was saying, the motion of the car made my stomach too tied up I could puke. Something about a new road needed in Goodrich to cut down on consumer traffic or something. I siz, “Yeah.” “Yeah right.” “Yeah sure.” Eventually we started getting close to where I wanted.

  I siz, “Juh-just over dis hill.”

  “Okay; where’s the house?” he siz, stopping quickly. Then he stared at me like I was some kind of nut.

  I stared right back.

  Then I siz, “You can let me out here if ya want.”

  He dint know what to do. It’s so many dollars, he siz, repeating what he said before. He was getting nervous and afraid.

  “I can’t pay you,” I siz. “I ain’t got no money.”<
br />
  Now he started to act sore, like rays of lightning and fire shooting out from his mouth.

  “Listen,” I siz, “you’ll get paid if you take me down ta the other side of the cemetery. I ain’t got no money on me.”

  He pulled the car up to the front entrance of the almost endless, rotted cemetery. It was black as hell in there. No stars were out because of fog and clouds, and in Goodwich it gets so dark you can’t see in front of your face although you think you can. The graves were all white and shadowy and the highbeams showed trees with no leaves, they died too, and no sounds except a little from toads and stuff. There are some snakes and birds and raccoons in the cemetery that people will mistake for stiffs that were just buried there by accident and hadn’t really died yet. They revived and broke out, though not in their right minds of course.

  This happened years ago to my twin sister.

  And then there’s some kids in Goodwich that hitch around in the dark and one kid got drunk on a bottle of straight Southern Comfort and slept on a grave all night then he woke up and thought he was dead because he was so stiff and couldn’t move, his body was asleep and numb.

  There’s things in the cemetery by and by that nobody ever sees. Nobody lives long enough to, it happens very slow, from year to year. All the people taking out what’s not theirs for laughs or else putting in things that they want to get rid of, like dead babies and five year olds beaten to death and dogs run over by cars with their guts bashed out and strangled cats and suicides go there and they sort of decay while the animals get to them and spread things around in the leaves and the mud, where the greenflies, the slugs, the maggots, the millipedes, the ants all live in the stinking purple flesh like spaghetti.

  It’s all a big mystery with three or four skeletons exposed by erosion running through a little grove, the skulls have graffiti on them and headstones back from the 1700’s where the bodies were dug up and now there are no names on those headstones.

  I ain’t superstitious you can tell. Most people are really scared as hell to go in there at night because the knotted trees and branches look like they’re half alive and then you thinks of ghouls and partly rotted flesh and dried up brown blood like shit, and the darkness all surrounding with no ending as if you could never find your way back out again; but that’s only how it looks to a corpse.