All Hallows' Eve

by Hal L. O'ween

  When the man spoke, he kept it simple. He got straight to the point in telling us what we wanted. He said that whichever one of us was brave enough to murder the other two would be allowed to leave in one piece. He asked each one of us if we could do it. First, was the Pirate. That poor man thought that surely there was no way that any one of us would comply, and so he told the sick bastard to go to Hell. Following his lead, the Cat said something similar to the man, with much fouler language. And finally, the man asked me. He referred to me as “Nurse” as that was the costume I had chosen for the party. Once he asked me, I wasted no time. I felt remorse for the other two, but they were nowhere as important to me as my children were, and they needed their mother. I told the man that I would do it, and he smiled, pressing another button. This one released my shackles and I stepped down from my table, following his instructions.

  The chain remained around my neck as I walked to the table in the center of the room containing the tools. It seemed to be unraveling from somewhere behind the table that I had been on. The man told me I could use whatever was on the table, but that I had to be creative, and if he was pleased with my “work” then he would release me. The Pirate and the Cat begged me to stop and consider what I was doing. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t think about it. If I did, I might not have had the courage to go through with what needed to be done.

  I went to work on the Pirate first, using an ice cream scooper to remove his eyeballs from his skill. It was one of the metal ones, with the lever to help slide the ice cream, or in this case the eye ball, out of the scooper. I drowned out his screams with a power drill, which I used to slowly disconnect the flesh and bones on the man’s arms from the rest of his body. Blood, chunks of flesh, and bone dust littered my costume, making it look like I was meant to be some sort of zombie nurse. I used a large mallet on the man’s kneecaps, and just when he was almost dead, I finished the job by burying a hatchet into his forehead.

  When it came to the Cat, I got more personal with it. I personally reached my hand into her mouth and sliced her tongue off with a switchblade. I wrapped a long lock of her curly hair around the head of a hammer and pulled until I ripped it from her skull. I dug my fingernails into her sides and ripped them open by repeatedly scratching away at her flesh. I sliced a line down her abdomen and then stuck the claw of a hammer and a screwdriver in her open wounds, tugging her meat to the side and ripping it off of her body. She panted, open, as she died a hideous creature, a sad shadow of the beautiful girl she once was.

  This was when the man told me I needed to use the tools on myself. After everything I did for him. After the horrors I caused. He was going back on his word. I grabbed a hold of the hatchet and quickly hacked away at the chain that bound me, cutting myself loose. I grabbed the dragging chain and ran towards the man. He hadn’t expected this, and fell backwards in his chair, where I had the perfect opportunity to wrap the metal chain around his own neck. I knew nothing about this man, yet we shared the intimate moment of staring into each other’s eyes as I extinguished his life. After his last breath, I began to heave. I freaked out and lost it for several hours, until I finally pulled myself together long enough to get to this pen and paper.

  Ironically, even though I did what I did to see my children again, I can’t drive the screams from my head. The images of what I’ve done are burned into my memory and the tears keep flowing. To have my children see me this way would poison their memory of me, and honestly, I don’t think it would be safe for them. So, even now, I’m doing what I think will be best for them. As I write this final paragraph, I am grabbing the gun that I found in the man’s cabinet with my left hand, and I’m holding it up to my temple. To my children, I love you, and I hope one day you’ll understand.

  “I don’t get it,” Mark said, setting down the letter. “We searched four times and other than her strangled ex husband, there are no bodies.”

  Jason hung up his phone. “They just searched the bitch’s house. They found her children brutally murdered, still in their Halloween costumes. Get this. Her son was a pirate, and her daughter was a cat.”

  *

  My Facebook Author Page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Joseph-Alan-Gharagheer/144179028984962

  My Blog “The Literary Mind of Joe Gharagheer“: www.joegharagheer.wordpress.com

  Follow on Twitter! www.twitter.com/onthegowithjoe @onthegowithjoe

  ****

  Back to Table of Contents

  Chapter 42

  “Embracing the Beast”

  (Excerpt)

  Mel L. Kinder

  Livonia, Michigan, USA

  The breeze from the heavy liquor store door blew past my face as I fumbled with a fresh pack of smokes. It was going to be another sleepless night. Was it withdrawals from the medications? Maybe. Regardless, I was becoming a night-owl. This will not serve me once I return to work—if I return to work. Battling a terminal disease gave me the confidence to walk fearless in the shadow of night. I hadn't realized how reckless I'd been. Walking the streets alone late at night, leaving the windows open, leaving the doors unlocked. Was I tempting fate? Have I given up on life after coming so far in my treatment? I hardly sleep, eat or drink, yet I feel stronger than ever—almost manic. I have nothing left to lose but my life and if that were my destiny the treatment would fail.

  The subtle sound of footsteps came out of nowhere. The two men dressed in black stood taller than I even if I were wearing my tallest heels. My arms and legs went cold. I never encountered a situation of immediate danger before—not like this.

  One of the men yanked the cigarettes from my hands. “Don't you know these are bad for you?” he said condescending as he shoved them in his back pocket. The other man laughed a deep congested cackle. “You know what else is dangerous?” he antagonized. “Dumb little bitches walking alone at night.” The both laughed.

  Time stood still as I felt the change within me. It wasn't the fear and anxiety I expected but the adrenaline everyone talks about. I felt like I was about to do something hasty. I couldn't move. I didn't know what I planned to do. Run, scream, fight back?

  I knew no one would hear me and even if they did, they would pretend that they didn't. My mouth was trembling as if to say something but no words came. My mind was blank as if I had no language database to pull from. There would be no reasoning with these guys. They weren't the type to take your money and leave. Somehow I could sense that.

  The congested burly man shoved me against the wall and dug into my pockets. His breath smelled of whiskey, sweat and cold cuts. I couldn't believe I was still conscious. I should be more afraid but I was something else. I was anticipating something. Not sure what it was, I continued to stand there defenselessly as my brain remained a blank canvass.  Finding nothing in my front pockets, he reached around back. He caressed my ass before working his way up to the flap of the pocket. Now I could hear my heartbeat inside my ears which began to burn.

  He pulled my wallet out and threw it to his accomplice without so much as a glance in his direction. He caught the wallet like some practiced routine. These guys were regulars. How many defenseless women have they assaulted in this alley? Though my mind was as black as night, I knew where this was headed. I felt tension in my bones as I anticipated the man's next move. His cold fat fingers crept up my shirt. I felt them on my abdomen which made me shiver. Why wasn't I doing anything to stop this? I didn't want his grubby hands on me and yet I let it go on for far too long. Perhaps I wanted to feel justified in the actions that would follow. As if subconsciously I knew what I would do next. I felt no warning within me when it took over. The secret beast within me waited until the man was distracted by his confidence and anticipation of his next moves—easily brutalizing another woman. One so helpless she didn't so much as fight back.

  His eyes turned wide on me, body paralyzed and silent. His friend didn't know anything was amiss as he waited patiently, smoking my cigarettes.  Asshole! The adrenaline pulsed within every cell of my body.
There was a need to quench something deep in my soul. The longer my left fingers were inside of him—between the ribs—the more delicious the smell seeping from his pours. The sweat leaking down his face became an appetizing sight, like the juices of a sweet citrus fruit. I felt compelled to lick it from his face but fought the urge. I didn't understand what was coming over me. Like I were outside of myself watching it all unfold. Finally, my right fingers mirrored that of my left as they pierced his skin like butter and slid between the man's ribs. The siphoning of his life began and I felt it pour into me through up my arms and spreading throughout as it reached my shoulder. His life force tickled my senses and quenched the empty pit of my soul. It was better than a good night sleep, better than a fantasy and euphoria barely captured the essence of what it was to drain him of his undeserving life. It was over in seconds but in the heat of the moment it felt l I had escaped to my own paradise island. It was better sex and cigarettes.

  I released my fingers from his weightless corpse, drained of all moisture. Thin leathery skin pulled tightly over his bones like a drum. It fell to the ground as quiet as a handful of sand. His buddy was still smoking my cigarette facing away from the action. Conscious thought would slow my actions. Animal instinct fueled me now. I drained this man as I did the last but I had to drag things out because killing him wasn't the same. It was less satisfying. Perhaps his death was less justified.

  Dropping the corpse reality set in. What have I done? It was self-defense June. They would have killed you. The air was silent and brisk. No witnesses. What do I do with the bodies? I searched in all directions frantically, unable to think straight. As I reached for the corpse lying before me I noticed a symbol etched in the forehead of my victim. I yanked the skeletal wrist close to position the symbol into moonlight. With the sound of crumbling rock the torso detached from the man's waist and crushed into ash-like dust. Before the remainder collapsed I managed to get a better glimpse at the symbol etched in his leathery skull. It looked like some kind of arrow pointing downward. I hadn't noticed it before the man became meat. I searched the wall where the assault took place but the man was gone. Well, I guess that solves one problem. I looked to the hand which held the wrists of the bastard who stole my cigarettes. Nothing but dust remained. Ash-textured dust.

  *

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MelLKinder1

  Website: www.melaniekinder.com

  Follow on Twitter! www.twitter.com/MelanieKinder (@MelanieKinder)

  ****

  Back to Table of Contents

  Chapter 43

  “Borne of Pain”

  Patrick Ottuso

  Vero Beach, Florida, USA

  "Phillip, come down NOW!"

  Uh oh, what did I do now, thought Phillip Rauther. He approached his father cautiously as he saw his angered red face staring at the kitchen floor. The crushed cheerio was alone on the smooth polished kitchen floor, awaiting recognition.

  "Yours?" his father asked.

  "I'm sure it is", replied his unprotective mother, pointing her spindly finger at him. Phillip removed his shirt in the customary fashion, revealing multiple purple raised linear scars along his entire back. He bent over, knowing what was to come next. His father’s leather belt didn't sting anymore, the scars too thick to allow his nerve endings to feel the whipping. Only when the brass buckle bit into the deeper skin or hit the bone of his spine did he feel pain. His mothers wooden spoon made even a lesser impact.

  He ran upstairs after the beating, showered away the peeling scar tissue and blood and wrapped his back in a towel. Sleep was his only solitude. On the way to school the next day, the two mile walk, though tiring, allowed Phillip to think. For the thousandth time, as he passed the community fountain with the statue of Michael the Archangel, he flipped in a shiny penny and wished for a brother. He needed SOMEONE.

  The bright flash of lightning startled Phillip as the penny entered the water. Odd, thought Phillip, lightning with blue skies. He made a mental note to google that when he got home and continue on to school.

  Math class was boring...he hated fractions and decimals. The burning pain near his shirt collar startled him from his daydream. A small lump was forming on the back of his neck just below the hairline. Must be a bite, thought Phillip.

  By the time Phillip got home from school. the lump had grown bigger and more tender. "Not telling mom about this", he swore! He stayed in his room for the rest of the day; Tuesday was an "off day" for dinner. They couldn't afford nightly meals. Before bed, Phillip placed a hot hand cloth on the lump, hoping that it would drain. The throbbing was getting worse but he managed to fall asleep, praying that the pain would fade. In the early morning hours, Phillip felt a pop; the pain in his neck had gone. He fell asleep knowing that he would be better in the morning. He didn't see the small round sphere drop from the bed and roll near the bedroom door.

  Phillip woke and thought he was looking in the mirror! No, it was an image of himself sitting on the bedroom floor. "Hello Phillip, how do you feel?" "Whoooo aaarrreee yyoooouu?" stuttered Phillip in fear.

  "I'm Stephen, your new brother. You don't have to worry about your folks anymore" the new addition said with a wry smile.

  Phillip followed his new (newly created) brother down the hall, his parent’s door slightly ajar. Steven nodded his head, urging Phillip to enter. The room was bright red (wasn't their room painted yellow? thought Phillip), splattered walls revealing the slaughter. His father, shirtless, hung from the ceiling fixture by his leather belt. The bright shiny brass buckle positioned perfectly under his chin. Deep red whip lines all along his back dripped clotted blood on the parquet floor.

  His mother appeared to be watching the swinging corpse as she sat in the corner of the room. The staring eyes though, did not blink. Her mouth was agape, the wooden spoon jutting from the back of her throat.

  Phillip turned to Steven and smiled. "Let's go out and play," he said to his sibling.

  *

  Follow on Twitter! www.twitter.com/dermatologydr @dermatologydr

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/patrick.ottuso?ref=ts&fref=ts

  ****

  Back to Table of Contents

  Chapter 44

  “The Storm”

  Gerald D. Johnston

  Corunna, Ontario, Canada

  What the...

  Where am I?

  I awoke to the distant rumble of thunder, along with a gentle breeze that precedes summer storms. Stretched out, face up, my hands were in the river, feet back up on the bank. As I pulled my hands out of the water, my fingers brushed something slimy and yielding. Jerking back from the touch, I rolled away from the bank. The sky was thick with stars, aided by a lop-sided lunar grin, so it was easy to see what it was. It was a hand. There was a man floating dead in the water.

  I’m no doctor – and he was face-down, thank God – but he’d been there long enough that he’d begun to bloat, so he had to be dead. The one hand I could see reminded me of uncle Erne’s fingers that time he got stung by a bee and had to have his wedding ring cut off with a pair of bolt cutters. The way he screamed, you’d think my Dad was taking the finger too.

  Like me, this fellow didn’t wear any rings.

  The body had been mere inches from my outstretched hands – pinned between a half-submerged rock and a tree branch that had likely fallen into the water sometime in the spring – it rocked lazily with the flow of the river.

  I was with Bob last night, out drinking at The Stubborn Mule, but he has blonde hair; this guy’s hair was dark like mine – brown or maybe black; too hard to tell, what with it being wet and caked with river mud.

  As an image of a movie I’d seen in my youth played through my mind, I fought the sudden overwhelming urge to poke it – him, sorry – with a stick.

  I shucked my cell from my front pocket and touched the screen. Nothing. It was either dead or had gotten wet. Shitty. A thought occurred to me as I shoved to phone back in my pocket: I should’ve been way more fr
eaked out than I was, what with waking up next to a corpse and all.

  I was in shock, that’s what it was. Had to be.

  Off in the distance, lightning squirted across the horizon like a neon herald for the thick clouds at its back. The storm was heading this way, and, for some inexplicable reason, panic rose in me. Each strike sent a wave of pain through my body, and my head throbbed in time with my heart.

  After a glance toward the floater – a word I never thought I’d use outside the men’s room – I stood, turned, and walked to the edge of the trees that flanked the river. The moon, still ahead of the approaching storm, cast enough light for me to see past the woods. Barely visible, blue under the glow of the moon, was the highway.

  A flash followed seconds later by a chest-booming crack of thunder told me the storm was almost upon me. I had to move.

  I took a step past the first tree and stumbled...

  As I fell, the breeze turned cool and carried with it the pat-pat-patter of raindrops as they pelted the leaves. Closer now, I sensed it as a living thing and tasted its foul breath on my neck.

  The ground came rushing to meet me, then began to lose cohesion and bleed away. I tumbled past the forest floor and into a void.

  *

  I awoke to the after-image of lightning overhead, followed closely by a boom of thunder. Stretched out, face up, my hands were in the river, feet back up on the bank.

  What the...

  Where am I?

  A strong breeze filled my nostrils with a blend of ozone and rot. Above me, the moon hung, poised at the jaws of the star-eating storm heading its way. Beneath the advancing storm, the trees and undergrowth disappeared before a darkness so absolute that it seemed more a wall than a storm-front.