Happy, Oh Happy Halloween

 

Happy Halloween,
Trick or Treat,
Nightmare wishes and
candy corn dreams,
there’s a Monster
under your bed,
in your closet,
in your head.

Let the moonlight,
cast creeping shadows on
the crisp autumnal night streets,
while nocturnal creatures rise
from sepulchers and graves,
ravenous for sweet living
flesh and the brains of
the innocent.

Beware the black cat crossing
your path, as you traipse
door to door, collecting candy and
frights,  saccharine delights, stinking
of grease paint and the dampening
leaves strewn about the lawns,
keep vigilant for unfamiliar footfalls
at your back.

Dusky and dark,
twilight settling in,
unnerving and anxious,
cold breezes rush in, blowing
a spiral of leaves o’ re head,
Jack-O-Lanter’s candle flames,
flicker, while something sinister
whispers your name.

Happy All Hallows Eve;
pray the morning comes,
but you’ll never be as sure of
what you saw, as you were,
yesterday.
Was it real, or just a dream,
a sugar rush vision of a
possible Hell.

Happy Halloween!!!

Haunted

 

Halloween Horrors are not
quite what they used to be,
it doesn’t seem like ghosts,
ghouls and monsters are all
that scary anymore,
now it is men and women,
dressed in silly camouflage (which clearly works in urban settings)
stalking the streets,
taking people instead of candy.

It is indeed a trick without
the treat, what witches were
once accused of doing seems
commonplace as people are
scooped up off the streets,
and spirited away to secret
caverns where who knows
what horrors are inflicted.

One pumpkin colored man’s fears,
have amplified through
the vacant heads of zombie
hordes, chanting soulless mantras
of their own fear, reverberating
through the bloody fields of
public decorum in endless news
cycles.

I’m not afraid of fictional nightmares,
I’m terrified of the man-made realities;
where division is candy and hatred is
sugar, for bellies too fat on bigotry
to stomach.

Do monsters fear monsters,
or have the monsters always
just been men. Are we afraid of
our shadows, flickering in the firelight
against Plato’s cave wall?
I’m haunted.  

That's Pretty Scary

 

                “There’s a Pumpkin Man standing on the front lawn, Jeffrey,” said Margie. 

                “What’s that you say,” asked Jeffrey. 

                “A Pumpkin Man, he’s  just standing on the front lawn. It looks like he’s waving, or maybe, dancing or something,” said Margie. 

                Jeffery put his mug of hot apple cider down on the near by end table, tossed the cozy fall blanket off his legs and rose from the warmth of the well-worn leather couch. His shadow flickered against the wall of the study as he crossed in front of the crackling fire in the fireplace. He stood next to Margie at the window and separated the blinds. 

                On the lawn, just as Margie had said, was a lumpy looking Pumpkin Man standing on the lawn amid the recently fallen Autumn leaves. He seemed to be doing some sort of primitive dance, raising each stubby arm up elbow high as if he were playing maracas, but slowly and out of sync with any actual tune. 

                “Well, that’s weird,” said Jeffrey, “I wonder if it’s some sort of Halloween thing. Some kids or some goofy neighbor. You remember how weird the Gonzalez's were don’t you honey.” 

                Margie looked out the window again at the oddly shaped being, so orange in the face, the green stem on the top somewhat yellowed rotten and old. It was clad in a wrinkled and ill-fitting suit, just sort of dancing on the lawn to a song it didn’t really know. 

                “I don’t think it’s a Halloween thing. I think it... wants something,” said Margie. 

                “What could it possibly want,” asked Jeffrey as he looked back out the window. He was sad his apple cider was starting to cool rapidly on the end table. He was starting to feel a little annoyed Margie had interrupted him. It was her idea to light the fireplace and have a cozy night under the blanket. 

                “I think it wants our vote,” said Margie. 

                “Our vote? For like, best pumpkin at a State Fair or something,” asked Jeffrey. 

                Margie leaned closer to the window to get another look. Jeffrey sighed and looked longingly at the mug on the end table. He’d added some whiskey when Margie wasn’t looking. 

                “Yes, I see it now. His little leafy hand is holding a Vote for Me for President sign,” said Margie, “It’s a small sign, but it’s holding it, holding it in the weirdest way possible.” 

                “President? President of what, the produce aisle,” asked Jeffrey as he looked out the window again. 

                Margie grabbed at her shoulders and shuddered. “I just got a terrible feeling”, she said. 

                Jeffrey snorted slightly through his nose but they both kept staring at the swaying Pumpkin Man on the lawn. 

                The doorbell rang and both Jeffrey and Margie jumped. The sudden chiming had startled them both. 

                “I’ll get it,” said Jeffrey. But Margie grabbed him by the crook of his right arm and pulled. 

                “Let’s both go to the door,” said Margie. 

                The doorbell chimed again, and Jeffrey and Margie stiffened their backs. They headed toward the front door. Jeffrey flicked on the porch light and peered through the peephole. He could only see someone’s back, their body swaying back and forth on the balls of their feet. 

                “Who is it,” questioned Jeffrey through the closed door. 

                “Just a minute of your time if you would sir. We’re just looking to talk to some registered voters and get their opinions on some of the most important issues facing our time,” said a grumbly yet strangely youthful voice from the shadows. 

                “Um, we’re not accepting any callers at this hour,” said Jeffrey as Margie squeezed his arm. 

                “Sir, the fate of our way of life is in serious jeopardy, so we would sincerely like to talk to you about what you can do to make this country great again and save it from the evil within that is rotting it’s soul,” said the voice in the shadows of the front porch. 

                “Um, no thank you. We’re not interested. Thank you,” said Jeffrey. 

                “We’re not going away sir,” said the voice, “You need to stand up for your county sir.” 

                “Are you affiliated with that… thing on the front lawn,” asked Margie. 

                The figure on the front porch paused for a beat. He shifted on his feet and cracked his neck loudly. 

                “Ma’am, that man is the holy savior, given divination by God to save this Country from the rats and liberals that have destroyed the holy Christian fabric of our nation. He is the only one that can save you if you elect him as President,” said the man on the porch. 

                “Um,… this nation was founded by Protestants,” said Margie. 

                There was another long pause from the figure on the porch. 

                “Can I leave some literature with you folks,” asked the figure on the porch. 

                Jeffrey and Margie looked at each other, both shaking their heads. 

                “No. No thank you,” they both said, “Please just be on your way,” added Jeffrey. 

                The figure on the porch shuffled lamely, as if one of it’s legs had been seriously injured at some point in the past. It shuffled and limped into the chilly Autumn night. 

                Margie shuddered again and Jeffrey rubbed her shoulders. 

                “That was extremely weird,” said Jeffrey. He straightened his sweater from where Margie had been holding him tight. He turned from the door and headed back to his now cold apple cider and whisky.  Margie returned to the window and looked outside. 

                She shrieked and stumbled backwards as the Pumpkin Man was now pressed against the glass. It was moaning and mumbling incoherently about tariffs and dealing with the deals that only he can deal with the dealers who do the dealings, tariffs and that he loved women, and enemies, and then it stopped and just stood there, sleeping it seemed, but still dancing. 

                Jeffrey helped Margie up and hugged her tight. He reached out toward the window and quickly whisked the curtains closed. The Pumpkin Man, still mumbling against the glass, slobbering and mixing metaphors with unintelligible ramblings. Until it just stopped, seemingly forgetting what it was doing, until there was no sound at all. 

                “Just a few more weeks darling,” said Jeffrey as he soothed the terrified Margie, “Just a few more weeks and he’ll be gone. Back to the dead zone from which he was spawned.” 

                The fire crackled in the fireplace, the flames casting eerie shadows on the walls.

 

 

               

 

                 

 

 

Every Day Halloween

 

All Hallows Eve,

Halloween,

Hungry Ghost Festival,

Tuesday.

 

Snow on our Halloween,

in the Midwest;

or perhaps tiny Trick-or-Treaters,

dressed like snowflakes, no two are alike.

 

Powdered sugar perhaps,

to sweeten the grimness

that has recently prevailed

for so many.

 

The day before All Saints Day,

in which there is likely a long

list of Saints, Saints in waiting

and your classic well-known Saint types.

 

All Saints asking for candy,

door to door,

dressed as Princesses, goblins,

demons, and non-canonical lore.

 

The typical creeping gloom,

of an Autumnal rite of passage,

seems less dreary, when every day,

seems to unleash Halloween horrors, somewhere.

 

The killer at the Summer Camp,

nothing,

the killer in the attic,

a chump.

 

It seems, as of late,

that every day is Halloween,

followed by mourning,

for the fallen Saints.

 

Ding-Dong,

Trick-or-Treat,

here’s a full-sized candy bar,

to dull the impending doom.

 

Happy Halloween!!

October Magic

 

                Harlan held the Witch’s Rune stone up towards the Moon. He squinted in the dim light trying to make sure the full Moon was precisely centered in the small stone. The Witch told him that he had to be in the woods, at this exact spot, at this exact time, holding the rune stone up to the moon, making sure it was perfectly centered in the little hole in the stone and then all his wishes would be granted. His arm was getting tired, but he wasn’t going to let that get in the way of all his wildest fantasies from coming true. It was the price he had to pay, that and his everlasting soul or whatever.   He started chanting the magic words the Witch taught him. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ko…,” he chanted.   

                The Witch had a small shop on 9^th Street where she told fortunes, read tea leaves, re-soled your shoes, did a little laundry (with magic Harlan assumed), and put curses on woman that rejected potential suitors. She also would let you touch one of her breasts, but that was always an extra fee and Harlan would not stoop to such low levels of depravity. Not with a Witch anyway.   

                Harlan had gone to the Witch many times over the years; when he was being bullied in High School, or when he was being bullied at the Movie theater, or when he was being bullied at the Auto Parts Store, or when he was feeling bad about himself for all the excessive masturbation. She always knew what to do for him and how to give him the right potion or concoction to free him from the curses of others and his own thoughts. She was always very reasonable with her prices too. Which Harlan respected. He’d tried VooDoo with a “Doctor” but all he got was very drunk on Rum, an empty wallet and, a pin in his butt. 

                So Harlan was all about the Witch. He did everything she directed him to do, and his life had never been so good. He was never late on his car payments anymore and his skin had really kind of sort of started to clear up, except for the rash, which he kept applying the cat grease to as directed, but it didn’t seem to be getting better, but he had faith in the Witch.  She hadn’t steered him wrong yet. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ke…,” continued Harlan. The Moon was slowly moving across the sky and Harlan’s arm was getting really sore form holding the stone up so high. He wished he could lean against a tree or something, but the Witch was very serious about standing inside the protected circle of random leaves. Otherwise the consequences would be dire, she had told him. Harlan wanted nothing to do with dire consequences. He didn’t even like regular consequences. 

                A night owl hooted as it flew overhead. Harlan could hear some cracking of sticks and crunching of leaves through the trees, and he felt a shiver run down the back of his legs. He dared not look away from the Rune Stone Moonstone thing that cost him thirty bucks though.  He needed his wish to come true. He needed Nancy to stop ignoring him and just start being his girlfriend already. He’d sent her all the signs and posted so many notes to the window of her car and she just needed to realize that he was the man for her. Not Brian. Her husband. He was not a cool guy. 

                “Oh me reng ki-ko, oh mi reng ki-ke,” said Harlan as loud as he could. All while feeling his arm shake with exhaustion and muscle pain.  He was having a hard time keeping the stone centered on the Moon. But then, he couldn’t remember how long he was supposed to hold the Moonstone Rune in place. Maybe he did it long enough. He couldn’t remember what the Witch had said about how long to hold it up for since she had opened her shirt and asked him if he wanted a touch for $20. 

                Harlan didn’t have any more money, so he told her No Thank You.

                A cloud moved across the face of the Moon, dimming it and casting Harlan into further wooded darkness. He decided the cloud cover was a sign that his chant had been successful, and he lowered his arm. He stood there, gently massaging his sore arm, imagining Nancy waiting for him at his apartment door, dressed in the Halloween costume from three years ago, that showed a lot of leg and cleavage. He was excited by this absolutely sure thing that was going to happen, thanks to magic and the Witch. He just knew it had worked. 

                He wiped his dripping nose as it had started to get cold. It was nearing three in the morning, and he had to trudge his way back towards his car parked over on Route 23; or was it Route 25? He could see his breath in the cold October air. He paused, trying to remember which direction he had walked to the clearing from. He got turned around using his flashlight trying to find the circle of random leaves. He looked up at the near starless sky assuming he could simply navigate by the stars. How hard could it be? 

                There was a crunching sound coming from the thick brush to Harlan’s left and he quickly flicked the flashlight beam in that direction. He swore he heard a child laugh.  Nothing was there though. 

                “Pssht… typical scary movie trope,” said Harlan, “I’m not scared. I’m protected by a powerful Witch!” 

                A cold wind swirled around Harland, blowing a small tornado of leaves around him. He felt something brush the back of his neck and he jumped, screeching like a startled pig. 

                “I’m not scared. I’m NOT scared,” said Harlan as he waved his flashlight back and forth through the pitch blackness of the woods. He was panting and felt a gurgle in his stomach. He wished he hadn’t eaten all those oysters at that little shack he stopped at while driving here. He knew it didn’t smell right, but the waitress was pretty. 

                A thud in front of Harlan, sounding like a large tree branch crashing to the ground. Harlan squealed again and turned to run. He farted in fear and grabbed for the back of his pants, fearing something worse. He was bent over and running awkwardly, like a gazelle with mis-matched sized legs, and he stumbled and fell face first into a giant rock. He hit his forehead hard, and he saw a bright flash and brilliantly lit holes poking through his field of vision. He screamed and rolled onto his side, clutching his head. He moaned. He sat up and turned his flashlight towards the rock he tripped on. 

                “Oh no…,” said Harlan before he fell into unconsciousness. 

                His flashlight fell, still illuminating the rock, which had the matching markings of the Rune stone in his pocket. The woods were silent.

 

 

Tap-Dancing Hells

 

There’s a bumbling shadow

flashing across my moonlit bedroom walls,

a lanky fellow, in a top

hat and tails, tap-dancing;

badly.

 

He’s quite thin,

toothpick arms and legs,

but thick in the middle,

a distended belly of

sorts, shadily protruding.

 

I only sort of catch him,

if I’m glancing that way,

he may be a bad dancer, but he’s

quick on his feet and flees

my quick gazes.

 

I think he twirls a thin

cane too, but he’s too quick

to see all that well, plus he’s

a shadow, which are typically

poorly defined, as shadows go.

 

I think I saw him eating

a sandwich once,

a comically large sandwich,

even with the olive pinned

to the top slice of bread.

 

I guess all that bad dancing

must keep him thin, and yet

he can’t follow a beat and doesn’t

seem to understand rhythm.

It’s amazing, and terrifying.

 

There he is,

in my bedroom, leaping from

dresser to dresser as if he were

Gene Kelly, but never went to art school,

a black mass, step-ball changing through the night.

 

He’s haunting me,

he’s so undefined,

is he a ghost; or is it

just my mind, in the low light

of night;

 

Playing tricks on me,

while black cats whine and

cold winds blow autumn leaves,

scratching and scraping like long claws on

the cold sidewalks.

 

It’s scary to see him,

it’s unnerving that he might

be there, behind me,

in front of me, always there.

As I pull the bed covers up to my eyes.

 

A horror of wondering;

what if I’m him,

or even worse,

what if,

he’s,

me?

 

 

Honesty in the End

 

                “Well that doesn’t seem right at all,” said Jerry. 

                He was looking up toward the sky, watching a green glowing mass slowly descend towards the Earth’s surface. He spit into the high grass to his right and wiped the edges of his mouth with his flannel sleeve. The high grass bristled in the afternoon breeze and was the only sound Jerry could hear. 

                “Yup, that ain’t right at all,” said Jerry as the Sun was slowly blotted out of the sky. The blue Autumn sky turned dark as some strange pitch swallowed the light. 

                Jerry started backing down the long dirt road towards his farm. The winds picked up and swirled in bursts through the harvested fields and across the roads. Fall leaves skittered across the road in hurried masses.  Jerry could feel a slight rumbling in the ground as he started to run up to his front porch where his wife Mavis was clutching the porch post, peering up at the darkened sky. 

                “What is all that ruckus,” asked Mavis.

                “It’s the end of the World I think,” said Jerry, “We’ve got to get down to the storm cellar I think.” 

                Mavis looked back up to the sky and shook her head and made the Sign of the Cross. 

                “It’s because of all the liberals,” said Mavis, “God’s coming to punish them and their wicked ways. A final reckoning of all their mis-deeds, fornications, homosexuality, baby murdering and worship of false idols like the social media and CNN. Praise Jesus.” 

                “Mavis, now don’t be that way. You know that the good book says to ‘judge not lest ye be judged’,” said Jerry. 

                “I’m sorry Jerry. It’s just that, I don’t want to have to pay the price for their misdeeds. I’ve lived a good Christian life and I can’t believe the world is going to end before we even had a chance to really do any living. All we’ve been doing is working this farm for the last 23 years and what do we get for it. A damn Apocalypse,” said Mavis. 

                Jerry pulled Mavis from the porch and started leading her around the side of their modest frame home. The winds picking up as they walked, blowing hot air all around them. 

                “I hear you Mav, it’s just, when it’s time…it’s time,” said Jerry. 

He pulled open the storm cellar doors. The sky rumbled and the green glowing object in the sky was now engulfed in the flames of entry into Earth’s atmosphere. 

“Let’s get in the cellar here and perhaps God will find us worthy of sparing,” said Jerry. 

He pulled Mavis by her right arm as he stepped down the old cellar steps. She shrugged him off. 

“I can do it myself thank you Mr. Handsy. Don’t think we’re going to be getting all cozy down there. I’ve a right mind to kick you out and force you to be a cursed surface dweller,” shouted Mavis. 

“Yes ma’am,” said Jerry as she climbed down the stairs past him. 

Jerry closed the cellar doors behind her and latched them into place. He closed the additional storm shutters he’s installed last Summer as well. The cellar was quiet and dark. 

“Did you remember to put the batteries down here,” asked Mavis as she fumbled in the dark for the lantern. “I don’t know how many times I told you about the batteries.” 

“I did. They’re to the left of the big beef jerky boxes and the feed bags,” said Jerry. 

Jerry could hear Mavis’ heavy breathing as she searched for the lanterns. Which she did find and switched on, bathing the cellar in hot fluorescent light. 

“Are you alright Mavis,” asked Jerry.

“No, I am not. I am very mad that if this is the end of the World then I feel like we got cheated,” said Mavis. 

Jerry nodded and looked up at the floor boards above his head. He could hear them groaning ever so slightly. Although he wasn’t 100% sure that it wasn’t also Mavis groaning in concert. 

“I mean, you work in a mine shaft for ten years, get enough so we can get a loan from a bank to buy a farm which took us years and years to get right. I left my school dreams of my seamstress shop. We try to have children but God doesn’t bless us in the family way, but we persist and we build a life together, give to the church, pray with the Johnson’s when their Sally got hooked on the opioids, buy Christmas presents for the orphans down by Bodega Bay School district, and this…this is our justly heavenly reward. To die in this cellar while some rich fornicator will probably survive whatever this is so they can continue to fornicate and sin while we’re buried under this dreadful old house,” said Mavis. 

“Seems like that’s the way the Lord wants it,” said Jerry as he felt the support joists shudder. 

The house was shaking and the ground was trembling. Dust and dirt was sifting up into the air and Mavis shooed it away. Jerry went to the cellar window and peeled back the thin silver foil he’d put over the glass so long ago, Y2K he thought, and peeked through a thin sliver out toward the side yard. The sky looked to be on fire as clouds seemed to be in a roiling boil, thrashing about in high winds and what seemed like great plumes of flame. 

“Ugh, that’s powerful,” said Mavis as she pulled her shirt up over her nose. The air smelled charred and acrid. 

“It’s not looking too good out there,” said Jerry, “I don’t think we’re going to make it.” 

Mavis folded her arms and plopped onto one of the cots Jerry had put down. She huffed and blew the hair off her forehead. 

“Of course we’re not going to make it. Why would we, the good people, make it,” rhetorically asked Mavis. 

Jerry re-sealed the window and sat down next to his wife. He put his arm on her leg and pat her gently. 

“Mavis, I hate you. I’ve hated you for years. You are a cruel woman, bereft of compassion, honesty and empathy. You are demanding, spiteful, and a sincerely ugly person. I’m actually sorry I have to die in here with you and I can only hope upon the resurrection I won’t have to be harnessed to such a wrathful and hateful woman,” said Jerry. 

Mavis leaned in towards Jerry and put her head on his shoulder. 

“Jerry, you’re an impotent coward who never once took any initiative. You’d rather masturbate in the woods than touch me. You smell bad and your general hygiene is akin to some sort of troll mixed with a sasquatch. I hate when you eat, breath and spit. I hate that I wasted my life with you. If we become undead zombies, I hope we won’t know each other, and if we do, I hope I can spear myself in the head” said Mavis. 

Jerry pulled Mavis in closer and kissed her on her neck. She squeezed his hand. The walls of the cellar burst into flame and the house dropped on top of Jerry and Mavis.

This Isn't Over

 

I really love October for the glut of scary stories out there. It's really my favorite time to write something horror related. So I hope you enjoy this silly little cliche piece of gory horror. Please enjoy and I hope I can do a few more this month!

This Isn't Over

                Reggie sat on the edge of the ambulance bumper. He was trying to hold still as he sipped his coffee but he was shaking too much. The coffee was too hot but he was too numb to notice as it spilled over his hand and dripped onto the gray blanket draped over his shoulders. The night was quiet but altogether too loud.    

                The ambulance and police car lights flickered on the surrounding houses. The strobe effect was making Reggie nervous. He tried to catch his breath and hold still.  The whole night seemed to be a series of flashes in his mind and he had trouble making sense of it all. Too many flashes. 

                A pair of black dress shoes crunched the leaves in front of Reggie. He looked up at the slender man standing there. A large bronze badge hanging from his neck over an old neck tie caught Reggie’s attention. 

                “So, whose blood is that,” asked the detective.               

                Reggie tried to answer but all he could do was shake and spill a little more coffee. 

                “Listen,” said the man, “I’m Detective Orie and I just want you to tell me what you can about what happened tonight. Just take your time and tell me what you can.” 

                Reggie nodded and cleared his throat. He wiped his cheek and looked at the blood on back of his hand. His friend’s blood. All his friends. All their blood. Reggie dropped the coffee cup to the street and buried his face into his hands. He began to sob. Deep breathy sobs echoed through the neighborhood. 

                Detective Orie looked over to his partner and shook his head. His partner, nodded and told the ambulance driver to take Reggie out of there, to the hospital.  The EMT helped the sobbing Reggie into the back of the ambulance. As they got him seated, he looked up at Detective Orie and managed to say, “It’s not over.” The doors of the ambulance slammed shut and it took off towards the rising sun. 

                “What was that about,” asked Detective Teria as she watched the ambulance maneuver through the crowded street.

                “I’m not sure,” said Detective Orie, “This is a pretty bad one for sure.” 

                Detective Orie and his partner headed toward the house where the massacre had happened. They ducked under the classic yellow police line/crime scene tape. Detective Orie always felt that was so cliché but it was just a part of the job. 

                They stepped through the front entrance of the three-story home into the foyer. In front of them were the badly mutilated bodies of a young man and woman. Detective Teria looked back over her shoulder to take a quick fresh breath before venturing further. The tile floor was drenched in blood and they had to step around it gingerly. The Crime Scene techs had placed a piece of plywood stretching from the front door to the bottom step that led upstairs. It kept their feet out of the blood. 

                Detectives Orie and Teria looked up the carpeted stairs where two young women were sitting in puddles of blood. They were sitting back to back, dead, positioned on the stairs, leaning against each other. Set up in a macabre display. 

                “Jesus,” said Detective Teria. 

                They stepped around the bodies in the foyer and worked their way down the hall where yet another body was. A large man, in a football jersey, was apparently impaled by a beer keg, the spout protruding from the middle of his chest.  Beer was still slightly dripping from the spout. 

                In the kitchen, there was blood spray and spatter all over the walls, the table, the chairs and appliances. The kitchen knives were all out of the knife block on the counter. The knives were sticking out of cabinets and the door frame. The next body was found shoved into an ironing board pantry. It was so crushed the Crime scene team thought it wasn’t a whole body. 

                “Have you ever seen anything like this,” asked Detective Teria. 

                Detective Orie shook his head no. He’d been to war. He’d been a cop for 15 years. Nothing in all that time was as terrible as this. 

                “So, the new is reporting that one guy did all this,” said Teria.

                “How’d the news get that info,” asked Orie. 

                Detective Teria shrugged and tried not to look at the crushed body in the ironing board pantry. She shuddered. 

                “We’ll have to get a statement from that survivor. But one guy doing all of…this? That seems hard to believe. I mean, what kind of psycho barges into a party and just does…this? It’s just not something I am prepared to think about,” said Detective Orie. 

                “Excuse me, Detective,” said one of the Crime Scene Techs, “you better have a look at this security footage.” 

                The detectives followed the tech to a home office off the living room. The tech had the monitor cued up to an image of the house’s back yard. 

                “You’re not going to believe this,” said the tech. 

                The detectives huddled in front of the screen as the tech pressed play. 

                “Dear God,” said Detective Orie as he watched a hulking mass of a man trudge through the yard holding a giant scythe. The man had some sort of mask over his face, a rabbit or a lion perhaps, the video was too grainy to make out. The man in the video stopped in the yard and pointed up at the camera before trudging into the house.  He re-appeared in the yard a short time later trudging back the way he came. He was carrying a head in his hand like one would carry a bowling ball.   

                   “Great,” said Detective Teria, “One guy. One massive guy with a giant scythe. Holding a human head.  Shouldn’t be too hard to find right?” 

                “Maybe the kid was right,” said Detective Orie, “Maybe this wasn’t over.”

Is it Scary Enough?

 

Normally, around this time

of year, I write mini-horror stories

and terrifying tales of mysterious

doings and bone-chilling, skin-crawling,

nightmare fuel.

It’s a tradition with me, of sorts.

 

I typically get a kick out of the

macabre around Halloween and

I think it’s fun to write some silly

little story about a haunted house or

cursed carnival ride or a desolate

desert highway.  

 

This year however, the fun, make-believe

chills of Halloween seem to pale in

comparison when the real world is

already far scarier than any fictional

drama or suspense my little noggin

can come up with.

 

Rampant sickness sweeping the globe?

Check.

Major Political Unrest at home and abroad?

Check.

Maniacs, fires, and global catastrophe?

Check.

Candy Corn?

Get bent you monster.

 

Writing a little bit of horror escapism seems

like a wasted and futile pastime.

I know it has value, but who wants to add

to the real-life terrors right now.

The knife-wielding killer is in the darkened hallway;

so what, does he know the state of my 401K?

 

The real terrors of getting sick and shitting myself

to death or waking up in an ever more present dystopian

horrorscape far outweighs any fictional misty moors of Scotland

and being hunted by a blood-thirsty werewolf.

The real-life human blood lust is all too much,

and makes for a better horror story anyway.

 

Although, who knows, maybe as we get closer to

All Hallows Eve, I might find some inspiration and

crank out some blood curdling twisted tale ripe with

Twilight Zone inspired twists and drama.

But for now, I’ll just watch

the Presidential Debate tomorrow night and

clutch my pillow close and pray that the

noise I heard from under my bed is a mouse

and not Tucker Carlson.  

Gallows Tree Hill

On a lonely hill jutting above

the desolate fields stands a

single tree; The Gallows Tree.

It grows there, waiting for me.

My love, she mourns at the foot of the

Gallows Tree, handkerchief clutched

in both her shaking hands as she

weeps for me.

The cold Autumn wind blows

the leaves from the Gallows Tree,

as they march me up towards its

bony and spindly branches.

The bare branches are the image of

a hand clenched in a fist, trying

to punch the sky, and hit unmerciful

God in the nose, get his blood on things.

The October sunrise peeks over the heads

of the crowd, assembled to watch me

visit with the Gallows Tree.

I see her, my love, crying for me.

The leg irons jingle with each trudging step

I make up the hill to the executioner,

a noose swaying in the cold morning wind,

as a raven croaks unceremoniously in the tree.

My love, she weeps, as I pass her by,

I see her tears reflecting the rising orange sun,

and I know that this miscarriage would be set right,

this affront to justice would be revenged.

I face the Gallows Tree, knowing what I did was

done for love. All the spectators know. They

want me to swing nonetheless. They want my

blood to sweeten the ground of Gallows Tree hill.

A rooster crowing in the distance, the judge

nods, and the rope is placed around my neck,

a flimsy wooden box placed beneath my feet,

I decline the black hood over my head.

My love, she wails, at the foot of

the judge but he is un-swayed, he nudges

her aside and reads the Sentence to the

waiting, blood-thirsty crowd.

For murder, for arson, for theft,

for robbery, for assault, for bearing

false witness, this man is sentenced

to be hung until his death.

I can hear the Gallows Tree branches creak

in hungry anticipation of the soul about to

be delivered to it. Its greed leaking like

sap from its weathered bark. 

My love screams as the judge leans towards

my ear and asks if I have any final words

to impart or forgiveness I wish to plead.

The wind whips up as I say I do.

“I am innocent. I have done you no

wrong in this life.” The silent crowd scoffs.

“However, I cannot claim such innocence in death, as

I will have my revenge. My vengeance will be unimaginable.”

I look to the weeping eyes of my love,

sitting in a heap upon the dusty hill,

“My love, so loyal and true; my revenge will

be swift and no harm will come to you.”

The judge nodded to the executioner,

and out he kicked the flimsy wooden box,

the rope tightened, the branched creaked,

the ravens flew from the upper Gallows Tree branches.

Revenge boils in my dying eyes and I stare at

the faces of who wrongfully convicted me.

As the breath escapes me, I let my spirit go,

to bring in a reign of havoc upon these judgmental souls.

I swear and curse that every October

in the orange sun of morning, I will haunt them all

I will scare them all. I will make them beg for mercy

but provide them with none. Forever.