Shock Totem 9.5: Holiday Tales of the Macabre and Twisted - Halloween 2014 Read online

  PUBLISHER/EDITOR

  K. Allen Wood

  CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

  John Boden

  Catherine Grant

  Barry Lee Dejasu

  Zachary C. Parker

  COPY EDITOR

  Sarah Wood

  DIGITAL LAYOUT/DESIGN

  K. Allen Wood

  COVER DESIGN

  Mikio Murakami

  Established in 2009

  www.shocktotem.com

  Digital Edition Copyright © 2014 by Shock Totem Publications, LLC.

  “Night in the Forest of Loneliness” first appeared in Bards and Sages Quarterly, Vol. 3, Issue 2, Bards and Sages Publishing, 2011

  “The Candle Eaters” first appeared in The Gate 2: 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair, T.R.O. Publishing, 2012

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written consent of Shock Totem Publications, LLC.

  The short stories in this publication are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The views expressed in the nonfiction writing herein are solely those of the authors.

  ISSN 1944-110X

  Printed in the United States of America.

  NOTES FROM THE EDITOR’S DESK

  Welcome to the third Shock Totem holiday issue!

  The big one. Halloween. Little more need be said. If you’re a fan of horror, this is your holiday, and this is our tribute...

  Treats abound, in this special edition of Shock Totem are seven short stories, one poem, and five nonfiction pieces. Of the fiction, John Boden and Bracken MacLeod venture into dark and weird neighborhoods in “Halloween On...” In “Out of Field Theory,” Kevin Lucia gives us a shadowed glimpse of what lurks beyond the frame. David G. Blake’s “Night in the Forest of Loneliness” smells of autumn and the beautiful death she brings.

  Learn why sometimes it’s better to stay home on Halloween in “Tricks and Treats,” by Rose Blackthorn. Kriscinda Lee Everitt’s “Howdy Doody Time” is a poignant nod to the past. The shadows come alive in “Before This Night Is Done,” by Barry Lee Dejasu, and in my story, “The Candle Eaters,” I explore faith and hope and a darkness that haunts us all.

  In addition to the fiction, Sydney Leigh provides a very fine poem, “Allhallowtide (To the Faithless Departed).”

  Authors John Langan, Lee Thomas, and Jeremy Wagner, as well as filmmaker Mike Lombardo and the always wonderful and brusque Babs Boden, provide anecdotal Halloween recollections.

  And there you have it, folks. The quick and dirty. No tricks, all treats.

  Dig in!

  K. Allen Wood

  October 31, 2014

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Notes from the Editor’s Desk

  Halloween On...

  by John Boden and Bracken MacLeod

  Night in the Forest of Loneliness

  by David G. Blake

  Kore

  Holiday Recollection

  by John Langan

  Out of Field Theory

  by Kevin Lucia

  Tricks and Treats

  by Rose Blackthorn

  Witches and the March of Dimes, and Mike Warnke

  Holiday Recollection

  by Babs Boden

  Howdy Doody Time

  by Kriscinda Lee Everitt

  When I Scared Myself Out of Halloween

  Holiday Recollection

  by Jeremy Wagner

  Before This Night Is Done

  by Barry Lee Dejasu

  The Mansion

  Holiday Recollection

  by Lee Thomas

  Allhallowtide (To the Faithless Departed)

  by Sydney Leigh

  Flay Bells Ring, or How the Horror Filmmaker Stole Christmas

  Holiday Recollection

  by Mike Lombardo

  The Candle Eaters

  by K. Allen Wood

  Howling Through the Keyhole

  HALLOWEEN ON...

  by John Boden and Bracken MacLeod

  The Corner of Thomas and Ash Streets

  The porches sag and creak, weary from all their burdens. The jack-o-lanterns glow and smile wide and wider, waxen tongues of flicker and flames dance behind them. Molten wax hisses when it licks the wick in sizzle kisses. Bats flutter and dance in the dim shine of streetlight as they devour insects by the pound. Giggles and squeals mingle with them.

  The children wander and run. Stumble and fall. Sweaty fists around paper sacs or plastic bags. Mouths moist with candy and spit. Tripping on cloaks and capes and toilet-paper bandages. A miniature army of ghoulies, ghosties, and long-leggedy beasties. They scour the neighborhood until every house has been hit, more than once, their bags bulging with candy and gluttony. Eyes glisten with every emotion save for dignity.

  Roger stares out the kitchen window and smiles. It is not an honest smile. He turns to the tableful of candies, small chocolate blobs, each resting upon their original wrapper. He quickly wraps each one and wipes them off the table edge and into the plastic cauldron. He sets it on the counter and puts the drain cleaner and Borax under the sink, the sewing kit back on the hall table. He looks into the mirror above it and straightens his collar. The tiny square of white lining perfectly with his square jaw. He fastens the top black button, then grabs the candy and heads for the porch.

  His hand shakes a little as it hovers in front of the switch for the porch light. He closes his eyes, nods, and flicks the switch. Pale yellow light illuminates the porch and walkway. Children shout and footsteps assault his ears before he even fully gets out the door. “Trick or treat, father!” So loud. Tiny hands darting for the mouth of the container. Father Brigham looks up at the stars and smiles again. “Only one apiece, please,” he says.

  There’s salvation in the air and it smells like cinnamon and leaves.

  The Corner of Cave and Ellis

  Nick tugged at the costume where it bunched up. He’d spent hours on it, but it still didn’t fit quite right, riding high in the crotch and twisting around uncomfortably in other places as he moved. He didn’t move much, though. He stared at the computer and shoveled another handful of puffs into his mouth. His mom had asked why he went to all the trouble of making a costume if he wasn’t going out. He said he’d go later, after the crowds died down. She treated him like a little kid, telling him he’d miss all the best candy. It never occurred to her that everyone would think it was weird that a fifteen-year-old dressed up. He never admitted he couldn’t bear to hear the other kids laughing at him or the adults scolding him for being too old for Halloween.

  On the screen, Mr. Bowman’s head popped in a fountain of red. The rifle report passed through Nick’s headphones, echoing in the night of ones and zeros. A chime sounded and a glowing double-digit score rose up out of the ragged stump of Bowman’s neck. Juanita Bowman was so gorgeous he ached when he thought about her. Nick paused, making his avatar crouch over the collapsed body—tea-bagging it. Achievement unlocked! He moved on, continuing to virtually prowl the streets of South Yardley.

  Homeshores wasn’t the best shooter. It had decent graphics and the gameplay was all right, but it had open source code and
the creators encouraged mods. He’d mapped the entire neighborhood, spending months capturing every house along the way with his dad’s Minolta. That online satellite program helped him map the back yards. He took pictures of the people in the division too: Lester Little and his zombie wife, the Bowmans, that asshole priest, and the Stouts down the cul-de-sac. He already had all the kids’ faces from the annual. He encoded everyone in the neighborhood except old Mrs. Hearn. She was sweet to him. He didn’t need to shoot her.

  BLAM! HEADSHOT!

  Barry Grant went down.

  Downstairs, his parents laughed at some idiot sitcom.

  A bunch of eggs slapped and splattered against his window. He started, terrified and gasping. His spasming hands tangled up in the headphones cord and pulled them painfully off.

  Nick breathed, trying to slow his heart. If he couldn’t remain calm under pressure it was never going to work. He didn’t bother looking out the window. It didn’t matter who threw the eggs; they were all the same.

  He brushed the tears off his face and wiped them on the FDNY patch stitched over his heart. Someday he’d be a protector. He’d be a hero and rescue people. But first he had to learn not to be afraid of them. He’d never be brave enough to run into a burning building if stepping out the door gave him a heart attack.

  He sat down again and picked up his imaginary rifle, ready to confront his fears.

  The Corner of Ballard Ave

  Bonnie sat at the small table in the display window of what used to be the town General Store. She’d wanted to convert that space into a reading nook—something homey and comfortable—but Lester wouldn’t allow it. He’d insisted on the table and chairs, arranging them to present the appearance of a place where customers could sit and moon over each other as they sipped at twin straws from the same malted milk glass. Except, she wasn’t allowed to sit there. No one was. “It’s about the ambiance,” he’d say. “We’ve got to preserve the aesthetic of the original.”

  She stared out the window at a group of children over at Father Brigham’s. A faint choral “Thank you” echoed through the neighborhood. The kids bounded up Ash Street, giddy in the night. A small contingent of adults trailed them from a respectful but safe distance. Bonnie thought how nice it was to live in a place where parents would let their kids come out after dark.

  She watched them move from house to house until finally reaching hers. Trick-or-treaters never came to her door. Lester would turn the porch light off and say, “Store’s closed.” He only wanted the appearance of a public place; in reality, their house was a complete departure from anything one might call welcoming.

  Not this year.

  Bonnie jumped up at the sound of the bell. She cheerfully sing-songed, “Trick or treat!” as she flung the door wide, beating them to the punch. She complimented the kids on their costumes, making sure to let each one know how impressed she was by their originality.

  “You did a great job decorating,” Juanita Bowman said.

  Bonnie had hung orange and green string lights around the windows and draped a purple bat-shaped garland from the eaves above the door. A black and orange wreath decorated the window in the door and she’d even squeezed herself down into the crawlspace beneath the front deck to set up the sound effects speaker playing a loop of ghostly wailing and cats yowling over a soundtrack of spooky organ music. The sounds carried up from between the boards along with the faint hint of her husband’s screaming.

  “Thank you.”

  “Lester’s not around?”

  Bonnie listened to him using up the last of his oxygen. It had been so hard to dig down there. The earth was dry hardpack. After a foot or so, she was able to dig from a kneeling position, but the extra room didn’t translate into less work. It was a slow hell all the way down. But he was roofied and locked in the box; she’d had time to dig it just right. She imagined she might have gotten three or so feet down at the end of it. Deep enough.

  She wanted to hear.

  More than that, she wanted him to hear the children screaming “Trick or treat!” She wanted him to hear them laughing and her telling them all, “You’re welcome.”

  The Corner of Kenwood Lane

  Missus Hearn watches her game shows alone. She steals looks at the bowl of candy on the small table by the door, sees the tarnished patina of porch-light glowing through the screen door, and sighs for the thousandth time. She stands with a groan and walks over to peer out at the empty street. “I remember when my boys was little, there was easily eighty kids for trick or treats.” The statement is meant for no one, so the fact it is mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate matters not. She balls up the foil wrapper, pushes it to the bottom of the bowl with the others, and returns to her chair.

  Pat Sajak is looking weird these days; he’s probably had some work done. She shakes her head and thinks about turning off the porch light and calling it a night. She thinks she sees a shadow on the porch. Was that a small knock? With the popping of knees and groaning of back, she rises, walks over to the door, and looks outside.

  Nothing.

  The chair beckons, promises warmth for her aching back, comfort for the evening. She turns—but there it is again, another feeble knock on the door. This time she’s sure. She smiles and whispers, “Finally.”

  The boy is small, very small. Possibly three years old. He has dark brown hair, cut in a bowl that crowns his chubby cheeked face. “Hello there.” She nudges the door open with an elbow. The boy smiles and hold up his pillowcase. A pillowcase? Boy, that takes her back. “Well, I haven’t had many kids tonight and I’m tired, so I’m gonna give you a few handfuls, okay?” He nods excitedly, and she grabs a handful of candy and drops it into the boy’s pillowcase.

  Ronald, her oldest son, sits in his car across the street. His face is wet with tears. The cell phone to his ear rings again and then someone picks up. “Tim,” he says, “I’m watching mom hand out candy. She just dropped about five handfuls into...well, nothing. There isn’t anyone there. She just opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. She’s smiling and talking to someone, dropping candy on the porch.” He sighs and sniffs back tears. “I think we need to call that lady at the care place—it might be time.”

  There is a long pause that stings like bees.

  “I’m on my way,” Tim says.

  Ronald drops the phone on the passenger seat. He covers his eyes with a pink hand and cries quietly in the dark.

  On the porch, his mother waves to the little boy who made her night. Reminding him to be careful as he goes down the steps, and to stop at the car beside the street sign and give a piece of candy to her son, Ronny, to cheer him up. The moon sat in the sky like a blind eye.

  John Boden lives in the shadow of Three Mile Island, where he bakes cakes and cookies for a living. Any remaining time is unevenly divided between his amazing wife and sons, working for Shock Totem, and his own writing. His unique fiction has appeared in 52 Stitches, Metazen, Weirdyear, Black Ink Horror 7, O Little Town of Deathlehem, Radical Dislocations, Splatterpunk 5, and Psychos, edited by John Skipp. His not-for-children children’s book, Dominoes, was published in 2013. He has work forthcoming in Blight Digest, Once Upon an Apocalypse Vol. I, Despumation Magazine, and Halloween Forevermore. He has stunning muttonchops and a heart of gold.

  Bracken MacLeod has worked as a martial arts teacher, a university philosophy instructor, for a children’s non-profit, and as a criminal and civil trial attorney. In addition to Shock Totem, his short fiction has appeared in Shotgun Honey, Sex and Murder Magazine, LampLight Magazine, Every Day Fiction, The Anthology: Year One and Year Two: Inner Demons Out, Reloaded: Both Barrels Vol. 2, Ominous Realities, The Big Adios, and Beat to a Pulp. He has a story forthcoming in Issue 6 of the DIY horrorzine, Splatterpunk.

  He is the author of the novel Mountain Home, and most recently a novella titled White Knight from One Eye Press.

  He lives in New England and is currently at work on his next novel.

  NIGHT IN THE FORE
ST OF LONELINESS

  by David G. Blake

  She lured another one home. Tightness expanded outward from her toes. She told him her name was Willow, and he laughed and claimed his name was Oak. It was a fitting moniker; his laugh was wooden and his arms were unyielding limbs beneath her small hands. He kissed her, but she pushed him away and poured two glasses of wine. There may not have been a great deal of time left, but she still wanted to enjoy the process.

  His green, leafy eyes twinkled mischievously as they drank. Pain crawled from beneath her skin, from her feet upward to her calves.

  The wine was gone. The room rocked Willow to a swoon. Numbness danced along her legs and caressed her thighs. The sensation roused her and she found herself nestled in oaken limbs that swayed with the wind and whispered promises with every creak. She considered asking him to leave, but her loneliness refused such a kindness. Her fingers unclasped each cold button of his shirt, and she pressed both palms against his hard chest, pushing him to the bed.

  His green, lush eyes darkened with desire as she undressed. Numbness pinched her nipples and waves of tantalizing pain rippled downward.

  The heat of wine bloomed down Willow’s arms and into her fingertips. He gasped as she brushed them softly across his lips. Pain raced beneath her skin, along her arms, and reached for him. He pulled her closer and closed his eyes. The moist, intermingled warmth of their tongues exploded inward like rays of fattened sunshine. She breathed in the heat and exhaled it from every pore.