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

  Years later, I wrote a story about this experience. It’s been trunked. I could never work out the kinks. Much of that night has stayed with me, though, despite the drinking. On that night I discovered that dread didn’t need a face, a knife, teeth, or claws. Sometimes dread was simply nothing and staring at that nothing, fearing you will one day become a part of it.

  ALLHALLOWTIDE

  (TO THE FAITHLESS DEPARTED)

  by Sydney Leigh

  My heart beats wildly inside my sinking chest,

  loud like a BOMB in my head

  The clowns come too close,

  laughing and running endless circles around me

  in

  oversized shoes,

  slapping the floor in psychotic

  rhythmic

  patterns

  They breathe down my neck,

  hot air burning my skin

  stingingmelikebees

  I want to SCREAM, but I can’t—

  it’s so dark and I can’t see

  I can feel the spiders

  silently crawling down from the murderous sky,

  running over my feet and

  f

  a

  l

  l

  i

  n

  g

  into my hair

  but I can’t pull them out—

  someone is tying my hands behind my back

  I don’t know who it is his skin is cold and wet

  and I can smell the spoiled milk,

  hear it dripping onto the rotted floor

  it’s so . . .

  sour

  it’s biting the insides of my nose and making my head ache,

  the bomb is ticking away—

  I prepare for the boom and it’s

  A L L H A L L O W T I D E

  Now

  I hear the snakes,

  their pitchfork tongues cursing as they slither,

  coming from the water to take me back with them

  (I don’t want to go—

  the water is so cold)

  and I can’t see anything. Who’s talking to me?

  I hear voices and they’re calling out,

  offering love and religion and

  all I could never believe . . .

  Pay no attention to the man

  with the cold, wet hands because

  salvation

  salvation

  s-a-l-i-v-a-t-i-o-n

  Digest your faith with enzymes!

  Then come and have some candy, little girl . . .

  Every time

  you clear your throat,

  a doorbell rings

  in hell.

  Sydney Leigh is the evil literary double of a mostly sane writer and editor who hails from the North Shore. She and her one-eyed muse sweep the misty mountainsides of Valhalla with falcons on their shoulders, searching for dark stories to tell...and they both have scars to prove it. You can find her short fiction and poetry in various anthologies and magazines, and more is due to appear in several forthcoming collections.

  Look for her at Villipede Publications, where she spends her days charming letters and constructing nightmares—or drop into her website at www.shawnaleighbernard.com.

  HOLIDAY RECOLLECTION

  FLAY BELLS RING, OR HOW THE HORROR FILMMAKER STOLE CHRISTMAS

  by Mike Lombardo

  Halloween is a very special time of year for me. It’s a season that brings out the creativity in people and it’s the one time of year when I’m not thought to be criminally insane by the common populace. Well, most of the time, anyway...

  It was October the first, in the year of our Lord two thousand and four. I was gleefully putting the final touches on what at the time was my finest Halloween set-up to date: A full Christmas massacre set piece that would encompass my entire driveway and front yard. Visitors would approach the house, beckoned forward by twin lines of light-up candy canes marking the path up the driveway, which itself was lined with delicately wrapped Christmas presents, many of which were leaking blood from the bottoms. Long strings of colorful Christmas lights adorned ropes of barbed wire, scraps of bloodied flesh intermittently dangling next to shiny ornaments. A decapitated corpse bound like a mummy in snowman wrapping paper and shiny gold ribbon sat against the garage door. The Christmas stocking still containing a leg hung neatly next to a blood-smeared sign proclaiming that visitors were in fact at Santa’s Workshop. It was below this sign that I would sit, my Santa suit resembling a collaboration between Jackson Pollack and Jeffrey Dahmer.

  It’s worth mentioning that I live in a very conservative and religious suburban area that has all but eliminated Halloween from existence. The myriad of churches that cover the landscape like festering sores hold “Harvest Festivals” on trick-or-treat night to keep children indoors and to prevent them from wearing costumes of “devils, demons, and other ungodly things.” Homes with Halloween decorations are a rare sight where I live. So to say that my neighbors were displeased with my décor would be a bit of an understatement. The first indicator of their displeasure took the form of the nightly vandalism of my set piece. Every morning I would wake up before school and pick up the kicked over candy cane lights, reposition the blood-soaked presents, and put the Santa’s Workshop sign back up. Every night I would turn on the Christmas lights, shout “Ho ho ho!” into the cold autumn air, and go to sleep. This daily ritual went on until trick-or-treat night.

  The kaleidoscope of colored lights glinted off of my slimy purplish and mottled flesh as I sat in my chair beckoning trick-or-treaters to come up and tell me what they wanted for Christmas. I told the ones that refused to come closer that they had made my Naughty List and that I would be seeing them soon. I punctuated this threat with a menacing, blood-drooling smile and a wave. Surprisingly the parents of most of the kids got a huge kick out of everything and many even asked to take pictures of their children posing with me. I had some good conversations about the bizarre lack of Halloween spirit in Lancaster and many parents shared my sentiment that even just ten years ago, every house on the block would have converted their garage into a Chamber of Horrors and that they knew that Halloween was just harmless fun. Overall it was a very successful night.

  Flash forward to early November. The corpse of Halloween was barely cold and already the radio airwaves were blasting an endless loop of “Little Drummer Boy” and that really annoying Paul McCartney Christmas song. I was slaving away at my day job in the pizza shop when an irate woman walks in the door. She looks at me for a moment, delivers a death stare, and then approaches the counter.

  “What can I do for you, ma’am?” I ask politely.

  “You ruined Christmas for my child!” she spat.

  I stare at her puzzled for a moment, and then realize she is referring to my Halloween decorations. The question then becomes how the hell did she know who I was and where I worked? Before I could ask her, she launched into an angry tirade about how her daughter is now terrified of Santa Claus and that I destroyed Christmas for her family and I should be ashamed of myself. She went on to tell me that it’s offensive to her as a Christian that I would twist Yuletide imagery into something so horrific. I politely informed her that Santa and his reindeer and the like were mainly derived from Germanic pagan tradition mixed with a healthy dose of Hallmark marketing blitzkriegs to sell scented candles and cheap greeting cards. She merely huffed and repeated that her child is traumatized now and I should be ashamed of myself. I ended the conversation by politely asking her why, if she was so concerned about her daughter’s mental being, would she bring her to a house on Halloween night that was decorated with Christmas lights and dismembered body parts? She turned and left without another word and I never saw her again. I mulled over this for the rest of my shift and I finally came to the conclusion that if I was able to psychologically scar just one child on Halloween, then my job here was done.

  Merry Christmas, everyone, and Happy Halloween!

  THE CANDLE EATERS


  by K. Allen Wood

  Katie Adams cut a white swath through the dark of the woods, a ghost to all but the dead.

  The crisp night air was its own special vintage, and it soothed her lungs as she weaved between the shadows. A soft breeze caressed her with the smells of October: smoldering brush piles; damp, hungry soil; the breath of cold brick chimneys just waking from their summer-long slumber.

  It was her favorite time of the year. The in-between, when the bushes and trees strutted their autumn wardrobes and the wind endlessly whispered the promise of winter.

  She emerged from the woods and into a field on the edge of Farmington Circle. The tall grass and weeds whipped across her thighs as she ran toward the small isolated community of Bridgetown Pines.

  As she reached the sidewalk, she slowed and caught her breath. She plucked a few sticky burrs from the tattered sheets that made up her ghostly costume, and cast them away. Under the canopy of oaks that lined the street, Katie let the beauty of twilight calm her as only it could. Like a cleansing rain, the night descended and washed away her loneliness, the anger she harbored toward her mother, and the fear of what lay ahead now that her father was gone.

  Grief and regret were such destructive things, parasitic emotions which feast upon sorrow and pain. Katie had learned this the hard way, having played host to the vile things for the past six months, worrying over what could have been done differently, words that could have been said more often. But she had found no answers in what could have been, only in what is. So she’d fought back, fought hard, and though her battle was yet won, though she still struggled with the pain and anger and despair, she had a stranglehold on her suffering.

  And she wasn’t letting go.

  Her mother, on the other hand, had given up, had given in to the crippling heartache that weighed down upon them both. Katie felt like she’d shed more tears for the metaphoric loss of her mother than for the real, knife-to-the-heart passing of her father.

  Tonight, though, this final October night, she would let it all go, for however brief a moment. Tonight she would once again embrace the wonders of childhood.

  For some reason, however, as she continued down the street, her empty pillowcase swinging at her side, Katie had the strange feeling that something was amiss, as if the shadows held secrets best left in the dark. The neighborhood beyond was dead calm, as always; the lawns and shrubbery immaculately groomed and swaying gently in the breeze, but somehow...wrong. The knotted fingers of the trees seemed to loom a bit closer. The symphony of night-sounds—insects, birds, small animals rustling in the leaves—was hushed.

  Goose bumps prickled her skin. She picked up her pace.

  She tried to push her unease aside, ascribe it to overactive imagination, but the feeling dogged her all the way to 18 Farmington Circle, where it evaporated like morning mist.

  Katie skipped up the driveway—perhaps a little faster than normal—and onto the cobblestone path leading to the side door. Twin wicker chairs sat empty on the wooden patio, a deck of cards splayed on the table between them as if ghosts were enjoying an evening game of Rummy. On the door before her hung a WELCOME sign haloed by an autumnal wreath, its faux berries like clusters of dark beady eyes. Under their scrutinizing gaze, she rang the doorbell.

  She glanced over her shoulder, saw nothing out of the ordinary, and wondered what could have made her feel as though something lurked among the shadows. Knowing the truth of things, she supposed. Having come to know the reality of the world, the insidious truth that childhood innocence had kept hidden from her for seventeen years until it was swiftly revealed in the most agonizing of ways. Loved ones didn’t live forever; best friends would sometimes become enemies; and worst of all, life had razor-sharp, poison-filled fangs that could pierce the human heart—her heart. And Katie knew, now, looking back the way she’d come, literally and figuratively, that darkness always reigned beyond the light.

  It wasn’t just something that was different, everything was different.

  The door opened and the scent of spiced apples washed over her. Katie turned, closed her eyes and breathed it in. It reminded her of home, of sweet hugs and cookies in the oven. It reminded her of better times.

  “Katie! Come in, come in.” Mrs. Hapler opened the door wide. “Matthew will be right down.”

  Mrs. Hapler was made of sweetness and joy, the kind of woman you loved within minutes of meeting, as if you’d known her your whole life. Katie smiled, but before stepping inside, she held out her pillowcase...

  “Trick or treat?”

  Sighing, Mrs. Hapler said, “Matthew didn’t tell you, did he? Never mind. I’m not surprised. Unfortunately, dear, we don’t have any candy.”

  “Well, that’s too bad.” Katie stepped inside and Mrs. Hapler closed the door behind her. “Trick it is, then. May I borrow a roll of toilet paper?”

  Mrs. Hapler laughed, warm and friendly. “Don’t you even think about it!” She opened the refrigerator and removed a Diet Coke. “We don’t usually get trick-or-treaters out here—you know how it is—so Harold and I have dinner reservations at Cassandra’s, and then we’re catching a late movie. If he ever gets out of the shower, that is. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “We bought candy our first year here, and no one came. Can you believe that?”

  Katie nodded. Bridgetown Pines hadn’t been conceived as a retirement community, but for all intents and purposes it had become one. The average age of its residents was just shy of dead. Few children ventured this far north of the city in hopes of getting a handful of wintergreen mints from a few old curmudgeons. And getting a handful of mints was a best-case scenario. The Haplers were the oddity of the neighborhood, still young and sprightly in their forties. Matt was the only kid on the block.

  “Not a single person,” Mrs. Hapler continued. She tapped the top of the soda can twice, opened it, and took a sip. “And with that big bowl of candy sitting on the table taunting us—I swear Harold and I gained ten pounds a day until it was all gone.” She laughed. “But now with his diabetes and all...well, you understand.”

  Katie’s face must have reflected the sadness she’d not yet found a way to hide when she was reminded of her father’s passing, for Mrs. Hapler walked over, wrapped her in a loving embrace, and kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, dear. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, fighting back tears that threatened to ruin her face paint. “I’m fine.”

  But she wasn’t fine, and she wondered if she ever would be, if the sadness ever went away.

  Her father had been a lifelong diabetic. Six months ago he’d gone to sleep, and he never woke. He just slipped away peacefully in the night. She could still remember the morning, the sun slicing through the gaps in her pink blinds, teasing her with its warmth as her mother’s wails promised nothing but cold, cold, cold.

  As devastated as Katie had been, the worst part of it all was that she’d lost not only her father, but her mother as well. At least it felt that way. Her mother shut down after her father’s death, shut everyone and everything out of her life, and descended into a malignant darkness.

  Just as the cold hands of despair were reaching up to pull her down into its black depths, Matt bounded into the room and brought a shining smile to her face—Mrs. Hapler’s, too. He howled and snarled behind a rubber wolf-mask, making a real show of it. He wore a red-and-black plaid shirt, sleeves cut at the shoulders, and a black hooded sweatshirt underneath. His jeans were ragged and torn, as if he’d been attacked by one of his toothy brethren. A strip of synthetic wolf-hair, from forehead to shoulder, had been dyed green and hair-sprayed into a spiky spine.

  “Nice hair,” Katie said.

  “It’s a wohawk,” Matt replied, pausing for dramatic effect. “You see what I did there? A punk-rock werewolf.”

  He howled again.

  “Maybe you should join Team Jacob.”

  “Maybe I should eat your face,”
he said, pointing a wobbly elongated finger at her.

  “Matthew,” Mrs. Hapler said. “How many times have I told you, we don’t eat our guests. Especially the nice ones.”

  “But that’s what werewolves do!”

  Mrs. Hapler looked at Katie, feigned a sad, contemplative face, and sighed heavily. “He has a point, you know, and since it is Halloween and all, I guess I’ll make an exception. But—” she took another sip of her drink “—if you really must eat her face, please do it outside. I just mopped.”

  “Thanks, Mom! You’re the best.”

  Katie laughed. They always knew how to make her laugh.

  Katie and Matt gathered their things and said their good-byes.

  “We’ll be home sometime after midnight,” said Mrs. Hapler. “You two behave, and be careful. And get me a Tootsie Roll.”

  Then they were out the door, racing down the street and off into the night. They passed through the same field which Katie had come through earlier in the evening, intoxicated by the nostalgic promise of excitement and adventure.

  They didn’t see the pale-faced children creeping along the tree line.

  • • •

  Two hours later, with pillowcases full of sweet, sugary booty—Tootsie Pops, Smarties, Kit Kats, Snickers, Milky Ways, and so much more—Katie and Matt entered Bridgetown Pines and turned the corner at the far end of Farmington Circle.

  Thick woods flanked both sides of the road, and a scant few streetlights did their futile best to hold back the shadows within. The branches overhead clacked like wind chimes constructed of bones. Around them, orange and yellow and red leaves lazily floated to their deaths, soft and peaceful.

  “What the hell are we going to do with all this candy?” Katie shook her head, smiling.