Halloween Spirit

Continuing the challenge from writers’ group to write a spooky Halloween flash fiction (under 1,000 words) story.  I couldn’t leave Christopher M. Palmer to have all the fun ^_^

-Jessica Donegan

from openclipart.org by j4p4n

It’s too early to feel the chill in the air or to see the leaves burn, but the cloaked figures know it’s the perfect time to prepare. As the grain rolls into the full harvest and man rests in his power, they pick the perfect location: an abandoned lot. Was it once a Circuit City? No one remembers, technology’s wheel spins far faster than the natural turn of time.

 

Vague chalk markings and a quick chant bless the hollowed building. This is the chosen vessel. Common elements like graveyard dirt, salt, and water charge the structure.  A shadow of intention settles.

 

Weeks pass, mundane as all those before them. Do more crows rest in the lot? Who can say?  Even if the sky shadows with dark wings, what does it matter? Anything is better than those fat pigeons with dull eyes. Perhaps rust colored markings grow in the parking lot, but isn’t that part of the lot’s decay? If the strange shapes look like markings, they must be a construction crew’s notes. Wouldn’t it be nice if the city did something with this eyesore before the building collapses in on itself and becomes dangerous to the locals? The strange script must mean revitalization.  

 

Days grow darker. Mid September arrives unnoticed by the masses. The back-to-school frenzy distracts, and then it’s a matter of settling into their new normal. Familiar change pulls everyone toward the quiet peace that settles in most homes until Thanksgiving. If anyone watched the shadows grow in the old lot, they’ve forgotten it in their rush.  Those contractors never acted on the strange red scrawled notes. No demolition or construction came to fruition. The effort stalled. Are they tied up with the inspectors?

 

It’s a shame we won’t see the new building before Christmas. Who was hoping for a custom sporting goods store or a boutique that showcased their style or a toy store for the kids? All pointless pondering: it will not happen in time for Christmas this year.  

 

The cloaks smile, in growing twilight. Crows cawing drown out the chink as they cut chained doors. They slip inside the building. Cobwebs scrawl their own spells across the rafters. Rats scurry, but they’ve already feasted on poisoned bait. No point to bring in hunters when time will do the work.

 

They bring the salt and water from before, reinforcing the foundation, but it’s time to add spirit to their intent. Passion, movement. Sage smudges burn in each of their hands. The cobwebs shrivel in the heat and the coven laughs. The chanting rises, relentless. Fluid movements of the group become harsh choppy waves. They part and flood the old shopping aisles. Blood runs free as the group scratches and scrambles for those last moments of life. Sacrifice is necessary, they will die, but not alone. The building fills with endings. First the failure of some long defunct chain, and now the organic viscera of blood. Sage ashes float across the floor like restless dust bunnies. Energy builds boiling: the wicker man will rise.  

 

Bright banners adorn the re-purposed building. Orange as the dying sun and the dark smoke of the reaper rise in the public’s perceptions. Smiles of the young at heart curve across the mass’ faces as they drive by a once abandoned lot. Frowns fill frumpy prudish faces.  

 

A Halloween store,” they think, “it’s the fleeting fancy we needed.”

 

And Halloween Spirit reaches out to embrace the masses. A waving ghoul extends its arms by the entry. Tall air blown dragons hold fire in their eyes as their wings flap with impressive mechanizations. Ghouls drag plastic carcasses across the floor, startling inattentive adults and terrifying little children. Movie characters of the moment peel manic, terrifying laughter. It leaves no pop culture reference of the moment unmined. A spectacle of capitalism as much as love of the holiday.

 

Pimpled disinterested teens staff registers. When they aren’t too busy watching their phones, they make jokes at the expense of their clients. Don’t these people know Halloween isn‘t for sale? It’s a time of pranks, mayhem, and fear. A $90 costume won‘t make the experience. Fools, all the casual shoppers.  

 

But they invoke the Spirit and it sits with an arcane sentience. Watching its patrons and worshipers alike. Disguised as a common retail front, it plants seeds in all is customers.  

 

As the moon rises luminous and night takes hold, the cloaks gather one last time. Fire cleanses their summoning as they wail and dance. Tearing clothes, pulling hair, and shredding skin. The end arrives and they embrace the darkness as the embers burn out. Autumn is a natural conclusion, like old age.  Their Elder God demands humanity pay its price each year.

 

The uninformed populace laughs and goes door-to-door gathering treats.  Older revelers pose at the bar in full Hallow’s Eve regalia. For some unfortunate few, those who fell to the siren’s call of a certain store front, their soul will be stolen away tonight. Smile wide and drink deep from life because in the twilight sits every man’s end. Death, like Damocles’ sword dangles.  In this end, those few costumed in an unknown deadly contract will see the truest face of All Hallows Eve.




 

The Ghost Strikes At Midnight

At one of the recent writer’s group meetings, we decided that everyone should write a flash-fiction length (under 1,000 words), scary story for the month of October. Here is mine.

-Christopher M. Palmer

Every Halloween, the neighborhood tradition was for the older kids to stay out after dark to play “The Ghost Strikes at Midnight,” a version of hide and seek. Abigail Richmond wanted to play every year, but her parents arranged for her older sister to bring her home after trick-or-treating, saying she wasn’t old enough to stay out and play in the dark with the other kids. This year, she was seven and Halloween was on a Friday, not a school night, and her dad convinced her mom that it would fine as long as she didn’t get scared.

Abigail wasn’t scared of anything. She was the first to volunteer in class, she loved to perform, she wasn’t even afraid of the dark or of scary movies and TV shows, not that she’d seen that many of them—her parents were rather strict with her TV viewing. Her sister, Penny, and her friend, Renee, had teased her all week about how scary it was to play in the dark. “You’ll get so scared, you’ll be the first one the ghost finds because you’ll be peeing your pants and running home to mommy,” Renee told her.

“You’ll see,” was Abigail’s response.

She had already picked out her first hiding spot: behind the loose latticework under the porch of the deserted, dilapidated, and spooky-as-all-get-out Lindholm house. She’d spied it out after school three days before, first checking that no one was watching her approach the house. They had been warned to stay away from it, but also she didn’t want anyone to find her hiding place. She thought it might be be dirty and icky under the porch, but the soil was dry and packed down hard. There were a just few beer cans and cigarette butts, and a couple of cobwebs she swept away with her hand. She wasn’t afraid of spiders, either, she just didn’t want them in her hair. She was sure that no one would think to look under the Lindholm house’s porch, since many of the kids said the house was haunted and dared each other to enter the yard to touch the side of it.

She hoped she didn’t get picked to be the ghost, because hunting was not as much fun as hiding, but since she was the youngest, she doubted that would happen. Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe seemed random enough, but kids always threw in a few extra phrases if they didn’t want to pick someone.

Abigail was so excited to be playing with the big kids, trick-or-treating was almost perfunctorily rushed through. She only wanted to hit the few houses that gave out the best candy every year and, by the time the sun fully set, she was ready to drop her plastic pumpkin full of candy off at the house and ditch her plastic dinosaur mask — she was not happy with her store-bought costume this year, but it didn’t really matter, the green dinosaur suit would be hard to see in the dark. She grabbed a couple of candy bars and ran out the door and up to Caleb’s house, where all the kids would be meeting.

“Who’s the baby?” Caleb asked, knowing good and well who she was.

“Shut up, Caleb,” Abigail retorted. He just laughed.

They finally started the game at eight thirty. It was a perfect Halloween night, crisp as a tart apple, with a light wind stirring the fallen leaves. As Abigail suspected, when she was about to be picked as the ghost, Caleb threw in another “old dirty dishrag” and the clenched fist bumped on Penny to be the first ghost. The game was about to start!

Her sister wasted no time in starting the count. She yelled, “It’s noon!” Then quieter, and in a spooky voice, she said, “The ghost strikes at midnight.”

The kids scattered, most of them had already figured out where to hide. Abigail ran behind a row of bushes to get out sight quickly. The limits were Oak Street to one side and Chestnut Street to the other. Anywhere on the two cross avenues, Morgan and Cameron, was fair game. With such a large area, Penny played fair and counted slowly. Abigail was on the backside of the house next door before she heard, “It’s one o’clock!” followed by the fainter promise of the striking of the ghost.

Abigail wanted to win so badly, she didn’t want anyone to see where she hid. She waited in the bushes until Zach and Jess passed by. She saw Ashley hide behind the shrubs beside the Johnson’s back shed. She wouldn’t be able to see the Lindholm house from there. The coast was clear and it was already seven pm according to Penny’s chant. Abigail ran into the shadowy yard of the Lindholm house, pulled the latticework skirting aside, and slid into the darkness under the porch, pulling the lattice back in place. Safe and hidden and no one saw her.

Faintly, she heard the last count, “It’s MIDNIGHT! THE GHOST STRIKES AT MIDNIGHT!” Penny yelled. Abigail giggled to herself, certain that she would impress everyone with her bravery and her skill at hiding.

Penny found Lionel right away. He had a crush on Penny and probably wanted to be found. He tagged along as the Penny the Ghost searched for the rest of the neighborhood kids.

Next was Patrick and then one by one, they all fell to the searching of the ghost and her minions. Penny looked anxious the one or two times she’d passed in front of the Lindholm house. Abigail had to be nearly the last one left and she smiled thinking that Penny was actually worried about her.

“I’m going to win,” she said to herself in a soft voice.

“Yes, you are.” A damp, gritty hand closed around the lower half of her face. “No one is ever going to find you.”