Halloween Brew

Happy All Hallows’ Eve to you and yours.

‘Tis a dark and stormy night

The vampires are out for a bite

And the ghosties on the prowl

Something out there’s smelling foul

While down in Zombie Town

There’s the howl of a devil hound

And deep in Castle Vlad

Frank ‘N’ Stein are in their lab

Mixing up their ghoulish stew

Stirring up that Halloween Brew.

On Transylvania Street

There’s a lot of trick or treat

As the jack ‘o lantern choir

In their Halloween attire

Walk the walking dead dance

Skeletons doing their scary prance.

The headless horseman rides

With his head held at his side

In the Grand All Hallow’s

Eve Parade and Spooktastic Show.

Under a full witching moon

Midnight’ll be here soon

Then at “The Pit and Pendulum”

They’ll gather with their ghastly grins

For the Ushers will be there.

A cask of Amontillado they’ll share.

They’ll spill their tell-tale hearts

Spinning tales of the darker arts

And the time of the Halloween Brew

When they drank F ‘N’ S’s stew.

Another year rolls around

And the dead sleep safe and sound.

Then October shall arrive

When the dead come alive

For another show and tell

Under autumn’s darkest spell

When the goblins take to the air

For the Great Halloween Affair

And more of that Good Stew,

A tall hot mug of Halloween Brew.

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Classic Uncle Bardie: Be Careful What You Ask For

Another Halloween repeat performance from 2013. Enjoy. It’s Halloween.

The light from the windows of her hundred-year-old house streamed out onto the lawn late that night in February. The light reflected the shadow of her silhouette behind the curtains of her second story bedroom. She was watching me, I knew, as I stood next to the fence across the street and waited. I had been here every night for one hundred days, in rain, in fog that came up off the nearby sea, and on clear nights. It was the key to the door of her heart.

I wondered if she would ever recognize my love for her. At first, I had sent her notes, then candy, then flowers, first one, then a half dozen, then a dozen. But she ignored them. When we had last spoke at our high school, she had urged, “Please don’t.”

But I loved her too much to give up and I knew she would come to love me. It was fated to be and only a matter of time.

Each night I watched her father arrive from some late night appointment and go into the house. He was always going and coming at night. But why? Why did he do this? After all, he was a successful lawyer who had an office downtown, open for appointments all day long. Why did he need to be out this late every night?

One night her father walked out of the house and headed for his car. I looked at my watch. Eleven o’clock. I decided to follow. I hurried around the corner and jumped into my old beat-up green Buick. I started it, then sat there. Her father backed out of the driveway and headed east.

I pulled in behind him, about twenty car lengths, and tailed him. We drove for thirty minutes or so until we came to an old rundown warehouse. He parked in its parking lot, next to the three or four other cars there. I pulled to a stop a block or so away and watched him enter a side door into the building.

I got out of the car and walked over to the partially lit parking lot. I went around to the side and listened in through a half-broken window. All I could hear was the sound of barking dogs in the distance. I pushed my ear closer to the window. Then I felt it. The cold metal in my back. It was a gun.

“Come with me,” the man behind me demanded and grabbed me by the neck and shoved me forward. Before I could turn around to see who it was, I was forced through the side door and into the warehouse. Before me stood several men.

“I caught this outside,” the voice behind me said.

“Welcome, Mr. Benedaro,” her father greeted me with a smile.

I was pushed toward the group of men and forced to drop onto my knees. I was in the center of a circle of these men.

From behind me, I heard her voice. “Now, Father?” she said.

“Yes, Daughter,” her father said.

I turned to see a large wolf, charging me with its teeth bared.

“What the he…,” I screamed as she bit into my neck.

Classic Uncle Bardie: SomeThing

                                                       A tale of horror
I am doing something this week I don’t usually do. I am re-posting a couple of posts I think you, my readers, my enjoy. I published this tale during Halloween week, 2013. I like it so much that I thought it should receive another go ’round. So enjoy this one, and happy dreaming.

Something moves. Or does it? Del isn’t sure. He looks and listens hard. For an instant, the thin, wiry man sees a motion, a movement among the trees at the edge of his back yard. Holding his shotgun with both hands, he readies himself to aim and fire. His eyes again search the trees and the marsh beyond the trees.

All is quiet. Nothing stirs, only the troubled whimper of a wind. Strange. Usually the marsh is alive with chirps and buzzes and all kinds of splashes. But now, not a sound. He listens harder, more carefully. Slowly he begins to hear the normal, marshy voices that grow louder as the afternoon light fades and evening approaches.

“Nothing here,” he decides. “Must be her imagination. She’s always thinking up things.”

He turns and steps easily across the wet grass, drenched from a sudden afternoon downpour that ended only moments ago. Returning to the house, he enters the back door and walks into the kitchen. Ginny stands waiting by the sink. She clenches a large butcher knife.

“Well, d’you see anything?” she asks, her eyes filled with terror.

“Nary a thing.” He sets his gun in a corner by the stove.

“You think I’m making it all up. Well, I’m not. I did too see something sneaking outside the bedroom window. Heard its growls too.”

“Now, now.” He takes his wife into his arms, then eases the knife from her hand and lays it in the sink. He holds her close to him.

“You must’ve heard the noises yourself. They were loud enough.” She settles into the sanctuary of his broad shoulders for a long, lingering embrace. Her whole body is shivering. He runs his hands gently through her hair and whispers soothing words into her ear until she is calm. After a few minutes of silence pass between them, he lightly kisses her lips.

Releasing her from his arms, he asks his usual, “D’you fix my supper for work?”

“You still going to work after what I seen?” She holds onto his arm.

“Course I am. How could I not?”

“Please stay home tonight. Just this once.” Her hand squeezes tighter and tighter.

“Shush.” He wrenches her hand from his arm.

“Sure wish you would stay home with me tonight.” She reaches again for his arm.

He forces her hand away. “Finish my supper while I get dressed,” he says, ignoring the supplication in her voice.

She chokes out the words, “It’s ready. ‘Cept for wrapping up a piece of that chocolate cake I made special this morning.”

“Look, if you get scared again, have George come on by,” he says, referring to their only son. “You can go stay at his house tonight. I’ll pick you up in the morning.” These are his last words on the subject. It is time to ready for work.

Del goes off into the bedroom and changes into his security guard uniform and is back in the kitchen just as Ginny is placing the cake into his gray lunch box.

Her eyes plea with him to stay with her and not run off to work. But he takes his supper from her hands and pulls his Atlanta Braves cap off the hat stand by the outside kitchen door.

Flipping the cap onto his head, he kisses her cheek a goodnight kiss. Then he is through the door and gone.

Ginny walks into the living room at the front of the house and watches Del through the large picture window as he drives away in his Ford Explorer. Then she drops into the large comfortable chair, Del’s chair, and trembles. Soon her entire body shakes. Tears well up into her eyes. Her face, wrinkled and sagging, appears to be much older than her fifty-seven years. The room darkens as the night fills it with its blackness. Ginny sits alone, afraid to fall asleep because of the nightmares she’s been having. She fights off the sleep. It is too much for her. She’s so tired from her lack of sleep over the last few days that she’s soon dozing off.

Asleep, she starts drifting in and out of her subconscious. It is then that a something eases its way out of the shadows of her sleep and into her dreams, those worlds of gray and fog and unhappiness that inhabit her slumber. Through these lands of mist and uneasiness, of phantoms, specters and dark, ugly things, this SomeThing walks, consuming everything in its path.

Thunder shakes her awake. Her clothes are drenched with sweat, the kind of sweat that only comes from fear. Out the window, a storm rages with a hard, driving rain pelting the grass. Again, the thunder grumbles and a tree crashes in the distance. Lightning streaks the sky and brightens the room.

Just for a moment, she sees it. A shadow, or at least what she, at first, believes to be a shadow. It isn’t. It is the SomeThing that had haunted her nightmares for days, the SomeThing that had made those awful growling noises, the SomeThing that had escaped into nothing earlier that afternoon, the SomeThing that had come from some hell of an evil place.

And a wicked looking SomeThing it is, its eyes cold and cruel with a hate that can only come from another world, its mouth dripping a mixture of white, rabid fear and dark, red blood, its huge body a black silhouette outlined against the lightning flashing in the distance.

Ginny cowers into her chair, struggling to breathe. She wants to scream, tries to scream, but the scream does not come out of her mouth. The Thing, the SomeThing reaches for her, its long talons grasping to tear open her neck.

*****

The house is unusually quiet when Del gets home. It is four o’clock in the morning of a cold, clear February night. The storm earlier has passed, leaving everything drenched and a full moon to fill the sky. Guided by the light of the moon, he hurries through the living room and into the dark bedroom. He leaves the light off so as not to wake Ginny and quickly undresses for bed. He crawls under the clean sheets, then turns to give his wife of thirty-seven years a goodnight kiss.

Ginny is not there. She is gone from her side of the bed where she always sleeps.

He starts to get out of the bed, but then decides, “Must be at George’s.”

He is relieved. Within minutes, he is snoring. His dreams delve deep, deeper and deeper and deeper into that subterranean underground that is his inner consciousness until he is struggling through a swamp, legs hip-deep in water. Cypress trees everywhere, and a heavy, red fog closes in around him.

Alone. No other life in the swamp, but the flies. Those damnable flies circling his head, making no noise. An eerie silence breathes on him as he forces his way through the muck and the mire. Feeling eyes following him, stalking him, he turns and sees…nothing. He looks back to where he is going. A necklace, his wife’s necklace, drops into his hand and opens. His photograph smiles back at him. He looks up. There she is, Ginny pinned to a tree.

This startles him awake. His body is unable to move, frozen with fear. Rain beats against the rooftop. Thunder groans nearby. Lightning brightens the room while the shadow of a SomeThing covers Del’s face.

A Halloween Short Story: Dark Shadows

Short Story Prompt: “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe.

Think about it. There are shadows, and then there are shadows. Each man, each woman, each child has their shadow, must have their shadow, must carry it with forbearance, with patience, without complaint. They are our companions whether we like it or not. And whether they like it or not.

You see, shadows are lost souls who serve time for past evils. They are chained to our bodies with invisible links. But there are those who resist their punishment, their purgatory. They are the restless ones. Shadows who won’t follow the rules. Shadows who won’t behave. Shadows who will do evil. And some of these shadows with sheer willpower break their chains and escape to go hunting.

Now I am not one to say that you have one of those shadows. But have you asked yourself, what is your shadow up to when it disappears? I don’t want to unnerve you, the Reader, but think about it. And keep watch. Keep very very close watch.

William Clarence Monroe had not thought much about his shadow. Though he had spent forty years, bearing the thing  around. Then he came to reside in the House.

William Clarence Monroe was a parapsychologist out to prove that the supernatural, that evil, that the occult did not exist. He was certain his investigations of the House would finally correct that misconception. When he told his colleagues of his plan, they urged him to stay away from the place. From the stories they had heard, it sent shivers down their spines. It had a history, a reputation for evil occurrences. No amount of pleading would stop William. He had a mission. He had a calling.

He would prove that things that go bump in the night are simply things that go bump in the night. There are no monsters under our beds, simply wooly boogers that make their way like tumbleweeds across a room and under the bed. They were not things to fear, rather things to laugh at. William never came across a thing or an event that could not be explained as a natural phenomenon. There was a logical explanation for the stories about the House.

The House stood on Spectre Hill, had stood there for over one hundred and fifty years. Some said it was cursed. All, who came to sleep within its walls, never left. At least, not alive. It was a dark and lonely house with vines and overgrowth covering its walls and hiding it from the road. Where there was not black, there was gray or a dark sickly green. It had no neighbors. It stood alone on that hill.

From time to time, people aways off in the town nearby would hear screams emanating from its halls. Some suggested that the House be torn down. Others said that it be best to leave well enough alone. Besides no one knew who owned the House. Perhaps the invisible inhabitants of the House were the proprietors.

William Clarence Monroe arrived at the front gate of the house early in the morning. The front door was unlocked. When he went to open it, he saw the head of Anubis, the Jackal God, carved into its wood. He stopped for a moment to study the carving and acknowledged that it was incredibly detailed.

He unloaded his equipment in the ballroom-sized room on the other side of the front door. He stood in the middle of the room and surveyed his surroundings. There were several sets of stairs leading to a second and a third story. From the ballroom, there were also three halls leading deeper into the House.

“Yes,” he said and smiled. “This should do. This should prove my premise. When I get through, maybe we can turn this place into a theme park. People do love scary things.”

He went to work wiring his wires. He plugged things into his generator that plug into generators. He set up his instruments. And he got ready for the night. He unpacked his food and ate his first day’s ration. He planned to stay for three days just to get a measure of the place.

Once he finished eating, William Clarence Monroe started exploring. He found a huge dining room, then a kitchen that was right out of the nineteenth century. Next he discovered a library with thousands of dusty volumes, tomes from bygone days that no longer existed anywhere else as far as William could tell. Some were books on the occult but not more than a small percentage. Many were books of biological science. Some works of cosmology. Nothing to make one suspect that the former residents were particularly interested in the occult or witchcraft or unlawful practices. Then he moved on to the second and third floor, counting fourteen bedrooms. Nothing out of the ordinary.

William made himself a large pot of coffee and settled in to wait through the night. The first night and the second day went by without incident. He monitored his instruments, taking the readings at random once an hour. All was quiet. All seemed peaceful, calm. Then he noticed that his shadow had disappeared. “Funny,” he said out loud, then went on to monitoring his instruments. The second night passed. He got his forty winks from time to time, then went back to his routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Early on the third day, William Clarence Monroe’s shadow returned. His instruments, at first, took notice, making small movements. Then other shadows. With each new shadow, the instruments moved a little more, then a little more. By dusk on the third day, the House was filled with dark silhouettes. The instruments were jumping. It was as if a seismograph was registering a ten-point earthquake. One instrument after another shut down from overload. William hurried from room to room, each room overflowing with shadows.

As he hurried, first his shadow, then the others made their way toward him, threatening. Then his hurrying turned into running. They were chasing him. Desperately he made for the front door. He turned the knob but the door wouldn’t open.  The shadows pushed him toward the Jackal head, carved into the wood of the door. The Jackal opened its mouth.

In the town nearby, they heard a scream. The scream sent shivers down the townies’ spines. The pastor of the First Church dropped to his knees, supplicating his God to save him from the hell he knew he deserved. The mayor of the town turned to his son and said, “Oh, it’s just the House. Never go near it. As long as you stay within the borders of the town, you will be safe.” Parents hushed their children and told them that it was the Boogeyman. “Be good or he will get you.” Some of the older folks recalled the last scream they heard.

A uniformed police officer daily passed the green Ford parked on the street in front of the House. One Wednesday afternoon he pulled up behind the car. He had not noticed before that there was no tag on the Ford. He got out of his car and checked out the car. The car had not moved for some time. He radioed in for a tow truck to haul the vehicle away. Several months later, it went on auction to raise money for the elementary school.

William Clarence Monroe was not missed. None of his colleagues seemed to recall where he had gone. He had no close friends, and he was without family. In his fanaticism for his mission to disprove ghosts and the occult, he kept others at a distance. When he didn’t show up for his next round of classes, his department head at the college decided that, for whatever reason, Professor Monroe would not return to teach.

Think about it. There are shadows, and then there are shadows.

Next Wednesday’s Prompt: “Twilight of the Superheroes” by Deborah Eisenberg.

Short Story Wednesday: How to make a horror movie

Short Story Prompt: “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allan Poe

Some students say they believe the three story building of The California Film School is haunted. Some students say it isn’t. Quincy doesn’t take a side. All he knows is that six Oscar-winning Directors and beaucoup Academy Award winners have gone there. Although students report a ghost sighting from time to time, he pays the stories no-never-mind.

Quincy, known to his friends as The Q, drops his book bag on a desk and takes a seat at the back of his Intro to Film classroom. He is the last of the twenty film students to arrive for the 8 p.m. class. It has taken him a good twenty minutes to find the room deep in the chasm of the building. While the professor, a thirty-year-old Pauline Betelgeuse, babbles on about the course and its requirements, he checks out the Facebook pages of several of his buddies, typing a snide remark on one, a congrats on another.

Listening with one ear, his interest perks up when the teacher says, “So I want you to sketch out a scenario, showing how you make a horror film. You can use the rest of tonight’s class to work on the assignment. Oh, and if you have any questions, I will be in my office for the rest of the class. Just zap me an email.” Then she slips through the wooden casket lid of the classroom door, disappearing into the hallway.

The Q closes his Facebook page and opens a blank document. He types his title, “Three Zombies”, centering it on the top of the page, then smiles. He is sure the instructor will be pleased with his story idea. He begins pouring words onto the page as fast as he can. Ten pages later, he glances up from his laptop. The room is empty, almost dark with the lights dimmed. The clock on the wall says midnight. If the silence was molasses, it would be  thick. There would be no pouring it. The windows of the classroom are like dark eyes spying on him. A chill slithers through the room like a snake after its prey.

He hurriedly saves his text, shuts his Mac, stuffs it into his backpack and slips out into the hall. Across from the door is a framed copy of Hieronymous Bosch’s painting, “The Last Judgement”. He doesn’t remember it there when he came to class. Scary stuff, he thinks, and makes his way left and down the hall. The lights flicker as he continues past paintings of the Grim Reaper, a Goat’s Head and a One-eyed Cyclops. No way they are going to scare him with this crap. He’d seen all thirteen of the “Friday the Thirteen” movies, and he just laughed his way through Jason’s antics.

He comes  to an exit. Thinks, “Good, this place is about to give me the willies.” He opens the door and steps into more hall. The door slams behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. Maybe it’s not a good idea to go this way. He turns and pulls on the door. It doesn’t budge. It seems the only way to go is down this new hall.

Everything is as quiet as a grave yard. Through the several windows, he sees the moon a blood red. He shivers with a chill. In the distance, the howl of a wolf. Good thing there is no such thing as werewolves,” he comforts himself. Something scratches on a window. He checks it out. Only his reflection stares back at him. The scratching stops as suddenly as it began. He steps up his pace to the door at the end of the hall.

The exit leads into a narrower passageway. On the wall more paintings. Werewolves tearing open the throat of a man. A vampire biting the neck of a woman in a black negligee. A decrepit house barely holding onto a hillside. A cemetery under the light of a waning moon and several pallid residents shaking themselves free from the grip of their graves. He passes each of these with the beginnings of a trepidation driving him onward. Then he comes to another door, and hope. Maybe this one will take me outside. He grasps with the rather large doorknob of a gargoyle figure. As he attempts to turn the knob, teeth bite into his hand. Then he wrenches it open and rushes through the door.

A spider’s web nets his face. His pushes through it. This door slams behind him like the others, sealing him inside another hall. He moves slowly onward, passing under a man hung from the ceiling, a hangman’s noose around his neck. The smell of death rises from the floor in a fog. A nervous agitation takes control of him. His feet, now the weight of lead, moves sluggishly past the caskets lining the wall

It is then that he realizes these halls he is traveling, these same halls are found in his story, “Three Zombies”, and he is the one living character. Just like in the story, the halls seem to be streams of madness leading to he knows not where. But where are the three zombies, their dead sockets for eyes to gaze upon his body, then attack him with a furiosity that he can only imagine? It is then that his feet break free from the lead holding them down and begin a fast walk, then a dead run toward the exit at the end of the hall.

This door easily gives, and he emerges into a new passageway, its walls painted black, its ceiling pressing down on him. An invisible steel hand tightens its grip around him. Cold sweat pours out of him.

Like the man in his story, he feels that he is traversing through a maze of passageways, a deadly labyrinth which leads him from one door to another, each a false lead. Fear fills his head with the chatter of questions. What is there to be afraid of? How did he get himself in this mess? Why can’t he find his way out of the building? Why does one door lead him into another narrower hallway? What did he do to deserve this? With each step, another question. His heart pounds louder and louder and louder. Each footstep is a drumbeat, signaling the unknown that he is available for terror.

Finally The Q hears a soft hum. It sounds like voices. Maybe it isn’t voices. He slips off his shoes and progresses through yet another door on padded feet. The sound changes from a hum to distinct voices and some laughter. Is he imagining the voices? Maybe it’s something else, some unknown, unnamed terror. He takes a deep gulp and tries to slow himself down, but some invisible hand pushes him forward. To the next door.

Forced to open the door or be crushed against it, he steps into a classroom. He finds himself facing his Intro to Film classmates and Professor Betelgeuse’s back. “And that is how you make a horror movie,” she says, then turns to welcome her victim into the classroom.

A Halloween Short Story Prompt: “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe