A Short Story – Feel The Music by Rebecca Besser

FEEL THE MUSIC

By Rebecca Besser

Getting out of the car, I clung to Mommy’s hand. There were lots of people around. They bumped into me, and tried to get between us. But Mommy didn’t let them, she gave them a dirty look, and said something. I couldn’t see her lips, but it probably wasn’t anything nice.

She tugged me over to the side of the hall, away from the crowd rushing through the entrance.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she signed.

I could see the worry in her eyes.

“Yes,” I signed. “I want to feel the music.”

She frowned. I knew she didn’t understand. How could she?

I grinned at her and took her hand, pulling her back into the stream of bodies moving down the hall.

The shiny-twinkle of the women’s dresses and the dark suits that the men wore looked like a flower garden swaying in the breeze.

I was almost jumping with excitement when we reached the door to the giant room with lots and lots of seats that Mommy called an auditorium. We have one at school, but it’s not nearly as pretty as this one.

Mommy looked down at me and smiled. I knew she was trying to reassure me.

We were shown to our seats by a man that greeted us at the door and looked at our tickets. We were really far back, but we had an aisle seat. Mommy let me sit there so I could lean out of my seat and see the stage better.

“When will they start?” I signed excitedly.

“Soon,” she signed and said at the same time. “I think in fifteen minutes or so, sweetheart.”

“Okay,” I signed back.

Looking around, I watched the people laugh and talk to each other. Once in a while, I could read their lips, catching a bit of a conversation.

I sometimes wonder what laughs sound like. I know what they look like, I had seen many people laugh. It makes them look happy, and their eyes twinkle. I have even felt a laugh. I put my hands on Mommy’s throat when she laughs. Her neck vibrates in a happy dance, deep inside. That is the same way it feels when I laugh.

Pretty soon, most of the seats were full of people. The lights went out, and everyone looked at the stage. Bright lights came on, lighting up all the chairs waiting for musicians.

They began walking out onto the stage, carrying their instruments. They were shiny, the light glinted off of them. People all around started bringing their hands together in what Mommy said was a clap. Their clapping made my seat vibrate.

Finally, all the musicians were seated in their chairs, except for a couple I saw in the back. They played drums, and big instruments.

Mommy explained instruments to me before we came. They were supposed to make sound, by vibrating, or by wind being pushed through them.

I held my breath as they started to play. Each group of instruments moved the same way at exactly the same time. It was like a beautiful dance.

I glanced at Mommy and grinned.

She smiled back, looking a lot more relaxed.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” I signed.

“Okay,” she signed back. “Let’s go.”

“No,” I signed, shaking my head. “I can go by myself.”

“Are you sure?” she replied. “Do you know the way?”

I nodded yes.

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Hurry back,” she signed.

I left my seat, and went back to the door we entered through. The man was still there, and he opened the door for me.

I stood outside the door for a moment, looking around. Then I spotted it, a sign that directed the musicians to the stage. I headed in the direction it pointed.

No one was around. They must all have been in the auditorium.

After walking down a couple halls, I found a door that said, “Stage.”

I slowly opened it and peeked inside. No people were present here, either. Stepping through, I closed the door behind me. I could feel intense vibrations coming through the wooden floorboards. I was getting closer.

There was a huge red curtain ahead, to the left. I walked slowly over to it. There, right in front of me, just past the curtain, were the musicians. They were moving fast. Their dance was even more beautiful up close. I stood there, watching them. My hands itched, I rubbed them against the skirt of my dress. I wanted to touch the instruments. I wanted to feel them vibrate in my hands.

Before I realized what my feet had in mind, I walked out onto the stage. No one noticed me at first, so I kept going. I walked over to the drum and pressed my hands on the sides.

The drummer saw me, he must have said something to the conductor, because everyone stopped and looked at me.

Suddenly, they all turned to look out at the crowd of people. My Mommy was rushing down the aisle, saying something. I couldn’t read her lips, she was talking too fast, and was too far away.

The conductor said something to her, and she stopped. She looked really confused. Then she nodded, and turned to go back to her seat, pausing ever few steps to look back at me.

The conductor walked over to me. I backed up a few steps, then I saw the smile on his face. He bent down and took my hand. Leading me gently, he gave my hand to an elderly woman who had appeared from behind the curtain. He said something to her, and she looked down at me and gave him a brief nod.

He went back to his place on stage, and the musicians started playing again.

The women lead me out onto the stage, taking me over to a man playing a violin. She took my free hand and placed it gently on the shiny wood of the stringed instrument.

I could feel the music that it made. The rise and fall, the fast and slow vibrations.

I grinned up at the woman, and she smiled.

She took me around to many different musicians, laying my hand on each instrument. Each one felt different. They all felt magical.

By the time I had felt most of the instruments, the concert was over. I turned to look out at the crowd of people. They were all standing, and doing that clapping thing again. Most of them were crying. I don’t know why. I couldn’t stop smiling.

The woman took me to the stage door, where Mommy was waiting for me. I could tell she had been crying.

“Are you okay, Mommy?” I signed.

“Yes, Amy,” she signed back. “I’m wonderful. Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” I signed, with a huge grin. “It was a wonderful adventure, to feel the music.”

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2009

*Previously published on the Stories That Lift online publication.*

A Zombie Short Story – The Heart of Heroism by Rebecca Besser

The Heart of Heroism

By Rebecca Besser

“Take that crap off!” Mr. Harper yelled. “Why are you always dressing up in stupid outfits? If I ever catch you out wearing something like that, I’m gonna burn all of your comic books! Every last, damn one!”

“S…s…sorry, Dad,” Billy Jack said, pouting as he shuffled back to his bedroom. He stopped just inside the door and looked at himself in his mirror. The aluminum foil he’d used to make a lightning bolt on the chest of his red flannel union suit twinkled in the overhead light and made him smile with delight. He giggled. Running his hands over the B and J he’d cut out of stick-on felt and applied to the suit on either side of the bolt, he imagined himself as a real live superhero. “Super Billy Jack,” he said with a sigh.

“Hurry up!” his dad yelled. “We have work to do and I don’t have time for any of your shit!”

Billy Jack’s bottom lip quivered and tears welled up in his big, blue eyes as he peeled his costume off and slipped on a worn, stained pair of blue jeans and a plain, dark blue T-shirt; the cloth of the T-shirt stretched to its limits over the bulky muscles of his chest. He sniffed loudly, looked at himself in the mirror again, and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles like an upset toddler.

“Are you ready yet, you dumb oaf?” his dad yelled.

“Y…y…yes,” Billy Jack answered, and hurried back out to the living room of their tiny, basement apartment. “I’m ready to w…w…work. What’s broken t…t…today?”

His father didn’t answer right away. He just stared up at his mammoth son who towered over him with his six foot, four-inch height.

“Were you crying?” he asked Billy Jack. “Were you crying like a little sissy baby again?”

Billy Jack bit his lip and shook his head, fidgeting with the front of his shirt, stretching it to the point the material was see through.

“Yes, you were,” his dad said, scowling. “You have to quit acting like that, and you have to quit dressing up in those prissy outfits. Do you want people to make fun of you?”

Billy Jack sniffled and twisted his shirt nervously. “N…n…no. I just want to b…b…be a superhero.”

Mr. Harper growled and ran a hand over his balding head. “You’re never going to be a superhero! You’re just a stupid nobody and always will be!” He sighed and shook his head. “Get your tool box. We have some plumbing to fix on the ninth floor.”

“The n…n…ninth?” Billy Jack asked, letting go of his shirt and knuckling his eyes again. “Can I v…v…visit Mike? He’s my bestest friend in the w…w…world.”

Mr. Harper groaned. “Yeah, you can visit your friend if you do a good job, but if you give me any trouble, you won’t be allowed.” He yanked open the door to their apartment and stomped out into the hall, throwing an impatient glance back at his son.

Billy Jack shuffled forward and lifted the red, four drawer tool box sitting beside the door without much effort. He rushed out into the hall, following his dad, almost tripping himself in his hurry.

“Shut the door!” his dad hollered over his shoulder, stomping down the hall toward the elevator.

“O…o…okay, sorry,” Billy Jack mumbled and turned, shutting the door before advancing down the hall as fast as he could. Without noticing, he started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, twisting and tugging it out of proportion. Just as he reached the elevator, where his dad was waiting, the cold, metal door slid open with a dull ding.

“Up we g…g…go!” Billy Jack said, grinning. “Can I push the b…b…button, Dad?”

Mr. Harper sighed. “Sure.” He stepped inside without looking at his son and slumped against the back wall.

 “Yeah!” Billy Jack screamed, practically bouncing into the elevator. He pressed the appropriate button—the one with an L on it for lobby; they would get off there and use the stairs the rest of the way. There were other elevators in the building leading higher, but most of them were out of service because the building owner didn’t consider fixing them worth the money. Mr. Harper always referred to him as a “Slum Lord.”

In just a few seconds the door was dinging open to present the small, dingy, poorly lit lobby. It held the tenants little, square mailboxes along the far wall, which were covered in gang graffiti. Billy Jack thought it was beautiful and mystical, appearing out of nowhere after he’d scrub it off once a month. He imagined something magical lived inside the bank of mailboxes and it would reveal itself a little at a time. When he washed it, he pretended the turpentine he used was a drug that put it to sleep for a time. Today, it was freshly painted with bright green and orange spray paint.

“The b…b…beast is awake,” he whispered and stepped out of the elevator cautiously, pressing his body tight against the wall, watching the mailboxes across from him like they were going to swallow him alive.

Mr. Harper rolled his eyes and stepped out of the elevator, shaking his head. He ignored Billy Jack and walked to the stairwell, opened the door, and went inside, letting the door swing closed behind him.

“No!” Billy Jack screamed and ran forward, ripping the door open and entering the stairwell too, pulling the door tightly shut behind himself, breathing heavily.

His dad laughed and ascended the first flight of stairs.

“It’s n…n…not funny, Dad,” Billy Jack said breathlessly, and pouted. “You’d f…f…feel bad if the monster a…a…ate me.”

“I would miss you so,” his dad responded sarcastically.

Billy Jack smiled, thinking his dad really meant it and hurried up the stairs after him. “Who’s p…p…plumbing is broken?”

Mr. Harper sighed. “Mrs. Willis’s again.”

“She’s a n…n…nice lady,” Billy Jack said, struggling with the tool box in the narrow stairwell, but keeping up nonetheless. “S…s…she makes good cookies.”

“Yes, she does,” his dad replied absently, limping slightly. He’d injured his knee when he was younger and it bothered him more and more as he grew older, and having to traverse many flights of stairs on a daily basis didn’t help either. The pain it caused made him wish he was sitting downstairs in his recliner, drinking beer.

They made it to the landing of the fifth floor and Mr. Harper inwardly groaned. It was the one with the different colored tiles, because he’d had to replace some a few years back. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

“Dad!” Billy Jack cried out. “Be c…c…careful! Only step on the white and b…b…blue tiles. The red o…o…ones will wake the d…d…dragon!”

Mr. Harper growled and marched around to his right to the next flight of stairs. Behind him he could hear the metallic rattle of the tools in the tool box as Billy Jack bounced it while trying to hop from one small square to another, missing the red ones that made up most of the floor; he reached the stairs with a sigh of relief.

“Dad, y…y…you should be more careful,” Billy Jack admonished with solemn eyes. “S…s…someday the dragon m…m…might get you. You’re l…l…lucky I know the r…r…right tile combination to l…l…lock his cage back up.”

“It’s thoughtful of you to save my life,” his dad said, and continued to climb, wincing in pain as his limp became more pronounced.

They made it to the ninth floor of the “castle” as Billy Jack called it. It was easier for his mind to wrap itself around the occurrences and the strange people in his living environment to think of it that way. He pretended the building was a cursed castle and he was the only one who would know how to save it when the curse became too strong for everyone else. Super Billy Jack would save the day! He didn’t realize he lived in the middle of the slums and most people living in the building were drug dealers, users, or prostitutes, and that was why they acted the way they did.

Mrs. Willis’s plumbing didn’t take long to fix and soon Billy Jack was standing outside apartment 947, waiting for someone to answer his insistent knock. He fidgeted with his shirt, twisting it this way and that while he glanced at the hall around him, imagining all kinds of sinister things lurking in the shadows.

He jumped when the door opened.

“Oh, it’s you,” a woman with ratty hair, smeared makeup, and a cigarette in her hand said. “Mike! Your friend’s here to see you!” she screamed as smoke waft from her nose and mouth; she walked away, leaving the door standing wide open.

Billy Jack smiled nervously, still glancing around him and twisting his shirt.

Mike’s little, smiling face appeared from around the corner and his fear melted away.

“Billy Jack,” the five-year-old boy squealed, and wrapped his arms around Billy Jack’s leg, hugging it tight in his skinny arms. He looks up at his big friend hopefully. “Did you come to play?”

He nodded and let the little boy pull him inside by his pant leg, shutting the door quickly behind them to keep the monsters out.

“I w…w…was a good w…w…worker today,” Billy Jack said. “So, I was a…a…allowed to come and v…v…visit you!”

“Goodie,” Mike said cheerfully. “I have a new toy!”

“Really?” Billy Jack asked. “What i…i…is it?”

“I show you!” Mike squealed, and darted toward his bedroom with his big friend trailing after him.

Billy Jack made it to the door to see Mike proudly holding two small plastic boxes with thick, black wires sticking out of the tops.

“Walk-me, talk-mes!” Mike yelled, waving them at Billy Jack. “My daddy gave them to me. He came to see me.”

“Th…th…those are very nice,” Billy Jack said solemnly. “What d…d…do they do?”

“I show you,” Mike said, sitting on the edge of the bed and twisting the knobs on the tops of the plastic boxes, causing brief bursts of static noise to come from each of them; he handed one to Billy Jack. “You sit!” he ordered, and pointed to his bed as he stood. “I’ll hide in the closet.”

“Okay,” Billy Jack said, sitting on the edge of Mike’s tiny bed; it groaned under his two hundred plus pounds.

Mike giggled and darted across his room and into his closet, closing the door behind him. “Test, test, one, two, three…”

Billy Jack jumped as Mike’s voice came blaring out of the plastic box in his hand. He held it closer to his face, almost pressing his nose against it while he took a better look at the device. “H…h…how’d you get i…i…in there, Mike?” he asked the part with the little holes and heard a giggle come from the closet.

Mike opened the door and peered out at Billy Jack with a broad smile on his face. “I not in it, silly. I do this!” He pressed down the button on the side of the plastic box and talked into it again, rubbing his lips on the speaker because he was holding it too close to his mouth. “Test, test, one, two, three…” He giggled again and shut the door, hiding once more. “You do it! You do it!” came out of the box Billy Jack held.

He grinned and pressed down the button, holding the walkie-talkie close to his mouth. “H…h…i there, Mike. How’s th…th…things in the closet?”

Mike squealed with laughter.

They played for hours, taking turns going into the closet and outside the bedroom, talking to each other through their own secret system.

Billy Jack was stepping back into Mike’s room after his turn in the hall when he spotted the clock on the dresser. He gasped.

“Oh, n…n…no!” he exclaimed. “I’m l…l…late! My dad is going to be m…m…mad. I have to g…g…go. B…b…bye, Mike!”

He turned and rushed down the short hallway and out of the apartment. The halls and stairwells were dark in the early evening; the light coming through the barred window on each level was weak. Multiple times he tripped and almost fell down the stairs, but caught himself at the last moment with a cry of alarm. A few people were in the stairwell, a couple with guns and suitcases, but he just pushed past them, focused on getting home. He ignored their shouts of “Watch where you’re going, dummy!” and kept on running.

By the time he reached the basement, he was whimpering and tugging on the front of his shirt with both hands, twisting it nervously. He was so focused on getting home he didn’t notice he was tearing the shirt apart at the seams.

Finally his hand reached out and gripped the doorknob, trying to turn it. It didn’t move. He cried out and then whimpered repeatedly trying harder to turn the knob.

The door suddenly flew open to reveal his dad standing there in a white tank top and his jeans, with a beer in his hand.

“Did you get lost?” he sneered as he lifted the bottle and took a deep swill of beer.

“N…n…no, Dad,” Billy Jack muttered, looking down at the floor, tugging at his shirt. “I took t…t…too long and am l…l…late. I’m s…s…sorry.”

Mr. Harper watched his son for a moment. “Where’s the tool box? You were supposed to bring it back down with you.”

Billy Jack went still for a moment with a shocked, scared expression on his face. “I f…f…forgot.”

“Well, you better go back up there and get it,” his dad growled, “because you aren’t coming in here without it!” He stepped back and slammed the door in his son’s face.

Tears poured from Billy Jack’s eyes as he staggered back down the hall and toward the elevator. He pressed the button with no pleasure; his dad was mad at him and he was drinking, which was never a good combination. Gasping for breath between sobs, he climbed back onto the elevator and rode up to the lobby. From there his journey was uneventful and he didn’t even play his game on the fifth floor landing.

He was still crying when he reached Mrs. Willis’s apartment; she answered shortly after his first knock.

“Billy Jack, I was wondering if you were comin’ back for the tool box,” she said. “Why are you cryin’, honey?”

“I f…f…forgot to come get the t…t…tool box and was l…l…late going home,” he said, sniffling loudly. “Dad i…i…is mad at m…m…me.”

“Ah, honey,” she said, stepping forward to give him a hug. “It’ll be all right. I have your tool box right here and you’ll soon be home all safe and sound. Your daddy was probably just worried about you.”

Billy Jack whimpered and hugged the woman back, loving the way it felt to have someone care about him.

“Th…th…thank you, Mrs. Willis,” he said, sniffling again and stepping back. “I h…h…have to go now, b…b…before Dad gets more a…a…angry.”

She patted his cheek and smiled, letting him step inside and retrieve the tool box that was sitting out of the way in the kitchen. “You be careful goin’ back downstairs,” she said as he left. “There’s some mean folks around here and they would take advantage of a sweet, handsome boy like you.”

“I w…w…will,” he said, wiping the last of the tears from his face. “G…g…good night, Mrs. Willis.”

“Good night, honey,” she said, smiling as she closed the door behind him.

When the door clicked shut Billy Jack felt alone and scared. Not of the people Mrs. Willis had mentioned, but of his dad and what he would do for punishment; Billy Jack never liked his punishments.

He descended the stairs slower this time, dreading going home. Watching every step as he went down in the now almost completely dark stairwell, he felt something hit his foot on the third floor landing, where he’d bumped into the angry men earlier in his rush. He bent down and felt around on the floor with his hand and found a smooth, square-ish object. He picked it up and held it close to his face, squinting to see. It was one of Mike’s walkie-talkies! He frowned, wondering how it had gotten there and realized after a few moments he’d left Mike’s apartment with it and must have dropped it when he bumped into the men.

He turned around and thought about taking it back to Mike’s, but shook his head. It was too late now, Mike would be in bed, and Mike’s mom scared him; she was mean when Billy Jack showed up too late or she didn’t want him around. With a shrug he decided to take it home with him and give it back the next day.

Turning, he continued his descent and soon reached the basement once again. He trudged down the hall, now tired from going up and down the stairs so many times. Without even trying the knob on the door, he knocked, knowing from experience that it was locked; the door was ripped open instantly.

His dad stood there once again, but this time he was swaying slightly and holding onto the door for support. He glanced down at the tool box Billy Jack was carrying.

“Tool box, good,” he said, and staggered backwards, almost falling on the floor.

Billy Jack didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside and sat the tool box by the door where it always sat when not in use. He closed the door and locked it and then went to his room, noticing as he left the living room his dad had made it to his recliner in front of the TV, which was on; he sighed and opened another beer.

Flipping his light on, Billy Jack noticed right away the shelf in his bedroom—across from the door—was empty. His comic books were gone! His heart started pounding and his hands started shaking. He grabbed ahold of his already mutilated shirt and tugged on it hard; the sound of it ripping fell on deaf ears, going unnoticed.

“Dad!” he cried, running back out to the living room. “Someone t…t…took my c…c…comic books!”           

His dad laughed, looking over and up at his son with a smirk. “Yeah, I did,” he said. “You were late and you didn’t bring the tool box, so I burned them.” He shrugged drunkenly and turned his attention back to the TV.

“N…n…no!” Booby Jim screamed at the top of his lungs, tugging his shirt at the same time, ripping it off of his body. He started crying and couldn’t talk. Turning abruptly, he ran into his room, slammed the door behind him, and threw himself on his bed, sobbing hysterically.

He lay that way for almost an hour, with his huge body shaking from sobs, but finally fell asleep.

~ * ~

A loud noise woke Billy Jack suddenly and he blinked in confusion at the brightness of his room; he rolled over to see the light was still on. From beyond his door he heard thumping and his dad screaming. Quickly, he got up and went to investigate.

“Dad, are y…y…you okay?” he asked tentatively, still timid after what had happened earlier that evening.

His dad didn’t answer, but he could hear low growling and grunting noises, and when he turned the corner to get a view of the living room he saw the source. A strange man was kneeling over the prone body of his dad, feasting upon his guts; his face was buried deep in Mr. Harper’s stomach.

“What are y…y…you doing to my d…d…dad?” he yelled, his hands balling into fists.

The man turned and looked in Billy Jack’s direction with cloudy eyes; he hissed at Billy Jack and went back to eating.

“S…s…stop!” Billy Jack yelled, and stepped forward, kicking the strange man in the stomach, knocking him over and away from his dad and into the open apartment door, slamming it shut.

The man roared in anger, sending drops of blood flying from his lips and teeth. He charged at Billy Jack with his hands raised and his fingers bent into claws.

“No!” Billy Jack screamed, and punched the man across the face as hard as he could.

The man’s head jerked to the side with the force of the blow and Billy Jack heard a wet snap as the man’s neck broke; the man fell to the floor and didn’t move anymore.

Turning back to his dad, Billy Jack started to panic. He reached down to grab ahold of his shirt while he tried to figure out what to do, only to realize he wasn’t wearing one. His hands started to shake as he tried to process the situation. His dad wasn’t moving and he didn’t know what to do or who to tell.

“R…r…rest,” he said, nodding his head. “Rest m…m…makes sick people b…b…better.”

He picked up his dad’s bloody body and took him into the master bedroom. He carefully laid him down on the bed and covered him with a blanket that was lying folded across the bottom.

Billy Jack knelt down on the floor beside the bed and held his dad’s hand in his larger ones, occasionally reaching up to stroke his forehead.

“Y…y…you’ll feel better s…s…soon, Dad,” he whispered. “You j…j…just need rest.”

In moments Billy Jack thought he saw results from the resting as Mr. Harper’s eyes fluttered open and a low moan escaped his partially parted lips.

“Dad? Y…y…you feel better?” Billy Jack asked, standing. “C…c…can I get you anything?”

Mr. Harper didn’t answer, he just groaned and turned his cloudy eyes toward Billy Jack and that’s when he knew something wasn’t right; the man who’d attacked his dad had eyes like that.

Clawing viciously at the blanket, trying to get free, Mr. Harper’s jaw snapped open and shut, clicking loudly.

“Dad?” Billy Jack asked in a voice that could have passed for a child’s. “What’s w…w…wrong with y…y…you?”

His dad didn’t answer, but broke free of the blanket to stand. Blood gushed from his open stomach, carrying his intestines with it. They splashed onto the scuffed, hardwood floor with a squish. He stepped forward, into his own mess, slipping slightly, but righting himself again with the help of the bed. He advanced toward Billy Jack, sniffing loudly and moaning.

Billy Jack backed away and bumped against a stand a TV was sitting on, knocking the TV off; the screen shattered on the floor. He became more flustered and tried to pick up the TV and put it back.

“I’m s…s…sorry, Dad,” he gushed. “I d…d…didn’t mean to b…b…break your TV.”

Mr. Harper’s hand fell heavily on Billy Jack’s shoulder, and he stood and turned to face his father, who hissed menacingly in his face. He lunged at Billy Jack, trying to bite him.

Billy Jack screamed and fell backwards as he instinctively dodged the bite, falling into the glass; it cut into his back and side, but he didn’t notice as his fear was focused on his sick parent.

“Why are y…y…you trying to e…e…eat me?” he whimpered, sitting up slightly and scooting backwards on his butt.

Mr. Harper roared and lunged at Billy Jack, who brought his arms up to defend himself, knocking his dad hard in the chin and off of him. Frantically, he grabbed at things around him as his dad pounced him once more. He lifted a large piece of glass and shoved it upward. It went in through the bottom of his dad’s chin at an angle, sinking deep into his head and brain.

Mr. Harper went still with a gurgle.

Billy Jack shoved his dad’s body off of himself and took deep, sobbing breaths. He didn’t understand why his dad had tried to bite him. He’d thought his dad loved him, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Sitting up, he looked around the room, noticing he’d knocked the door of the TV stand open when he’d bumped into it. Some misplaced impulse made it impossible for him not to fix it; normally he would get in trouble for not closing doors. Rising up on his knees, he crawled through the glass toward it, noting for the first time he was hurt. As his hand met the dark, painted wood, he eyes caught sight of something bright and colorful inside. Frowning, he opened the door further to find his comic books stacked inside. A grin spread across his blood spattered face. Dad did love me, he thought, glancing at the dead body on the floor to his right with an ache in his heart. All he’d ever heard from his father were mean things: how dumb he was; how Billy Jack’s mother had left because she couldn’t handle living with a child like him; how hard his life was trying to provide for him and meet his “special” needs; and how he couldn’t have a life because what woman would want anything to do with the father of a big dummy like him. But deep down, in spite of everything, his dad really, truly had loved him, and to Billy Jack, the comic books proved it.

“Daddy,” Billy Jack whimpered and turned, lifting his dad’s body into his arms, hugging it tight, weeping. “I l…l…love you.” He cried and rocked his dad’s body for a long time, before he laid the body back onto the bed.

He went down the hall and into the bathroom and was about to use the toilet when he noticed how filthy he was; he was completely covered in blood. Freaking out slightly, he stripped off his clothes as fast as he could and climbed into the shower, screaming as the water hit his wounds when he turned it on. He pulled out all the shards of glass he could, but he couldn’t reach them all. They didn’t really hurt unless the water hit them directly, so he didn’t worry about them. After cleaning himself, he stepped out of the shower and toweled dry, realizing for the first time he didn’t have any clothes to put on and he’d have to go to his room to get some.

Cautiously, he opened the bathroom door, half-expecting another scary person to jump out of nowhere and try to bite him, but the apartment was silent. Just as he was stepping out into the hall the sound of static behind him made him jump and cry out, clutching his chest in fear.

“Billy Jack?” came a faint, young voice from his bloody pants.

He walked slowly over to them and stared down at them, frowning. Why are my pants talking? he wondered.

The voice spoke again, making him jump back in surprise.

“Billy Jack? It’s Mike. I’m scared. Mommy is acting funny and is trying to bite me. Help!”

“The w…w…walkie-talkie!” Billy Jack exclaimed. He reached forward and picked up his pants, frantically searching them until he found the toy he’d mistakenly taken from his friend’s house. Pressing the button he spoke into it, “Mike! I’ll c…c…come rescue y…y…you!”

“Hurry!” Mike’s little voice cried.

“I’m c…c…coming!” Billy Jack screamed into the speaker on the plastic box, shaking it hard when he didn’t get a response. “Oh, n…n…no! I c…c…can’t hear you anymore, Mike!” He turned knobs, pressed the button and shook the walkie-talkie, but didn’t get a response.

No longer caring he was naked, or he was bloody again from handling his pants, Billy Jack darted through the apartment and into his bedroom. Without hesitation he put on the superhero uniform he’d made, and in his mind he became Super Billy Jack, savior of all who lived in the cursed castle. He would save his little friend and save the day.

First he put on his red flannel union suit with the lightning bolt and the letters B and J on the chest. Next he slipped on the bright green galoshes he’d bought with his allowance money. Lastly, he put on his hat. It was a multicolored beanie with a little propeller on top that would keep the cursed castle keepers from reading his thoughts; he’d attached a strip of material with holes where his eyes were, to the front, to hang down over his face and protect his identity.

Proudly he stood admiring himself in the mirror for a moment with his feet wide apart and his fists on his hips.

“Super Billy Jack t…t…to the rescue!” he yelled, and dashed out of his bedroom.

He paused for a moment at the door of the apartment, remembering his dad said he shouldn’t go out dressed like he was or he would take his comic books. But he knew his dad wasn’t coming back this time and he wouldn’t take his comic books again, so with a grin, he charged out into the hall. He was disappointed when nothing was going on in the hall, but quickly lifted his spirits by pretending to fly to the elevator. Echoing the ding when the door opened, he hopped inside and spun in a full circling saying, “Whaaaa!” before he pushed the button that would take him to the lobby.

When the door slid open, he ran out into the lobby to witness one of the buildings tenants being attacked by a group of three biting men. Her screams grew weaker and weaker as blood sprayed into the air from her neck where a large patch of skin was missing and an artery had been ruptured. The blood landed on his bright green boots and ran down the side to pool around his feet as he stood in shock before he took action.

Screaming, he darted across the hall, bravely facing the mailbox monster to attack the men consuming the woman. He slammed his fist into the back of one of the men’s heads and his fist sank into the man’s skull. He shook it off in disgust, drawing the attention of the other two men as he did so. They shuffled away from the woman, allowing her dead, bloody, limp body to fall to the floor, hissing at him.

Their eyes were cloudy and parts of their faces were missing. They walked awkwardly and drooled blood out of their wide-open mouths.

“You c…c…cursed creatures won’t g…g…get the best of m…m…me!” Billy Jack shouted, and reached out and grabbing both of the men’s heads, slamming them together.

They burst like two overly ripe melons under the pressure of the collision; chunks of brain and clotted, black blood flew in every direction.

He pulled his hands away and let the bodies drop to the floor.

“Ew,” he said, looking down at the pile of bodies in front of him and at the mess they’d made. “I sh…sh…should clean this m…m…mess up, but I h…h…have to save Mike!”

Turning, he darted toward the door to the stairwell, but slipped in pooled blood and fell back onto the pile of death.

He screamed and kicked, trying to fight his way out of the slop. Finally rolling off, he crawled to the door to the stairs, breathing heavily. Being a superhero is harder than I thought it would be, he thought, holding onto the door handle while he regained his footing. Pulling open the door, he headed into the darkness and almost felt like he was being swallowed whole by the building itself, so he started singing the song that always gave him courage when he had to do big things that scared him: Itsy-Bitsy-Spider.

With his whispering voice echoing off the stark walls, Billy Jack climbed the stairs as fast as he could, slipping occasionally because the blood dripping from his clothes and onto the worn-smooth stairs made them slicker than normal.

As he reached the fourth floor landing, he heard a low moan echo around him. He froze, not knowing what to do, but knowing someone else was close-by. He felt along the wall for the door leading to the fourth floor hallway, and looked through the gloom created by the wane moonlight seeping in through the small, dirty, barred windows high in the walls. His hand reached the handle as he heard a louder moan and a thumping noise of something falling down stairs and a deep groan; it sounded closer. He raised his eyes to the fifth floor landing as his hand gripped the door handle tighter; something was moving around up there, groaning. It had to be another of the biting people.

The form slowly stood and limped to the edge of the landing, looking down at Billy Jack. It groaned loudly and tried to walk forward, falling down the stairs right at him.

Billy Jack screamed, yanked the door open, and darted onto the fourth floor of the building. Making sure the door was shut tight behind him, he spun and darted, not paying attention to anything around him. He slammed into a woman and pinned her against the wall with all of his weight.

She gasped and then purred, “Hold on, sugar, and I’ll give you anything you want.” Her hand—which was caught between them—cupped his crotch.

Billy Jack cried out and backed away. “Why d…d…did you touch me th…th…there?” he whimpered, holding his hands over his penis like he had to pee.

The woman laughed and advanced toward him, looking him over. “You pay me enough I’ll give you what you really want.” She traced the B and J on his chest with her finger. “You like BJs, don’t you?” she teased, and then frowned. “Why are you all wet?”

Holding her hand up at an angle to the faint hallway light, she saw her hand was covered with blood; she looked down and discovered her body was also coated in blood where his had touched hers when he’d pinned her to the wall.

“It’s blood!” she screamed, and darted for the stairwell door.

Billy Jack yelled, “No!” and tried to stop her from opening the door, but it was too late.

“Holy shit, a zombie!” she yelped, and tried turning back to Billy Jack, who was standing, panting, in the hall.

He glimpsed the stark fear in her eyes as the man she’d identified as a zombie fell on her from behind, pinning her to the floor. She screamed and kicked, but it was too late, the monster’s teeth had sunk into her flesh and she was bleeding.

Billy Jack was scared, still standing in the hall, cupping his privates, in shock over what had happened so quickly. He knew he needed to get back out into the stairwell to keep climbing and save Mike. To reach the stairs he would have to go through the zombie attacking the strange, almost naked, woman who liked to touch people in their no-no-special places.

Tugging at the front of his union suit, he decided he would have to stop the zombie from hurting the woman, or else he wouldn’t be a real superhero—they saved everyone.

With a roar, he charged forward, getting the zombie’s attention; it lifted its head at the noise. Hopping slightly, he planted one foot hard on the floor and kicked with the other like he’d seen football players do on TV when they were kicking a field goal. His kicking foot connected with the zombie’s chin, snapping its head back and almost off as its rotting flesh tore.

The woman was still alive and sobbing uncontrollably, so Billy Jack dragged the zombie off of the woman and helped her up. She was weak and wobbled back and forth.

“You n…n…need to rest, m…m…ma’am,” he said, leaning her up against the wall; she slid down, sitting hard on her butt when he let her go. “I h…h…have to save Mike.”

Billy Jack opened the door to the stairwell a little further—the zombie’s legs were holding it open slightly—and he disappeared into the oppressive gloom once again. He was now scared there would be more of the zombie creatures on the stairs somewhere waiting to get him, so he ran up the five flights of stairs to the ninth floor. Ripping open the door, he carefully stepped into the hallway and looked around before closing the door behind himself.

The hall was silent; there was no sound of anyone anywhere, not even noise from TVs in the apartments. The moon cast shadows along the corridor and made Billy Jack more and more nervous. He tugged at the front of his union suit, accidentally popping off a button, but he didn’t notice. He was focused on the scary world around him, gulping and whimpering in succession. The idea of being a superhero had been fun when the world was safe and he was only dealing with his imagination, but it was more difficult than he’d anticipated, and more scary. He finally reached apartment 947 and what he found didn’t improve his spirits any.

A smeared, bloody hand print was bright on the wide-open door. From within the apartment he heard growling and the wet sound of something eating, along with soft whimpers. Tentatively, he stepped over the threshold and beheld a gruesome sight on the kitchen floor.

Mike’s bare feet were twitching and bouncing off the floor as his mother and some man Billy Jack didn’t know—both naked—ate his small body. The whimpers were Mike’s and Billy Jack realized he was still alive. Rage and grief surged through him and he screamed at the zombies.

“S…s…stop hurting my f…f…friend!”

He stormed into the room and grabbed the man, wrapping his hands around his neck, squeezing with all his strength. The man hadn’t been a zombie long, so he wasn’t rotting, but when Billy Jack gave him a quick jerk in his fury, his spine snapped just below his skull and he went still. Throwing the limp body off to the side, Billy Jack kicked Mike’s mom in the head; she had been too interested in eating her son to pay attention to what was going on around her. He picked her up by the shoulders and slammed her against the wall screaming at her for being a bad mother, until her skull cracked and a wet slapping sound rang through the kitchen each time she hit the wall. With tears running down his cheeks, Billy Jack let her fall to the floor as well, and turned to kneel down beside Mike.

His little body was quivering as he took each breath. Blood was oozing from his body and soaking into the scraps of what used to be his clothes. “Billy Jack,” he whispered, “thank you for saving me.”

Billy Jack was too choked up with tears to respond and slid his arm under his small friend’s head, hugging him close, rocking gently.

After a couple more shaky intakes of air, Mike stopped breathing altogether.

Billy Jack continued to rock him, wailing, mourning his friend more than he’d mourned his father; they’d been closer and had a real bond.

He was too caught up in his grief to notice all the noise he was making had attracted more zombies. Three of them came shambling through the door and were clawing at him before he knew what was going on. In his grief, he batted their clawing hands away, but only half-heartedly. With Mike gone he didn’t care what happened to him. He snapped back to reality when the small body moved in his arms, moaning insistently. Sudden sharp pains from his neck, chest, and arm caused him to cry out and stand. He jumped back and dropped Mike on the blood-soaked floor; his once angelic face was twisted in blood lust.

“Mike?” Billy Jack stammered, barely noticing the small boy had bitten him, as had two others of the undead ranks. “A…a…are you okay?”

Mike hissed and tried to stand, but the damage to his body had been too extensive; the middle of his body was gone, all the way to his spinal cord. With a harsh grunt, the zombie boy flipped himself over onto his front and flopped like a fish toward Billy Jack, licking what little blood he’d drawn from his tiny lips.

“N…n…no!” Billy Jack sobbed, backing away.

One of the other zombies had finally had enough of everything and lunged at Billy Jack.

He jumped and dodged the sudden movement, only to slip in the huge puddle of blood on the floor and fall hard.

All three of the adult zombies piled onto him, tearing skin and muscle with their teeth and devouring sweet, hot flesh, but Billy Jack didn’t even cry out with pain. His eyes were locked with the now cloudy eyes of Mike as he flopped closer and closer. He was crying and was slipping into shock, seeing his once best friend turn into a blood thirsty creature was just too much.

By the time Mike finally reached Billy Jack, he was weak from loss of blood, but the zombie didn’t care because it worked to his advantage. He growled and purred down at his meal like the man was a steak and not a friend.

“I’m s…s…sorry, Mike,” Billy Jack whispered. “I’m s…s…sorry I didn’t m…m…make it here in t…t…time. I’m sorry I c…c…couldn’t be your s…s…superhero. I g…g…guess I’m a w…w…worthless nothing l…l…like my dad s…s…said…”

Mike’s mouth closed around Billy Jack’s throat, cutting off his air. Pulling back, he tore off a small chunk of flesh, but his small teeth had done the job. They’d found an artery, and soon Billy Jack wasn’t suffering any longer and the zombies drank their fill of his bloody, until he too rose again to feast on the living.

About the story:

This story was originally written sometime between 2010-2015 for a superhero themed zombie anthology from Living Dead Press. I also wrote a similar story in a rural setting; both appeared in the anthology. The Heart of Heroism has been residing as a bonus story in my short story collection: Twisted Pathways of Murder & Death. It is being removed from the collection as I’m currently revamping the title. This story has been re-edited into the 2023 version you read above.

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2023

A Fantasy/Horror Short Story – Evil Mountain by Rebecca Besser

EVIL MOUNTAIN

By Rebecca Besser

The darkness thickened as Hinun moved deeper into the forest. There was no sound except his steps and panting breath. He’d been on the trail for days, searching for his missing father, hoping he’d find him alive, but with each passing day his hope slowly died.

Yesterday he’d found Father’s bow. It had been lying beside a tree. The bow was broken, the wood splintered and scared with teeth marks. Hinun didn’t know what might have made the marks, as they were large and deep, almost going completely through the handle of the long bow.

There had been blood on the string—dried blood, dark brown from the passage of time. If it had been red and wet Hinun would still have some expectancy of finding Father alive, but not now. It had been too long.

After searching for another day, finding nothing more, Hinun headed home. When he arrived, he would tell his mother and his sister all hope was lost.

~ * ~

Kilna watched for her son’s return. She was scared for him and for his father, whom he’d gone in search of. She’d been against the whole thing. If her husband wasn’t coming back, she didn’t see any point in risking her son as well.

She hung wet laundry out on the line—the thick woven cord scraping against her palms and chaffing her fingers. The cold wind blowing down from Evil Mountain didn’t help. Winter would be upon them soon and they weren’t ready. It seemed each year it was coming sooner. Everyone blamed the witch. She lived high in the snowy peaks of Evil Mountain, and she was evil herself. But she wasn’t the only creature of evil intent that lived in that harsh environment. There were many strange beasts that dwelled there. That’s how the mountain got its name.

Catching a movement by the path that lead to the forest, Kilna turned her head sharply, her heart leaping with hope. But, it fell again as she saw that it was only five-year-old Duna chasing a cat around the yard.

“Duna,” Kilna called gently, “don’t play so close to the woods. It’s not safe, darling.”

Duna looked up, a defiant light in her dark blue eyes. “I want the kitty.”

Kilna smiled. “Yes, I know you want the kitty, but I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Duna looked from her mother to the cat and huffed. She turned and stomped back into the yard, toward the cottage. She plopped her butt on the sandstone step in front of the door, crossed her arms, and huffed again.

Kilna bit back a grin as she watched her daughter pout. When she crossed her little arms and frowned like that, Duna looked like her father. Thinking of Jotan brought a frown to Kilna’s brow as well. Questions swirled in her head: Where is he? What happened to him? Why isn’t Hinun back yet?

Kilna and Duna feed the chickens, the goat, the cow, and the pig before heading to the cottage for the night. It was wise to be inside before dark, because no one knew what would be lurking in the shadows.

~ * ~

Hinun had made it halfway to his farm before he noticed. There was definitely something following him. But, whatever it was, it was staying far enough behind him that he couldn’t see it.

When he started walking, he could hear shuffling behind him. He could hear low moans on the wind that sent shivers down his spine.

After crossing a shallow river, Hinun decided to see what was there, if anything. He sometimes thought it was his imagination playing tricks on him. There were many tales of men driven mad by spending too much time in the shadow of Evil Mountain.

He made his way up the steep, fern-covered bank, and paused as if looking for a deer path in the foliage in front of him, and heard a moan.

Without looking behind him, Hinun advanced into the forest, letting the branches of the trees hide him with their leaves. He walked a good ten yards before he hopped over a bush, off the path he’d been following, and circled back to the river. Whoever or whatever was following him had been keeping their distance, so he knew he had time.

Hinun sat between the roots of a large weeping willow a few yards up the bank from where he’d crossed earlier. The fronds cast enough shadows to conceal him, but they were far enough apart he could see through them clearly.

Sitting still like he was hunting deer, he waited and watched, ignoring his body’s discomfort.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Not twenty minutes after sitting down, the brush on the opposite side of the bank began to shudder, like there was a strong breeze. There was no wind that day, so Hinun knew it for what it was. Something was out there, making it move.

He sat tense, holding his breath and drawing his bow, ready to let an arrow fly as soon as any threat presented itself.

A pale hand came through and held the bushes and ferns aside, as a hunched over man came stumbling out of the woods. His head was bent at an odd angle and he moaned and winced with each step.

Hinun watched the man stumble down the bank and fall into the water. He struggled to stand once again. Something about him was familiar. The clothes! Those were his father’s clothes!

Pulling to full draw, Hinun almost let go of the bow string when the strange man turned and he got a glimpse of his face.

“Father,” Hinun breathed, relaxing his shoulder. The bow went limp in his hands and the arrow fell to the sand at his feet.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His father was alive.

After the shock had passed, Hinun jumped up and went running, splashing through the water to his father.

“Father!” he yelled, throwing his arms around him.

~ * ~

Jotan didn’t respond at first, when a young man embraced him with enthusiasm. His mind was cloudy. Ever since the battle, he hadn’t been able to think straight. The strange wolf-man and the staggering ghoul had seemed to come out of nowhere and he wasn’t at all prepared for what had happened next.

He’d just made camp for the night when the strange pair stepped into the light cast by his small cooking fire. He’d grabbed his bow and shot the ghoul, but it didn’t seem to bother him, he just kept stepping drunkenly forward.

The wolf, standing on its back legs, at least ten feet tall, had taken his bow and broken it. Jotan had bent down to retrieve his hunting knife from his boot and the ghoulish creature had bitten him, ripping off a chunk of flesh.

He remembered stabbing the ghoul in the mouth with his blade as it dove for another bite; it had fallen limp and dead to the ground. But, there was still the werewolf, at least, that was what the thing appeared to be.

Jotan battled with the beast for a while, until loss of blood had made him weak. The dark grey creature had stood over him, roaring, and he’d expected to be eaten alive at any moment. But, instead, the werewolf had dropped down on all fours and sniffed him, growling deep in his throat.

A loud, high-pitched whistle had broken through the night air and the beast’s head jerked up. It howled, whimpered, and ran off toward the source of the sound.

Jotan managed to crawl over to his bed roll and pass out, not expecting to see morning.

Strange memories of that night still flitted through his mind. Images that seemed like nothing more than dreams, of the wolf returning with a young, beautiful woman. She looked into his face and he’d seen into the dark depths of her cold black eyes. Somehow he’d known she was the witch that dwelled on the mountain.

“Ah,” she’d said. “You’ve killed my pet. Don’t worry—I’m not angry. You will soon prove useful.”

She threw back her head and laughed. The dying embers of the fire created dancing lights in her black wavy hair, which made her look like she was surrounded with glittery magic.

He’d turned his head and had seen the werewolf standing on the other side of the waning fire, just watching.

He’d had a fever, so he’d thought it had all been his imagination, until he woke up the next morning in a haze, his body not wanting to move. There was a long black hair clinging to the front of his shirt, and he’d known it had been real. He hadn’t liked what that implied.

Now, here he was with some young man hugging him, calling him “father.”

Jotan didn’t recognize him, and it wouldn’t have mattered if he did. He’d lost his ability to speak days ago. This strange sickness was doing weird things to his body.

The young man pulled back, letting him go. The world spun then clouded over. He landed in the water with a splash, unconscious.

~ * ~

Hinun gasped as Father fell into the water, face down. Quickly, he flipped him over before he could drown, and dragged him to the bank. Frantically, he tried to revive him, to no avail.

Laying Father’s head down gently, Hinun went in search of something he could use to make a stretcher to move him on. He could drag him home, but not without a bit of help.

Twenty yards up the bank Hinun came across a couple of saplings that were tall enough and thick enough for what he had planned. It took him the rest of the day to cut them down with his small hand ax and lash them together with a coil of twine he had in his pack, and his cloak.

By the time he was ready to set off, it was almost dark. Hinun knew if he pushed, and they didn’t get caught up in the underbrush, they could make it home by morning. His concern for Father’s life was urging him to risk the dangers of traveling at night, in the shadow of Evil Mountain.

~ * ~

“What do you mean you can’t find him?” Freka yelled at Yito. “Do I have to do everything myself?”

The witch slammed her fist down on the arm of her huge wooden chair with such fury that the werewolf flinched. He wouldn’t turn again until the moon rose, and he wished it would hurry up and happen. Yito wanted out of her presence and out in the freedom of the woods.

Yito bowed. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you, mistress.”

“Disappointed me?” Freka asked with a snarl. “You’ve done far more than disappoint me. You’ve shown how useless and incompetent you really are! I should kill you right now!”

Freka raised her hand and the blood ruby in her ring glowing ominously on her finger.

Yito threw himself at her feet. “Please no! I’ll do anything for you, mistress, anything. Please let me live.”

He was strong and formidable in werewolf form, but as a man he was skinny and frail. He hated the weakness of his human body and wanted to be a werewolf all the time. Freka had the power to make it happen, but she would only give him what he wanted if he served her well. He had to make this up to her or she would never give him that gift.

“I know where the man’s family lives,” Yito lied. “I can go there tonight and bring him back here for you. I can!”

Freka lowered her hand and the ruby lost half of its radiance. “Get up. I hate it when you grovel like a dog.”

Yito slowly rose to his feet, careful not to touch her feet. Last time he’d accidently bumped into her, she’d had him beaten. The scars on his back were the reminder of the brutality of her lover, Lendor.

The vampire had delighted in beating him, jealous of the time and attention Freka gave him. But Yito knew it was because she wanted to manipulate him, both of them probably. She loved to pit them against each other.

Freka stood and walked around Yito, looking him over.

He felt her fingernails slide through the white grooves on his back as she walked.

“You won’t disappoint me again, will you?” she asked playfully.

“No, mistress,” Yito said, hearing the steel undertone in her flirtatious purr. “I’ll never disappoint you again.”

“Good,” she chirped with a smile. “I want you to bring him, and his entire family, and I want them all here by midnight. Lendor needs to feed. They should make quite a banquet for him.”

Yito bowed. “Yes, mistress, as you wish.”

He turned to leave and had almost made it out the door when she called after him.

“Yito!”

He turned and bowed. “Yes, mistress?”

“If you succeed, I’ll give you what you want. If you don’t, you’ll die.”

Yito bowed again, turned, and left. He didn’t know how he was going to find out where the family was and get them back before midnight, but he knew he’d die trying. He was as good as dead anyway if he failed. He had nothing to lose.

~ * ~

Hinun dragged Father through the woods. It was almost pitch black, with the trees blocking out any and all light. He’d stumbled numerous times, scraping his knee, and cutting his palm. Not being able to see where he was going was also causing the stretcher to get stuck where the poles dragged the ground. At this rate they wouldn’t make it home by morning.

He sat down to rest for a moment, his entire body covered in sweat from exertion. Gently setting down the poles he’d been dragging, he flopped to the ground and lay still, just breathing in the cool night air. Before he realized it, he fell asleep.

~ * ~

Kilna had just tucked a sleeping Duna into her small cot close to the fire when she heard it: howling on the wind. It waft through the open window and to her ears as the stench of a skunk would have come to her nose.

She shivered as she walked over to the window, expecting some dark creature intent on harm to be standing there, waiting to grab her and drag her through.

No one was there. The yard was empty. There wasn’t so much as a racoon looking for stray bits of chicken feed. The night was silent—too silent.

Gripping the rough wood of the shutters, Kilna closed the window and slid the board into place to keep it shut.

She undressed and went to bed, praying the men she so dearly loved were safe.

If she’d waited a moment longer before shutting the window, she’d have seen a two-headed dragon in the sky, silhouetted by the moon, with a werewolf on its back. Then she would have realized no amount of praying would keep Hinun and Jotan safe that night.

~ * ~

Hinun woke with a start. Father was awake and was thrashing around, trying to get free of the stretcher. He’d lashed him down with their leather belts, so he wouldn’t fall out and get hurt.

“Father?” Hinun called out, getting up off the ground. “I fell asleep. Are you all right?”

As he stepped closer, Father strained against the leather and snapped at Hinun, like he was trying to bite him.

“Father, what’s wrong?” Hinun asked, reaching forward to feel Jotan’s head.

Jotan lunged for the juicy sticks of meat, trying to bite them off.

Hinun pulled his hand back quickly, not understanding what was going on. “Are you hungry? I have some jerky in my pack.”

After retrieving the jerky he held it up to Father’s mouth, but he cocked his head and tried to bite Hinun’s hand again.

Frowning, Hinun tucked the jerky away and picked up the poles, continuing home. While he was walking, he contemplated his father’s strange behavior, unaware of the threat that hovered just above the trees.

~ * ~

Yito had decided Gox was his best bet of finding the man and his family, and transporting them back to the ice castle alive. There was no way he could do it himself.

Glancing at the moon, he estimated the time to be somewhere around ten o’clock. That left him two hours to accomplish his mission, and four hours before the potion Freka had given him to make his change would wear off.

Gox had been surprisingly compliant. Normally the two headed dragon would baulk at letting Yito ride him, but he hadn’t been out in a while and seemed eager to fly, even if it was with his least favorite passenger.

Yito watched the heads of the dragon swing back and forth in the wind. One would breathe fire one minute, and the other would spew ice the next. Gox seemed to be playing, and that was fine with Yito, as long as it didn’t interfere with his mission. So far things were going great.

He’d already managed to spot the infected man in the woods. His scent was unmistakable. As his body changed from human to zombie, he began to stink in a way no other creature could. But Yito smelled fresh blood with him as well. This confused him. He didn’t know why the new zombie hadn’t attacked and fed yet. But, he wasn’t going to make them aware of his presence just to see why. That could wait. He just hoped they were leading them to more people. Family or not, he had to show up at midnight with a few humans if he wanted to be rewarded.

~ * ~

Hinun looked up at the moon as he dragged his father the last few feet into the yard. It was after eleven. He just hoped Mother would open the door for him. Crawling through the yard, every muscle in his body protesting even the slightest movement, he made his way to the door.

Knocking with all the strength he had left, Hinun passed out on the step.

~ * ~

Kilna heard a thumping on the door and jumped out of bed. Her hand flew to the latch, ready to tear it away, but caution made her pause. Pressing her ear to the door, she stood silently waiting for a sound to come to her, telling her who might be outside.

She heard a distant moan. It was almost too faint for her to perceive, but it was there all the same. Convinced someone was hurt, she threw the door open and gasped at the prone body of her son on the door step.

Kneeling down, she cradled his head in her lap, slapping his cheeks.

“Wake up, Hinun,” she pleaded.

He moaned, looked up into his mother’s face, and smiled. “Mother.”

She leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “Shh. We can talk when you’ve rested.”

Hinun’s brow wrinkled in a frown and he tried to sit up. “No, Father!”

Kilna frowned down at her son, applying pressure to his shoulder to still his movements and urge him to again relax. “What about Jotan? Where is he?”

Hinun lifted his arm and pointed to the edge of the yard, where he’d left the stretcher.

Kilna jumped up, careful not to let Hinun’s head fall on the hard stone, and ran to her husband. Her long white cotton nightgown plastered itself to her body and slowed her down, but she was still there in a couple of seconds.

The stretcher was empty. Lifting the straps she noted they had teeth marks on them; they’d been chewed through.

She turned back to the cottage to see a two headed dragon standing beside it, and a werewolf throwing Hinun’s body over its neck. She dropped the straps and screamed, running to her son’s aid.

She’d only gone five feet when a shadow fell over her—the shadow of her husband.

“Jotan?” she whispered. “Jotan!”

She threw herself into his arms, too happy and excited at seeing him alive to stop herself. Pulling back, she looked up into his eyes—vacant eyes, cloudy eyes. She shivered and pulled away.

Jotan moaned and stepped toward her, gripping her arm, dragging her back to him. With his other hand he pulled her hair violently, lowering his wide-open mouth to her neck. He was about to sink his teeth into her soft warm flesh when something slammed into the side of his head, knocking him down.

While Jotan was shaking his head and trying to figure out where the meal that had just been in his arms had gone, Yito knocked Kilna out and carried her to the dragon.

Jotan struggled to his feet slowly, sniffing the air to see if he could locate the food he knew was around. A strange smell entered his nostrils. It was stronger than human scent, and more musky. Staggering slowly, Jotan made his way toward the strange smell, wondering if whatever it was, would be a good meal.

Yito went into the small cottage and stood over the cot of a little girl, and just looked at her. He could smell her sweet innocence and wanted to sink his teeth into her, rip her apart, and savor every drop of her blood. But, he knew if he did Freka and Lendor would kill him. He had to restrain himself and take her with him. There would be other innocent humans to enjoy later.

Yito picked her up, careful not to wake her, and turned toward the door.

The zombie was standing there pretending to look around. Yito knew he couldn’t see anything; the last one had been completely blind and had traveled through life depending completely on scent. He assumed this one was the same.

Yito took a step forward and the zombie grunted and stepped inside.

Walking forward with purpose, Yito lifted one of his rear legs off the ground and kicked the zombie in the gut, sending him flying through the air to land in the dirt of the yard. He was extremely careful not to jar the child or to make a sound. He didn’t want to accidently kill her when he tried to knock her out. He wanted her to stay asleep as long as possible.

Jotan grunted and groaned, rolling all over the yard, trying to get up, not realizing his leg was broken.

Yito shook his massive wolf head at the zombie. He couldn’t believe how stupid they were. No brain power, just driven by blood lust. He didn’t understand what Freka kept one around for.

Shrugging, Yito tied the girl to her mother, making sure the bonds were tight enough that if she woke up and struggled, he wouldn’t lose her.

Gox raised his heads as Yito mounted.

Growling, he nodded toward the zombie still rolling around in the yard. Gox huffed smoke and snow and took flight, grabbing the zombie in his claws as they took to the air.

Yito was excited. He’d done what he’d said he could do. He’d gotten the zombie and the family. Finally, he would be granted his wish. He would be a werewolf all the time.

As they flew to the ice castle, he dreamed about what it would feel like to have sunshine on his fur as he frolicked through the woods.

~ * ~

Freka was waiting expectantly at the door when they arrived.

“I’m impressed,” she said, looking over the cargo. “I didn’t expect you to deliver. Lendor will be pleased.”

Yito growled contentedly, pleased with his mistress’s approval.

“After Lendor feeds,” Freka purred. “I’ll give you what I promised.”

Yito nodded and set about unloading the cargo. The little girl had woken up during the flight and had screamed for a while, but now she was silent and ridged. He was sure she was in shock.

“Yito,” Freka said. “Would you tie up the zombie for me? Just chain him to the wall or something—anything to keep him out of the way for now.”

Yito grunted, acknowledging the request.

Freka lifted her hand, the ruby glowing bright, and mumbled something under her breath; the humans stood and lined up in a row, facing forward.

“Walk,” she said, and they walked.

Yito watched for a moment, always amazed at the witch’s power, before he grabbed the zombie by the scruff of the neck and hauled him off to tie him up.

~ * ~

Lendor stood at the window, staring out into the darkness with his arms folded behind his back as Freka brought in the humans. He turned to survey his gift.

“Not bad,” he said, walking toward them. “I had hoped for the girl to be older, but I can’t have everything now, can I?”

Freka frowned. “Why did you want the girl to be older?”

“Ah, my darling, I don’t see why you like to ask such silly questions,” he said as he examined Kilna.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Freka snapped. “If you don’t stop talking in riddles, I’ll let the zombie and the werewolf have them and you’ll have to hunt your own food.”

Lendor turned to look at the witch, hissed, and bore his teeth.

She shrank back. “You’re grumpy. You need to feed. I’ll go and make sure our new zombie is settling in.”

Freka hurried to leave. Lendor sometimes scared her. He was the only one that wasn’t afraid of her powers. In truth, they didn’t work on him at all for some reason. She could do as she wanted with everyone else, but not with him, which was why he was her lover; it excited her to have someone she couldn’t control.

Yito had done what he was asked. The zombie was chained to the wall in the cellar, a collar connecting him to the wall. He was in bad shape though, with a broken leg, and his guts hanging out of a gash Gox’s claws had made.

She sighed and headed back upstairs to see how Lendor’s feeding was going.

Freka opened the door and stepped into the lounge, stopping dead in her tracks at what she saw.

Lendor had already feed on the young man—the limp body was lying on the floor where he’d been standing. The young girl was still standing where she’d been earlier, staring off into space, but that wasn’t what had caught Freka’s attention.

It was the woman. Lendor had her bare to the waist, kneeling in front of him. His mouth was attached to her neck where he slowly sucked the blood from her body while he caressed her torso. The woman was gasping and panting. He was taking his time with her and enjoying her as more than just a meal. He was enjoying her as a woman as well.

Freka gasped as a red-hot ball of jealousy shot through her body. Stomping over to the couple, she grabbed the woman’s head and, with a twist, broke her neck, killing her instantly.

Lendor reared back and hissed. He was angry that his main course had been taken from him before he was ready. Closing his eyes, he licked his lips, savoring the last taste of the woman before the blood went cold.

Standing, he loomed over Freka.

“What did you do that for?” Lendor growled.

“You were touching her,” Freka screamed. “Enjoying her!”

“Yes, I was enjoying her,” he said. “You gave her to me to enjoy, didn’t you?”

“Not like that,” Freka huffed. “To feed, not to fondle!”

Lendor’s hand shot out and gripped Freka’s neck, lifting her off the floor and cutting off her air.

“I have no need of a jealous woman,” he snapped. “I won’t be controlled by you or anyone else. If I want to enjoy another woman, I will, and there is nothing you can do about it.”

He dropped Freka to the ice floor and stomped over to the little girl. Grabbing her, he bit her neck and sucked the life out of her. Dropping her limp body, he wiped blood off his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to leave the room.

Freka gasped for breath, her anger growing with every intake of air. How dare he act this way! she thought, her rage building. How dare he treat me like any normal woman! Standing, she raised her hand and slammed the door shut in front of him, her ring glowing so bright that the entire room was red.

Lendor bowed his head for a moment before he turned. Facing her, he looked her straight in the eye and walked toward her. He stopped when they were six inches from each other—his eyes were ablaze with an anger equal to her own.

“Open the door,” he said in a low menacing voice. “I’m not in the mood to play your games.”

Freka didn’t say anything. She just stared back at him.

Before she knew what was happening, Lendor grabbed her head, jerked it to the side, and bit into her neck.

She clawed at his face, tried to push him away, crying out in pain and fear.

He tightened his grip the more she fought.

Gradually the light in her ring faded and went out. Her arms hung limp at her sides.

Lendor dropped her dead body to the floor, and left the room. He stopped suddenly in the hall as he felt the castle shudder around him. From below, he heard the howl of a werewolf, the moans of a zombie, and the thundering roar of a dragon. Something occurred to him, but it was too late. Freka must have had all the beasts under her control. Now there was nothing to stop them from tearing him apart. Quickly, he headed for the main entrance of the castle, but not quickly enough.

~ * ~

Gox roared as a black fog cleared from his mind. The walls surrounding him made him feel hemmed in and uncomfortable. He thrashed around and his tail hit the chain that held Jotan the zombie to the wall, freeing him to roam the ice castle.

Rearing up, Gox’s heads hit the ceiling above him, breaking through. His fire head became stuck and he tugged it back down frantically, trying to free himself. He shot fire and ice all around, hitting everything. Flames sizzled as they fought with ice.

Finally freeing his head, Gox pulled down a large chunk of the frozen floor, and Lendor with it. Knocking him out as he landed in the cellar.

~ * ~

Jotan moaned and shuffled around, not really aware of the danger he was in from the thrashing Gox. Sniffing the air, he smelled blood—human blood.

Slowly, he hobbled toward what his nose told him was food. He fell on top of the prone body of a weird smelling man. Following his nose, Jotan found the human blood he’d smelled, all over Lendor’s neck and hands. He licked the body, confused by the smell of the vampire. When the human blood he’d licked off turned out to be what he thought it was, he dug right in, biting Lendor’s neck and tearing it wide open.

Lendor came to screaming. He looked at the zombie who was happily munching on him and hissed, which didn’t faze Jotan a bit as he went in for another bite.

The vampire lunged forward and ripped Jotan’s head off, throwing it against the wall as hard as he could, and rolling out of the way of Gox’s tail that was whizzing through the air toward him.

Standing, Lendor clutched his bleeding neck, glancing at the head of the zombie that was now rolling around on the ground, dented, but still chewing. He headed for the exit across the room, dogging Gox as he slashed, butted, and slammed into everything around him. Chunks of wall and ceiling were raining down like giant hail.

Just as Lendor reached the doorway, Yito appeared in the opening with a menacing growl, blocking his path.

The vampire hissed, and the werewolf snarled as they stood looking deep into each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to make the first move.

Lendor, tired off all the chaos, lunged forward to grab Yito’s neck.

Yito dropped down on all fours, avoiding Lendor’s grasp and bit into the vampire’s leg, sinking his teeth to the bone.

Lendor shrieked, cupped his hands like claws, and thrust them into Yito’s back, grabbing his spine with both hands. With a sharp upward yank, he removed the spine from the neck down, leaving it dangling outside Yito’s body.

Yito screamed and groaned in pain, but he didn’t let go. His head was the only part of his body still functioning and he wasn’t going to give up easily.

Lendor reached down and took hold of Yito’s powerful jaws, pulling as hard as he could.

Yito growled.

Lendor groaned from the effort, but finally Yito’s jaw gave way with a snap.

Yito yelped and moved no more, now just a dead lump of fur.

Lendor bent over to examine the damage to his leg and while he was distracted, Gox finally tore a hole in the wall big enough for him to escape.

Gox threw aside the last chunk of the ice wall, which landed on Lendor, knocking him over and pinning him to the floor. With a jumping leap the dragon perched for a moment in the opening, breathing in the predawn air, his tail slamming into the floor, gouging it in his excitement and freedom. He didn’t notice Lendor, and didn’t see that he had chopped him to bits, killing the vampire he had once seen as master.

With a final roar of freedom, Gox took flight, spinning and weaving through the air, traveling far from Evil Mountain where “the evil” now lay dead in a crimson lake of blood.

About the story:

This story was originally written sometime between 2010-2015 for a horror creature themed anthology from Wicked East Press, which was a three volume hardcover series with the other two books being published by other indie publishers as a collaboration. The requirements were that the story had to contain a vampire, witch, zombie, werewolf, and a dragon. Evil Mountain has been residing as a bonus story in my short story collection: Twisted Pathways of Murder & Death. It is being removed from the collection as I’m currently revamping the title. This story has been re-edited into the 2023 version you read above.

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2023

A Halloween Short Story – Historical Significance by Rebecca Besser

Historical Significance

By Rebecca Besser

Perry Roberts stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the black depths of his basement. He held the last box that needed to be stored down there, but he couldn’t make his legs move. The light was on when I went outside, wasn’t it? he thought. He knew it had been, but now it was out.

With a sigh, he sat the box down on the floor, reached into the slight gloom at the top of the stairwell, and felt the switch with his fingers; it was still on. Bulb must’ve blown, he thought with another, deeper sigh.

Thinking hard, he remembered unpacking a box with spare bulbs earlier and headed to the laundry room to retrieved one, also grabbing the flashlight he’d stored there. Grumbling under his breath, he descended into the dark depths of his basement. It smelled musty, damp, and slightly metallic; the air noticeably dropped in temperature with each step. The house was old, having been one of the first built in the small New England town, and the basement was designed to hold the cold so home-canned goods and other food necessities could be stored there.

“Lots of history,” the real-estate agent had said. “Not many places like this left for just anyone to buy.”

Being the history buff that he was, he couldn’t help but be drawn to its charm, even though it had sat empty for more than a decade and had to be drastically updated before he could move in. One of the things he’d found most fascinating about the place was the old player piano sitting in the corner of the basement. He couldn’t figure out how it had gotten down there—the stairs were too narrow and the basement walls consisted of large, rectangle slabs of limestone that looked like they’d been there for hundreds of years.

With the help of his flashlight, he removed the old bulb and shook it beside his ear, and sure enough, he heard the filament rattle. Tucking the flashlight under his chin so he could use both hands, he slid the burned out bulb into the front pouch of his hoodie and extracted the other. As he screwed in the new bulb he forgot the switch was still on and didn’t close his eyes. When the bright glow of the seventy-five watt bulb flared to life, he dropped the flashlight with a loud clang and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. After a moment, he started blinking rapidly and looking around the room. Bodies in old fashion clothing lay everywhere—some holding bottles of whiskey or tankards of ale. Slowly they sat up and then stood with leering grins, looking him over like he was a succulent piece of meat. They advanced toward him and Perry spun around; he was completely surrounded and the closer they came the more the temperature of the air around him dropped. He tried to focus on them directly, but the light spots in his eyes prevented him from doing so; as his vision cleared the images began to disappear. Almost in a panic, thinking he was being attacked, he spun around in a circle with his arms up defensively, looking for assailants. None were there. All he could see now were the leaning shadows cast by the stairs and the stacked boxes; the rough, bare rock of the walls and floor echoed his harsh breathing back to him, giving him a chill that had nothing to do with the climate of the room.

After dropping his arms, taking a couple of deep breaths, and doing another thorough visual examination of the entire room, he shrugged the occurrence off as his imagination. He bent down and picked up the pieces of his flashlight—having broken it when he dropped it on the hard floor—before he went upstairs, dumped the ruined flashlight in the trash, and carried down the last box. But he couldn’t shake the feeling someone was down in the basement with him, and he kept looking over his shoulder expecting to find them standing behind him, ready to hurt him. He was beginning to wonder if the house might be haunted, but then reminded himself he didn’t believe in ghosts.

With an effort he forced himself to calm down, and after stacking the box with the others he had in the corner, he headed toward the stairs. Pausing, he glanced around one more time and ran his fingers over the now yellow keys of the player piano, wondering if he could get the old thing working. Once again he pondered on how the piano had come to be in the basement and couldn’t come up with a reasonable explanation.

“Maybe the ghosts brought it downstairs,” he said with a mocking laugh.

As soon as the words left his mouth a chill ran down his spine and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the air around him suddenly dropped in temperature and he felt like he was being stalked again. Not needing any more encouragement, he jogged up the stairs and could have sworn he’d heard a deep, masculine laugh echo from behind him.

Back upstairs, he turned off the basement light and slammed the short, rough plank door behind him, making sure the old, wrought-iron latch was secure. He pressed both his hands on the door and leaned against it, taking deep, calming breaths, feeling silly about his reaction to his imagination running wild.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts… There’s no such thing as ghosts…” he repeated to himself over and over again, as if in saying it he could dispel the horrible feelings he’d had downstairs.

Perry heard a knock at his front door and almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden and unexpected noise; he stepped from the kitchen into the short, narrow hallway and spied his friend John through the door’s window.

“Hold on!” he yelled, rushing forward and letting his friend in, glad for the distraction. “What’s up?”

John grinned. “Five days ‘til Halloween! What do you think’s up? We need costumes and a lot of ghoulish stuff to decorate this spooky old house of yours.”

Perry laughed and all of his trepidation melted away as he focused on his friend and pushed everything else from his mind. “How could I forget?”

John smacked his forehead in a “Duh!” gesture and pointed with his thumb to his pickup parked at the curb. “I’ll be out there. Hurry up!”

With that John turned and practically hopped down the limestone block porch steps. He hadn’t been too happy when Perry had decided to move here, wishing his friend would stay closer, but he’d handled it well. They’d known each other all their lives and had just recently graduated from separate colleges. Over the past summer they’d spent a lot of time together catching up, and now they were separated again; growing up was indeed hard to do.

Donning a light jacket over his hoodie—taken from a hook by the door—Perry stepped out into the brisk October wind. Red, gold, and brown leaves littered the yard and street, leaving behind dark skeleton trees to moan eerily as their bare branches danced in the wind. He pushed his hands into the front pouch of his hoodie and his hands came in contact with the light bulb he’d removed downstairs and, for a moment, the memories of his experiences returned. He tossed it in the large trash can sitting in the corner of his enclosed porch, as if ridding himself of the bulb also discarded the disturbing memories permanently, and hurried to join John.

~ * ~

Their day went fast. They’d each found a costume they loved: John, a ghoul of disgusting proportions; and Perry, a very bloody looking zombie. They’d also picked up an array of fake tomb stones and bones to litter in Perry’s yard, to serve as decorations for the huge Halloween party they were planning.

“Stop by the library, would ya?” Perry asked on their way back to his house. “I had the librarian look up some historical information on my house and I need to pick it up.” He paused for a moment and almost continued, asking John if he believed in ghosts, but with a shake of his head he decided not to waste any more time on nonsense.

John raised his eyebrows at Perry’s undecided movements, but when he didn’t say anything more, he nodded consent and drove to the small, out-of-the-way library that served the town.

It took Perry less than ten minutes to retrieve the information he’d requested. John laughed hysterically as he watched his friend come stumbling out of the local library, weighed down with books and printouts of old newspapers.

“Are you writing a book series?” John teased as he leaned over and pushed open the truck door for Perry. “Looks like you have enough research there for five.”

Scowling, Perry managed to maneuver himself, and his load, into the truck. “I didn’t know they’d find this much. Now I feel like I’m back in school.”

John laughed again, shook his head, and drove them back to Perry’s place. They unloaded all their Halloween goodies and discussed the party briefly before John left; he had work early the next day and knew Perry was itching to get at the materials he’d picked up from the library.

~ * ~

For the next few days Perry poured over the books and old newspaper articles, learning about his new house and its history. He wanted to get through as much of it as possible before the party, and before he had to start his new job; he would begin his career as a website designer the second week of November. The information the librarian had gleaned was very interesting. Apparently the house he was living in used to be a small time, bar-like establishment. It was known for its many visitors of “questionable virtue” and after reading some of the articles, he knew that meant men who lived outside the law. A couple of people had even been murdered in the house, which made him again think of the occurrences in the basement.

One picture particularly interested him. It was taken on October 31st of 1872, according to the notation under the photo. The player piano was in it, but the photograph had been taken in his living room. The people in the photo looked like the ones he’d thought he’d seen in the basement, but he couldn’t be sure because most of them were wearing festive masks depicting demons. The clothing style was the same, as were the bottles and tankards, but he figured what happened could still have been just his imagination. After all, he’d seen plenty of the same in old movies.

The article beneath the picture spoke briefly about the Halloween party, and how wild they’d gotten, referring to a couple of rough men who were believed to have been associated with the occult. As he read on, he was disappointed to find that most of the article was missing due to the photocopier running out of toner, at least that’s what he ascertained from the spotty black ink on the rest of the page. With a crocked grin, he looked back at the photo, thinking it would be great to show it to John, since they too were having a Halloween party in the house. As he laid the paper aside, he didn’t notice the date on the top—for the article—was for November 1st, 1872, or the rest of the article was printed clearly on the back telling of the horrible events of the night of that party, and how no one who’d attended had ever been seen again.

~ * ~

On the night of October 30th, Perry lay down in bed, excited about the party that would take place the following evening. Thoughts swirled through his head about all that needed to be done, and about a certain woman he’d invited, hoping she’d attend. Even with these thoughts it didn’t take his exhausted body long to fall asleep.

~ * ~

Shortly after midnight, icy hands gripped Perry’s ankles and fingernails penetrated his flesh like icicles, startling him out of his warm cocoon of sleep.

He cried out and struggled, feeling hot, slick, wet blood seep from his wounds and soak into his bed, but his efforts didn’t deter the grip that was dragging him out of bed with astounding force and strength. He screamed and grabbed at the sheets, blankets, and mattress, trying to save himself, to no avail.

He hit the floor with a hard, resounding smack. His head bounced off the hardwood with a loud thud that almost knocked him unconscious; blood gushed out of a gash on his head from where it had hit the metal bedframe during the struggle, falling into his eyes, and making the floor slick. Blinking rapidly, he tried to stay conscious and twisted around to get a glimpse of who was assaulting him. He yelled, telling whoever it was to stop, and asking why they were doing it.

The darkness prevented him from seeing anyone or anything, and the more he struggled the tighter the grip on his ankles became; he heard his bones crack and felt the shards of their splinters escaping the encasement of his flesh. Crying out from the pain, and imagining his ankles now looked like pin cushions because of the protruding bones, Perry tried to grab onto anything he could, but it was no use. Every time he would get a grip on something his attacker would either yank him so hard that eventually his fingers broke with loud pops or he would be lifted slightly into the air and slammed back down onto the floor until he let go.

The violence continued as he was dragged down the stairs, and Perry suffered so much head trauma that by the time he was on the first floor the world around him was nothing more than a blur seen through drops of blood, flowing from multiple gashes all over his bruised head. And as he was dragged toward the kitchen—where he left a light on all night—he saw no one and nothing was there; he was being attacked by an invisible force and thought for the first time he might have been wrong about ghosts.

He heard the piano playing downstairs and laughter with it. What’s going on? he thought before he was finally knocked completely unconscious by a battering from the basement stairs.

~ * ~

Perry regained awareness slowly. He was lying on the cold basement floor in nothing but his boxer shorts. He shivered and tried to curl into a ball to conserve his body heat. A harsh male laugh barked behind him, making him jump. Turning his head sharply, he beheld a group of seven men and two women. They were all dressed in clothes from the 1800s. He blinked and frowned. His head hurt beyond belief and his hips, legs, and ankles throbbed. Weak and disoriented, he couldn’t focus or speak.

Desperation soon overcame his weakness when he saw them moving toward him. They didn’t have legs, but floated a foot and a half above the stone floor. The closer they got to him the more transparent they became. Frantically, he tried to crawl toward the stairs, hissing and whimpering at the pain in his ankles and head, but didn’t make it. Cold seeped into his body, causing him to shiver more violently, as the “spirits” came closer, surrounding him and laughing.

“Sweet hot blood…” one of the men said.

“…and meat!” one of the women exclaimed, and cackled.

“What should we do with him?” another one of the men asked.

“Let’s eat him,” the first man said again.

“Wasn’t he going to have a party tonight?” another feminine voice said almost coyly. “Maybe we should possess him and have our fill of the guests!”

The group laughed and jeered in agreement; many to feast upon was better than one.

One by one the spirits drifted over Perry and sank into his body.

He screamed as his body temperature dropped and he felt his consciousness being forced deeper and deeper inside himself. He knew no one would hear him, but he still called out for help. Even if he had been lucky and someone did come to his aid, he knew there was nothing anyone could do.

“He’s damaged!” one of the women said inside him. “Someone will notice.”

“She’s right, you know,” said the other feminine voice. “We’ll have to clean him up.”

“I’ve got it,” one of the men said with a laugh. “I’ll have him fixed up momentarily.”

Perry convulsed in excruciating pain as his frigid body popped and snapped, healing itself of the wounds which had been inflicted upon him during the attack.

“Lovely,” the first female voice sighed.

“Please stop,” Perry cried out from the box inside himself he’d been pressed into; his consciousness was pushed back and he had no control over his body, but he could still feel everything that happened to his physical self. “Kill me, but don’t torture me like this… Please!”

“Oh, shut up!” one of the men yelled, and the rest of the unwelcome spirits inhabiting Perry’s body laughed.

“What should we do with him until the party?” one of the male voices asked.

“He’s still all bloody… Why don’t we give him a bath?” asked one of the female voices.

“Oh, yes,” said the other female voice with a giggle.

“You ladies have your fun, but I want no part of it,” a male voice said with slight amusement and a bit of disgust.

The females giggled again and Perry felt himself rising up to a standing position. Awkwardly his body ascended the stairs and he noted he could see everything around him, but still had no say or control over his body.

Before he was ready, they were in the bathroom and his shorts were being removed.

“My, my, what do we have here?” one of the female voices asked snidely. “Seems we have a naked man to play with.”

“Share!” the other female voice yelled. “You get one hand and I get the other.”

Perry could feel the women becoming more prominent in his body and the male entities slipped back and almost felt like they were sleeping.

“All right, all right,” the first female voice said. “I’ll share.”

They both giggled as they shut the door to the bathroom and found a full length mirror hanging on the door.

“Oh, what fun!” the second female voice squealed.

“Yes, indeed,” the other said with smug satisfaction.

Soon Perry’s hands were traveling all over his body, doing things to himself against his will.

“Please stop!” he groaned from deep within as he was forced to watch and feel what the female spirits were doing to him.

“Don’t you like it, luv?” one voice asked, and both the females laughed.

“Stop!” he screamed, but they just continued to laugh at him.

It took over an hour for them to play games with him and molest him in the shower, after which he felt more dirty than clean; they’d done unimaginable things to his body. He would never think of a back brush or a shampoo bottle the same way again.

~ * ~

Later that day, John arrived to help with the Halloween party, letting himself in with the key Perry had given him when there was no response to his knock. As he turned from shutting the door, he spotted Perry standing silently at the top of the stairway in his zombie costume.

“Hey, man,” John said, as he jumped in startled surprise. “You scared the crap out of me!” He looked his friend over and grinned. “You’re costume is intense, but I thought we weren’t going to change until after we had things set up for the party.”

Perry’s body just stood there with its eyes staring down at John while the spirits inside argued about how to answer the question and handle this newcomer; they finally came to a decision.

“Hello, Earth to Perry,” John said, looking slightly worried and confused, moving to the foot of the stairs. “You okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” Perry’s voice said, being controlled by one of the males. “I was excited and decided to don my festive apparel early.”

“You sound strange,” John said, his confused frown deepening. “What’s with all the ‘don my festive apparel’ shit? You sound old or something.”

Perry’s face sneered at John behind the zombie make-up as he descended the stairs toward him. When he reached the bottom step his arm shot out and he wrapped his hand around John’s throat, squeezing and lifting him off his feet.

“You’re a cheeky bloke,” a strange masculine voice said, using Perry’s mouth, no longer trying to disguise himself. “I don’t like being called old!”

John dropped the bags of stuff he was carrying and tried to pry the strong hand from his throat so he could breathe; he kicked and clawed at Perry’s hand and arm as he dangled a foot off the floor.

“Now we have to do something with him,” Perry heard one of the male voices say as they again began talking internally to each other.

“It is crowded in here,” another said, “maybe some of us should possess him, so we’ll have more space to move around and breathe!”

The other voices agreed and started to argue about who would go and who would stay. Perry broke into their argument…

“If you are going to do something, do it soon!” he yelled. “Otherwise you’ll kill my friend and have nowhere to go!”

The voices quieted for a moment and Perry’s hand loosened slightly on John’s throat, allowing him strained breathing rather than none at all.

“I think Ginger, Frank, Paul, and Peter should go,” one of the female voices said.

It was the first time Perry had heard them refer to each other by name and listened carefully. Something about the names seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place them. Then it hit him. Those were some of the names of the people who’d attended the Halloween party in the old newspaper article. He wished now, more than ever, that he’d been able to read the end of the article, so he could know what had happened, and was going to happen.

They argued some more and then Perry felt his small containment area expand. Four of the spirits drifted out of his body and into John’s, who was instantly released. He fell gasping to the floor and started thrashing around, screaming, and clutching at his body. Finally, he stilled and looked around with eyes that weren’t his own.

Perry cringed and whispered, “Sorry, my friend.” He wished John hadn’t gotten involved, and more than anything he wished he would have mentioned what had happened in the basement a few days before, thinking this wouldn’t have happened if he’d acknowledged it. He also thought about the horrible experience he’d had earlier in the bathroom and hoped his friend wouldn’t have to endure something similar when he changed into his costume; as if reading his thoughts, the female spirit who was still inside him laughed softly.

“He might like it, luv,” she said. “After all, you seemed to enjoy some of it.” She cackled with a perverse laugh and Perry didn’t respond.

~ * ~

It didn’t take the spirits long to master the control they had over Perry and John, and they extracted from their brains and thoughts all the things that needed to be done to prepare for the party; they’d just finished when the first guest arrived.

Nicole Winters—the tall, raven-haired, blue-eyed beauty who lived just down the street—stood on the porch with her coat hanging slightly open. Perry heart sank when he was forced to open the door and let her in. She smiled broadly, sporting a sexy fairy costume that would have made him drool if he hadn’t been possessed by crazy entities from the past; some of the comments the male ones were making about her made him panic and try to take back control.

“Run, Nicole!” Perry screamed. “Run!”

But of course, she couldn’t hear him, he still couldn’t control any part of his body, including his vocal cords.

“Shut up, you,” one of the males growled. “We’ll have our fun with this little tart and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Thanks for inviting me, Perry,” Nicole said, stepping inside and sliding off her coat, revealing more of her costume, or lack thereof. Most of it was sheer and see through; the male spirits were going wild.

“Ever seen any dressin’s like ‘em fellas?” one of them asked.

“No, but I’d like to tear them off with my teeth and devour what’s underneath!” another exclaimed.

John entered the hallway, coming from the kitchen, and Perry saw a reflection in his eyes of what he was hearing within.

“I’m glad you could make it,” Perry’s pleasant voice said, as his hand was placed on her butt and he squeezed.

Nicole gasped and giggled, giving him a wink. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I love Halloween parties. They give me an excuse to dress up.” She was pressing herself against his body now and practically purring with wicked intent in her eyes.

“Oh, yeah, boys,” one of the voices said. “We’re gonna have us a slice of that heaven.”

They all laughed.

Perry cringed and wished there was something he could do to stop all this, but he couldn’t think of anything.

John walked down the hall toward them and pressed up against Nicole from the back, trapping her between them. He bent forward and whispered something in her ear Perry didn’t catch. He knew it wasn’t John doing any of it, but he still felt betrayed for some strange reason.

Nicole jerked and struggled, trying to break free, just before her personality flipped and she giggled and sighed, accepting the attention from both men. Perry and John realized instantly when their containment expanded slightly that the female spirits had both moved into Nicole’s body. She began to wiggle against and grope both of the men, and pouted when someone knocked on the front door.

“Bloody hell!” she growled. “All these interruptions are spoiling our fun!”

Both of the possessed men laughed. None of them were themselves any longer and just watched and felt everything that happened around them…and to them.

Guests continued to arrive for the next forty-five minutes and none of them knew a thing about what was going on. If Nicole, John, or Perry did something strange, the guests would just shrug it off, assuming they’d already started drinking.

A couple times Nicole disappeared from the room with John, and a couple of times she left with Perry. No one really noticed, but Perry was devastated; he really liked and cared for Nicole, and the damned possessing spirits were making them both do tainted and lewd things to each other. He didn’t even want to think about what she was doing with John, knowing it was probably just as bad or worse.

“Why are you doing this to us?” Perry asked as he was again entering the living room where the party was, after being with Nicole. “Why not just kill us? Why play with us like this first?”

“Well, you see…” one of the voices started in a teasing manner.

“Don’t tell ‘im!” another barked. “Then he’ll know!”

“What does it matter if he knows?” another asked. “He can’t do anything about it.”

“Just shut up, you,” the second voice ordered. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Everything kept moving smoothly along until around midnight, and then Perry’s mouth announced he wanted to show everyone the player piano in the basement. They were intrigued, so like cattle the twenty-three people at the party (including Perry, John, and Nicole) went down into the basement; Nicole was the last one and she shut the door tightly behind herself.

“What’s going on?” Perry asked from deep within himself. “Why did you bring everyone down here?”

“Shut up!” all the voices barked at him.

Everyone was ohing and ahing over the piano while Perry, John, and Nicole stood at the base of the stairs. No one saw their eyes glow bright red, and no one saw the humans’ bodies transform into red scaled monsters with vicious long claws and mouths full of long, sharp teeth. But they did hear the panting and growling that emanated from them; the guests all turned and screamed.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had human flesh,” the once Nicole growled, running her long black tongue across her teeth. “I want the first bite.”

Both the beings who were once John and Perry growled and stepped forward.

The crowd cringed and moved backwards, pressing themselves against the far wall.

The Nicole-demon lunged forward, and with one clamp down of her jaws, she ripped a woman’s head clean off. Blood dripped from her mouth and onto the floor as she chewed the skull and slurped out the brains within before swallowing it all. The woman’s body fell to the floor and her blood began to drain out onto the stones. Instantly a pentagram made of flames appeared on the floor, encompassing the entire room; the body burned and dissolved to nothing in the fire.

More and more bodies joined the first as limbs were torn from torsos and hips, devoured by the bodies that had earlier been possessed and were now transformed.

They gorged themselves on the flesh of the frightened, screaming guests and didn’t stop until they were all dead.

The three stood in the center of the pentagram panting. Their eyes were ablaze with adrenaline and their bodies were covered in the guts and blood they’d spilt.

“It’s time for the last three,” a deep, growling voice said from beneath them as the floor disappeared and turned into a raging, licking fire.

“Yes, master,” the three growled.

The female spirits left the body of Nicole they’d inhabited, and instantly it turned back into human form with Nicole at the helm once again. She blinked in confusion and screamed as her body began to burn. Soon there was nothing left of her; the same happened to both of the men.

Once they were consumed the floor reappeared and the fire was gone. The spirits floated in the air, looking at each other.

“I guess that pays our debt to Hell for a few more years,” one of the females said.

“Yes,” a male said with a laugh. “Happy Halloween!”

~ * ~

Days passed and none of the cars in front of Perry’s house moved. Neighbors became angry and then concerned. The police were called and they finally contacted Perry’s family when they couldn’t reach him.

A search ensued for Perry, John, and all of the others, to no avail.

When nothing and no one was found, Perry’s house was emptied and sold.

No one noticed the newspaper article from long ago when it was thrown into the trash, and no one knew to be afraid of what lurked in the basement, waiting for the next Halloween.

About the story:

This story was originally written sometime between 2010-2015 for a superhero themed Halloween anthology from Wicked East Press (I think). The story was based on a nightmare my husband had about us looking at houses and one having a player piano in the basement…and me being dragged out of bed by an unseen force in the middle of the night after we moved into said house. Historical Significance has been residing as a bonus story in my short story collection: Twisted Pathways of Murder & Death. It is being removed from the collection as I’m currently revamping the title. This story has been re-edited into the 2023 version you read above.

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2023

Flash Fiction – Consequence of Refusal by Rebecca Besser

CONSEQUENCE OF REFUSAL

By Rebecca Besser

The nurse left work at five o’clock. The route she took home would take thirty minutes and she was already late. She ran all the way to her car, cursing under her breath as she accidentally stepped into a puddle left by an early morning rainstorm.

Shaking her soggy foot as she opened the driver’s door of her car, she didn’t notice the man standing less than three feet from her. If she had, she might not have flung water on him; it didn’t seem to matter as he was already soaked to the bone.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I hate to ask, but could you perhaps give me a ride?”

The nurse looked at him, noting how wet he was, remembering she was running late.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said, closing her car door, “I can’t. I am running late for an appointment.”

He stood staring at her profile while she started the engine. He stepped aside as she shifted into reverse.

At the last minute, right as she was moving the gear shift to drive, he stepped forward, slapping her hood. Even with her windows rolled up the nurse heard him say something, although she couldn’t make out his words. When she glanced up from where he’d touched her hood, he was gone. Not walking away, but gone!

Shaking her head, the nurse shook of an ill feeling of premonition. Maybe I should have given him a ride, she thought fleetingly, and then she remembered her appointment.

Hurriedly, she pulled out of the hospital parking lot, almost colliding with another car. She didn’t even notice. After twelve hours on her feet, she was almost too tired to think straight, but she still managed the drive home.

Rushing into the house, she threw down her purse, and stripped off pieces of clothing as she made her way to the bathroom. She turned on the shower and sighed with relief as she stepped under the steamy, hot spray. The grit and sweat of her busy work day began to wash away, swirling down the drain.

She reached for the shampoo, squeezed a bit into her palm, and used it to lather up her hair. Just as she leaned her head back to rinse, the water stopped flowing.

“What the…?”

She turned around and twisted both knobs, trying to keep soap from running into her eyes. Nothing. No water came out of the spigot, not even a trickle.

Grumbling and swearing, she climbed out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and proceeded to fall flat on her face.

She silently thanked God she hadn’t smacked her head off the toilet when she fell. She scrambled, slipping and sliding, to her feet. She clutched the edge of the sink and took a couple of deep breaths, wiping shampoo bubbles off her face.

She tried the water in the bathroom sink, with no luck—no water there either.

Stumbling, swearing, wiping, she made her way to the kitchen, to the same results—no water. She growled, mutter, and swore some more.

On the brink of giving up and breaking down into tears, she remembered she had a gallon of water in the fridge.

Opening the door, she grabbed it.

She rushed back to the kitchen sink, ripped off the cap, and dumped it over her head.

After a couple of douses, she realized the liquid was still appearing white. She spread her hair apart and discovered she’d grabbed the milk by mistake.

Growling so hard it hurt her throat, she wrang out her hair, marched to the fridge, yanked the door open, and gripped the handle of the water jug, ripping it off the shelf. As she did so, it caught on the shelf above it. Everything went flying with the force of her extraction, pulling the shelf and all its contents out of the fridge and onto the floor. She dropped the water. The cap popped off the jug and water gushed out, mixing with the mess that now puddled in front of the fridge.

She uttered the most unladylike words she knew.

She was in mid rant when the doorbell rang, singing a half-chipper ding, dong.

For a solid minute she stood there, in a towel, milk dripping from her hair, in a puddle of water and food, hoping whomever was at the door would go away.

Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding, dong.

“I’m coming!” she screamed.

Walking dejectedly toward the door, she grabbed the handle, yanking it open. She gripped the towel where it meet at her chest to make sure it was closed.

Standing outside her door was her elderly neighbor, Maria, and the man who’d asked her for a ride. He’d changed into dry clothes, but his hair was still wet.

He looked her up and down with a knowing smirk.

The image of his saying something and slapping her hood flashed through her brain.

“Goodness, June,” Maria exclaimed in shock. “What happened to you? Is that milk in your hair? Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I was, uh, taking a shower,” June said lamely.

“In milk?”

“It’s a long story.”

The man with Maria laughed and tried to hide it as a cough.

June glared at him.

“I see,” said Maria, clearing her throat. “This is my grandson Mitch, I just wanted to introduce him to you, since he’ll be here for a couple weeks.”

June gripped the door to keep from falling over or yelling no. She didn’t know which she wanted to do more. All she knew was she didn’t want this man around, he was bad luck.

“Nice to meet you, June,” Mitch said, and held out his hand.

June looked at his hand like it was a snake, then reluctantly slipped her still damp hand into his for a brief shake.

“Nice to meet you too,” June mumbled.

“I trust you made it to your appointment all right?”

June’s lips tightened as she thought about the pint of chocolate ice cream in the freezer and the movie she had waiting for her.

“No,” June said stiffly. “I haven’t made it to my appointment yet.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Mitch said, grinning.

“Well,” Maria said, looking over June’s appearance. “We won’t keep you any longer. Have a good night, hope you make it to your appointment.”

Thinking about the mess on the kitchen floor, June doubted she would get any time to relax before she had to get some sleep so she could be up for her early shift tomorrow.

“I’ll try. I’ll probably have to cancel my appointment and reschedule.”

“That’s too bad,” Mitch said. “Have a nice night.”

June nodded and closed the door. No sooner had the latch clicked than water spurted out of all the faucets.

June rushed to turn them off, clean up the mess in the kitchen, and finish her shower. By the time she fell into bed, she was so tired she only had time for one thought before falling asleep. She would never refuse to help someone out so she could enjoy her own comfort again. Karma was too much work.

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2010

A Christmas Drabble – Carolers by Rebecca Besser

Carolers

By Rebecca Besser

Edward was always alone for Christmas. When he moved into his new, rural house he felt more isolated than ever. But he knew there would be Christmas carolers—the real estate agent said—and he loved singing. He decorated his house and yard in festive anticipation. He was ready for them; they were a small group and no trouble. He’d drugged their hot chocolate and poured generously.

He looked over his knives carefully, selecting two of the sharpest, before he descended into the basement. He wouldn’t be alone this year, and he’d make them sing a song…just for him.

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2022

The Order by Rebecca Besser

THE ORDER

By

Rebecca Besser

 

I woke up and found myself in darkness.

They were all around me.

Their faces were missing, void below their eyes as if someone had peeled away their nose and mouth, leaving a void of rippling skin healed in disfiguring patterns.

They motioned to me in a come-hither way, beckoned me to join them, inviting and beseeching me to be like them, because they could no longer be like me. Their humanity had been stolen from them. Now…they were creatures of the order. Their breath and their smiles had been stolen, leaving them expressionless and barren of voice.

Their eyes were watery…emotional. Their gazes locked on me like I was the only thing of import. Their focus was unnerving; there seemed to be a desperation in their unwavering attention.

They beckoned more forcefully, their eyebrows dipping in the center, between their eyes, into a frown. Their pain fueled anger was like a thick fog in the air.

I shook my head no and took a step back, unwilling to give up my humanity just to appease them. I didn’t want to lose my breath or my voice. The order wasn’t worth it.

The order was based on false safety.

They had failed to see that until it was too late for them.

They moved toward me… Those who were once men, women, and children, now a faceless crowd of obedience. Their alliance was to lies, believing they were safe.

They didn’t understand they were the most at risk… The commander now knew they could be used at will, to whatever end suited the purpose, the order.

They no longer had a voice, after all. They could no longer say no.

I pushed my way through them.

They clawed at my face, my mouth, trying to force me to obey the order, trying to break me with violence and fear. They tried to keep me where I was at their mercy.

I broke free, running through the darkness, toward the twinkle of light off in the distance.

I ran, knowing they were at my heels, knowing the commander wouldn’t let them stop until I too obeyed.

They couldn’t catch me, unable to breathe—their stamina waned quickly.

I broke through the darkness to find a vast open space, warmed by the sun. I breathed deeply and smiled at the people who were there.

They smiled back; they too were still human, they too were free.

I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t obeyed the order.

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2020

Halloween Blitz – Cast a Shadow by Rebecca Besser

Cast A Shadow

By

Rebecca Besser

 

My mom always told me not to be scared of the dark. She said there was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the light too. She was wrong.

At first I couldn’t understand why she was saying that. But I was younger then, and didn’t understand I was different. I didn’t understand that most people were blind to the evil all around them, the evil I could see plainly. And maybe my mom was right in a way. Maybe they were there when the sun was shining or the lights were on, but my eyes could only see them in the dark. And that was still more than “normal” people apparently.

By the time I was eight years old I’d stopped telling my parents there were monsters in the closet and under the bed; they didn’t believe me and made light of the situation. They were wrong. So very, very wrong. Those monsters exist…and they’re terrifying. The monsters would growl and whisper in my ear while I was trying to sleep, threatening to do all kinds of horrible things to me. They wanted to keep me in a continuous state of terror. They enjoyed my fear; it was like they feed on it…and grew.

That was my childhood in a nutshell. And it’s no wonder my parents and doctors thought I had night terrors as much as I screamed. Well, until I learned to get it under control around age eleven so I didn’t have to deal with the adults in my life telling me it was all my imagination. They weren’t though. The monster were real.

Then came the tests to see if I had leukemia. I would develop bruises that couldn’t be explained and they checked me for cancer and other diseases and syndromes that would explain the bruises and the pain that came out of nowhere to cause them. Like I said, I was young and didn’t understand. I just knew the bruises were caused by pain and I had to endure more pain from doctors and hospitals while they ran test after test.

I live a lonely life. I don’t have many friends. Well, none really… It’s hard to make and keep friends when they want you to do kid things like go Trick-Or-Treating and you’re having a panic attack because that’s the night the monsters are four times their normal size and way stronger. But, yeah, I’m now a full-blown freak at school. My parents have talked about homeschooling me many times, but it hasn’t happened yet. I’m now fifteen, so I don’t think it will ever happen. I think they hope if they force me to go out into the world I’ll “get over” my fears. That’s not going to happen, obviously. The monsters are real, which means my fear is real. I’m actually worried about my parents. Ignorance isn’t always bliss.

This one time, my dad came to check on me after I’d gone to bed. When he opened my door wider than its ordinary two-inch crack, the light from the hallway cast his shadow against my bedroom wall right beside the monster that was telling me all the violent things it wanted to do to me.

The monster laughed harshly, reached out and into my dad’s shadow, and clenched its mighty, grotesque fist in my dad’s shadow’s stomach area.

My dad grabbed his stomach on his actual body and grunted like he was in pain. He tried to be quiet and quickly closed the door, which removed his shadow and the onslaught of the monster.

The hideous thing turned to me and said, “See, I can hurt you anytime I want.”

And in that moment, I knew it was true. I knew the monsters could hurt me or anyone else they wanted, but it seemed they could only touch our shadows. This happened when I was five years old, so it took me some time to truly understand the limits of the monsters and how they could harm us humans. As I grew older, I began to understand where the bruises I’d suffered all my life had come from.

I learned that I was safer in the dark. I was safer when my shadow wasn’t present. And once they knew I knew, they hurt me even more often, especially during the day; it got really hard explaining why I had so many scratches and bruises on my body. They were stronger in the dark, at night, but they could still hurt humans during the day…and I know they had it out for me in particular. I think they hated me more than most because I could see them and tried to warn others about them; I became a favored target. Halloween was always the worst. Like I said, the monsters are four times their normal size and stronger. They could break my bones that day, and did a couple times before I could convince my parents to let me stay in the house, in my room, in complete darkness the entire day.

Sure, the monsters were there taunting me, but they couldn’t touch me. They couldn’t hurt me in the dark. I had to cast a shadow. I had to be vulnerable.

I learned to hate light of any kind. It’s no fun being beat on all the time, even if the monsters could only hit and scratch me during the day.

My parents grew more and more concerned because I wanted to be alone in the dark all the time; I did invite my parents to sit in the dark with me to try to protect them, but they eventually had to turn a light on… My mom ended up having strange scar tissue around her heart that they found when they thought she’d had a heart attack. Actually, she’d turned the light on and opened herself up to a couple attacks until the damage was bad enough she finally gave in and went to the doctor. My dad ended up having to have intestinal surgery when a slice to his large intestine almost killed him.

They want to take me to a special hospital. They want me to be in this brightly lit room all the time on meds, thinking it will get me over my fear. It’s strange… People consider fear of the dark normal to an extent, but fear the light and you’re suddenly batshit crazy. And, honestly, I was afraid of the dark until I realized it was the safest place to be; it was better to be mentally tormented than physically abused.

Oh, did I mention the school actually thought a couple times that my parents were abusing me? Yeah, be a kid with unexplainable scratches and bruises all over your body all the time and your parents start to look really shady.

But, now, having been through test after test and them not finding anything physically wrong with me, it’s all “mental health issue” this and “unstable” that.

I keep a journal of what I see, what I hear from the monsters, and the things they do.

My mom found it; she read it and cried for days. She and Dad talked about things.

They’ve given me two options, since today’s Halloween.

Either I go outside, or they send me to the funny farm.

They think that if they can get me to face my fear, that if I go outside on Halloween night (when there’s less light than the daytime), that I’ll find out I’m not in any danger. They honestly think I’ll be okay.

I told them I would die. I told them it was a bad idea. I cried and sobbed and begged and pleaded.

They wouldn’t budge.

I’m now sitting in my pitch black room, listening to the monsters with half an ear because I’m sick of their shit and I have a lot on my mind contemplating my own death with either choice. I could go to a hospital, take drugs, and let the monsters bash the crap out of me slowly until I die, or I can just go for a stroll down the street and get it over with quickly.

This world isn’t really for me; I’ve known that for a long time. But I thought maybe I could figure out a way to adapt that would work for me. Apparently that wasn’t going to happen.

The fact that people who are different aren’t listened to hurts. I’m incapable of living life like other people, and because of that, because I don’t fit into their societal mold, I have to be sick or deranged. It’s basically bullshit. It’s basically this twisted human control syndrome that has taken over most people. If you’re different they fear you, they make fun of you, and they think nothing at all about hurting you. I wonder if any of them even stop to think about how being different feels. I wonder if they ever think about how life must be from my point of view. Apparently they don’t care; my parents among the “they.”

The clock on my nightstand reads eight o’clock in its faint glow-in-the-dark hands. My parents said I had until eight-thirty to make my decision, but there’s no point in putting it off.

I stand and move toward the door. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll take the quick death, because I’m tired. I’m tired of the constant pain caused by human judgements, and I’m tired of fighting to have safety from the monsters.

I walk down the stairs and to the front door. I reach out and grip the cool metal of the doorknob. I take a deep breath.

Without saying a word to my parents that I can hear in the kitchen, I walk out into the darkness.

Three strides and I’m to the edge of the porch.

I can hear the monsters growling, getting excited.

I swallow hard and descend the porch steps, one at a time, counting them, reaching four and knowing I’m now on the cement path that leads out to the sidewalk and the street.

Tears run down my face.

The monsters laugh at me, now all around me.

I walk down the path, across the sidewalk, and out into the street.

Street lights illuminate me on all sides, casting multiple shadows of my person in every direction.

More monsters than I can count start running toward my shadows, snarling and salivating.

I turn to face my house, hoping my parents heard me leave, can see me, and will witness my death. Then they’ll know I wasn’t lying and the monsters are real. Maybe my death will save their lives. Once I’m gone, they’ll be the new favored targets. They won’t last long unless they learn to love the dark.

I whisper, “Happy Halloween,” just before the first of my bones snap and I’m dragged to the ground and torn apart from the inside out.

 

Author Rebecca Besser

 

Rebecca Besser is a horror/thriller author who resides in Ohio with her wonderful husband and amazing son. They’ve come to accept her quirks as normal while she writes anything and everything that makes her inner demons squeal with delight. She’s best known for her work in adult horror, but has been published in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry for a variety of age groups and genres. She’s entirely too cute to be scary in person, so she turns to the page to instill fear into the hearts of the masses.

 

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2019

Halloween Blitz – Conversation with the Living By Courtney Rene

Conversation with the Living

By

Courtney Rene

 

Will you stop?  Hello!  You’ve been playing with that stupid board for over an hour now.  You’re driving me crazy.  In fact, the only reason I’m responding at all is to get you to shut up and stop all that chanting and mumbo jumbo stuff you’re doing.  Geez.

What does a person have to do to get some quiet around here?  Oh, and just FYI, Ouija boards don’t really work.  We just sometimes get bored and like to aggravate the living.

For Heaven’s sake, why are you cringing?  You have been calling for me, right?  Well, here I am.

Look, I can’t do anything to you.  I’m just an empty shell.  Fog like.  Here, I’ll show you.  See?

So, you got me here, what is it you want?

Excuse me?  Allow me to let you in on a little secret, just because you’re researching the house and found that I died here, doesn’t mean I owe you anything.

Wrong.  Regardless of what you think, this is still and will always be, my house.  I was, after all, here first.  In fact, it’s been like over a hundred years ago, now.

Oh, all right, fine.  Go ahead.  Ask your silly questions.

What’s it like to be dead?  Why you want to know is beyond me, but okay.  It’s a little hard to explain.  It’s kinda boring, actually.  Once your body dies, you have no need for sleep anymore, so you have loads of time to just wander around.  I found out early that people, living people, really don’t like to hold conversations with me now that I’m dead.

Then you have all the other dead people, and all they want to talk about is how they died, when they died, and how awful it is to be dead.  You can only take so much of that before you go loopy.

Being dead, it’s not so bad actually.  Just boring.

What’s that?  Oh.  Well, there really isn’t anything to feel.  Since we don’t eat, we don’t feel hunger.  Since we don’t have a living body anymore, we don’t get tired.  We don’t get cold or hot or sweaty anymore either.

Why don’t I talk funny?  What do you mean?

Oh, I see.  I have spent most of my time listening and learning.  In fact, I love watching television.  Reality TV, oh yeah.

The story of my death?  That’s kind of a sad story, actually.  You sure you want to hear about that?

Well, I was just about to turn seventeen.  My boyfriend, John, intended to ask for my hand.

Hey, it was a long time ago, girls got married early back then.  We didn’t have many options.  I was lucky I knew how to read.  A lot of the girls my age didn’t.  It was thought to be a waste of time to teach us lowly women to read.  That’s another story though.

Anyway, as I was saying, I was just about to turn seventeen.  We were having a huge winter snowstorm.  There was snow and ice, and wind.  I didn’t care about the snow though.  John was coming over to take me for a sleigh ride, and I was going, no matter what.  I didn’t care what anyone said.  John, he was so wonderful.  He had put little silver bells on the harnesses of the horses.  The jingling echoed sweetly through the night as we made our way over the snow-covered roads.  I remember that night like it was just today.  That was the last time I left the house.

By the time we came back home, I was frozen with cold, but so happy and so in love.  I knew I’d made the right choice with John.  He was a good man.  We would get married, have children, and live happily ever after.

I got a fever the next day.  After two nights of the raging fever, I went to sleep and never woke up again.

John was broken up over my death.  I saw him at my funeral.  Yes, I actually attended my own funeral.  I wanted to see who would come, and also who wouldn’t.  You’d be surprised at all the people you think are your friends, who aren’t.  People that were supposed to have been my friends said terrible things about me at my own funeral.  Like, how I was stubborn and stupid for going out in the cold.  How it served me right to be dead.  How high and mighty I always seemed, the conniving wretches.  That’s all right, I got them back.  I took a crash course on haunting, just for them.  That was fun.  Revenge, it can be fun.

Well, of course I still have feelings.  What you see before you is a soul.  Where do you think your feelings come from?

John came to my grave to see me every day for a month.  He felt my death was his fault.  After that first month, he started coming less and less.  Then, one day he just stopped coming.

I went to his house to see how he was doing.  Okay, I wanted to see why he wasn’t coming to see me anymore, and I admit that I missed him.

I may have been dead, but I learned to hate that night.  I slipped into John’s house, and there he was, with my one of my best friends.  I never went back.  I heard they got married.  I heard they had children.  They lived happily ever after.  They had my life, the one I was supposed to be living.  Yes, I learned all about hate.

Sadness is a terrible thing.  It can eat away at you whether you’re alive or dead.  I hid from the world for many years after that.  I wanted to forget. I didn’t.

How did I hide?  I went into the darkness, into the shadows, and wrapped myself up in them and just stayed in their cocooned arms until I was ready to leave.  Shadows have life in them.

You didn’t know that?  Well, they do.  They sing.  You can hear them if you listen.  You don’t have to be dead either.  In the dark of the night, you should try it.  It’s beautiful.

Well, I suppose it’s just like with me.  If you believe, you can see us, if you believe in the shadows, you can hear them.

I finally came out of the shadows when your family moved into the house.  This house had been empty for many years. It was quiet and peaceful and empty.  Then you moved in and with you, came the noise and the chaos.  It was wonderful.  I hadn’t realized how much life is in the young.  How much I missed it.

Now, why are you sitting here in the night, talking to cardboard?

Don’t be stupid.  I can’t tell you the future.  I can’t tell you if some boy likes you or not.  I’m dead, not a fortune teller.  Geez.  You have to figure that out for yourself.  You have to make the future yourself.  If I have learned anything in my life and in my death, it’s the world turns with or without you.  It’s not fair or just.  It just is.  You have to make your own future and live your life to the fullest for as long as you’re allowed.

Now quit screwing around in here in the dark and get out there and enjoy it while you can.

 

Author Courtney Rene

 

Courtney Rene lives in the State of Ohio.  She is a graduate and member of the Institute of Children’s Literature.  Her writings include magazine articles, short fiction stories, several anthologies, as well as her young adult novels which include, the A Howl in the Night series, the Shadow Dancer series, Feathers, and her new release, COLD, published through Rogue Phoenix Press.  For a complete listing, visit www.ctnyrene.blogspot.com or feel free to contact her at ctnyrene@aol.com.

 

Copyright © Courtney Rene 2019

Halloween Blitz – Which Witch? by Rebecca Besser

Which Witch?

By

Rebecca Besser

 

“What’s wrong?” Taylor Simmons asked as she walked up to the porch steps where her friend was sulking.

“Tiger went missing sometime yesterday,” Susan Hughes said with a heavy sigh. “I’ve looked everywhere, but I still can’t find him.”

Sitting down, Taylor wrapped her arm around Susan and gave her a hug.

“How did he get out of the house? Don’t you usually keep him inside?”

“Yeah,” Susan said with a sniff. “Brian didn’t shut the door when he took the trash out last night. It’s the only time I know of that Tiger could have gotten out of the house.”

“Maybe he’ll come home on his own,” Taylor said. “If he can’t find food or something, maybe he’ll just come back.”

“But he doesn’t have his claws,” Susan said, sobbing softly. “What if he meets another cat and has to fight? He’ll be at a disadvantage. Tomorrow is Halloween, what if someone does something mean to him just for fun? You know how boys can be!”

Taylor hugged her friend again.

“How about we go for a walk around the block and see if we can find him, and if we don’t, maybe one of our parents will drive us around to look for him later.”

Susan sniffed, wiped tears from her cheeks, and nodded. “Dad said he would take me when he got home from work today, if it wasn’t too dark.”

Taylor smiled. “Hopefully we find Tiger and we don’t have to worry about that.”

Susan went in and told her mom what they planned to do.

When she came back outside, the two girls went for a walk to find the lost orange tiger-striped cat. Susan had gotten him for her tenth birthday, two years ago, and she was really attached to him.

They called his name and walked slowly, going to the door of each house to ask the residents if they had seen the cat. No one had.

“This is frustrating,” Susan said. “He had to have been seen by someone.”

Soon, they came to Miss Nordstrom’s house. She was a nice, younger woman who was friendly with the children of the neighborhood, always inviting them over for cookies or lemonade when she saw them outside playing. Not only was she friendly and nice, but she was beautiful as well. She had long blonde, curly hair, aqua blue eyes, and perfect white teeth. Her nose was the perfect size, and her dark pink lips were always smiling. The girls of the neighborhood always envied her and wanted to look just like her when they grew up.

The girls climbed the light blue painted cement steps and smiled at each other as they rang the doorbell. If anyone would help them, it would be Miss Nordstrom.

In a matter of moments the door opened to the cheery smile the girls expected.

“Susan and Taylor,” Miss Nordstrom said happily. “What are you doing here? Come to visit? I just finished making a pumpkin roll. Would you like to come in for a piece?”

The girls looked at each other, shrugged, and nodded yes. They could smell the pumpkin and spices in air as it drifted out of the house and it made them hungry.

“Have a seat in the parlor,” Miss Nordstrom instructed. “I’ll get us a snack. Would you like tea or hot chocolate?”

“Hot chocolate,” the girls said in unison, and then giggled.

Miss Nordstrom grinned, nodded, and went to the kitchen.

Even though Susan and Taylor had been in the parlor many times, they were still fascinated by the elegance of the decor. Everything appeared to be old and well-maintained.

They sat down on an antique red velvet couch and looked around.

“What’s that smell?” Susan said, wrinkling her nose.

Taylor sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”

Susan looked down at the couch, frowning. She didn’t find anything, so she looked at the small, round end table that sat beside her. It held a lamp and a shallow bowl with a mesh bag, which looked like it held potpourri. Leaning closer, Susan sniffed.

“Found it,” she said, lifting the bag by the string and holding it out for Taylor to smell.

Taylor wrinkled her nose and gaged. “That reeks! Get it away from me!”

Susan made a disgusted face and put it back where she’d found it.

Miss Nordstrom entered the room at that exact moment, carrying a tray full of mugs of steaming beverages, small plates, forks, napkins, and pumpkin roll.

The girl’s faces lit up as the pumpkin and spice aroma overpowered the stench of the little bag, but not before Miss Nordstrom saw their expressions.

“What’s wrong?” she asked the girls, setting the tray down gently on the coffee table. “You look disgusted with something.”

Taylor shrugged and looked at Susan.

“I was just sitting here and I smelled something funny,” Susan said, picking up the little mesh bag to show Miss Nordstrom. “I found this. It really stinks.”

Miss Nordstrom laughed. “If it bothers you, I’ll put it some place else.”

She took the bag from Susan, put it back in the bowl, and moved it to the top of an old piano that was in the opposite corner of the small room.

“Better?”

Susan smiled and nodded. “Yes, thanks. What was in it? Why do you keep something so smelly in here?”

“Susan,” Taylor gasped, elbowing her friend in the side. “That was rude!”

Miss Nordstrom laughed. “Not at all, I have no problem answering those questions. The bag has a mixture of herbs in it. My great-grandma used to make those bags before every Halloween, to keep bad spirits out of the house. It’s an old superstition. I can’t say I really believe it, but doing it each year makes me feel closer to my family.”

Both girls smiled politely and nodded. They knew Miss Nordstrom didn’t have any living relatives, and didn’t want to push the subject, taking what she’d said at face value.

They talked and laughed for the next ten minutes as they ate their delicious snack, forgetting about the stinking bag.

“Now,” Miss Nordstrom said, putting her empty plate back on the tray. “What has brought you two to my doorstep this afternoon? You didn’t look too happy when you arrived.”

With the reminder of the reason for their visit, tears sprang to Susan’s eyes, and she gushed out the whole tale of Tiger going missing while Taylor held her hand.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Miss Nordstrom exclaimed. “No one’s seen him? What does he look like?”

“He’s a plump orange and yellow tiger-striped cat,” Taylor said, as Susan was now crying too hard to speak. “He has a tie-dye collar with a little gold bell on it.”

“Hmm, let me think,” Miss Nordstrom said thoughtfully. “I don’t recall seeing any strange cats around lately. Have you checked over by Mrs. Larson’s? I’ve heard of all kinds of animals disappearing over there.”

With the mention of Mrs. Larson, both girls froze, their faces going white with fear. Mrs. Larson was a crazy old lady that lived in an old rickety house on the hill. Her yard was always overgrown, and dark clouds and fog seemed to linger around the house. She was a witch, or so all the children believed.

“Mrs…. Mrs…. Larson?” Susan said in a quivery voice, swallowing hard. “You think she might have taken Tiger?”

Miss Nordstrom shrugged and sighed. “I’m not saying she did, but I’ve heard stories of her taking animals that she finds roaming around. If you don’t find Tiger anywhere else, I would check there.”

The girls glanced at each other, the knuckles of their clasped hands were now white for gripping so tightly. They were afraid of Mrs. Larson—always had been.

“I hate to rush you two out,” Miss Nordstrom said, standing and picking up the tray now laden with empty plates and mugs. “I wasn’t expecting company today, and I have an appointment soon. I wish you good luck in finding Tiger.”

The girls mumbled their thanks for the refreshments and made polite good-byes, but as they walked out of the house chills ran down their spines. They jumped as the door closed with a loud thump behind them. Thunder boomed from the sky where dark clouds had gathered. Lightning flashed and the wind picked up with a vengeance.

They glanced at Mrs. Larson’s house on the hill, which was shrouded with dark storm clouds. The lightning flashed off the windows and made the house look like it was coming alive and wanted to eat them.

Thunder boomed again, and the girls screamed. They ran off of the porch and all the way back to Susan’s house, knowing it was about to storm. Just as they stepped through the door, closing it tightly behind them, rain poured from the fall sky. The rainfall shrouded the world in gray and stripping radiant red, orange, and yellow leaves from the trees, laying them out in a murky carpet on the road and lawns.

The girls darted up the steps to Susan’s room and talked in hushed voices about what they would do tomorrow—how they would find Tiger. As a last resort they would go to Mrs. Larson’s, but only after they’d checked everywhere else.

*   *   *

The next morning was still overcast. Gray, damp clouds hung low to the ground, setting the perfect stage for Halloween. The girls met at the agreed upon time and continued their search. No one had seen Tiger.

“Let’s just go do it,” Taylor said. “The sooner we go and ask, the sooner we can get home and get ready to go Trick-Or-Treating. Besides, I’m cold and hungry.”

Susan nodded, her teeth chattering from cold and fear. “Okay.”

Slowly the girls walked to the gate set in a high brick wall that surrounded Mrs. Larson’s property. The land had been in her family for years, having been owned by the town’s founder, who was Mrs. Larson great-uncle.

They stood at the ornate wrought iron gate, staring at the twisted trees, overgrown bushes, and weed-choked gravel driveway. Gulping, they pushed the gate open. It screeched in protest and a mass of black crows took flight from their hiding places in the trees. There were so many of them that the sky looked black with stars of gray where the clouds shown through.

“I don’t want to do this,” Susan whined. “Can’t we just have my dad or someone come up here?”

“Your dad is at work, and it’ll be dark by the time he gets home,” Taylor said, trying to be brave. “Besides, if we don’t do this now, we won’t be back in time to Trick-Or-Treat, and I don’t want to miss that.”

Susan nodded and took Taylor’s hand in a death grip. They walked together, hand-in-hand, up the gravel drive to the house that stood on the top of the hill. The stones of the drive crunched under their feet with each step. Their eyes darted about anxiously, expecting some huge monster to come bounding out and gobble them up at any moment.

Before they knew it, they’d made it to the house. It was an old Victorian made of red brick. Vines grew up the sides, like the fingers of vegetation were trying to grab the house and pull it down into the earth, swallowing it and the inhabitants forever.

Slowly, they stepped on the wooden steps that lead to the house, each one creaked ominously, causing their apprehension to grow. By the time they reached the top, they were both so tense that they moved in short stilted steps toward the door.

The porch went all the way around the house, so after they knocked tentatively, with no answer, they decided to walk around the corner to see if there was a back door.

As they went around to the side porch, they saw a light. There was a large window close to the back corner of the house that was like the beacon of a light house to a stormy sea. The girls headed for it.

Kneeling down, they peeked over the windowsill to see what was inside. The room appeared to be a kitchen. Herbs hung from the ceiling on strings, small containers with hand written labels covered every available surface, and a large pot was steaming on the stove.

Mrs. Larson stepped into the room. Her gray and white hair stuck out from her head at odd angles. As she turned and took something out of a cabinet, they saw that she’d attempted to tame her hair into a bun, but had failed. She wore a calico print dress that looked homemade and old—something that would have been worn twenty or thirty years ago. As she closed the cabinet, she turned to face the window.

The girls hurriedly ducked down, before slowly peeking in again.

They hadn’t been seen.

They watched as Mrs. Larson stirred the contents of the pot, singing to herself. She walked over to a drawer and pulled it open, and that’s when Susan saw it. Tiger’s collar was hanging from the handle of the drawer!

With a gasp, Susan spun around to sit on her butt, facing away from the house. “She has him. She took Tiger. How are we supposed to get him back? For all we know she’s cooking him right now in that pot!”

“Shh!” Taylor hissed. “Be quiet. We don’t want to get caught, she’ll probably cook and eat us, too!”

Just then the window slid open and Mrs. Larson stuck her head out and looked down at them.

“Hi, girls,” she said in a cracked voice. “Want to come in for something hot to drink?”

The girls screamed, jumped up, and ran. They were off the porch in moments, down the drive in minutes, and as they passed through, they slammed the gate shut behind them. Only then did they stop to take a breath. Only then did they stop screaming.

They hurried to Taylor’s house, where they were going to get ready to go Trick-Or-Treating. They took turns taking showers, and then they had some soup to warm them up. It did the trick for their bodies, but their minds were still frozen with fear from their experience.

When they went back upstairs to get ready to go, Susan started to cry.

“I can’t believe she ate him,” she sobbed. “I loved him so much, and she ate him. It’s just not fair.”

Taylor hugged her friend. “I know. But there’s nothing we can do about it now. We might as well try to have fun tonight. Maybe some time out with friends will make you feel better.”

“I don’t know,” Susan sniffed. “I could tell my parents. They could call the police. Isn’t that cruelty to animals or something?”

“We would have to get evidence for that,” Taylor said thoughtfully. “Maybe if we went back and got the collar, you know, as proof she took him, then they could do something.”

Susan shook her head, her eyes wide with fear. “I can’t go back there. I’m too scared. She’ll get us this time for sure!”

“Calm down, calm down,” Taylor sighed and sat down on the bed. “We’ll do it after we are done Trick-Or-Treating. She should be asleep by then. All we have to do is find a way in and take the collar. I bet she doesn’t even lock her doors. I mean, she’s a witch, who would dare try to steal from her? They would probably be cursed for life.”

Susan nodded, but still looked scared.

“Let’s get our costumes on,” Taylor said with a soft smile. “We don’t want to be late for the candy.”

Susan laughed through her tears. “You know. We are getting kinda old for this. How many more years do you think we can get away with candy begging before they stop giving it to us?”

Taylor grinned. “I plan to try for a couple of years yet. After that, I’ll just start throwing Halloween parties.”

For the next hour the girls forgot about all their cares as they applied each other’s make-up and dressed in their costumes. This year Susan was a giant teddy bear and Taylor was an undead fairy princess.

With pumpkin pails in hand, they left to beg for candy. The night flew by with friends they met along the way, and the excitement of seeing everyone’s costumes.

Before they knew it, they were standing in front of the wrought iron gate, staring up at Mrs. Larson’s house.

“I don’t want to do this,” Susan said.

“You want to report her for eating Tiger, don’t you?” Taylor asked.

“Yes, but I don’t want to go up there again.”

“What are you two doing?” Miss Nordstrom asked, coming up behind them, dressed as a sexy rock star. “Trick-Or-Treat is almost over. The two of you shouldn’t be out here all alone. Something bad might happen to you.”

The girls looked at each other, wondering if they should tell Miss Nordstrom what was going on. They missed the malicious gleam in her eyes, and the slight smirk that flutter across her face for an instant.

“Mrs. Larson took Susan’s cat and ate him,” Taylor said. “We saw his collar in her kitchen. Everything is true. She is a witch!”

“We have to go up there and get his collar,” Susan gushed, “so that we have proof when we tell the police.”

“Oh, I see,” Miss Nordstrom said. “Do you want me to come with you? You both look scared.”

Taylor and Susan smiled with relief at having an adult to come with them.

“That would be great,” Taylor said.

Susan nodded in agreement—too choked up from relief to speak.

“I have to go and get something from my house first, okay?” Miss Nordstrom said. “You two wait right here.”

In just minutes, Miss Nordstrom was back, carrying two strings with something attached to them.

“These are charm bags I had laying around the house,” she explained. “My mom made them for us kids when we would go out on Halloween, to protect us from evil spirits. Kinda like the bag you asked about yesterday, Susan. These are a little different though.”

She slid one over each girl’s head, to dangle from their necks, over their costumes. They stunk worse than the bag in the parlor had.

“Where’s yours?” Taylor asked, trying not to gag.

“I have one in my pocket,” Miss Nordstrom said with a smile. “It’s been in there all night.”

“Oh, okay,” Susan said, turning her head to try and breathe in some fresh air.

Together they stepped up to the gate. The two girls hung back a little, thinking about their earlier experience. Miss Nordstrom didn’t have that problem, and pushing it open. It screeched louder than it had earlier, and both girls shuddered.

Miss Nordstrom looked back over her shoulder. “You two coming?”

They nodded and followed her inside. The trees and the bushes were even more unnerving in the dark.

They hadn’t gone very far when Susan started to yawn.

“I feel so weak and tired,” she said, covering her mouth as she yawned yet again. “Do you mind if we take a break?”

Taylor was yawning, too. “A break does sound nice.”

“I agree,” Miss Nordstrom said with a gleeful smile. “Let’s rest. I think I see a bench over there, just past that tree. Why don’t you two go sit down?”

The girls nodded; stumbling over to the bench, they sat down.

“Why do I feel so drowsy?” Susan mumbled as she almost fell asleep and would have fallen off the bench if Taylor hadn’t been there to lean on.

Taylor kept dozing off herself, and would try to startle herself awake again, blinking like an owl and shaking her head.

Miss Nordstrom watched with amusement. “It’s the charm bags I gave you. They’ll put you to sleep and then I’ll take you home. It’s time for me to do my beauty spell again, and I’ll be needing some parts of young girls for the potion. You two should do nicely. You’re both young and lovely.”

Susan finally went to sleep, fell forward off the bench, and landed in the overgrown grass with a thump.

Taylor whimpered, still trying to stay awake. “Why are you doing this to us? I thought you were our friend.”

“I have no friends,” Miss Nordstrom laughed. “I use people and I move on. I’ve been doing it for hundreds of years. Luckily my spells last for a long time, so I don’t have to move too often.”

“You’re…you’re a witch,” Taylor gasped, before she too fell off the bench, sound sleep.

*   *   *

Susan woke up slowly. Her body was weak and it took effort for her to move. She was surrounded by tall grass, and it was dark out. Her head throbbed with a headache. It was the strangest headache she’d ever had.

As she sat up, she looked around. There were trees, bushes, and a cement bench, but nothing else. Slowly her mind started to work again, and she remembered where she was and what had happened.

“Taylor?” she croaked, standing up. Dizziness overtook her and she had to immediately sit down on the bench.

After the world stopped spinning, she looked around again. Taylor was nowhere in sight, but she could now see a path of flattened grass that lead back to the driveway.

“Miss Nordstrom,” she muttered to herself. “She must have taken her back to her house.”

Standing again, Susan closed her eyes and willed the dizziness to go away. She needed to find help, and fast. Miss Nordstrom would be back for her soon, and she had to get out of there. But the closest person was Mrs. Larson. The thought of going to that house again still scared her. But the thought of being chopped up and cooked into some kind of potion scared her even more.

Stumbling and weaving, Susan made her way up the overgrown drive. She tripped and fell over the weeds multiple times, and by the time she reached the porch steps her knees and her hands were scratched and bleeding.

She gulped hard before she lifted her foot and forced herself to climb the porch steps. She ran up to the door and knocked. No answer.

She stood there for a moment, thinking maybe she had just dreamed all this up, when she heard a rustling of leaves and a twig snap behind her. Turning, she saw Miss Nordstrom rushing up the drive.

Susan pounded on the door with all her strength, yelling, “Help! Help!”

She glanced back to see Miss Nordstrom just entering the overgrown grass that surrounded the house. As she looked back, the door opened and she fell inside.

Mrs. Larson stood over her with her hands on her hips. She was wearing a long, white cotton night gown and her hair was even more wild than it had been before.

“Can I help you, dear?” Mrs. Larson asked, her voice cracking.

Susan lay speechless, looking outside at the now empty yard, and then up at Mrs. Larson.

“Can you talk? Cat got you tongue?”

At the mention of a cat, Susan’s throat went dry and she feared she’d made the biggest mistake ever coming here. The thought that Mrs. Larson and Miss Nordstrom were both witches and were working together hit her brain like a lightning bolt, making her gasp.

Susan began to tremble violently and tears slid down her cheeks. Closing her eyes, she lay back on the floor, thinking she was doomed.

Something cold and wet touched Susan’s ear, and then a rough tongue began licking her cheek. She opened her eyes to see Tiger.

Forgetting about the women she thought were trying to kill her, she sat up and squealed, picking up the cat to cuddle him close.

“Ah, so he belongs to you,” Mrs. Larson said with a soft smile. “I found him yesterday. He’d hurt his paw and was laying on my porch.”

Susan wiped the tears from her face and noticed Tiger had a white bandage on his left hind leg. He hadn’t been eaten. He had been rescued.

“I…I thought you ate him,” Susan said softly.

“No, dear. Why ever would you think that?”

“I thought you were a witch,” Susan said, blushing and rubbing her now smiling face on Tiger’s fur.

“That’s just silly, dear,” Mrs. Larson laughed. “I’m just an old woman that keeps to herself and takes care of injured animals when they come my way. There’s no witches around here.”

Susan froze and looked up at Mrs. Larson, her eyes huge with fear. “Yes, there is. Miss Nordstrom is a witch. She tricked me and Taylor, that’s my friend, to wear these charm bags, saying they would protect us. They put us to sleep and she planned to take us to her house and use our body parts to make a potion that would keep her looking young and beautiful. We have to save Taylor! She took her!”

“Calm down, dear,” Mrs. Larson said. “I’m sure it was just a prank or something. Where’s Taylor now?”

Susan stood up, still clutching Tiger. “It’s not a prank. I’m telling the truth. We have to call the police. She has Taylor!”

“Okay, okay, dear,” Mrs. Larson said. “We’ll call the police. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding though.”

*   *   *

Dawn was just starting to light the distant horizon as Miss Nordstrom was lead out of her house in hand cuffs.

“We’ve been looking for this one for a long time,” one of the officers said to Taylor’s dad. “She’s been on the FBI’s most wanted list for years. I, myself, have never believed in witches, but this has changed my mind.”

Taylor was being loaded into the back of an ambulance, to be checked out at the local hospital, although she seemed fine. They’d found her in Miss Nordstrom’s basement, still asleep.

Upon investigating, they’d also found the charm pouch Susan had been wearing, lying beside the stone bench. Luckily for her, it had gotten caught on a sharp corner where the cement had eroded and chipped, cutting the string that held it around her neck. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have woken up, and they would never have caught Miss Nordstrom.

Mrs. Larson walked up to Susan, who was watching all the activity from across the street, wrapped in a fleece blanket. She put her arm around Susan and gave her a hug.

“You were very brave. If it hadn’t been for you, your friend would have died,” she said.

Susan smiled up at Mrs. Larson, still holding Tiger in her arms. “I’m glad you’re a nice woman instead of a witch. It’s strange that we had it all mixed up. The real witch pretended to be our friend, and you were just a nice woman we thought was strange. I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Larson laughed. “Well, now you know you can’t believe what you hear about people. You just have to meet them and find out for yourself.”

Susan giggled. “I guess so.”

“Susan,” her mother called as she walked across the street, “it’s time to go home and get some rest. You’ve had a big night. I’ll take you to visit Taylor at the hospital tomorrow.”

“Okay, Mom,” Susan said. “Can Mrs. Larson come, too? I’d love for Taylor to meet her. Oh, is that okay with you, Mrs. Larson?”

Both women laughed.

“That would be fine with me,” Mom said.

“I’d love to, dear,” Mrs. Larson said.

Susan and Mom started walking away when Susan handed Tiger to Mom, and ran back to Mrs. Larson, giving her a hug.

“Do you think I could come and visit you sometime, and you could teach me about taking care of hurt animals?”

Mrs. Larson laughed. “I’d like that very much.”

*   *   *

Many years later, Susan was locking up her veterinary clinic to go home. She smiled, never tiring of seeing her name on the door. With a content sigh, she turned to walk down the street, heading home.

She pushed open the gate, and started up the well-maintained drive way. The crisp autumn air rustled the orange and red leaves that dangled from the pruned trees. Giggling, she caressed the bushes that were trimmed in the shapes of pumpkins, ghosts, and ghouls. Today was Halloween, and after dark, the children would come to her house to Trick-Or-Treat. All the orange lights strung in the bushes would light the way to her house. The house on the top of the hill. The one she had bought from Mrs. Larson, the woman who’d nurtured her passion for animals, and had been an inspiration to her life.

Standing at the bottom of the steps, Susan looked up at the house that had once scared her, which was now a place of warmth and friendship. She smiled and went inside to put on her costume, knowing Taylor would be there soon to help her pass out candy.

 

Author Rebecca Besser

 

Rebecca Besser is the author of “Undead Drive-Thru, Undead Regeneration, Cursed Bounty, Twisted Pathways of Murder & Death, Hall of Twelve,” and “Nurse Blood (Limitless Publishing).” She’s also a graduate of the Institute of Children’s Literature. Her work has appeared in the Coshocton Tribune, Irish Story Playhouse, Spaceports & Spidersilk, joyful!, Soft Whispers, Illuminata, Common Threads, Golden Visions Magazine, Stories That Lift, Super Teacher Worksheets, Living Dead Press Presents Magazine (Iss. 1 & 2), FrightFest eMagazine, An Xmas Charity Ebook, The Stray Branch, and The Undead That Saved Christmas (Vol. 1 & 2) and the Signals From The Void charity anthologies. She has multiple stories in anthologies by Living Dead Press, Wicked East Press, Pill Hill Press, Hidden Thoughts Press, Knight Watch Press, Coscom Entertainment, Crowded Quarantine Publications, and Collaboration of the Dead (projects), and one (each) in an anthology by Post Mortem Press, NorGus Press, Evil Jester Press, Horrified Press, Atria Books (S&S Digital), and Nocturnal Press Publications. She also has a poem in an anthology by Naked Snake Press and a children’s poem in Oxford Ink Literature Reader 4 from Oxford University Press (India).

Her nonfiction children’s article about skydiving, written for her writing course with the Institute of Children’s Literature, was published by McGraw Hill for NY Assessments.

She’s also an editor and has edited: Dark Dreams: Tales of Terror, Dead Worlds 7: Undead Stories, and Book of Cannibals 2: The Hunger from Living Dead Press; Earth’s End from Wicked East Press; End of Days: An Apocalyptic Anthology (Vol. 4 & 5/co-edited) from Living Dead Press; and she co-edited Feast or Famine (a zombie anthology).

 

Copyright © Rebecca Besser 2019