The Night My Heart Exploded

It’s not a metaphor. Or a simile, or a fucking allegory, or whatever the word is. My heart. Exploded. And it wasn't because a pretty girl walked into the library where I work and told me that she needed my help. She caused it; she made it happen with malice of bloody forethought. At least she didn’t kill me. I suppose that’s something to be thankful for.

I’d been left alone to lock up for the night. I was in the middle of returning the children’s section to something approaching acceptable when she walked in. That’s always the easiest part of the lock-up. I mean, yes, you have to deal with whatever disgusting things they’ve left behind, from slobbery pacifiers to slobbery teddy bears, but the beauty of tidying the children’s section is that it’s never going to be tidy for more than five minutes after you open. And the manager never comes in for at least an hour after that, so basically it’s a non-job.

Anyway, back to that night. I was hurling the SpongeBob cushions into the corner when this girl walked in. Was she attractive? Yes. Would I have behaved more cautiously had she not been? I don’t know. It’s a moot point. She wasn’t and I didn’t. Is that right? Anyway, this girl stood there, dressed quite smart in a dark blue suit, dark hair done in a ponytail, with these big, bulky headphones around her neck. She asked me if I could help her with something.

“We’re closed,” I told her.  If I’d been thinking, I would have wondered how she’d got past the locked front door. But thinking while working isn’t something I do very often. Since starting work there, I’d made a real effort to save my mental activity until I could share it with the people who I felt earned it and so far this girl had done nothing to prove she was worth anything more than a standard response. Apart from having a face like she did, I suppose.

“It’s very important,” she told me, like that would change everything. There was a tone in her voice, though. It wasn’t a tone like, “Oh god, I’ve been attacked!” It was more like “This is serious, listen to me.”

I thought about the possibility that she might be telling the truth. She did look worried; she looked like she wanted to be moving rather than standing by the door talking to me. So I walked over to her. I’m not a heartless person; I wouldn’t abandon someone who was in serious trouble. Oh, shit. Sorry about that. Pun not intended, but if I do it again, you can assume it is. Heartless.

“What’s going on?” I asked her. She turned to look at the front door. I don’t know if you’ve been there and seen the doors to the library, but they’re these two big, bulky wooden bastards. Substantial. And they were closed. She must have been satisfied because she turned back to me.

“Listen to this,” she said, and reached into her jacket pocket. Now, I’m wondering what’s going on. Maybe she’s going to pull a phone or MP3 player out; maybe she’s got a recording of something, I thought. You know the scene in Garden State, with Natalie Portman and The Shins? Maybe a small part of me thought that was happening. But no, it’s a matchbox. Cook’s Matches. She pops on her headphones and hands the box to me. “Open it,” she says. I know what you’re thinking. Why would you open it? But then, why wouldn’t you?

I open it. There’s something inside, I can’t tell what it is. It takes up most of the matchbox; it looks almost like a grey, moist fortune cookie from a Chinese restaurant, the way it’s curled up in there.  And then it uncurls. I almost drop it but before I can it starts vibrating and this noise comes out and it fills my head and everything just goes pink.

As I fell to the floor I felt like I was going in slow-motion. Which meant I could watch the arcing explosion coming out of my chest. It actually looked kind of beautiful. I saw some white bits that I assumed were shards of my ribs, or maybe just globs of fat that have been sticking around. Lots of blood, obviously. I could see it spattering the young adult section. And there were these vivid red chunks just flying out that I knew, that I understood were pieces of my heart which had just exploded.

So I’m on the floor. I’m lying there. My head’s tilted to the side; I’m looking at a misshapen hunk of my flesh that’s dripping off the book trolley. And I feel the girl take my hand.

“Get up,” she said.

It seemed ridiculous. How could I possibly get up? But she started pulling, so I thought that maybe it wasn’t so stupid. I tried, and it took some doing, but I just about got to my feet.

“What the hell was that?” I asked, in the kind of tone which I felt was justified.

“I don’t have time to explain,” she said. “There are some people coming. I need you to go outside and talk to them.”

I looked down at the hole in my chest, which was still bleeding a lot, by the way. I looked at the way my ribs have been blasted outwards. I felt like I was examining a crime scene. “I’m not sure I can go anywhere,” I told her. But to be honest, I felt OK. Had it not been for the evidence all over the floor, I wouldn’t have known anything had happened. She grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the front door. I kicked a chunk of something on the way and saw it skid under one of the history shelves. It would be a bastard to retrieve that. I don’t know who had to do that, some forensics guy I suppose.

She turned the lock in the front door and opened it a crack. “Go outside and tell them that it worked,” she said. When I asked what, she shook the matchbox. “This. Tell them the matchbox worked.”

Before I had time to register a complaint I was shoved outside. It was blowing a gale and I could feel little dangly bits around the edges of my wound flapping. It was…grim. But my eyes were drawn to the three large bald men in suits standing by a large black van a few feet away from me, who were all carrying shiny handguns. I assumed that these were the people I needed to talk to.

“Hello,” I said. “She says it works.”

The man in the middle took a step towards me. “Where’s the proof?” he asked. I gestured to my chest.

“I think I’m supposed to be the proof,” I told him. “The thing in the matchbox did this to me.” He moved closer and bent down to examine my wound. He used his pistol to move my shirt aside and get a better look. I thought it best to leave him to it, but looking at the blood dripping onto his weapon I couldn’t help but wonder how sanitary it was.

“Fair enough,” he said. “Is she inside?” I nodded, and he took a step back, taking his handgun out of me. “Laura? Is he telling the truth, then?”

“He is,” I heard her shout from behind me. She was poking her head out from behind the door. “I told you it would work, I just needed more time.” The man nodded.

“We may have been too hasty. What do you say to the idea of coming back?”

I turned and saw Laura take a cautious step towards us. “I say you spent the last hour trying to kill me.”

The man held his hands up. “We thought that you didn’t know what you were doing. We thought you were wasting our time, but clearly we were wrong. I apologise. I was too hasty and it won’t happen again. Besides, we need you to figure out why he’s still alive.”

Laura grinned. “I’ll expect a pay rise.” The man grinned back and nodded.

I’d been standing there, listening to this back and forth and wondering if I should say anything. I had hoped that I would be left out of it, but clearly, that wasn’t the case. As I was about to ask how they planned to find out why I was still alive, the man’s two friends picked me up and bundled me into the van.

No one said a word and I thought it best to keep my mouth shut. We drove for about twenty minutes, then a bag was put over my head and I was carried inside a building. I had no idea whether I was above ground or below but when the bag was removed I was in a cell. Not the worst cell imaginable, thankfully. It was clean, I had it to myself, there was a toilet. All things considered, it could have been much worse. My main worry was what to do about the hole in my chest. I did briefly consider filling it with wadded toilet paper but I’m sure you can deduce why I didn’t. Mushiness. Sorry, anyway, I didn’t think I needed to worry about infection. I just sat there and waited. I was sure someone would come and explain things to me eventually

.

Which brings me up to now. Two men I didn’t recognise opened the door and brought me here to talk to you ladies and gentlemen. Can I ask, have you figured it out yet? Why I’m not dead? Does it have something to do with the thing in the matchbox? Oh, how’s Laura?

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Hello.

Hope you enjoyed this one. It was fun to do something a bit different. Initially it was going to be another story with Elsie the ghost from She Wore Stripes, but this happened instead. I'd written a couple of quite grim things so it was nice to have a bit of fun with this.

An Empty Space on the Bookshelf

“Why did you kill my cat?”

Edward had indeed killed Lucy’s cat. He’d done it with a copy of Ulysses.

He hadn’t meant to. He’d come home and found his girlfriend gone. A note had explained that she wasn’t sure how she felt about him but she wanted him to leave. The note had ended with a hopeful “for now” that implied a chance of reconciliation. Edward didn’t see how that was going to work if he wasn’t there. And that had made him angry.

He’d gone to look for the things that were his. The things he would not allow her to hold on to. He marched over to the bookshelf. He was sure the good books were his; she didn’t have any good ones. She wasn’t a reader. Scanning through the paperbacks he’d seen James Joyce’s Ulysses. They had found it in an Oxfam bookshop and had pooled their change to buy it. Lucy had never read it and he had only studied it. It had seemed like a good idea but he didn’t remember either of them picking it up once it was theirs. He picked it carefully, stroking the weathered spine. The price had been scrawled in pencil in the inside cover.

He’d thrown it across the room.  She would see it, splayed open on the carpet, and see how angry he was. But he hadn’t expected the snap he heard. Their cat, Isaac, lay on the floor. Splayed. The people at Battersea were right. They should have really thought very carefully about it.

Isaac twitched and gave a painful wheeze. Claws retracted and extended. As Edward stood, stunned, the poor tabby cat shuddered and finally froze. Edward stood, frozen by the bookcase, looking at the dead animal in front of him.

What does one do with a dead animal? It was an accident, it wasn’t murder. Manslaughter, catslaughter. Edward’s mind was racing. Should he carve it into pieces, dispose of it in different sites? That was ridiculous and worse than killing it. Could he put it in a black bag with the rest of the rubbish? That seemed cruel, he had liked that cat. There were times when they hadn’t got on but Isaac had generally been good company and deserved better than a cheap bin-liner. Finally, Edward did the only thing he could do. He left the cat on the floor and a note on the table.

“Very sorry but the cat is dead. I didn’t mean to.” He paused, lifting the biro clear from the post-it note to try and think of something good before writing “Very sorry” a second time. Then he left.

The bus ride home seemed to take forever. He worried that he would bump into Lucy or one of her friends, despite going in the opposite direction. He needn’t have worried. He got safely into his flat without having to talk to anyone. As he turned on the lights he thought about how lucky he was that he had kept onto the flat despite spending most of his time at her place. Then he remembered that it was Lucy who said it was a good idea to hold onto it, just in case. Had she planned this? How long had she been planning it for?

As he let his anger build, slowly swallowing the Isaac guilt, his mobile rang. Lucy. The anger fell away and was replaced by the dead weight of guilt. He stared at his phone for a moment, at the name on the screen, and went into the kitchen where the he knew the signal wouldn’t drop. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, but Lucy spoke first.

“Why did you kill my cat?”

Edward wanted to explain, to tell her how ridiculous the whole thing was. He desperately felt that this was something that should not have happened. It was like knocking a mug of tea over on someone’s book, it was a simple mistake. Maybe a laptop was a better comparison, more expensive, less easily replaced. But he knew how it looked. It had taken on significance now.

Not just the fact that he done something awful. There was another concern. Edward wondered if she had taken it as a message. If he said the wrong thing it could certainly be construed as a message. Dump me and I’ll kill your cat. You think we should take some time off? I’ll kill your cat. That was not something that should be put around. Edward would never do anything like that. He did not deserve that kind of a reputation. It had been an accident, he was sure of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Edward fidgeted with the tied end of a pack of bread, tugging at the plastic. Finally she spoke.

“What happened?”

He told her the truth. He told her about finding the note, about going to the bookshelf, and about how Joyce’s magnum opus had snapped the neck of poor Isaac. He could hear her breathing as he babbled but she didn’t interject. When he stopped he could hear her clearing her throat.

“So it was an accident?”

“Of course!” he said. It had been a terrible accident but an accident nevertheless. She needed to know that, to understand it.

“You know, it’s weird,” she said. “I saw the empty space on the bookshelf first. Then I saw the book. I thought you’d decided to trash the place and I was getting really angry. I thought about how much of a dick you could be.” He heard her sniff. Was she crying? “And then I saw Isaac, how he’d curled up and he just looked all wrong and I thought…”

She was crying now. Edward felt like he should say something. Was it appropriate to console her? He was the perpetrator after all. Perpetrators apologise, they don’t console. But she was crying and old instincts overruled common sense.

“Hey, it’s OK,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. The crying stopped with a kind of choking sound.

“It’s not OK, you fucking dick. You murdered my cat!” Edward realised his mistake and tried to backpedal. As he started to apologise again, Lucy interrupted. “You murdered my fucking cat and you leave a fucking note? This is exactly the kind of thing that I should expect from you, I don’t know why it came as such as a surprise. Why should I expect an easy break-up from you, one where nothing dies?”

“Well I’m sorry I’m not perfect!” shouted Edward. He knew this was the wrong approach but honestly, how much worse could he make things for himself. This was evidently a lost cause, why not try and shift as much of the blame onto her as possible? “Maybe if you were easier to talk to I wouldn’t have had to leave a note.”

“What?” screamed Lucy. “What has that got to do with the fact that you killed my cat?” Edward had a blinding flash of inspiration, the kind that only comes to those forced into a corner and the only escape is the illogical one.

“In fact, if you hadn’t left a note, I wouldn’t have lost my temper and Isaac wouldn’t be dead.” He let that final barb sit for a moment and there was a quiet on the line as Lucy attempted to digest it. Let her take that on board. All her fault after all. Maybe he wasn’t the one who should have Isaac’s death on his conscience.

“So you murdered my cat because I broke up with you,” she said flatly. Alarm bells went off in Edward’s head. She’d played the trump card. She had more friends than he did. Their mutual friends were better friends with her than they were with him. They’d take her word for it. This would be the thing he was known for. Cat-killer. Couldn’t take being dumped so he killed a cat. Everyone would know. He’d never date again.

“I didn’t…I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry. Look, Lucy, please…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. This is all…”

“Go fuck yourself, Edward.” The line went dead and Edward stared at his phone.

Well, that was it.

He’d have to move.

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Hello, there. Thanks for reading.

Something a bit different this week, not a horror thing. The excellent title came from @andylonsdale21 so thank you very much to him. It's quite a serious title and initially this was going to be played completely seriously and the phone conversation was going to be a deep and moving discussion of how their relationship went so wrong. But, when it came down to it, I tried to be funny instead. I think that once I'd written the word "catslaughter" I couldn't take it entirely seriously anymore. Seriously.

It also occurred to me when I finished that it's quite similar to the scene in Re-Animator in which Herbert West puts Dan's cat in the fridge and doesn't leave a note. "What would a note say, Dan? Cat dead, details later?" 

Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. And I would like to reassure everyone that I have never killed a cat, intentionally or otherwise. But you should watch Re-Animator.

She Wore Stripes

She hadn’t been dead long. That’s important. And she hadn’t made a mess of herself. A bit of blood around the nose, easy enough to wipe off. Some hot water and a wad of toilet paper would take care of that. And she was dressed all in stripes, looking a bit like Beetlejuice’s teenage sister, especially now that she’d snuffed it. I’d been wearing a dress a bit like that when I went. I got hit by a lorry, though, so those white stripes turned red very quickly. Ha.

For any ghost attempting possession of a corpse, it’s important that the body hasn’t been dead for very long. It’s important because being in a corpse as it goes through rigor mortis is about as much fun as dying. And once you’ve done either once you don’t really want to do it again. You’ve only got about three hours before it becomes noticeable. I can tell you that it’s difficult to explain to the dead person’s friend why your arm isn’t bending any more. Best to know your limits. And if you do hang around for rigor mortis, the livor mortis has already begun. Blood pooling in places. Not good. So yeah, unless you want to tell a barman why you can’t move as you feel yourself becoming a soggy sausage skin full of…keep an eye on the time.

My name’s Elsie and if you’re wondering if I just hang around waiting to people to die so I can walk around in their bodies, you’re not far off the truth. I mean, yes, you can possess the living but that takes weeks, sometimes months, of preparation and frankly it’s very rarely worth the hassle. The dead don’t fight you; the only thing working against you is the clock.

I come to The Worker’s Hearth quite often. It’s open late and you quite often find people stopping off for a last drink at three in the morning on their stumble home. Every now and then one of them dies and I walk them home instead. But I’d come along early tonight and I was glad I did. This girl, the one in stripes, had popped in with her friends for a round of cheap shots on the way into town and had gone, alone, to the loos for a pee and a snort. After thirty years as a ghost you start notice when people’s bodies are struggling to cope and this girl had all the warning signs. So I floated off after her.

Sure enough, as soon as she’d got it up her nose the bleeding started and her little heart fluttered and gave out. Her face hit the tiles and I got to work.

There’s not really an art to this. It’s pretty simple. The person dies. Their spirit leaves the body like a reflex. And in you pop. The best way to describe it is like climbing into a wetsuit. You’ve got to wiggle your way all the way down the arms and legs, make sure your fingers and toes are in properly. If you do it right you’ve got total control of the body in terms of movement, vocal chords and so forth. You can walk, talk, smile. Sadly, you don’t have any say over the body’s decomposition. You’ve got about an hour, maybe two before people start to notice that you look and smell terrible.

A word of advice. Always take the time to clean yourself up. People tend to notice if there’s a dreadful stink of shit coming from you, or worse, there might be a wound that you haven’t noticed. Claiming to be drunk will only get you so far if you haven’t spotted that the back of your head is open and dripping.

So, I cleaned the blood from her nose and got the arms and legs moving. No stiffness yet, everything seemed to be working as normal. And she hadn’t shat herself, which was a relief. Obviously, sometimes you have to clean up but when you don’t have a lot of time you don’t want to waste it in the stalls. I gave her face a bit of a touch-up with the make-up kit in her bag. Her being a bit of a druggie was a relief; her friends would be used to seeing her pale. The outfit wasn’t too bad. A damp patch from the floor but I could always blame that on busted taps; in a place like this the girls downstairs would believe it.

I went back downstairs, going carefully to get the hang of her pins. The people at the table looked happy to see me. I was accused of taking my sweet time, to which I answered that I’d had too much to drink. They called me Tania, which I made a note of. Then I downed my pint, left the pub, and got into a taxi with them. On the way there I didn’t say a lot. I tried to focus on the little things. Feeling fabric against Tania’s skin. The air from the open window on Tania’s face, rushing through Tania’s hair. The after-taste of watered-down lager on Tania’s tongue. These things make Elsie happy. Before I knew it we’d arrived at the club.

I don’t really know the best way to describe trying to dance with limbs that don’t have blood pumping through them anymore. You know the Thriller video? It’s fuck all like that. There’s much less coordination. You just try to move your limbs as much as possible, really. I think maybe it helps postpone the stiffness but I have no idea. It’s just nice to have the feeling that the body you’re in is responding to instructions. I’ve tried haunting an aerobics class but anyone who’s going to snuff it at the gym tends to so fairly publicly, everyone hovering around them. You want people to go privately.

I noticed a couple of guys checking me out and quickly discouraged them, sticking to the group of friends this girl had found for herself. I’m not stupid enough to attempt intercourse while inhabiting a corpse. That would be horrible and incredibly ill-advised. Well, I tried it once. Once. After six years of being dead I finally had to give it a try. It was as disastrous and disgusting as you’d assume, and we’ll say no more about it. There were…fluids. Jesus, I’m shuddering just thinking about it.

I’d kept an eye on the time and it was approaching midnight. Time to get going, but I still had a couple of minutes to think about it. How did I want people to find Tania? She had friends with her, most of them seemed nice. A girl called Sarah seemed to be closest to her, a slightly chubby freckly red-head who had asked if I was alright and had tried to make me laugh. She’d stayed on the dance floor with me and shown a similar disregard for people trying to dance with her. I wondered if they were together. However, I wasn’t going to find out. I could feel the changes starting to happen and I didn’t want to freak her out unnecessarily.

Now, when it comes to getting rid of your body you can go for the alley-drop but that always struck me as a bit cruel on the survivors. I didn’t really want Sarah feeling guilty because she’d let her drunk best friend wander off to expire alone in a dirty alley. So I considered the “I just died in your arms tonight” approach. She’d always remember that. She could call an ambulance. That would make her feel better, if she’d been proactive. She could tell herself that she’d tried to help. I went for it.

I stuck around in the body long enough to give the illusion that Tania was dying in Sarah’s panicking arms, a bit of light convulsing, eyelids fluttering, some shallow breathing . Once people starting yelling I left. You don’t want to hang around all that. That’s none of your business; it’s nothing to do with you. Best left alone. So off I went.

You probably think all of this is wrong. Maybe you think it’s immoral, that I’ll burn in hell for it. Well I’m not there yet. And when you’ve been stranded in spectral form for thirty years you can talk to me about it.

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Hello there. I hope you enjoyed this one. I was worried at first that the voice was a little to similar to Eliza in Witch's Bile but I think Elsie's more disaffected than malicious. Anyway, she was a lot of fun to write and I have a plan for a second story with her where something actually happens, as opposed to this, which I think is just her normal Friday night.

Not sure which story will be next but it will be another week or two. The title from this story came from @merazad and I'm very grateful!

The Lesser Evil

“Light the candles, Freddie.”

Freddie took the blue plastic lighter from Caroline and went around the candles, taking care not to burn his thumb. They’d spent nearly an hour ensuring that the pentagram was laid out correctly according the book that Caroline had bought online, which reeked of damp and something else that made Freddie keen to avoid touching it. Caroline coughed, a lengthy hacking that sounded painful. Freddie wondered how long her cold was going to hang around for. Still, if her dad wouldn't turn the heating on in January, he supposed that was what happened.

They were in Caroline’s father’s barn, by the woods at the edge of his property. Freddie worried even though Caroline told him that her father had passed out in front of A Touch of Frost at about seven and wouldn’t stir till morning. Freddie couldn’t help but feel like someone might happen by and wonder what they were doing. Someone might see.

The barn hadn’t been used for years. At least, not for the purposes for which it was originally built. It was mostly used for storage now. As Freddie lit the candles he illuminated a series of trunks and old boxes. He’d never been told but he was pretty sure it was mostly Caroline’s mum’s stuff that was in here. The candles also cast an appropriately sinister light on their pentagram. Caroline had read that they could use any kind of blood and so Freddie had bought a fresh cupful belonging to an unfortunate pig, trying all the time not to make eye contact with Mr Redmond who sold his mother her weekly order of pork chops and beef mince.

Soon they were all lit. Freddie didn’t know what came next. Caroline hadn’t told him what the ritual would actually involve. She said that she didn’t want him to know more than he had to, which was a step up from her initial decision to keep him out of the thing entirely. It was like she was trying to protect him. He’d never get anywhere with her if he let her keep that attitude. He’d tried to let her know he could be useful but he hadn’t been able to glean a single piece of useful information. All he could do was stand there and try to be helpful. Freddie knew he’d be doing better if he wasn’t so scared. What did he have to be scared about? It wasn’t like this was actually going to work. He hadn't even asked what she was wishing for he was so sure of it.

While Freddie fretted, Caroline had started to speak. He was going to ask her to repeat herself before he realised that she wasn’t talking to him. He saw the candles flutter and shadows flittered across the barn that made him wish he was at home in bed. He squeezed his eyes shut.  Then he opened them.

In the middle of the room a man stood in the centre of the pentagram. Short black hair, a light grey suit. He reminded Freddie of the lawyer in To Kill a Mockingbird. The man looked at them, smiled, and nodded a greeting.

“Hello there.”

The man’s voice was clearly not from around here. Not English, not American, somewhere in between. It was somehow neutral. The man looked down at his feet and slowly lifted his polished right shoe. When he looked back up again he seemed genuinely excited.

“A pentagram! How nice of you to make the effort. No, honestly, you know, so much is done online these days it’s nice to be called by someone who really knows what they’re doing. I had a bloody print-out last night, if you can believe that. Well done. Both of you.”

Caroline took a step forward. Before Freddie could think of whether or not he should too, she addressed the new arrival.

“Are you him?”

Freddie thought that was a bit vague but the man seemed to know what she was talking about. He shrugged and turned his smile upside down with theatrical ease.

“Me? No, sorry. I’m not the one you’re waiting for. He’s very busy, as I’m sure you can imagine. No no I’m the on hold music, if you like. I’m the annoying Abba song that gets stuck in your head. But the big guy will be along in a minute.”

“What’s your name?” asked Caroline.

“Ah, I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, and I don’t have the time to teach you.” He cocked his head to one side, taking the measure of them both. Freddie felt like he was in P.E. waiting to be chosen for a team. This was not a situation in which he’d ever done very well. But the man’s smile returned, slowly spreading across his face.

“It’s very nice to meet you. Caroline and Freddie. Very nice to meet you indeed.”

“How do you know our names?” asked Caroline, before Freddie got the chance to. The man sniffed.

“Sorry, that’s one of the benefits of this; we know who’s summoning us just as you know who you’re summoning. At least I hope you do.” The man’s expression became graver and Freddie realised he was starting to move behind Caroline. He willed himself to stop. He was here to help. He was here to be strong.

The man continued with a hint of force in his voice telling them just how serious he was. “You did read the instructions, didn’t you? Because this is not somebody you want to be fooling around with. Not that you want to be fooling around with any of us, miss, but this one is particularly quick to anger. Let me tell you, if you have any uncertainties about what you’re doing, any questions, concerns, best to get them out in the open now before he shows up.”

“We know what we’re doing” hissed Caroline. The man held his hands up, pressing his palms together in penitence.

“Of course you do. With this very fine pentagram here it was foolish of me to even suggest you were…amateurs. Forgive me.” His eyes flickered between the two of them, back and forth between Freddie and Caroline. Freddie felt the same unease as he did whenever someone looked at the two of them. What would a girl like her (tall, lean, blonde and with the kind of face that would drive the poetry weirdos as well as the sports team idiots to a frenzy) be doing with him (twitchy, odd, and with a face nothing short of drastic surgery could rescue).

“May I ask what it is you’re after?” asked the stranger. “Just what you’re hoping to get out of this little transaction? I mean, I can’t actually grant anything, not while I’m waiting here, holding the line. This limits my powers somewhat. But think of me as…a lesser evil in these moments before a great big arch-demon comes flaming into this…sorry, what is this? Is this a barn?”

Caroline stared back at him. She didn’t flinch. Their guest nodded.

“Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. I understand, these things are delicate. Personal.  You know, I admire you two. I do. You’ve got it figured out; you know what you’re doing. You’re not messing around, it’s good. And he’ll respect that too. You’ve done well. And don’t worry about the flaming by the way. I mean, he will be on fire but he’s not going to burn this place down. Unless you ask him very nicely. ”

Then he turned back to Freddie and for the first time he felt the full weight of his attention directly on him.

“Freddie, you can look at me, you know. There’s no need to be shy.”

“Don’t you fucking talk to him. You talk to me!” Caroline took a step forward, shielding Freddie from the stranger. Freddie felt his failings twist around his stomach like a snake. The man’s face flipped once more from friendly to apologetic.

“No, of course not, Caroline. I will address only you if you so desire. I didn’t mean to cause any friction. I was just being friendly.”

Caroline turned her head slightly towards Freddie. Not all the way. She didn’t take her eyes off the man in the pentagram.

“Wait outside, Freddie.”

This cut him to the core. This was the final humiliation. In the face of a man who appeared from nowhere, she would rather he wait outside to let her face it alone.

“Caroline, I…I can help.”

He didn’t even convince himself. She shook her head.

“Wait outside. Please.”

That was it. He turned and walked out of the barn, shoulders slumped. In a long list of personal failures this was might be the worst. He heard the man talking as he left.  

“Oh, don’t send him away. You don’t have to…Bye, Freddie!”

He closed the barn door and leaned against it. Reaching into his coat he found the half-empty bottle of corner-shop vodka he’d stolen from his brother’s room. He was planning to use it to console Caroline when the pentagram idea hadn’t worked, which had seemed like the only outcome at the time. Faced with the reality of a demon talking to the girl he loved and being sent outside like a leper, Freddie put the bottle to his lips and drank.

It wasn’t long before everything got a bit hazy. Freddie had never been able to handle his booze and the excitement of the evening seemed to further quicken its effects. He put his head against the door and listened in the hope that they were talking about him. And, as chance would have it, they were. Or at least the man was.

“It’s nice the way you look after him. You’re like a big sister to him, aren’t you? It’s nice, I mean it. Does he know?”

Freddie slumped. The words ‘big sister’ were the kiss of death. That made him the little brother and that made the efforts of last few years of his life spectacularly pointless. He zoned out, began to luxuriate in self-pity, when he became aware of someone standing next to him.

The man stood, watching him with a smile on his lips.

“Hi there, Freddie.”

Freddie struggled to stand up straight. How had he got out of the pentagram? What had happened to Caroline? As if reading his mind, the man held his hands up.

“Not to worry, Freddie, Caroline’s fine. The big guy’s finally arrived; they’re in there now, hashing out the details. And I’m not going to hurt you either, in case that’s what’s troubling you. I just want to talk. You know, Freddie, you impress me. You know why?”

Freddie didn’t, and shook his head to let him know.

“You’re brave. It takes courage to come out to a place like this and be there for your friend while she does something this dangerous, this insane. I mean, you appreciate how dangerous what she’s doing is, don’t you? Of course you do. I mean, she’s literally playing with fire. Hellfire, anyway. And you’re out here, helping her. It’s courageous.”

Freddie decided to let the stranger salve his pride a little bit. He nodded. Why not? He was courageous. He’d come here at least. Even if Caroline had decided that his services weren’t required.

“Does she know, Freddie?”

Freddie looked up, about to ask the man what he meant, but knew instantly from the sly grin on his face what he was talking about. He started to stammer out a question but the man held up his finger.

“No point denying it, it’s as plain as anything. You love her, and you haven’t told her have you? It’s obvious. Maybe you haven’t told her because you think she knows anyway. Let me tell you something, that girl isn’t guessing anything. Did you see her in there? A girl like that in a situation like this, Freddie, it’s all about focus. She’s got one goal in mind. She’s getting it done in there. She’s got a mission.

But maybe you haven’t told her because you’re afraid she’ll laugh. People have laughed at you before, haven’t they? You don’t have to answer me, it’s fine. People can be very cruel. And maybe she’ll laugh too. But do you know what will be worse, Freddie? If she tells you that she doesn’t see you that way.

Oh she sees you as a friend, for sure. You’re out here with her, aren’t you? You’re helping her. But you need to make her see you as more than just her little brother. You need to show her what I can see to be true. That you are a strong, courageous person. That you have so much more to offer her. You need to let her see the strength of your feelings.”

With that, the man from the flames paused and turned away. Freddie leaned back against the door, thrown by the flurry of words. He wasn’t being told anything he hadn’t already thought to himself. But it was something to hear someone else expressing his feelings. It somehow made it all feel more possible. The man turned back.

“Do you know what she’s asking for in there?”

Freddie shook his head.

“Have you ever met Caroline’s father?”

Freddie’s heart beat a little faster as he started to realise what Caroline was doing.

Caroline’s father was a bastard. There was no other way to describe him. He knew that her father beat her on a regular basis. Freddie was used to lending her sweatshirts to help hide the bruises on her arms from their schoolmates. After the head teacher had finally noticed and paid a home visit it looked like he might have been easing up on his daughter but over the last few weeks it had been getting worse again. Yesterday she’d shown up to school with a black eye.

So that was it. Caroline was finally doing something about her father.

“Is she just going to ask him to help her stop him or…”

The man sneered, and for the first time Freddie caught a glimpse of something that wasn’t quite benign.

“Do you think she just wants him to stop, Freddie? She wants him gone. Now listen to me, because I have some experience in this. If it were me, I’d just do the thing myself. If I were the one with the power to grant these wishes, I’d just grant the bloody thing. Click my fingers and stop the bastard’s heart. But him in there, you have to understand, he’s in his position for a reason. He’s going to twist it so that there’s no easy option for Caroline. The only way he’ll let her do it is by making sure she doesn’t get caught.”

“Get caught doing what?” asked Freddie, understanding his own stupidity.

“Why, murdering her father. He’s not going to just do it for her, she’s going to have to take the life and live with the guilt, just not the prison sentence. But here’s where you come in, Freddie.

I know something about guilt. It’s hard to live with. And she will live it with, to be sure, but she won’t be the same Caroline you know now. You say you’re looking for a way to show your love for her, well what could be nobler than taking on her burden? If you tell me right now that you authorise a switch, that you decide to carry that weight, I can make it happen.”

Freddie reeled. “I thought you said you couldn’t grant anything!” The man nodded. “But you can…swap? I don’t know, I’m not…”

“But you are, Freddie!” interjected the stranger. “I know that you have this within you, the power to do this. And she will never forget it.

But I need your decision now, Freddie. She’s in there right now, it’s been at least five minutes already, and they’ll be closing the deal. If you want to do this, we have to do it now.”

Freddie turned away, but the man grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. He looked into the man’s eyes and saw them glow.

“Let me show you,” he said, and Freddie felt his feet give way from under him. He was back inside the barn, watching Caroline reach out and take the hand of a tall, sneering man with long black hair. The man laughed, and he could see a tear trickle its way down Caroline’s cheek. There was a bright flash and the room changed again, and now he was in Caroline’s sitting room at home. He saw her father asleep in an armchair, and saw Caroline drop a match into the sleeping man’s lap. He felt the heat on his face, smelt the stink of flesh cooking and burning hair. He cried out as the flash came again and saw a woman, older but unmistakeably Caroline, alone in a room he didn’t recognise and understood that it was a place he didn’t belong. With a final flash the heat returned, and the fire, and a legion of screams. Freddie knew where he was, this place both horrifyingly dark and terribly illuminated, before he saw Caroline being bundled, howling over a ledge by a mob of grotesque figures.

“Enough!” he cried. He opened his eyes and found himself outside the barn, with the stranger now standing about a foot away from him. “I’ll do it. Tell him I’ll do the swap.”

“You accept the gift and the price?” asked the stranger. Freddie nodded.

The stranger smiled at him. “You’re a good man, Frederick. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. Why don’t you go on in and give Caroline the good news? Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Freddie took a deep breath and opened the door to the barn. He didn’t fully understand what he had taken on but he knew that he done what he had to. To protect her.

Caroline was kneeling on the edge of the pentagram, shaking. When Freddie put his hand on her shoulder she turned sharply.

“Where did he go?” she asked. “He was right here, we’d agreed…”

“Don’t worry,” said Freddie, “I’ve taken care of it. You don’t have to do anything.”

“What do you mean? What have you done?” She didn’t sound relieved. She looked furious. She got to her feet and started towards Freddie. “What did you do?”

“He’s taken your deal,” said the stranger, slinking back into the room. “I let him think you were finally doing something about your daddy issues and he agreed to take the burden for you. Look on the bright side, Caroline. You still have your soul.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Freddie. “If it wasn’t her father, what I have I…what have taken from her?”

“Well, Frederick,” said the stranger, stepping back into the pentagram, “Caroline’s still got a few months left before her time is up. And you’ve got…so much longer. Freddie, you should have told Caroline that you love her. Caroline, you should have told Freddie that you’re dying. Communication is so very important.”

The candles fluttered and went out. “I told you I was the lesser evil. Tell yourself that it could have been worse if you think it’ll help.”

---------------------

Hi there.

So, there's been a delay of at least a month since I last posted anything here. Which is bad. Sorry about that. In my defence, things got quite hectic. At the time when I started writing this story I got an interview for a job, and then I had a second interview, and then I was told that I got the job. Which means that I have now relocated to Bournemouth to start as a Staff Writer at SciFiNow, which is hugely exciting and I can't wait to start. Tomorrow!

But fiction-wise, I'm hoping I can get back to some kind of schedule once I've settled in. I wanted to get this story done. The title comes from @SFXPennyD, and the first thing that came to mind was some kind of basement, torture-type scenario but I didn't really fancy writing that after the last story. So I wrote this instead. I started writing it as a monologue by the demon but I felt like I'd done something similar a little too recently. So there's this, which is possibly a little monologue-y, but if anyone's going to be overly verbose, it's going to be a demon trying to sell you something you shouldn't buy.

I'll be trying to update the blog more regularly over the next few weeks and months. I know I've said that a lot but I really mean it this time. Definitely.

Slide Left

“Slide left.”

His father’s voice. It didn’t belong here and it didn’t hang around.

The door to the basement slammed and Michael opened his eyes. Whatever was down there with him shifted its weight and sighed. Michael pushed himself across the wet dirt floor back towards the cellar steps. The door would be locked. He knew it. He'd heard the metal screech of a dead-bolt. He was trapped down here. In the dark, with this rotten smell and with whatever this thing was.

He found a wall and pressed himself against it. Some impulse told him to set about looking for a weapon but what would be down here? Where would he find something to protect him from whatever had made his captors cackle as they pushed him down the steps? He tried desperately to make sense of what had happened.

His car had broken down in the rain. That was it. That was how it had started. The battery had died and he was looking for a phone so he could get some help because his bloody phone battery was as dead as the one in his car. He was only looking for help. He should have known. He should have guessed by the smiles on these people’s faces that they weren’t quite right. The house had looked normal from the outside. The man and the woman, both tall, she had lots of blonde hair and he had hardly any. They invited him in. Said they knew the number for the services. It all looked…normal. He could smell their dinner cooking in the oven. Heard some crooner on the radio. It had all been fine.

Then he had seen through to the living room. There was a girl lying on the floor, not moving, a pool of blood circling her head. He’d rushed over to help. He’d been trying to help. He’d had a hand on her shoulder and was shouting and then he'd heard laughter. And a scream. And everything had gone black.

“Hello,” said a woman’s voice. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

Michael looked up with a start, his heart pounding deafening blood, peering into the darkness. Whoever had spoken was hidden but the voice didn’t sound unkind. It sounded apologetic.

“I know,” he said stupidly, “I don’t know what happened…I think...something hit me on the head and I fell down. There was a girl. What…who are these people?”

The sigh again. It was less sinister now, sadder. Michael leaned forward.

“Don’t you know? They’re killers. They take people like you and me and they put us down here and then they wait.”

“Wait for what?” asked Michael. He knew he didn’t want an answer but he couldn’t help himself. He didn't have to wait long for it.

“They wait for us to stop. They wait for us to stop fighting, to stop trying, to stop hoping. Then we stop breathing.”

A hammering sound from upstairs. Fists on the door, a mocking wailing, and finally laughter. Michael closed his eyes.

“How long have you been down here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I was seventeen when I first woke up. How old do I sound?”

Michael thought the voice coming from the darkness was that of a young woman. He inched along the wall towards her. If only he could see who he was talking to. If they could work together, they could find a way out, and he told her so.

“You can’t get out of here. There’s not an out.” The girl was resigned.

Michael was not going to listen to this. There was a way out. There had to be. There was a way in so there was a way out. The two freaks upstairs couldn’t keep him locked down here for ever. And this girl, the one down here, she needed his help. No matter how scared he was, he had responsibilities. So he took a deep breath. And he told her about what his father used to tell him about bad situations.

“He used to tell me that when the worst thing in the world is coming towards you like a fucking lorry, just slide left. That’s all you need to do. No matter how hopeless, how inevitable it seems, there’s always another way out, another way around. You don’t need the perfect solution, it doesn’t have to be a work of genius, but that’s all you need sometimes. To just…slide left. To get out of the way.”

“It’s not always as simple as that,” the voice came back. There was less sorrow, more determination. How long had she been down here? Maybe she really believed there was no way out.

“It can be. There’s always a way.”

Then a thought made him stop cold.

“Wait…you said ‘us’. Have there been others?”

“Of course,” returned the voice. “Some have gone. One or two are still here.”

Michael stopped cold. If there was a group, why had they not mounted an escape? Even teenagers like this girl should surely be capable of taking on the two upstairs. He blinked again and was relieved that his vision was starting to improve.

“Who else is here? Why aren’t they talking?”

“Patrick can’t. Millie’s shy.”

He looked around the room, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness even faster. Why couldn’t he see further than a few inches?

“Tell them not to worry. I’m going to get us out of here.” He needed to believe it. Because he could do this. He could get out. He could get them all out, whoever the hell was down here. They’d all get out together.

The sigh again.

“We’re not worried. Millie says thank you for trying to help. She appreciated the gesture but you should never have come. The rest of us feel the same. We don't like you coming down here and talking about a way out. Like it was easy. Like it was something we hadn't thought of. Patrick can’t talk to you because they took his tongue. There’s a boy called Dominic around here somewhere but he doesn’t like anyone to see him since they took his skin.”

Michael couldn’t breathe. He could barely speak. But he had to.

“What did they take from you?”

“Everything. They took everything from me, Michael. And then they took my heart.”

A face thrust in front of him, skin a torn mass of white and red, blood running down from her mouth over shattered teeth, sickly eyes rolled up towards the ceiling and a guttural voice coming from a bottomless well of agony.

“Do you want to see my way out, Michael? Are you ready to escape, you arrogant piece of shit?”

Michael opened his mouth to scream.

“If only I'd tried sliding left, you stupid fucking moron.”

---------------------

Hi there.

First of all, sorry about the delay in getting new fiction up. I've ended up being very busy with non-fictional things, some of which have been good, some of which have been bad, all of which have taken time. Anyway. Here's a short story. Kind of a companion piece to This Bitter Family Tree, except I couldn't do it in 500 words so I had to settle for 1000. The title comes from @Daanando and it's not quite what I had in mind for it originally, but I couldn't quite figure out what to do with that story. It was also going to be a lot more mournful but suddenly she was angry and I liked that a lot more.

This Bitter Family Tree

Michael Thurlston trudged through the dark woods towards the house. The howling wind masked the crunching of his boots on the snow. In his bag he carried only what he needed to survive the journey there. There would be no journey back.

The house looked out over a small lake. His family had once owned all the surrounding land but it had been sold off, piece by piece, until only the house remained. The house was all that was required.

He climbed the frosted wooden steps and took the key from his bag. The key was an ancient thing but the lock offered no resistance. The moonlight streaming through the windows made the candles Michael had brought with him unnecessary. He lit them anyway. He’d been told that ceremony was important.

The walls were lined with dusty portraits. Generations of Thurlston men stared out at the skinny, bearded 30 year-old who lay his coat carefully by the door. Michael took a moment to examine his forefathers. The resemblance was clear, occasionally uncanny. A proud line dating back hundreds of years. A family with a strict tradition. Not one of them was smiling. Michael understood.

Several feet above him, close to the ceiling, the long-dead men in the photographs had gathered to watch the ceremony below them unfold. The spirits chattered away, safe in the knowledge that they could not be heard. The tone was one of approval. “It’s time. He’s come of his own accord, as he should.” Murmurs of agreement echoed in their private realm ten feet in the air.

One spirit stood apart from the others. Matthew Thurlston watched, weeping, as Michael went to his bag, took out a small package and began to unwrap it. As his fingers wrapped around the shiny pistol it was all too much for Matthew. He snapped and howled for Michael to stop.

Below him, Michael looked up. He could have sworn he heard a man’s voice. One that was strangely familiar. But that was impossible. There was no one here to distract him from what had to be done.

Matthew was quickly surrounded by angry spirits, Thurlston men with their dark eyes, Roman noses and widow’s peaks, speaking in unison. “You cannot interfere. He must take his life. From generation to generation it comes to pass. We all did it, you did it. Now it is his turn.”

Matthew begged, pleaded for his son’s life. Finally he asked the question each had once asked. “Why can’t we let him go? Why tell him to do this?”

“Spite” said the assembled voices. “Inherited bitterness. One went first. Then the next. Now we go on. Thirty years to start a family, produce an heir, then his time is done.”

“Not my boy,” cried Matthew, and raced down through the air. He hovered next to Michael and screamed a warning in his ear. Just in time for the bullet to pass through it. Shaking, Matthew dried his eyes and waited to greet his son.

------------------------

Hello there. 

You may have noticed that this title is not in the list of suggested titles. You may have also noticed that this story is a good 2,500 words shorter than the ones I usually put up on here. Well, the story behind this was that I forgot to write a story for a short story competition. The word count was 500 words, and once I realised that I'd missed the deadline I thought I'd try to write the story in 500 words anyway, and not let myself go over even by 1 word. It was a fun little challenge, actually. Resisting the urge to introduce the patriarch who instigated the tradition who would gravely intone the Thurlston rules, I just had them recited in en masse. Rather than give Michael any character of his own, you just assume he has a son because of the rules. I had two ideas for stories, the other one would hopefully be a lot scarier and I will try and get that written this week too.

It might not work at all. I wrote it quite quickly but I did a lot of fiddling with it, making sure the wording was just right. I'm glad I wrote it as it was a nice reminder about how important the words are. Which is an obvious point, really, but when you get used to waffling on it's easy to forget. With a story this short there's no room for skimming. It has to be precise, which is a style I went for in my novel (and the in-progress follow-up, which is moving forward slowly). And I like that. I hope you enjoyed it.

The Hatfull of Horror Halloween Special!

Hello there. This year's Halloween special is a sequel to last year's "Let the Jack-o'-Lanterns Light Your Way Home" While it's not essential to read the previous one, it won't hurt if you'd like to. Just a quick reminder that the voice is supposed to be an English person reading an American story. Right, let's get going...


LET THE JACK-O'-LANTERNS LIGHT YOUR WAY BACK

Dr Francis Tallow had been treating Bobby Fitch for a year and the boy’s version of the events of that night hadn’t changed once. One year ago, on Halloween night, the then-eight year old child had been found wandering the streets of his neighbourhood with his baby sister. When a concerned family out trick or treating had asked him where his parents were, he had directed them to a house that should have been empty. Instead, it contained the bloodied, mangled remains of Mr and Mrs Fitch. They had been torn to pieces by God knows what. When he had arrived on the scene Sheriff Abbott had taken one look inside and told Bobby that he and his sister should go with him to the station. Bobby had cheerily agreed. Abbott had given him a cup of hot chocolate and asked if he knew what had happened to his parents, Bobby had said yes. He told him the monsters did it.

In the year since the respected, even revered, Dr Tallow had made no progress in breaking through the wall that Bobby’s psyche had set up to protect itself. In most respects, Bobby had seemed to be a remarkably balanced little boy. He’d never shown any of the usual reactions a child displays to witnessing such horrendous trauma. The only evidence that he even needed regular psychiatric treatment was in this fiction that Bobby had created for himself. He claimed that he had come across his parents committing a terrible act, and that five of his neighbours had arrived to rescue him. The five neighbours had been two well-dressed British vampires (“Barbara and Peter”) and three witches (“Rebecca, and the twins Emily and Katharine”), two of whom had naturally been twins. These five supernatural beings had rescued him and his baby sister from the monsters that had been his parents.

Elements of the boy’s story had since been substantiated. The bodies of three murdered children had been found in the house’s basement, and it didn’t take the police long to prove that Bobby’s parents had indeed been the culprits. Subsequent investigation that had used the two as suspects had shown that they were behind many cases of missing children in the area. Bodies were found in the house they had lived in with their children, while those of other victims remained undiscovered. There was little doubt that the boy’s parents had been monsters in the truest sense, some of the worst criminals in the history of the country, let alone Illinois. However, the houses on Maple Lane that Bobby claimed had been inhabited by these witches and vampires had been unoccupied for months and there had been no indication that anybody had been there since. Precisely what had killed Bobby’s parents had remained a mystery. The popular theory was that one of their victims had fought back and disappeared but Tallow didn’t care to hazard a guess.

The child psychologist was impressed at how much they had managed to keep from Bobby. He claimed to have enjoyed a very happy childhood and that he had only discovered the truth on that fateful night one year ago. His teachers had all told him that he was a happy, well-adjusted boy. Then again, these were the same teachers who told him that Bobby’s parents seemed like a lovely friendly couple.

But while Bobby had appeared to be remarkably balanced, all this had changed one week ago with the boy complaining of terrifying nightmares that he believed were premonitions. Dr Tallow supposed he really should have seen it coming. The one year anniversary of the terrible incident would of course bring up some unpleasant memories. But there was a conviction to the boy’s fears that unsettled him. He told his doctor that his parents were returning from the grave to claim him and his sister. His foster family, a kind elderly couple who had looked after Bobby and Baby Lauren for nearly eight months now, had contacted Tallow seven days ago to say that they couldn’t wait for the bi-weekly check-up. He’d seen Bobby every day this week and he was only getting worse.

It was the end of a crisp, clear Halloween afternoon. Tallow sat opposite the nine year old patient. His blonde hair was longer than he’d sometimes seen it, but he’d never been heavier than skinny. However, Bobby was clearly suffering from a lack of sleep. His fingers worried at the sleeves of his bright red jumper, and his eyes kept glancing at the clock on the wall. Tallow leaned back in his chair.

“How are you feeling today, Bobby?”

“OK,” came the non-committal response.

“Mr and Mrs Stowe tell me that you didn’t sleep a wink last night. Is that true?” Bobby nodded without looking at his doctor. “Bobby, I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you this but lack of sleep is only going to make these fears of yours worse. Now, these dreams you’ve been having, I know you know that they’re not real. I understand that they’re frightening but they’re impossible.”

“They’re coming back,” said Bobby. “They’re coming back tonight, for me and Lauren.”  Tallow sighed.

“Bobby, listen to me. Your parents are not coming back for you. I want you to remember everything we’ve talked about in our sessions. I want you to remember that nothing that happened that night was your fault. Your parents were bad people but that does not mean you are too. You have people who care about you, who are worried about you. And they’re worried about the way that you’re acting.”

Bobby turned away from the window to look at Tallow, the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes. “I know that Mr and Mrs Stowe care about me. But it won’t make any difference. Because they’re coming back and they’re going to take us.”

Tallow stood up and walked around to place a hand on his patient’s shoulder. “No they’re not. Because they are dead and there is no coming back from that. I know it’s Halloween but there are no monsters out there tonight. It’s all make-believe, Bobby. You must understand that.”

Bobby shook his head, his blonde hair waving from side to side. “The people who helped me last year were monsters. They killed my parents and they saved me and Lauren. If they exist, my parents can too.”

Tallow fought to keep his temper. A year had passed and he had not been able to dent the boy’s conviction in the slightest. If he couldn’t convince Bobby that he hadn’t been rescued by monsters, how could he convince him that monsters weren’t coming to get him? He was an old man now. He’d seen his fair share of patients and he knew when he was losing them. He took a deep breath and restored calm to his voice. “Look, just listen to me. It’s not real, Bobby. I don’t know who saved you that night but they weren’t monsters. There is no such thing. And this is why you will be safe tonight. Because the dead cannot rise from the damn grave.”

He walked back round to his side of the table. He hated that he had nearly lost his temper but he had to get through to this child. Robert Fitch had been through so much already. He went to the window and watched the setting sun through the autumn leaves. It was such a lovely time of year and it was a source of great joy for so many. He hoped that one day Bobby would be able to enjoy it. “So, Bobby, will you be going trick or treating this evening?”

Before he got an answer the door was opened and a young male orderly hurried in, out of breath but determined to speak.

“Doctor Tallow, there’s a telephone call for you. It’s urgent.”

Tallow switched his phone off as a matter of principle during his sessions. He followed the orderly down the hall to the nurses’ station where he found a gaggle of grave-looking hospital staff standing around the telephone. “Yes, alright, everyone, I’m here now,” he told them as he picked up the receiver. “Doctor Tallow speaking.”

“Tallow,” came the cracked voice from the other end of the line. “Finally. This is Sheriff Abbott. For God’s sake, Tallow, I’ve been trying…I’m over at the Stowe place. It’s a mess over here, Tallow. Is the boy with you?”

Tallow struggled to keep up with the Sheriff. “Yes, Robert’s here. Sheriff, what’s going on?”

There was a pause on the end of the line. “Doc, the Stowes are dead. Listen, we could barely tell it’s them. It’s taken some time to make sure but Lauren is gone. Whoever did this took the kid with them. Are you sure you’ve got Robert safe?”

Tallow stood stunned for a moment. Then he understood that he was needed. “Hang on; I’ll call you on my cell. I’m going to check on the boy now.”

He hung up and ran back as fast as he could. He could have cried when he saw that Bobby was sitting where he had left him. “Bobby’s, thank God. Right, we’re going to have to stay here for a little while, is that OK?” Bobby nodded and Tallow smiled. He turned his cell phone on and dialled the number for Abbott. “Sheriff, Robert’s fine. What…what are we going to do?”

“Alright, you stay with him. We’re heading over to the hospital now. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ve alerted the security staff there but for now the most important thing is that we get Bobby someplace safe.”

“OK. I understand.” Tallow took a seat next to Bobby and did his best to keep the fear out of his voice. “Sorry about this, Bobby. The Sheriff is coming over and he’s going to take you to the police station for Halloween, he’s got something fun planned for you.”

Bobby stared up at him. “This is what they said would happen, in my dream. Mom and Dad told me that they’d get Lauren first, then they’d come find me. They said the police would try and stop them but it wouldn’t do any good.” There was no fear, no excitement in his voice. This was just something that he knew would happen.

The room suddenly seemed a lot darker to Tallow. The sun had set and he went over to switch the light on. “No one is coming to find you, Bobby,” he told him as he crossed the room. “The only person who’s coming for you is the Sheriff, because he wants to help look after you. We’re all going to go down the station together. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Mr and Mrs Stowe are dead, aren’t they?” asked Bobby and for a moment Tallow couldn’t think of an answer. He flicked the light switch, filling the room with a cold fluorescent glow. But only for a moment. The lights went out. Not just in that room, but the hallway too. Tallow opened the door and looked down the corridor. Pitch black.

“Don’t worry, Bobby, I’m sure this is just a temporary…” Tallow began, before there was a squawk of the PA system being turned on. Then the sound of a woman crying came over the intercom.

“Bobby…” said the woman’s voice. Tallow recognised it as Nurse Freemont, the head nurse. She was the toughest member of staff in the entire hospital, she’d seen more than anyone. But her voice was choked through her tears. “Bobby, your mom and dad want you to know that they love you very much. They want you to know that they’re here now. They’ve come to pick you up. They’ve…”

The words stopped with a brief cry and gruesome snapping sound. Then another voice came on, barely a voice at all. A low gurgle. “Hi, baby. Mommy and Daddy have been in the waiting area. But now we’re coming to find you.” There were a few seconds of guttural laughter and another screech of feedback as the PA cut off. Tallow dialled the Sheriff’s number again.

“Abbott, where the hell are you?” he hissed.

“Five minutes away, what’s going on?” barked the Sheriff over the sound of the sirens.

Tallow felt his gut drop. “You’ll be too late.”

“Yes, they will,” said a woman’s voice from behind him. Tallow dropped the phone and span round. A man and woman stood in the doorway, concealed by the darkness. Tallow backed away towards Bobby. Good god, he thought, this isn’t possible. He heard the sound of a scraping chair as Bobby leapt to his feet.

“Barbara!” he cried and ran over to greet them.

“Hello, sweetheart. It’s time to go.” The couple stepped into the room and in the moonlight Tallow could see that they were immaculately dressed in beautiful Halloween costumes. Both had black hair, his combed neatly back and hers hanging down to near her waist. Tall, skinny, and beautiful, they could have been models. Models dressed up like…were those fangs? “Who’s this?” asked the woman, in an accent that Tallow could have sworn was British.

“This is my friend, Dr Tallow,” Bobby replied.

“Dr Tallow,” said the man, stepping forward with an outstretched hand. Stunned, Tallow shook it. The man frowned as he looked around the room. “My name is Peter, this is my wife Barbara. I assume Bobby has told you what we are. Now, you have a choice. You can either wait here for Bobby’s parents to arrive, or you can leave via the window with us.”

“We’re five stories up,” said Tallow. Peter grinned.

“We have our ways. What’s the answer?”

A scream came from the other end of the corridor accompanied by a wet noise that Tallow didn’t want to think too much about. “Window,” he answered.

“Excellent choice. Come on, everyone.” Barbara swept Bobby up in her arms and Peter took Tallow into a fierce bear hug. “Trust me,” he told him, and leapt through the window, taking Tallow with him in a shower of broken glass. For a moment the doctor felt the cold wind rushing past his face and then he was simply standing in the hospital car park. Before he could attempt to fathom it Peter took his arm and dragged him over to a grey van a few feet away. The van’s side door was opened from the inside and Tallow was pushed in.

Sitting opposite him were three dark-haired women. He would have guessed that two identical twins were in their early twenties, while the third was in her late fifties. The eldest grinned at him. Barbara helped Bobby in beside Tallow as Peter clambered in the front and turned the keys in the ignition.

“These are the witches, Dr Tallow,” said Bobby, who could only smile politely. “Where are we going, Barbara?”

Barbara had climbed into the front to ride shotgun by her husband. She looked up at the rear-view mirror and Tallow felt giddy when he realised that he couldn’t see her in it. “We have to take you back to the house Bobby. We need to go back to where it happened, I’m afraid. They’re vulnerable in that spot. Outside of that house, nothing could kill them. I’m sure the security staff at the hospital wasted a few bullets figuring that out. But inside, we’ve got a good chance of sending them back.”

“I’m sure you’ve got a lot of questions, Doctor, but it’s actually fairly simple,” said the eldest witch flaunting that grin. “We killed Bobby’s parents a year ago. We thought we’d purged the evil. Well, that particular evil, anyway. But there’s always a risk when you send away something bad on Halloween that it’ll come right back again. Lots of closed doors find a way to open; lots of things that should be chained up find a way to get free. It’s their night after all.”

“Luckily for Bobby,” said Barbara, turning back with a grin, “it’s our night too.”

Tallow glanced at the boy. He looked more relaxed than Tallow had seen him in the entire year that he had been treating him; indeed, he looked up with a grin.

“I told you they were real, Doctor. I told you that the witches and the vampires saved me.”

A ripple of laughter went around the van.

“You can’t blame the doctor for not believing you, Bobby,” said Peter as he slowed the van for a traffic light. “You’re a very lucky boy, you came across us and you’re still alive. There aren’t many people like you, not in the whole world. We’re not exactly known for being friendly.”

“Why…why did you spare Bobby?” asked Tallow. The twins, Emily and Katharine, he remembered their names were, looked up at him; their expressions worryingly close to angry.

“Because we like him. He’s adorable. It’s not his fault his parents are monsters.” They spoke in unison, which Tallow found deeply unnerving but somehow not surprising.

“But aren’t you all…?” he asked, not wanting to finish his sentence and offend them further.

“Well, yes,” said Barbara. “But there are monsters and there are monsters.”

“That’s what you told my parents last year!” said Bobby, giggling. Tallow decided that perhaps it would be best to just stay quiet.

It wasn’t long at all before the van was stopped and everyone piled out into the street. Tallow realised where they were. Maple Lane. This was where Sheriff Abbott had found Bobby and Baby Lauren, dazed but miraculously unharmed. Jack-o’-lanterns had lined the street that night and people in fancy dress had crowded the crime scene, desperate for a glimpse at what had happened. Now, one year later, and the street was empty. Nobody would dare to trick or treat here. Tallow watched as his companions took their bags from the van and walked up to the house. Once inside, the witches immediately started unpacking while the vampires directed Bobby to the sofa.

“What’s the plan then? Are you going to, what, drink their blood?” asked Tallow.

“Not an option, I’m afraid,” said Barbara gravely. “We can’t drink the blood of reanimated corpses and even if we could drain them, it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference. They’re driven by something stronger than blood, hard though that might be to believe. We have two options available to us and we’re going to try both. The witches will attempt to remove the souls from the bodies, before sending the souls back to wherever it is that they came from. My husband and I will be taking a more direct approach: dismemberment.”

Rebecca, the elder witch looked up from the symbol she was drawing in chalk on the floor. “Dismembering them won’t achieve anything in the long run. There’s no guarantee that they won’t come back. Even if you burn the pieces.”

“Yes well, we can think about the long run once we get rid of them, can’t we?” said Peter, who reached into the cupboard under the stairs and produced a large axe, which he began to wield decisively. The witches clucked their tongues and got on with unpacking.

“Can I do anything to help?” asked Tallow. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to but felt that it was only right to ask.

“Look after the child,” said the younger witches without looking up from their work. Tallow sat down on the sofa next to Bobby. It did look as though the young boy was starting to lose some of the confidence he’d found. When he looked up at Tallow the doctor could see the fear in his eyes and sympathised.

“Do you think they’ll bring Lauren with them, when they come?” he asked quietly. Tallow didn’t have an answer for him but he knew he had to produce one.

“I don’t know, Bobby. I don’t think they’d hurt Lauren. She’s still their daughter. I think we just need to wait and let your friends do their thing.”

Bobby nodded and the two of them sat there, watching the monsters in front of them prepare themselves. The three witches had created some kind of pentagram on the floor and huddled over it, muttering words in a language that Tallow didn’t know. The vampire Peter had found another axe somewhere and had given it to Barbara, and now the two of them were testing the blades and practising strokes. After a minute or two everything went quiet It seemed that the monsters were ready.

When silence fell nobody broke it. It was as if everyone agreed that quiet was important. Tallow wondered if they were scared. It seemed like an awful lot of trouble to go to if they were confident.

There was a thud at the front door followed by a squelching sound. Peter nodded at Barbara and carefully walked around the witches’ symbol to open the door. “It’s a pumpkin,” he called back to the company. “Oh…and here they are now.” Peter walked slowly back into the room, lifting the axe in readiness. Tallow could hear the horrible laughter from outside.

“Trick or treat, trick or treat, give us something good to eat.” The voices outside sang in unison, before the man spoke up. “We remember you. You must remember us. You tore us to bloody chunks; you took us away from our children. Well, we’ve come back.” There was something so ridiculous about their words that a part of Tallow’s brain fought to ignore it. It was impossible. All of this was impossible.

“Bobby’s in there with you, isn’t he?” The woman’s voice this time. Bobby shrank against Tallow. “Bobby, sweetie, it’s Mommy and Daddy! Come on out, that’s a good boy!” Tallow could feel Bobby trembling but he didn’t move. After a moment of silence from outside a groan was clearly audible. “Fine. We’ll just have to come in and get you then.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the room as everyone prepared. Tallow felt his jaw drop as he saw what entered the house.

The naked, shredded corpses of Bobby’s parents had been reassembled. There didn’t seem to be anything holding them together except perhaps whatever force had brought them back in the first place. Hunks of flesh jostled against each other and some dangled perilously. Teeth hung from their gums by roots gone brown. Eyeballs wobbled loosely in their sockets. The stink of rotted flesh filled the room. These two nightmares looked at Tallow and the boy next to him, and Tallow stifled the scream that came to his throat.

“It’s time to come home, son,” said Bobby’s father, stretching a ravaged arm out towards his boy. As he did so three voices began to chant. The ghouls turned to face the source and saw the witches sat on the floor, holding hands, eyes closed. They started to laugh and move towards the women before stopping abruptly.

“What…Is this magic?” asked Bobby’s mother. She pushed hard against whatever was holding her back. “Won’t last,” she laughed. “We’re magic too, now. I can feel it in my pieces. Let’s see who’s stronger.” Indeed, it appeared that the parents were making headway as they struggled. Tallow saw the elder witch open one eye and a jolt of fear flash across her face. He realised it would only be a matter of moments before the creatures got through.

“Enough, ladies,” said Barbara, and the chanting stopped. As it did, the two vampires raised their axes and brought them down cleanly. Two severed heads dropped to the floor, followed by the rest of the bodies. “I told you our way would be more effective,” she told the witches.

“Oh, Jesus, look,” muttered Tallow, pointing at the heads. The eyes were still moving. Their jaws flapped. Somehow, they were trying to talk.

“Smaller pieces needed, clearly,” said Peter. He raised his left foot and brought it down on the father’s head. The head collapsed under the weight, creating a gory mush under his shoe.

“For God’s sake, Peter, wait!” cried Barbara. “We need to know where Bobby’s sister is!” Peter looked up guiltily, muttering apologies about how he’d got carried away. The remaining head smiled as the jaw moved up and down like it was trying to laugh. “Don’t worry,” Barbara said to Bobby. “The head might not be able to talk but our friends here have ways of finding out what they want to know.”

The witches picked up Bobby’s mother’s severed head and took it into the kitchen, as Barbara and Peter set to work rendering the rest of the father’s body into a paste which could surely never reconstruct itself. After a few minutes, the witches returned without the head. “You can start work on the mother,” said Rebecca. “Lauren is outside in the bushes. They’d planned to grab Bobby too, then…well, not in front of the boy.”

“We found out just in time,” said Emily and Katharine. “The head started to liquidise. It was disgusting.”

Bobby ran outside and Tallow followed. And praise be, there she was. Under the bushes sat two-year-old Lauren, looking furious that she had been forgotten. Barbara came out to join them. “I think it’s best if you and Doctor Tallow leave now, Bobby. We’ll take care of the rest of this. And if you need our help again, we’ll come back.”

Tallow looked back up at the house and saw Peter, Rebecca, Emily and Katharine standing in the doorway looking out at him. “Look after Robert and Lauren, Doctor,” said Barbara. “We’ll see you soon.” The doctor nodded as he took Lauren in his arms and put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Oh, and Doctor Tallow? Happy Halloween.”

And with that, Tallow, Bobby and Lauren walked down Maple Lane towards the approaching sirens.

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Hello again, thanks for reading this year's Halloween tale, I really hope you enjoyed it. This one's a bit bigger and madder than last year's but I hope you think it's fun. It kind of gets a bit madcap in the second half but I wanted the monsters to come back and rescue Bobby and the only solemn way I could think to do that would be basically a repeat of last year's ending. And it's a Halloween story, there's room for silliness. Well, I hope you agree. And yeah, Dr Tallow is basically Dr Loomis under a different name. Last year's story was heavily influenced by the film Trick 'r Treat, and this year I put a bit of Halloween in there too.

The next story on the blog will be....well, I'm not sure yet but there's a strong chance it will be Slide Left, if the idea I have for it works out.

Happy Halloween!