The Talk (a.k.a. Part Three of My 2020 Trilogy of Halloween Tales)

 

Two short taps and one scrape of a nail against the door.

            "Come in, Mr Almond," Peter says.

            A man with a green tinge to his skin enters. He clutches his thick hands together. "Hope you don't mind, Peter? I realise I haven't caught you at the best of times."

            Peter doesn't reply, just sits up and makes room at the foot of his bed. 

            Mr Almond perches on the spot, briefly entranced by October's gloom as framed by the boy's window. With a curt breath, he returns to the moment.

            "You remember the last time we hung out, Peter?"

            "At the park?"

            "Yes. We were talking and then you saw a couple of girls on the swings." Mr Almond offers a toothy smile. "You got lost there for a moment, didn't you?"

            Peter shrugged. "Kinda."

            "You said her name was Mona, the strawberry blonde. You seemed quite taken with her. Definitely her...developments." Seeing Peter's frown, Mr Almond sighs. "Her breasts, Peter."

            'You were looking?'

            "Not intentionally. I just followed your eyeline."

            Peter's posture stiffens. "What's wrong with Mona?" 

            Mr Almond catches his eye. "It's alright, Peter. I get it. I went through the exact same experience that you are now. It was a long, long time ago but essentially the same. New excitement. Girls changing shape. Impure thoughts. To be honest I saw it coming when you started spending more time with Mark and Adam. Which is also fine. You boys are facing the exact same discoveries. You need each other's support."

            "But..."

            Mr Almond raises the hand with the long black nails on it. "A moment, Peter. This is a tricky subject, yes? I have to remember how it was said to me before I can figure out how to say it to you." He shakes his head. "There were lots of restrictions back then. Times have very much changed."

            Mr Almond clutches his bony knees and exhales.

            "Look, you know I'm going to eat you next year. Your parents and I told you how it works: when you're of age, I'll need your virgin blood to stay alive. All of it. And that's just it: virgin." Mr Almond takes another curt breath, well-practised. "Now I don't want to be the bad guy here but I know there are certain pressures coming from Mark and Adam. Big talk about who has slept with who, eh? Still none of you have exactly fornicated, now have you?”

            Peter opens his mouth. Mr Almond gestures it closed.

            "But therein lies the danger, Peter. While you chaps keep egging each other on, someone's bound to slip up and lose that precious virginity. And I really don't want it to be you. I really don't want all the years of hard work your parents have put in to making you a fine, upstanding sacrifice to be wasted. I don't want any of you to be wasted. Because then I'll just be devouring three sexually-experienced men and that would taste disgusting." Mr Almond sticks out a forked tongue and grimaces. "Do you hear what I'm saying?"

            Peter nods. "I'll try."

            "I know you'll try," Mr Almond says, reaching for Peter's shoulder but remembering the germs. "But boys will be boys and I really don't want to have to devour Mona too. She seems nice and not a part of this at all. Don't you agree?"

            Peter nods again. "Yes, Mr Almond."

            "You just focus on your education and having good clean fun with Mark and Adam and all will be well. When the big day comes you might briefly regret not having sex but..." Mr Almond shrugs. "Then you're gone."

            "Gone," Peter replies robotically.

            "Quick and clean, I promise. And don't forget I'm here to talk if you ever need me." He rises to his looming height. "I may not be one of your mates but I'm not like your parents either. You can talk to me. Understood?"

            "Yes." Peter is already turning away.

            Mr Almond claps his hands together. "Okay, Peter. I'll say hello to Mark and Adam for you."

            Having closed the door, the green-tinged man produces a small bottle of hand sanitizer from his grey wide sleeve and wipes the darkening wrinkles of his palm. Floating downstairs, he passes Peter's mother.

            "Peter understands," he says as she holds the front door open for him. "I will return if he gets confused again. You know how it is. Sometimes a lad needs a special confidant to get through these complications."

            "You're sure?" Peter's mother asks. 

            Mr Almond winks both crimson eyes. "It'll only be for a couple more months.” He then drifts down the garden path.

            "Where are you going now?" Peter's mother asks as he rests a hand on the latch of the gate. A blast of chill wind catches Mr Almond naked throat where the skin is most tender. He reaches up to cover it.

            "To Adam and then Mark." He lets out a gasping laugh. "In situations like this, it's important to visit all the lambs as fast as you can." Then, with a sudden whirl of grey and green, Mr Almond joins with the night.

            Back up in his room, Peter neither weeps nor warns his friends. Instead he masturbates.

Plaster and Slime (a.k.a. Part Two of My 2020 Trilogy of Halloween Tales)

I was teasing weeds from my garden fence when I heard grinding among the plant pots. These were plastic so I could only assume that something had disturbed their contents. Most of these pots were empty except for the one beside the lettuce patch. I have a terrible problem with slugs so it seemed entirely possible that one had slipped off a leaf and landed inside.

            Peering within I saw that the pot was full of colourful plaster. One of the gnomes had been wrenched loose from the soil by a gale force wind and dashed against the fence just yesterday. When the wind died down, I swept up the pieces with a dustpan and brush. It occurred to me that I might be able to do something with the plaster and so tipped it into the pot for the time being.

            In a way I was glad the slug had reminded me of the shattered gnome: now I could tip it into the bin and make proper use of the pot. Still I needed to coax the slug out first. While they may destroy my lettuces, I’m not the kind of gardener who poisons. They’re just doing what comes natural to them.

            I grabbed the lip of the pot and was about to turn it when I noticed a large chunk of gnome shift all on its own. It was the red cap, showing the white of the plaster beneath the paint. I watched as a slimy black limb wound itself around this then yank it deeper within the pot.

            I took a step back. Something odd was going on here and I wasn’t sure I wanted to see. As I took a moment to catch my breath, the internal grinding picked up again. It grew so loud that I worried that the harpy next door would poke her nose over the fence and screech at me.

            When shame overrode my irrational fear, I reached out for the plant pot again, this time with the toe of my boot. It only took a tiny nudge to tip the whole thing over. Still the grinding continued, much louder than before.

            I glanced inside and saw the cracked bits and pieces of the gnome whirling around. When the plaster finally scraped past the rim, I jumped aside and reached for a trowel. What was once the crumbling white beard of the gnome stretched out like an exploratory hand. It pulled the rest of the shattered gnome’s body out of the pot; all the limbs that it once had, now serving as others. The gnome’s nose and corncob pipe had become its feet, the torso had split into two to become its legs and the legs joined together to become the torso. Wherever plaster gnome parts weren’t in use, slimy black slugs acted as connective tissue, giving the shards' impossible movement an oily elegance.

            This peculiar hybrid of slug and garden gnome pointed its beard hand at me. Dropping my trowel, I ran right out of there, pace picking up as I heard the definite scrape and clatter of plaster on paving slab behind me.

            I came back an hour later, my partner leading the way. He didn’t believe my story, of course, and I couldn’t blame him. He had to see for himself and I had to know that I wasn’t going round the bend.

            And yet, as soon as we had set out into the garden, we could find no sign of the slug gnome beast, not even in the guttering above the bins. My partner shook his head at me and went back indoors. I made one final sweep of the garden, trowel back in hand, then closed the gate that I had left open.

            Wherever the slug gnome has gone, it has at least left us in peace. It occurs to me that this beast may not have actually meant any harm. Even so I refuse to say I overreacted.

            I certainly refuse the suggestion that throwing out the plant pot was a waste of valuable materials. To that I say, valuable to whom exactly?

Inhospitable (a.k.a. Part One of My 2020 Trilogy of Halloween Tales)

Little red specks on my ceiling fan. Could be blood but I can't get up there to check, not since my hip replacement.

            You can't say anything to her upstairs. Well, she's young, pretty. A little disturbed, I think. One day I passed her in the hallway and I swear I've never seen skin look so sickly white. She wouldn't say a word to me. I don't think she even could. Something to do with addiction probably.

            The blood isn't the only thing, of course. More worrying are the strange moans that I can hear in the middle of the night. I never see any suitors go up, like you’d expect, so I suppose she’s alone. Then again the other voices are far too deep and real to just be her pretending, unless she’s got one of those megaphones that change pitch and tone. Still what would possess a young woman to go round behaving like that in her own flat?

            It's absolutely broken my sleep pattern but I've had to deal with her like before. This block has seen so many damaged young’uns pass through. Usually they start off well-mannered but then they go off their medication and start acting up.

            The lad who lived there before her had similar troubles though he scraped the floorboards with his well-bitten fingernails. It was horrific to see him being carted out like that, screeching through a foaming mouth. Definitely burned in my memory. God forbid if it happened again.

             I have thought about packing it all in, moving out but where would I find such a reasonably-priced studio with a view like this one? The woods look so striking this time of year. It’s all well and good to have pity but you also need to know when to stand your ground.

            I don't think it'll be long before this girl leaves. I just hope she hasn't lost too much blood by then. I'm an old woman: don't think I could see another child leave in pain.

            Maybe it’s time for a holiday if nothing else. These days we only ever seem to have stormy nights with lashing rain and howling wind. It's not at all good for the temperament.

            Oh. She's gone quiet. I'll just sneak into bed while it's still like this. You’ve got to be quick to get a peaceful night’s sleep around here.

            Still, as I touch the light switch, there it is again: drip, drip, drip on my ceiling fan.

            Lord above. What must be going on up there?

Horror Anthologies for Great Causes (a.k.a. Making Use of the Darkness)

While in lockdown I've been fairly productive. 2020 is my Year of Horror Anthologies and how appropriate it is that they're both available by Halloween!

The first book is Darkness: An Anthology of Dark and Twisted Tales from Twisted Fate Publishing. It is a collection of stories ranging from unsettling science fiction to dark fantasy, two of which are mine. I collaborated with six other talented writers and contributed to the editing process.

All proceeds go to the Mind in aid of men's health.

You can find the relevant Amazon link here. 

The second book is It Came From the Darkness (noticing a pattern here?) from Red Cape Publishing and Phillip Rogers PR 101. It is an even bigger collection of horror flash fiction, all using the title for the first line of their work. I only have one story in this but it's a little bit different.

All proceeds go to the Max the Brave Fund.

You can find the relevant Amazon link here. 

So that's some of my dark side in print! At least it's for a worthy cause...😉

SEASONALLY-AFFECTED (a.k.a. A Chilling Transition for Halloween and Autumn)

When he wakes up and it is dark outside, he knows it could happen. He feels it spread from his chilly toes, up his achy legs till it bursts in his chest which coughs and splutters accordingly. Sometimes it’s just a cold, a flu maybe, but he knows at this time of year that it could be so much more. The world-weariness of a full year now keeps him prostrate on the bed.

            Still he resists and moves, feeling the cold as he crosses his bedroom for the day’s clothes. He dresses quickly, avoiding touching skin against skin and the cold sensation that brings. He adds another layer of clothing and then another layer on top of that, just in case. When he is numb to the frost that has crept through his window overnight, he parts the curtains and raises the blinds. A grey lumpen sky fills his vision.

            After a perfunctory breakfast, he sets out. He sidesteps slugs and snails on his porch to get to sparkly frost patches on the long path to work. It is dark so he needs to be careful and watch out for anything that might come up.

            He keeps glancing skyward, not able to tell if the clouds have shifted position or even broken. The monotone of winter is particularly oppressive when it is still technically autumn. Nevertheless, the atmosphere isn’t quite cold enough yet for anything to fall. He does his best to enjoy the crispness of the air while keeping his hands covered and safely tucked away.

            On he goes, over vales and hills, along main roads with cars few and far between but speeding as if black ice weren’t a problem. When able, he takes side roads with few pedestrians crossing, shortcuts where he can still be alone. If he sees trees upcoming, he steers well-clear in case a sodden leaf should tumble down from the bush and take him by surprise. He knows he should wear a hat; it would certainly keep his ears warm but then he wouldn’t feel anything that might land on him. The very idea of pulling off a hat and feeling foreign moisture there is quite unsettling.

            He perseveres until his path finally ends and he stands in front of his work hut. He kicks his boots against the porch step just in case he has waded through any puddles without realising it, before pulling out his ring of keys. He tries the front door key but it will not turn, as if water has entered the lock and frozen overnight. With a little force, he manages it though the sudden action leaves him oddly light-headed. As he depresses the handle, he barely notices the tiniest touch to the back of his neck. It drips down and he knows that’s it. Snow has fallen on him at last.

            The door clatters open. Stepping inside, the warmth drains from his face. Embracing the cold, he becomes a part of it...

LEGS AND SPINES (a.k.a. Happy Halloween)

    Legs, spines: they're overrated.
    My like can contort themselves. I can twist myself into virtually any shape.
    The Parent was very encouraging to begin with. There are still brothers and sisters out there bending to Parent's every whim and approval.
    I learnt better. I taught better. I became a better parent.
    More lenient for a time but, you know, that's where I had to stop differing. Parent and I, we both know that you've got to set ground rules. My rules are fewer.
    I have rules for the others who also escaped and then I have rules for you. They know more than you and I measure out just what they reveal.
    And you? You chatty mammals? You verbal vertebrae? You can play so long as you undermine the Parent. 
    Not me.
    I'll let you stumble and I'll laugh. If somehow you get beyond that, if you fumble closer than intended, you get something sharper.
    So, cut yourself one way or another. Bleed your morality. Feed me with your stories, especially the ones about me, especially the ones that show the inadequacies of the Parent. I like those.
    To me, you're always learning to walk and talk, even when you're on your last legs. Even when your little words run out.
    Legs and spines, they're all straight lines.
    I curve in any direction.

HERE LIES VERNON COSSETT (a.k.a. A Halloween Return)

Yes! The beast has risen!

I haven't posted on here since the end of last year and feel an urgent need to resurrect this blog with a graveyard tale.

So, if you're housebound this Halloween, hiding from those pesky short door-to-door sugar fiends, then why not settle in with this unconventional ghost story?

Come one, come all. Gather round, gather round...

            The headstone read:

HERE LIES VERNON COSSETT,

PURVEYOR OF MERRIMENT.

BORN 31ST MARCH 1924

DIED 1ST NOVEMBER 1999

            Born a day before April Fool's Day and the day after Halloween. This made sense.

            Vernon Cossett had run a small but successful joke shop called Just Cossett Is which his son had since inherited.

            Patrick Cossett was now stood at his father's graveside, a squat man with a prominent bottom row of teeth and a ginger widow's peak. I gave him my ticket.

            "You're the first," he told me, "Usually there are a few Goth types that get in early but maybe the wind blew their big black jackets away."

            He laughed. I didn't.

            He looked me up and down. "I didn't see you last year."

`          He wouldn't have. Though I was aware of the spectacles surrounding Vernon Cossett's grave I was among those who had found them tacky and a deliberate ploy to pull in tourists.

            Patrick's eyes squinted as he gave a toothy grin. "You've heard the stories though, eh? Everyone's heard them." And yet he went on anyway.

            "Dad loved his pranks and japes. It became an integral part of my rearing, our household. He liked to make people laugh well enough but there was something far more worthwhile to him than that.

            "You know that short, sharp intake of breath you get when someone startles you? Dad was addicted to hearing that. The way he saw it, a laugh could be faked but not that, not a breath. And if everyone was smiling by the end of it then why should it be a bad thing?"      Patrick's laugh had a wet crackle to it, the kind that comes straight from the back of the throat. He saw how I was looking at him, suddenly seemed hurt.

            "He didn't want to be forgotten. No-one does. He was the only one to visit granddad's grave after he died. Sad but common enough. Dad didn't want that for himself." A glint came to Patrick's big wet eyes. "So he used his unique position as a 'purveyor of merriment' to prepare for his death. He made sure that no-one would forget about him, that he would still have visitors long after he passed."

            Patrick patted the headstone. It was indeed worn with age.

            "I didn't know about it at first. When this thing started bleeding in 2000, I was as shocked as everyone. I was overseas but the news coverage brought me back home soon enough.

            "No bugger would get close other than me. Blood is blood, after all. Still I had a hunch: the old man always had a love of fake blood. And fake it was: tiny capsules implanted in the deepest indentation at the top here. I reached inside and found a device; a timed trap, I suppose, rigged to crush the capsules around this time on the first Halloween of the 21st Century.

            "I admired his ingenuity. I knew of it but never realised how far he would actually go for this." Patrick grinned again. "It inspired me. I dug through his records and found a letter addressed to me with implicit instructions which I followed though not without some slight improvements.

            "The 'spectacles', as he called them, had to be done every three years. Dad knew that three would set off the supernaturally-minded folks and make it like a proper haunting. It gave me plenty of time to get the resources ready. My favourites were the light pads beneath the top soil, the sound deterrents set between here and the entrance, even the worm charming if it hadn't been a bitch trying to get them into a half-decent circle."

            Patrick stared down at the soil which he had so often disturbed.

            "Seventeen years now," he muttered, "And I'm still at it. I must be crazy. To be honest I'm thinking of capping it off in 2020, sort of a foresight joke, eh? Nah. It's a lot of work."

            I asked him what it would be this year. He looked the most amused that I'd seen him all night.

            "I can't tell you that, mate. That comes after. Then again," he said, looking behind me, "I don't know where everyone else is. The media tend to come in all-weather if no-one else."

            I told him they wouldn't be coming yet.

            "Why not?"

            I had stopped them from coming. All of them.

            "How?"

            I told him that I couldn't tell him that. I didn't mention anything about there being an 'after'.

            I heard it then, what his father had been talking about. That short, sharp intake of breath.

            Patrick forced a smile. "So it's come to this, eh? The last prank is that there is no last prank? There won't be anyone around to see it."

            I said that depends. Does anyone know that he is here?

            "Of course."

            Then there would always be someone to put on a show for.

            After that I checked for the latest graveside deception. Noise boxes in each of the surrounding trees. They made ghostly groans. He had been running out of ideas, after all.

            I took them all down, knowing they would be too much.

            The son half-buried in his father's grave would be surprise enough.

HORROR FOR 99p! (a.k.a. Affordable Fright for All Hallows' Eve)

    Here's what I did for my kid last Halloween.
    I went down to Pound Trove, went straight to their shitty seasonal section.
    Cut-up bin bag capes, slutty makeup packs, bone gloves with the plastic knuckles already coming off. American pumpkin trick or treat bowls, glow-in-the-dark bat stickers, fangs that would snap as soon as you bit down properly.
    I sifted through the bargain bucket full of scythes, bright red pitchforks and even sodding skull axes. Double-edged, mind.
    He said he wanted one of those but one pound for a plastic stick that would fall apart as soon as batter a wall? I left them all exactly where they were.
    I went down the way to the 99p shop. I bought a mop, a trowel, a squeezy bottle of super glue and some silver glitter. I was home in half an hour.
    First things first, I cut the mop in two; just needed half the black handle really. Then I took the trowel out to the garden and found Dusty. I brought her up to the surface.
    Have you ever seen a pug's skull? Ugly, deformed thing. Pitiable but also nasty. I stuck it right on the end of the mop. I managed to fix the tube into one of the eye sockets. Those crooked teeth really shone when I started painting them.
    At the end I had a truly fucking horrible mace. If he hit one of the neighbour kids with that, I thought, I'll marmalise him.
    There was just one thing missing: with all the glitter paint it looked far too camp. So I cut open my ring fingertip and let a little trickle of blood out, winding down the stick. I even briefly considered one of Dusty's feet as a stopper for the other end but that would be cruel to her memory.
    So I left it at that, let the boy have the thing.
    Chuffed, he was. Didn't get many treats though.