Estronomicon Halloween 2007

Halloween Special : October 2007

ESTRONOMICON The Official SD eZine

* * *

Published by Screaming Dreams

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Edited by Steve Upham

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Cover Artwork

'Nightstalker' © Vincent Chong

2007

Contents

My Freaky Friends by Steve Upham

Damp Wind And Leaves by Amy Grech

Hallowe'en Horrors! by Stephen Jones

Encounter With The Dead by Barry J. House

The Greatest Show On Earth by Garry Charles

Tradition by Cathy and Neil Davies

Pumpkin Night by Gary McMahon

Journal Entry by Allyson Bird

Here We Go Again by Bob Lock

The Seasonal Witch by Rachel Kendall

Owlrain by Mark Howard Jones

When Children Come Calling by Peter Tennant

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All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOT be re-usedwithout written permission from the original Copyright holder(s). Thank you.

http://www.screamingdreams.com


My Freaky Friends : 1

My Freaky Friends

by Steve Upham

Many of us who have an interest in the horror genre will no doubt be used to being treated as a little strange or freaky most of the time, by those normal folk who don't understand the attraction.

But come Halloween and everyone loves to join in the fun! It's the one time of year when it appears more acceptable to get involved in all the spooky stuff, which I think is a good thing. Even if it is only for a short while.

People can enjoy this night for many different reasons. For some it has a more personal or deeper meaning, while others can just take it as an excuse to celebrate. Kids love to dress up and go to parties, while adults can get together with their friends and have some fun over a few drinks. But the important thing is that everyone should make the effort to do something special on Halloween.

For authors and readers of horror this is a great opportunity to share your love of dark literature with others. Recommend a suitably scary book to your friends, or better still do a creepy late night reading to an audience by candlelight. In fact, print out your favourite story from this issue of the eZine and read it to your friends and family on the night!

Also watch out for any themed events that are happening in your local area, such as book releases and readings (see the Hallowe'en Horrors on page 10), special spooky film evenings at the cinema, or maybe even a ghost tour. Just get out there and do something, interact with others, it'll do you good.

So start getting your costumes ready, iron your cloaks, sharpen those fangs and arrange to meet up with some of your Freaky Friends on Halloween.

I must also take this opportunity to thank all the contributors who were kind enough to submit their work at such short notice for this issue of the eZine. Several of the authors in fact wrote brand new stories in just a few days for this one. So I hope you all enjoy reading this Halloween special as much as I've enjoyed getting it together and appreciate the work that has gone into it.

Thanks for continuing to support Estronomicon. Read on and enjoy ...

2 : My Freaky Friends

'My Freaky Friends' : Copyright © Steve Upham 2001

Spooky fun at one of our previous Halloween parties!

Damp Wind And Leaves : 3

Damp Wind And Leaves

by Amy Grech

Dracula. Frankenstein. The Mummy. The Wolfman. Posters covered his walls, as did cotton cobwebs, rubber tarantulas, and bats strung with elastic. Dribbles of wax added authenticity to the gold-painted candelabra on shelves covered with Tales from the Crypt and Vault of Horror comics and antique Aurora monster models. Layered across this display fit for a wax museum was the season's own finishing touch, stark claw-like shadows of brittle, bare branches cast through his window by the flickering street lamp outside.

As he stood gazing down at Marlborough Street, Jeff wished he were twelve

again–old enough to go even a block ahead of Dad while still young enough to get

pounds of free candy. Since he was seventeen, though, he was supposed to be a bit

old for that. Might look too threatening to the generally older, wealthy residents

of Back Bay Boston should he, a six foot tall walking corpse, lean into a well-lit

foyer and growl, "Trick or treat!"

Jeff refused to let go of Halloween any more than he had to. He turned from the

darkening street back to his bed, where white facial stage makeup, a sponge, black

eyeliner pencil, white formal gloves, a circular, golden amulet on a red ribbon,

and the heavy, long, black cape were strewn. Smiling over the goods, he felt

totally prepared. Jeff already wore his uncle's tuxedo, and his hair was black shoe

polished and slicked back. After joining the living (his parents) for dinner, he

would don the rest of the costume, inspect himself in his bathroom mirror,

pretend he couldn't see a reflection in it, and fully become the only Dracula these

trick-or-treaters would care to remember. Practicing his best Lugosi, he said,

"There are far worse things awaiting man than cavities." Then Jeff gave a goofy

smile made wicked by the porcelain fitted fangs he had worn off and on all

afternoon.

He heard his Mom call down from the kitchen and he returned to reality.

Scaring crowds of costumed kids was not going to be the exciting work it was on

TV and in smaller towns. These days, especially in a city like Boston,

trick-or-treating was on its way out due to publicized stories of poisoned candy,

and most of the neighborhood was reluctant to open doors very often at night. So

this year, Jeff's parents were doing their part for safety by holding a party and

asking parents to bring their children.

4 : Damp Wind And Leaves

There was a tap on his door, followed by the wild creaking of the hinges. A

couple of tightened screws had achieved the effect. His Mom entered. "Honey,

we've got to eat now so I can clear the table in time. And I don't want you to rush

or else you'll get tomato sauce on your costume."

He came out of the bathroom, yanking his fangs out. "None of these kids are

going to appreciate it anyway. The effect is gonna wear thin when they laugh at

my accent." Jeff sat on the edge of his bed and sighed.

After a moment, his Mom sat down next to him and put her hand on his knee. "I

know you're not looking forward to this, Jeff. You probably wish you were a little

younger tonight."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, we all grow up, whatever."

"But I'll tell you something, pal, this was always one of my favorite holidays,

and it still is. I'm forty-four. So there. Incidentally, the Morris' daughter Melanie is

around your age. They're making her come along. Now come on down to eat. You

can have some wine, if you like, on this grand occasion."

They stood and she patted her son on the back. In the doorway, he said in

character, "I never drink...wine."

They finished eating just as twilight crossed over to the beginning of true night.

Jeff flew upstairs and donned the Dracula wear. The plates went into the

dishwasher as soon as the doorbell rang. At the bottom of the stairs, he caught his

Mom's gaze and saw her wink. From behind a newspaper his Dad grunted, "Go

suck their blood, son." Jeff floated across the foyer, wrapped his cape about him,

and opened the door.

"Trick or treat!" Before him stood a four-and-a-half foot cat-woman carrying a

writhing mouse-boy on her back. Their eager smiles soon faded to looks of

concern. The Mouse's head whipped back in search of parents back on the

sidewalk, but the King of the Vampires held the Cat's eyes in his piercing gaze.

Then he opened his cape, changing from mysterious to elegant. "I am Dracula. I

bid you welcome." The girl's smile returned even if the younger boy was still

unsure. As Jeff opened the door wider Susan and little Mike Morris entered,

followed by Mr. and Mrs. Morris. They were both shy, and they smiled at Jeff as

they walked back into the living room. As they left the foyer, he noticed Mr.


Morris was wearing gorilla feet instead of shoes. This made Jeff grunt in approval;

the grunt became a sinister chuckle, and soon Dracula was testing the echo of the

empty foyer with a resounding, evil laugh.

Then a creak from the open door made him turn toward it, arms still

outstretched, head still high, mouth still wide open. It was not the usual pose for

attracting women. Slouching somewhat in the doorway was Melanie Morris. At

least that was who it must be, thought Jeff, as he composed himself–but still

remaining in character, for he wasn't sure how to act around girls he didn't know.

Her wide brown eyes focused on him in an expression of amazement mixed with

what must be the Morris Adult Shyness; her head was tilted down a touch so that

those eyes looked out from under a prettily concerned forehead. She gave a

sudden, brief smile and walked briskly past him into the living room. As he

watched her go, he almost shut the door in Mr. Finch's face, who was just arriving

with his wife and their twin boys.

For the next half-hour, the crowd down the short hall in the living room grew.

So did the noise, between uninhibited adults, like the boisterous Mr. Finch who

got onion dip in his wife's hair and proceeded to lick it off, and their children who

were high on sugar and numbered around fourteen. Jeff wafted in and out of the

room, trying to look darkly dignified when not putting on a show for newcomers

at the door.

On one of his return trips he noticed that Melanie had situated herself by the

clean but currently dormant fireplace. On either side of her the festivities raged,

but she sat in a pocket of calm. Back out in the darkened foyer, he realized that she

was in the one spot where she could see the front door. When he suddenly looked

down the hall toward her, her pretty eyes immediately darted away to the right.

Although they were at opposite ends of the house, they could see each other as if

through binoculars.

By the time the last guests wondered in, Jeff stopped returning to the living

room. He rested out on the staircase near the door in anticipation of the madness

that awaited him in the form of the kids. All the gaiety in there seemed about to

overflow into his area of refuge. Sure enough, a shadow slowly began to take over

the light pooled on the floor by the hall. But instead of his Mom or, God forbid, a

couple of bored, costumed children, it was Melanie who quietly stepped into his

shadows. At first, she did not see him, and she moved over to the front window,

hands clasped behind her, and knelt by the unlit jack-o-lantern. Jeff had forgotten

it was there; apparently his Mom had asked Melanie to light its candle. The


flickering light from the match she struck and the candle she lit gave him not only

an ethereal image of her face but a feeling that slowly made him stand. Then he

forgot why he stood and just watched her.

Then he spoke softly. "Melanie."

Instead of jumping up in surprise, she merely replied, "Count Dracula, is that

you?" Then there was a long moment of exciting silence.

He descended from the stairs. "Actually my name is Jeff. Somehow we've never

met. I mean..."

"I know." When the light from the hall suddenly revealed him right in front of

her, Melanie gasped and said, "I really like your costume." Then she moved out of

the shadows.

He saw her try to hide her smile as soon as the light showed it. They now stood

two feet apart. Jeff was terrified even though he knew he must look scary to her.

He wanted to slip back into character and was just about speak Transylvanian

when rapid footsteps approached from behind him. He knew exactly what to do.

By the sound of it, all fourteen of them were scurrying toward them. His Mom

had probably sent them. Just as they were about to reach the foyer, the Great

Vampire turned on them with a vicious snarl, his vast cape of darkness spread

wide. High-pitched screams erupted, followed quickly by hysterical giggling, as

the hallway became a chaotic mass of miniature monsters, princesses, and various

creatures delighting in the scare. Then one small voice spoke up: "Where's

Melanie?" Now all were quiet.

Jeff moved to the side and quickly glanced about the foyer and the dimly lit

staircase, but she was gone. Then there came a low creaking sound as the front

door slowly swung on its unoiled hinges. There was nobody there. No body, but

there sat the jack-o-lantern flickering away in all its spookiness. They silently

gathered around it. In an intentionally trembling voice, Jeff said, "Melanie?"

"Boo!" An explosion of screams perhaps even more impressive than those Jeff

had elicited came from the rear of the group. There stood Melanie in the middle of

the foyer laughing proudly at her scheme. She gave Jeff a wink, and he was now in

love.


He decided, too, that he wouldn't mind showing these kids a frightfully good

time if she were there. So he led them all up the pitch-black staircase, using the

jack-o-lantern as a light. Jeff prepared them for his Monster Palace by giving an

ominous warning not to touch the models or cobwebs, it being in their own best

interest as mortals. Then he showed them inside. They gasped and shuddered (and,

of course, giggled) as he gave each ghastly prop the show-and-tell treatment.

Particularly effective were the glow-in-the-dark, life-size skull and Ben, his gerbil

who, he told them, was a rat who came over on the ship from the old country.

Finally, he prepared them for Borris Karloff in Frankenstein. By the time he was

done setting the mood, even the older kids were ready for a black and white

movie. He set the jack-o-lantern on the shelf above the TV and started the creature

feature.

The second feature was a full-color homage to the monster films to which his

palace was dedicated, Fred Dekker's The Monster Squad. Ten minutes into it, the

kids were so hooked on monsters that he felt he could leave them entranced for a

while. He put Jamie Barton in charge, told his Mom to look in on them, and

stepped outside into the damp, breezy night with Melanie.

Through filling the kids with the spirit of Halloween, he felt satisfied and

happy. As he stepped onto the sidewalk with this girl he had met only hours

before, he felt impossibly comfortable with her. Halloween was a night when the

impossible, the strange, and the supernatural, aspects of humanity the civilized

human ignores the rest of the year, were remembered and celebrated in all their

mystery. They had walked more than a block in silence. Now they reached the

vacant corner of Marlborough and Exiter, and a cold gust swirled dead leaves

around them.

Melanie spoke up first. "You were fun with those kids. You really have a way

with them."

"That's because," he said, "I wish I were one of them."

She though for a few seconds. "Then you wouldn't be out here with me." They

kept walking in the crosswind, both suddenly afraid again.

"I wish I had worn a costume, but I don't know," she stuttered, "I-I'm, you know,

shy sometimes and..."

They stopped and more leaves blew past. Jeff looked at the full moon and said


into the night, "You don't need a costume, because you have beautiful brown

eyes."

It was a surprisingly easy thing to say.

* * *

Copyright © Amy Grech 2007

Amy Grech has sold over one hundred stories and three poems to various

anthologies and magazines including: Apex Digest, Bare Bone, City Slab

Magazine, Flashshot: Year One, Funeral Party 2, Inhuman Magazine, Red Scream

Magazine, Shadow Writers - Volume 2, Spider Words, The Book of Dark Wisdom,

The Horror Express, The Late Late Show, and many others.

Her novel The Art of Deception is available from Amazon.com, the chapbook

Cold Comfort is available from Naked Snake Press and Two Backed Books has

published her collection, Apple of My Eye.

Stories are forthcoming in : Mind Scraps, Space & Time, and The Blackest Death

III. She is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association who lives in

Brooklyn. Amy Grech is also a talented Copywriter and Search Engine

Optimization Specialist.

Visit her website at : www.crimsonscreams.com for a good fright.

http://www.amazon.com

http://www.nakedsnakepress.com



http://www.twobackedbooks.com



http://www.crimsonscreams.com

Spooky Art Gallery : 9

'Vampire House' : Copyright © Michel Bohbot 2006

For more fantastic art visit Michel's website at : www.mbohbot.com

http://www.mbohbot.com

10 : Hallowe'en Horrors!

Hallowe'en Horrors!

by Stephen Jones

To celebrate the publication of The Mammoth Book Of Best New Horror #18, on

Wednesday, October 31st 2007 (Hallowe'en) you are invited to come along from

6:30-8:00 p.m. to the following event at :

WATERSTONE'S, 82 Gower Street, London WC1E 6EQ (Tel: 020 7636 1577)

Nearest tube stations : Euston Square / Goodge Street

Meet critically-acclaimed horror writers CHRISTOPHER FOWLER, MARK

SAMUELS, MICHAEL MARSHALL SMITH and DON TUMASONIS, who will be

reading from their latest work. Editor STEPHEN JONES will be hosting a Q&A

discussion about modern horror fiction and discussing some favourite authors and

their works. Admission is FREE and copies of the book will be on sale.

Cover Illustration : Copyright © Les Edwards 2007

Encounter With The Dead : 11

Encounter With The Dead

by Barry J. House

The lone walker knew that he’d never shake off the dark thoughts–those delicate white-hot hooks lodged deep within his brain and pulling simultaneously in a thousand directions–celestial anglers vying to flip him right out of his little existence. They would leave him, a dying fish, spent and gasping on the far shores of some inconceivable cosmic ocean. Oh, he knew it; he didn’t have much time left, now. He just knew it.

On a whim, he’d decided to take a walk through Bassett Woods, to breathe the cool October night air and maybe clear his head. He hadn’t dared to wander the gloomy place for months, but on that night of nights the moon was bursting at the seams, transforming the rain-sodden paths into ribbons of dancing light. Even in the gloomy depths of his despair, the man found himself inexorably drawn into that dark and vibrant wood.

The walker threaded his way down boggy tracks with no real sense of purpose or direction, occasionally pausing to sidestep glittering puddles, or to disengage reluctant bramble stems from his clothing. After a time, however, the ooze that surged over the man’s boots with each and every step, the branches that slapped across his upper body, even the bracing wind that swept throughout the wood, all began to exert a calming effect upon him.

12 : Encounter With The Dead

Maybe, he thought. Maybe I might get lucky again soon. Perhaps even tonight.

Dark tree shapes swayed hypnotically on either side of the path like enthusiastic disciples, the only witnesses to the man’s passage across the rich carpet of their leafy homage. With great, confident strides he delved deeper into the wood, reassured by the comforting weight of Beauty swinging securely at his hip. There was even a hint of a skip to his step by the time he started to whistle an old Beatles tune, badly, into the night.

The walker came upon a stile, and was swinging his leg up, and over the high wooden crossbar, when a thought struck him: he’d been wrong all along. It seemed as if a heavy velvet hood had finally been torn from his mind. Buried thoughts, until now carefully hidden from the light of day, had been prised free and arranged neatly on a mirrored tray beneath the intensity of the desert sun. This sudden realisation brought about a rush of giddiness, but the man braced himself against the stile before he could topple backwards. He gripped the crossbar, breathing hard, wondering where it would all end. But now, at least, he had a clear understanding of what he must do: he would end the inner turmoil and go to the Police.

Tonight, straight after this walk, I’ll–

What was that sound?

A child’s voice, some distance away, off through the trees. The man froze, still astride the stile; a finely tuned aerial, straining every sense in the direction of the sounds. A minute passed by; two minutes; and then he heard more voices–very faint, but unmistakably those of children.

What on Earth are kids doing out here in the woods at this time of night?

Overcoming the strong sense of déjà vu that threatened to engulf the new clarity of his thoughts, the man sprang from the stile and headed towards the distant sounds...

* * *

The four children had seated themselves on a pair of damp logs that they’d dragged into a clearing and placed as close as possible to their crackling campfire. Mark was sitting next to Paul, his younger brother, and opposite his two best friends: Claire, a pretty faced tomboy, and Colin, a skinny boy with a nervous disposition. A flickering jack-o’-lantern with cheese-wedge eyes and a leering,


crooked toothed grin sat next to Colin; he’d insisted on bringing it along.

The séance was well underway now, and Mark was getting bored. Nothin’s gonna happen, he thought. So what if it’s Halloween? Nothin’ ever happens. This is the last séance they’re ever gonna talk me into.

“Close your eyes, and open your minds,” instructed Claire, who was wearing a cheap foil mask secured by a strip of elastic.

Mark closed his eyes, trying to concentrate entirely on the séance rather than on Claire’s bare leg; casually resting against his own, it was causing him to tingle with pleasure from head to toe.

“Is there a member of the spirit world who wishes to communicate with us?” continued Claire.

Complete and utter silence.

“We call upon those who’ve passed over before us…is there a message for one of our group?”

Mark opened his eyes. Just a smidgeon. The others were still sitting, hand in hand, upon the damp logs. In the failing light, it was getting difficult to tell whether anybody else had their eyes open, but he could clearly see the frown on Colin’s brows, the curl of his upper lip. He’s actually scared, thought Mark. What a wuss. Claire isn’t, though. She really wants something to happen. Mark’s attention wandered over to Paul, but he found his brother’s expression impossible to fathom: his face was strangely impassive, like that of an unfinished statue. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, once more. Okay then, five more minutes and then I’m off home, I swear it...

* * *

The walker had drawn closer to the children. Their voices echoed around in the crisp night air, sounding disembodied. Ghostly, even. For a moment, he actually grew fearful.

But only for a moment.

“Ghosts!” muttered the man, regaining his self-control. “I, of all people, would’ve seen one by now if there were such a thing!”


Further on, he caught the sharp scent of wood smoke and fancied that he saw a dull campfire glow ahead. Adjusting his direction accordingly, the man left the path to pick his way through a gloomy thicket. Closer still and he could make out three or four individual voices, but he couldn’t yet distinguish any words. The man picked up his pace a little, and, creeping silently across the ground–gliding almost like a ghost himself–he closed in on the unsuspecting children...

* * *

“We wish to speak with the dead,” intoned Claire into the cold, night air.

“Steady on, Claire!” Colin’s quivering voice.

Moments later, Mark stole another glance at Claire and it was then that he saw the ghostly figure for the first time. His view was partially blocked by the girl’s body, and obscured by the murky undergrowth beyond, but he could just about make out a man-like shape lumbering towards them. Mark clamped his eyes shut, telling himself that it was just the product of his imagination brought about by the gathering excitement of the séance.

“Is there a message for us?” continued Claire, oblivious to Mark’s unease.

I’m goin’ to open my eyes again and it’ll be gone, thought Mark.

He opened his eyes.

And it was still there. If anything, it had moved closer, although the poor visibility made it impossible to gauge just how close it was.

“I–I think there’s s–somethin’ over there,” blurted Mark. He was pointing excitedly into the undergrowth behind Claire. “Over there, look. Look!”

But not one of the others was listening. Instead, they were staring slack jawed and wide eyed at Paul.

Mark had failed to notice anything; however, his own unnerving experience paled into insignificance the moment he spun about and saw what had happened to his little brother.

The clearing had transformed into something akin to a scene from an old suspense movie; Paul’s body had suddenly become rigid, his back arched, arms thrown wide, head thrust back to stare at the monochrome sky. As the children


watched aghast, the boy’s head began to lower–in true Hollywood slow motion.

His eyes, however, continued to stare heavenward as if mounted on gimbals. Only

the whites showed. Saliva had gathered at the corners of Paul’s mouth. It started to

trickle down his chin as Mark frantically worked to disengage himself from the

boy’s frozen grip.

“DO NOT BREAK THE CIRCLE OF HANDS,” boomed Claire. She’d been just as alarmed as the others to see the change in Paul, but had managed to regain a semblance of her usual composure. After all, an encounter with the dead was what she’d been hoping for. She meant to see it through to the end.

Although Mark was terrified, he found himself obeying the girl. Leaving his trapped hand in his brother’s vice-like grip, he coaxed his free hand back into Claire’s.

“A spirit wishes to speak to us through Paul,” said Claire. And the way that she was gaping at the boy, she undoubtedly believed it. She still wore the cheap Halloween mask–somehow it made the scene appear even ghastlier. “Who are you?”

Paul’s lips were trembling. His mouth began to open wider. It worked soundlessly for a few moments, and then…

“I’m Paul,” he said, simply.

His voice sounded oddly hollow, almost tinny, as if coming from a cheap radio.

“Yeah, Paul, we know it’s you, but–” started Colin.

“Listen, if you want to live!” said the voice, suddenly coming through much stronger. “And don’t doubt for a second that I’m Paul, your friend, or all will be lost!”

“Yeah, but–”

“Colin, listen to me. Our very lives depend on what we do next!” Spittle glistened on the boy’s face but he made no attempt to wipe it away.

Mark stared, goggle-eyed, at his brother; the boy’s whole demeanour had changed. Could an entity really have slipped inside Paul’s mind to struggle for the possession of his body?


“We’ve been given a single opportunity to change all this,” explained Paul, twisting his head to indicate their surroundings. “I’ve been returned to my earthly form, to look through my own eyes, speak through my own lips. But I cannot control my body much beyond speech and basic movement. I can only hope to influence others into changing the final outcome.”

“I…I don’t understand–” began Mark.

“Look, we don’t have much time left. We must act now!”

“But…” Mark’s eyes flicked towards the menacing figure that he’d seen. It had advanced closer yet. “Who…?”

But Paul had run out of patience. He released his grasp on Mark’s throbbing hand and jerked out an arm towards Colin, causing the skinny boy to jump violently. “Colin, you must take your knife and hide behind that tree over there,” he motioned in the direction of a pale Silver Birch, a lone sentinel standing over by the edge of the clearing. “Soon, the killer will come. A being far too evil for you to even begin to comprehend. You must take him by surprise. You must slash his throat, drive him to the ground, keep stabbing until he stops moving altogether...”

“W–WHAT?” Colin was clearly beyond terror, now. His eyes were so wide that each might have accommodated a substantial coin. “W–WHY ME?”

“I can barely move. You or Mark will have to do it. And you’re the one with the knife, Colin…”

Nobody had moved an inch. It seemed as if invisible straps bound the children to the logs on which they sat.

“I CAN’T DO IT, I WON’T!” cried Colin, rapidly shaking his head. He pulled out his pocket-knife and stared at it with revulsion. “YOU’RE INSANE!”

The knife was a genuine, all-singing, all-dancing, Swiss Army number that his dad had given to him just before he’d died. It had been Colin’s pride and joy. He took it everywhere he went. However, at that very moment, he was wishing that he’d never set eyes upon the damned thing.

Paul sighed. “Then he will kill us all,” he said. “And it won’t be pretty. Some of us will suffer terribly before the end.” One of his hands slipped involuntarily to his stomach, to his groin. “Believe me, I know.” His eyes had narrowed to the


width of paper cuts, mercifully hiding those staring, milky-white, orbs. “Is that

what you want, Colin?”

“GET SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT. JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“Then, Mark, it’s you who must–”

But Paul’s brother had already committed himself. He leaped up, snatching the knife from Colin’s hand. Mark left the group without so much as a backward glance and was instantly swallowed by the darkness...

* * *

The man was crouching low in the bracken, looking out into a clearing. Three children were sitting, silently now, on a couple of logs. A ring of bright embers marked the remains of their fire. He chided himself for thinking earlier that they might have been ghosts. They were just local kids out scaring themselves for fun, and only just in their teens by the look of them. Well, on this All Hallows Eve he would give them good reason to be afraid.

Without looking down, the man thumbed the stud at Beauty’s handle, slipping the hunting knife from its polished-leather sheath with practiced ease. He held it at waist level for a while, running a finger lightly, affectionately, along the entire length of the blade. It gleamed for him, and for the first time in months he felt truly alive. The murderer raised himself to his feet and concealed the knife behind his back.

So there’s to be one more time, he thought.

Fixing his eyes upon the new victims, he abandoned himself to destiny and stepped out into the moonlit clearing...

* * *

Colin spied the killer immediately and jumped to his feet, picking up a stout stick; the reality of their situation had finally galvanised him into action. Brandishing the inferior weapon at the shadowy figure, he stepped in front of Claire and Paul, who sat motionless on their logs.

“Go away!” cried Colin. “Leave us alone. Go on!”

“It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt anybody, I just wanna talk!” said the man, even as


he swung Beauty into view. His crooked grin seemed to mimic that of Colin’s

crazy jack-o’-lantern.

Colin lunged with his stick, bravely attempting to dislodge the knife from the attacker’s hand. The man, however, stepped aside, easily avoiding the boy. Colin was grabbed by the scruff of his neck. The stick was knocked to the ground.

The murderer spoke once more. “Say hello to Beauty,” he said. The calm inflection of his voice made the words all the more chilling. “And then give my regards to the angels.” He raised the knife high, readying to plunge it deep in the boy’s chest.

There was a sudden blur of motion behind the struggling forms and then time seemed to stand still. Colin’s assailant was frozen to the spot, his knife still raised and ready to strike, but something had changed. The man’s mouth was fixed, wide-open–seemingly wider than any mouth should ever go. As Colin stared, fascinated, a low gurgling sound began to emerge from the killer’s throat. The zenith of his silent scream. And then Colin beheld what had become of his Swiss Army knife; the blade was buried in the side of the man’s neck. The crimson handle projected straight out, like a bizarre and bloody growth. Vital fluid spurted freely from around its base.

The killer’s hand twitched. A spasm sent his knife arcing to the ground.

Colin moved to kick the weapon away but Claire got there first. She grabbed the knife and brought it up threateningly towards their attacker.

The man, however, had no intention of trying to recover his knife. Beauty was forever lost to him, now. He made a clumsy yet determined attempt at withdrawing Colin’s blade from his neck, but the handle was far too slippery for his weakened hands. The murderer dropped to his knees, spent and gasping–those celestial anglers had finally beached him. A look of bewilderment began to spread across his features. And then, after what seemed like hours but must only have been mere seconds, he toppled forward into the campfire embers and didn’t move again.

Colin’s attention was caught by the sight of his friend, Mark, who stood revealed in the void left by their assailant. The boy’s hands were covered in blood. He was silently wiping them on his sleeves.

As Claire struggled to get Paul back on his feet, she suddenly realised that she was still wearing the Halloween mask. She pawed it from her face and flung it to


the ground.

Paul stood, flexing his limbs as if he’d only just discovered them. His eyes were no longer turned upwards; the awful, blind stare had gone, his features fully returned to normal. “We should go home, now,” he said. “It’s over. We’re free.”

Without a single glance at the dead man, Mark turned on his heels and marched out of the clearing. Paul and Claire stumbled after him, but Colin, after a moment’s hesitation, grit his teeth and knelt beside the corpse. He grasped his Swiss Army knife, looking the other way as he eased it free. It meant a lot to the boy, that knife. There was no way that he intended to leave it behind. Using some of the cooler ashes to rub away the blood, he folded the knife and slipped it safely into his pocket before sprinting to catch up with the others.

Back in the clearing, Colin’s forgotten jack-o’-lantern flickered away in the darkness. The profound silence, thereabouts, was punctuated only by an occasional sizzle from amongst the dying embers of the campfire.

* * *

Copyright © Barry J . House 2004

Originally published in issue #8 of Open Wide magazine

Visit Barry's homepage at : www.barryjhouse.co.uk

Intro Illustration : Copyright © Steve Upham 2007

- C O M I N G S O O N -

Obsidian Dreamsby Barry J. House

Dark speculative fiction tales

Some hard and smooth like jet-black pebblesand some with edges honed to scalpel sharpness

Due to be published in 2008 by Screaming Dreams

Cover artwork by Tim White

http://www.barryjhouse.co.uk



20 : Spooky Art Gallery

'The Nightman' : Copyright © Steve Upham 2007

You can find more of Steve's work on the Screaming Dreams website



The Greatest Show On Earth : 21

The Greatest Show On Earth

by Garry Charles

Nathaniel first wanted to join the circus when he was only four years old.

It was his parents fault really and if they had known back then how things

would turn out I very much doubt that a trip to the big top would have been his

birthday present that year.

His father had seen the poster glued, at an odd angle, to the window of the bus

station as he waited for the number forty-three to arrive and transport him to

work.

It was a gaudy A3 notice that attempted to shout out the arrival of the circus, but

not any old circus mind you. Oh, no.

CAPTAIN MONOTONE'SALL SINGIN'

ALL DANCIN'

Halloween CIRCUS

The letters were every colour of the rainbow and highlighted with what could have been powdered diamonds or, as John rightly thought, glitter.

Under the emblazoned title there was an equally colourful picture that showed a

bright yellow and red big top, the canvas doors pulled back to allow the

procession of clowns, animals and all matter of entertainers to flow out into the

foreground.

John slowly let his gaze travel over the figures that filled the poster, positive

that he could hear the faint fanfare of a circus band in the distance.

He smiled to himself at the memory of his first circus, remembering the sights

and sounds that had amazed him as a youngster. He knew immediately that

Nathaniel would love it. In fact it couldn't have come at a better time. Due to work

they hadn't even managed a summer holiday and now it was pushing on towards

Christmas. John needed to treat the family to at least an evening out and this could

22 : The Greatest Show On Earth

be perfect.

He scanned the lower quarter of the poster and his smile widened as he read.

Captain Monotone invites you to his circusBetween 29-31 oct

Nathaniel's birthday was on the 31. It would be the perfect gift for his little boy and a way to get the family out of the house for a few hours.

That's if it wasn't too expensive.

He let his eyes drop even further and leant forward so that he could read the

small print at the base.

Ringside: Adult £10 Child £5Other seats: adult £7 Child £4

John quickly did the math on ringside seats. There would be Nathaniel and

Susan, his sister. It went without saying that John would be going and Cath would

go under pressure. After all it was their son's birthday present.

"Thirty quid," he spoke out loud to himself, the smile still etched on his face.

Before the bus pulled up and the doors hissed open he had jotted down the

number for pre-ordering tickets and decided to ring from work and before Cath

could talk him out of it.

* * *

John returned home that night to a mixed reception. He was used to coming in on

an evening and having Nathaniel run along the hallway and into his arms. What

he didn't expect was Cath, stood at the base of the stairs with a face like thunder.

"Hi." He tried to sound light hearted, but faced with the medusa that was his

wife he felt his soul shrivel a little more than it had the day before.

"What do you call these?" In her hand she held four, fanned out colourful pieces

of card.


"Tickets." He could see the name of Captain Monotone across the front one. "I

didn't think they'd have arrived yet." He had only rung the booking office an hour

before leaving work.

"Oh, they arrived alright." She glared at him. "Hand delivered by a freaky

looking clown and a bloody monkey." It appeared that Cath wasn't seeing the fun

side of things.

"Daddy, it was a real clown." Nathaniel's head peeped around the wall at the top

of the stairs, a happy grin nearly splitting his face in half. "You should have seen

the car…"

"Bed young man," Cath snapped.

"The clown said we're going to the circus." Nathaniel was far too excited to take

any heed of his mother.

"That's right Nate." John couldn't hold his smile inside any longer.

Cath threw the tickets at him and stormed away to the kitchen, mumbling under

her breath and cursing her husband's actions. Nathaniel crept down the stairs and

stopped halfway as he watched his father remove his coat and shoes.

"I love you daddy," he whispered.

"You too, Nate." In fact he loved both the kids, the best thing to have come out of

the marriage. "Now back to bed." The boy waved and ran back to his room.

John stood in the hallway for a few minutes thinking about where to start when

he followed Cath into the kitchen. He hoped that once she heard about the bonus

and the promotion, she wouldn't be so hard to convince that the circus was a good

idea.

* * *

Nathaniel lay in bed without a worry or a care in the world. He was going to the

circus, a Halloween circus and he was sure that it would be better than anything

else ever, cartoons even.

His heart had jumped in his chest earlier in the day when he had looked out the

window and seen the spooky car pull up outside his house. He'd laughed out loud


as it shuddered to a halt and the door had fallen off with a clang. The car had sat

sputtering for a while before there was a resounding bang and a black cloud filled

with orange sparks had erupted from the rear.

He had still been laughing when the monkey had jumped out the back of the

car, jumping from one leg to other impatiently as it waved the pink envelope in

its hand and waited for the driver to join it.

"WOW." The laughing stopped as from the far side of the funny looking car

appeared the clown.

Nathaniel had been filled with awe at such a sight and felt his breath leave his

body when he realised that the clown was waving at him. He waved back.

He giggled to himself as he drifted off to sleep still thinking about the surprise

visitor, his eyelids falling heavily as thinking became dreaming. And in the dream

version events were different.

Very different.

He began to toss around under the covers as memory was distorted by

nightmare.

The clown waves at him and he waves back as the monkey makes what he doesn't realise

is a vulgar hand gesture. He laughs at this, but he feels that all is not right. The sky is

somehow wrong and the heat in the room has grown oddly chilly.

The thick, red painted lips of the clown part in an obscene smile that reveals teeth of dirty

yellow with hints of green and in the gaps writhe white coloured creatures, bloated and

blind.

The monkey scurries down the path, jumps over the border of freshly planted flowers that

no longer seem quite as fresh and leaps up onto the window ledge.

The clown follows, doing cartwheels and back flips towards the front door. Its oversized

shoes make a sickening slapping noise each time they hit the paving slabs, like raw meat

being thrown on a marble slab. It comes to an abrupt halt level with the window and for the

first time Nathaniel sees how unclean the funny man truly is.


Its make up is no longer the white of drifting snow. Now it's dried grey and filled with

cracks. Around the eyes the cracks filled with a creamy substance that hints at disease and

rot. The orange hair is patchy and matted. The scalp is scabby and flaking as the clown

wobbles it head.

The monkey starts banging its head on the window and Nathaniel turns to find it

gyrating its hips against the glass, a wet pink thing sticking up between its legs and leaving

smears on the pane.

The clown moves on tiptoes to the front door and knocks three times, leaning back and

raising a finger to its lips in a signal to remain quiet. The red paint around its mouth is now

running from its chin and dripping down onto its ill-fitting top. The drops hit the off-white

fabric and spread into large, rust coloured spots.

Nathaniel hears his mother's footsteps in the hallway and he wants to scream at her to

stop, but it's too late.

Nathaniel woke with a start the next morning and, for the tiniest fraction of a

second, he was scared. Then it was gone, along with the bad dream. If he'd

remembered it then maybe he could have changed things but, as it happens, he

didn't.

* * * For John the night before had been better than good and had surprised him. He

didn't see Cath smile much anymore so her reaction to his good news had knocked

him sideways.

"You should've said before." She didn't bother to add 'I went off on one'.

"I was going to." John also chose to leave the sentence hanging, she was smiling

and that was all that mattered.

"I do love you John." That was the bit that had knocked him sideways.

He couldn't remember the last time she had shown him any true affection. Yes,

they still had sex on a regular basis, but it was always mechanical and done for

necessity, not loving or mutual.

"It's just that I hardly see you anymore." She had tears in her eyes. "You work


late through the week and you're gone most weekends." She really did love him,

but married life hadn't turned out how she'd dreamed it would.

"I know love." He walked over to her and wrapped his arms around her. "No

more weekends, I promise." She shook in his embrace. "This is a new start." And he

meant it.

* * * At breakfast Nathaniel noticed the difference in his parents, but he was still too

young to comprehend what it meant. His mum had done a full fried breakfast and

she was sat eating it with a smile that, in his small thoughts, made her the most

beautiful mummy in the world.

Even Susan seemed to be happier than usual, as if the magic that had been

worked on his parents had somehow rubbed off on her over night. Before he'd

finished eating the same thing had begun to infect Nathaniel and he couldn't stop

smiling.

Things were good.

* * * The week up to Nathaniel's birthday and the all important circus trip was

probably the best week of his life.

His mum and dad's good mood of that first morning proved to be anything but

a fluke. His dad was home early every evening and the family had started doing

the unheard of and sitting down together for dinner. His mum was like a different

person altogether and had begun wearing dresses that showed off her still trim

figure and her face had taken on the glow of a teenager in love for the first time.

Susan stopped being her usual teenager type self and even went as far as helping

out around the house and astounded everyone by using the vacuum cleaner and

even the dishwasher.

Everything was great except for the dreams that plagued Nathaniel's night time

hours. He would awake every morning and suffer intense panic, but could never

remember why.


His shout comes too late and his mum opens the door on the clown that is not quite right.

The monkey scurries between her legs, pausing for a brief look up the knee length skirt and

then runs into the living room. It stops at Nathaniel's feet and looks up at the boy with a

smile of viciously sharp incisors.

"Hello my dear." The clown speaks with a voice too high pitched to be real. "Nice day for

the circus." He pushes passed her and kicks the door shut with an over sized boot.

"Mum." Nathaniel is scared, his bottom lip trembling as the monkey tugs at his trouser

leg and holds out the creased, finger marked envelope.

"HI NATE," the clown screeches as it looms around the doorframe and Nathaniel freezes

under the gaze of the black voids that should be its eyes. "What's wrong boy? Cat got ya

tongue?" The clown licks the blood red paint from around its mouth, smearing the colour to

a greyish pink.

"Mum." Nathaniel tries to move, but the monkey grasps his ankle and squeezes painfully.

"Jesus, woman, you're raising the boy to be a fucking girl," laughs the clown.

Nathaniel knows the bad word, he's heard daddy use it before.

"Nate." His mum tries to reach him, but the clown pulls her close to him and sniffs her

neck.

"Don't worry about the boy." He drags her towards the stairs. "He'll be fine." It looks at

Nathaniel one last time, cocks it head and winks.

Nathaniel watches as his mum and the clown disappear up the stairs and he wants to cry.

The monkey sits and stares at him with unblinking eyes, not once loosening its grip on his

leg.

Nathaniel hears a yelp of pain. He knows it's his mum and he attempts to pull free, but

the monkey sinks its claws into tender flesh. Anger flares in the boy's head and without

thinking he acts.

Before he has realised what he has done the poker is in his hand and swings through the

air before connecting with the monkey's forehead. The skull, in real life would crack, but this

is the world of nightmares and it pops like an over inflated balloon, showering Nathaniel in a


thick fluid that smells like a battery placed on his tongue.

The grip on his ankle spasms twice and then relaxes. With the poker in hand Nathaniel

makes his way to the base of the stairs. From above he can hear his mum sobbing and a

constant 'HONK, HONK' noise that reminds him of the horn on his bicycle out in the

garden.

'HONK, HONK'

Poker raised, he steels himself and takes the first step.

'HONK, HONK'

He rushes the next three steps and then pauses as a tremor of terror nearly brings forth

vomit.

'HONK, HONK'

His mum's sobbing increases in volume and tempo.

'HONK, HONK'

He charges the last half of the stairway and hits the bedroom door running.

'HONK, HONK'

The door swings open and the clown smiles.

'HONK, HONK'

* * *

The night before his birthday was, however, a peaceful one. Nathaniel didn't

manage to sleep deep enough to dream, the thought of his trip always keeping

him with one foot in the world of the waking. More than twice his mum visited

his room and pulled the covers back up around his neck, telling him softly to

settle down.

"If you stay awake all night you'll fall asleep at the circus," she said and tickled

him under the chin. He responded with the innocent laugh that only a child can


give.

"I won't sleep at the circus." He paused, lifting an arm above the covers and

making a cross with his finger above his chest. "I promise."

"OK, just try and sleep." His mum leaned over and kissed his forehead, pushing

his fringe away with her finger as she did so.

"Goodnight Nate."

"Goodnight mum." Even then he still only managed a half dozing nod.

* * *

From the moment he woke up on his fourth birthday Nathaniel was ready and

eager to head off for the circus, ready for the thrills and chills the haunted treat

would have to offer his young mind.

"Mum, dad, wake up." He jumped up and down on the bed, already dressed and

with his hair brushed.

"Nate." His mum sat up slowly, not ready to open her eyes and greet the early

morning.

"Happy Birthday, son." His dad grinned at him and held out his arms for a hug

and Nathaniel fell into them, giggling wildly as John feigned having the wind

knocked out of his lungs. "You're getting too big for this." He rubbed his side. "I

think you broke a rib."

"I'm ready for the circus." Nathaniel jumped back up and for the first time his

parents noticed that he already had on his coat and shoes.

"That's not until tonight." His mum pulled him close and he wriggled

impatiently. "But there's other stuff downstairs that needs opening."

"Yay." He leapt from the bed. "It's my birthday." His parents looked at each other

and smiled at the thumping of his shoes descending the stairs and the shouted

Happy Birthday that came from Susan's room.

"I can't believe she didn't moan about having to come with us tonight," Cath


stated. "I'm sure she'd prefer to go out with her friends."

"Things are looking good." John smiled, leaned over and kissed his wife firmly

on the lips.

* * * For Nathaniel the day was a blur of happiness and before he realised it the

morning and afternoon had flown by and it was time to go to the circus. He was

the first at the door and hopped from one foot to the other as he urged his family

to hurry.

"Come on dad." The grin on his face was huge, splitting his young face with a joy

that John could not remember having ever seen before.

"I'm going as fast as I can." He fumbled with his coat and his son began laughing

at his dad's silliness.

"You're like a clown." Nathaniel had never been happier.

He walked the whole way, taking his sister's hand until they reached the end of

the street, at which point he ran forward, grabbing hold of his mum and dad's

hands and began swinging between them, throwing his legs as high as he could on

the forward swing.

Everyone seemed to have fallen into the holiday spirit and they passed houses

with pumpkin lights in the windows and plastic tombstones in the gardens. It all

added to the anticipation of the main event.

The excitement building in Nathaniel's stomach was unbearable for a four year

old and his head was swimming with images of what the circus was really going

to be like.

He had, from his bedroom window, seen the big top every morning. As soon as

the sun had began to filter through his curtains he had been up and out of bed,

climbing onto his toy box just to get a look at the billowing canvas of red, yellow

and green. His eyes had widened at the sight of the oversized skulls, cauldrons

and witches that covered the day glow fabric. But tonight was special because he

was finally going to see it from the inside and the secrets of the circus would be

revealed to him.


As they drew nearer the music grew louder, brass band instruments that filled

his ears with more images and increased his need to be within the big top and see

everything that it promised.

Other parents and children filled the path and they were all headed in the same

direction and they all had the same look of expectation on their faces, but

Nathaniel didn't notice them, his eyes focused on the towering tent that loomed

above the trees.

* * *

"ROLL UP, ROLL UP," The voice was loud yet friendly, a deep baritone that

sounded like a drum made of candyfloss and toffee apples. "WELCOME ONE AND

ALL TO CAPTAIN MONOTONE'S HALLOWEEN CIRCUS." As children passed by

he leaned down and ruffled their hair with a hand the size of a shovel. "YOU'VE

HEARD OF THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH." He paused for effect. "WELL

THIS SHOW GOES ONE BETTER." The parents laughed and so did the children

even though they didn't understand the joke.

The giant - and Nathaniel was sure he was a giant - stepped out in front of them

and crouched down next to him. Nathaniel still had to look up to look the giant in

the eye and smiled at the moon like face that beamed down at him.

"HOW OLD'S THE BIRTHDAY BOY THEN?" he scooped Nathaniel up and placed

him on his shoulder, much to the boy's delight.

"I'm four today," he said between squeals of joy, not once doubting how the

giant even knew it was his birthday.

"FOUR YEARS OLD AND ALREADY NEARLY A MAN." He started walking

towards the tent and Nathaniel's parents followed happily; even Susan had trouble

keeping the smile of excitement off her face.

"What's your name?" Nathaniel tried to sound grown up, but the wind still

snatched at his tiny voice.

"THEY CALL ME GOLIATH." The giant then dropped his voice and whispered.

"But you can call me Matthew."

"My name's Nathaniel."


"A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU, MY LITTLE FRIEND." He carried Nathaniel

passed the queue of parents and children. John, Cath and Susan followed.

Nathaniel craned his neck to take in as much as he could of the entertainment on

show. His grin grew huge at the sight of the merry-go-round, the horses painted

to look like skeletons and their legs twitching as they spun around. There were

other rides, all decorated in a scary fashion, but Nathaniel's attention was quickly

grabbed by the towering castle at the far side of the circus grounds.

"It's a haunted house," he squealed. "Can we go round later?" He looked over his

shoulder at his dad.

"No problems," John shouted back with a matching smile.

They had reached the tented stadium and Goliath pulled open the door and

shouted for attention.

"What is it now you big oaf?" In contrast to Goliath the man that replied was

tiny, smaller even than Nathaniel.

"WE HAVE A BIRTHDAY BOY IN THE AUDIENCE." He lifted Nathaniel down.

"MAKE SURE HE GETS THE BEST SEAT IN THE HOUSE." He winked at the boy

and turned to leave and Nathaniel and his family followed the little man towards

the seats that surrounded the arena that would show them so many wonders.

* * *

The music fell silent and the lights dimmed to almost darkness and a hushed

silence flowed over the excited crowd. From inside the ring there came a grinding

of metal on metal, a screech that set the parent's teeth on edge, but filled the

children with the thrill of anticipation.

"Ladies and Gentleman, Boys and Girls." The voice boomed throughout the

enclosure, the beat of each word pulsing across the audience. "Welcome to Captain

Monotone's all singin', all dancin' Halloween circus." Everyone began to clap, but

were shocked into silence as the lights came on to an explosion of fireworks and

the deafening roar of revving engines.

In the centre of the ring stood a spherical framework of black steel and barbed

wire. Surrounding it were six motorbikes of deepest red. The riders were dressed


like knights of old, their bodies covered in thick armour plating. Their heads were

hidden behind demonesque masks, pointed ears and mouths filled with fangs.

They looked around the audience and then howled into the night like wild

wolves. A hatch in the huge steel ball was opened by a midget dressed as a rotting

jester and the first of the bikes revved hard and drove into the tight space.

"Please enjoy The Devil Riders." The voice boomed out over the sound of the

bike engine as it began to rock up and down in the base of the orb.

And then it was off in a blur of sound and colour. The rider and the bike became

one mass as it spun around the interior. Nathaniel watched in awe as it rose up the

sides and then before his eyes it did the impossible and was upside down,

speeding in a maddening circle from top to bottom. The crowd roared with

amazement as the rider pulled in the speed, slowing down and coming to rest in

the base.

The midget scooted across the ring and opened the door and two more of the

devil faced riders joined the first and the door was once again fastened shut.

Nathaniel stood and craned over the railing to get a better look at what he knew

was about to happen. One bike had been more than he could believe, but three

was something he didn't want to miss.

The crowd cheered. Parents and children both overpowered by the skill of the

three riders as they flew around the inside of the ball, crisscrossing each other

with only millimetres separating them.

The midget had remained at the door and with the bikes still in motion he

swung the door open once more and without pausing the remaining three bikes

drove into the craziness. The scene within the sphere became a whirlwind as the

six bikes seemed to increase in speed. Nathaniel realised he was holding his

breath and let it out in a long sigh, his knees shaking at what he saw as a miracle.

Again the midget swung the door open and one at a time the riders left the ball,

skidding to a halt around the outer edge of the ring to mass applause.

"Thank you," the voice said and the lights dropped to nothing. "I only hope that

the rest of the show is as enthralling." A spotlight snapped into life and the middle

of the halo of yellow light was the man himself. "Welcome to my circus." Captain

Monotone took a bow and the crowd continued to clap.


He was tall, not as tall as the giant named Matthew, but still taller than most

normal humans. His skin was the colour of old parchment and not a single area

had escaped the ruin of wrinkles. Nathaniel had watched enough Cowboy films

with his father to know that the Captain was indeed dressed as a Captain. The suit,

unlike the man looked as new as the day it had been made, crisp blue fabric with

gold piping along the seams. And at his waist hung a sword that reached almost to

his ankles, the handle shining brightly with faceted gems.

The lights gradually glowed back into life to reveal the ring empty, no sign at

all that the ball or the Devil Riders had ever been there. Nathaniel frowned as he

tried to figure out where it had gone and Captain Monotone spoke as if he had

read the young boy's mind.

"The magic of the circus." He looked straight at Nathaniel, tipped his hat and

winked. "The secret that is Halloween." Nathaniel smiled, the simple answer more

than enough to ease his curiosity.

* * * The next hour and a half more than lived up to the opening act and Nathaniel

spent the entire evening stood up so as not to miss a single second of the circus

magic.

He watched in trepidation as the knife thrower tied the blindfold around his

eyes and progressed to throw hunting knives at a beautiful woman tied to a

spinning wheel. He felt his stomach lurch as he watched the trapeze artists as they

spun and twirled high above his head, dressed in long, black gowns that covered

their faces.

He didn't, however, laugh at the clowns like the other children did. As soon as

the coffin shaped car drove into the ring he felt strangely on edge and the feeling

intensified when the clown and its pet monkey climbed out and started falling

over. When the monkey ran over to the handrail and the other kids stroked it

Nathaniel backed away into his mothers arms and shivered.

"What's wrong darling?" She stroked his hair with loving concern.

"I just don't like it." With the monkey moving on he pulled away from his mum

and returned to his viewing post, noticing the monkey pausing to look back at

him with a huge grin on its face.


He screamed in delight at the lion tamer and jumped up and down at the

fire-eater; thrilled at the sight of long strips of spewing flame bursting from the

bearded mouth and nose.

As the night drew on he fought the tiredness in his eyes, unwilling to give in

before the show was over. So, as the music died and Captain Monotone came out

to say goodnight he was thankful it was nearly over.

How wrong he was.

* * * "Tonight, my friends, is a special night." The lights had once again dimmed and the

Captain stood tall within the safety of the spotlight's illumination. "As you know

it is our last night here, but what you may not realise is that it is the last date of

the current tour." The audience mumbled its sadness at the news.

Nathaniel, tired and a little bored with the speech let his eyes wander the

darkness of the shadows and he was sure he could see shapes moving around in

the corners of his vision.

"Do not be sad, my friends, because you are all to play an important roll in our

hibernation." Nathaniel was half listening. He didn't understand what was being

said, but he couldn't ignore the agitated mumblings that coursed through the

parents in the crowd.

"Please quiet yourselves." The Captain held up his hands and looked around at

the audience. "Ladies and Gentlemen." Nathaniel felt his father take his hand, but

he refused to be moved. "Boys and Girls." Something big was about to happen.

"IT'S DYING TIME." The final words were screamed as the lights suddenly burst

into life and Nathaniel got to see what had been lurking in the shadows.

The inner framework of the big top was crawling with performers and, as the

lights blinded the audience, they fell down into the panicked crowd with a

purpose.

* * * John heard the screams from the other parents and saw their eyes widen in terror

as they stared at the ceiling. He tried to erase the confusion from his mind and


looked up just as the first of them dropped down towards his family.

Without thinking he grabbed Nathaniel and flung him under the seat and

hopefully out of dangers way. He didn't have time to do the same for his

daughter. The Devil Rider smashed into his shoulder and knocked him to the

floor, placing a well-aimed kick between his legs as he tried to curl into a

protective ball. As he sucked in breath and attempted to blink the tears from his

eyes he saw his little girl taken. The Devil Rider swung back a fist and slammed

into her face with a nose shattering impact that took the life out of her. As she fell

limp the Rider scooped her up in its arms and tossed her into the air. John could

only lie uselessly as the trapeze artist snatched her flying body and fed.

The cloak-wearing performer swung upside down and held her with one arm as

with his free hand he shredded the flesh from her neck and shoving it into the

blackness of the sagging hood. Finished, thick red blood dripping from the

tattered material, he tossed the body head over heels only for it to be caught by

his female partner who tore chunks from the deceased girl's arm.

* * * Having seen her daughter slaughtered and thinking her husband and son dead

Cath ran blindly to escape, colliding with others all intent on leaving the tent

before they fell foul of the bloodthirsty circus madmen. She clawed and kicked at

anyone in her way as tears of fear streamed over her face, smearing her make up

in a sick parody of the clowns they had watched earlier.

"Fuck off." The stranger shoved her away as she tried to push passed him and she

stumbled backwards, hit the hand rail and flipped over into the sawdust filled

ring.

The back of her head hit the ground hard and the scene above her was filled

with dancing stars of every imaginable colour. The fall had jarred her neck and she

flinched as hot pain shot along her shoulders when she attempted to push herself

upright.

"Not so fast my dear." Captain Monotone towered over her and placed a boot

against her chest. "You can't leave yet." He pushed her back to the floor and

withdrew the sword from its sheath. "And I'm sorry to say that we don't give

refunds." He smiled at her like the gracious host that he was and then sank the

blade into her abdomen with such force that it came out her back.


"FEED, MY CHILDREN, FEED," he screamed up at the rafters as they fell on the

dying body and began to strip her bare.

* * *

John cradled his smashed scrotum and looked across at Nathaniel who was curled

tightly under the chair with his head in his hands. Fighting against the pain in his

lower body he forced himself upright and surveyed the carnage of the big top.

"Holy Jesus." They were his last words before the knife thrower's weapon ripped

into his throat.

He fell back into his seat with a thud and grasped the handle of the knife,

attempting weakly to pull it free. The pain almost blinded him and he let his

hands fall into his lap as the last of his life soaked into his coat.

* * *

Even after the big top had fallen silent Nathaniel made no attempt to move. He

didn't want to see what had made so many people sound so scared. Instead he

decided to wait where it was safe until his father came and found him.

Though the screaming had ceased the noise that had replaced it was worse, a

crunching and slurping that sent ripples of shivers up and down Nathaniel's spine.

He felt warm and wet, covered in whatever had been raining down on the seats

since the screaming began, but he had no wish to open his eyes and see what it

was.

"What do we have here?" The hand on his shoulder made him jump and the

tiniest of yelps escaped between his lips.

Another hand grasped him, but he remained in a ball as he was pulled out into

the open.

"Dessert." The voice was familiar and as he was turned around in the uncaring

grip he opened his eyes and looked into the face of the clown. "Hello Nate." The

clown remembered his name and Nathaniel wanted to scream.

"GIVE HIM TO ME." The second voice was also familiar and Nathaniel peered

over the shoulder of the clown and saw the lumbering form of the giant.


"Get stuffed Lofty," the clown snapped. "Finders, keepers." He held the boy prize

close to his chest.

"GIVE HIM TO ME, NOW." The giant grabbed the clown by the scruff of the neck

and lifted it up until he could look it in the face. "I'M HUNGRIER THAN YOU."

"OK, he's yours." The clown handed the boy over. "Greedy bastard."

Goliath dropped the clown and looked at the terrified boy. "Let's get you out of

here," he whispered softly in Nathaniel's ear.

"No, you're going to eat me," Nathaniel yelled and kicked and punched, but the

giant ignored him as he carried him out of the big top.

* * *

Once outside the air was crisp and clear, the cloudless sky full of stars that

flickered in and out of existence and reigning over them all was the moon, bathing

everything in its cool blue light.

Nathaniel was still fighting against the giant's hold as he was lowered to the

ground, soft and wet underfoot. Matthew released him and stared down at the tiny

boy at his feet.

"Run home now," he said in the gentlest of voices.

"I want my mum, dad and sister." He was scared of going home on his own.

"THEY'RE GOING TO JOIN THE CIRCUS." The giant sounded sad and Nathaniel

was sure he saw a tear in the behemoth's eye.

"Then I'll join too." He stood defiant and stared back at the giant.

"YOU'RE TOO YOUNG, NOW GO BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE," he barked.

"What if I don't?" Nathaniel was close to tears himself.

"THEN I'LL HAVE TO EAT YOU." He leaned down and growled at the boy who

turned and ran.

* * *


They found him the next morning sat on the doorstep of his parent's house, his

face streaked with tears, dirt and dried blood. They tried to question him, but all

they could get out of him was that his family had joined the circus.

Nathaniel spent the next fourteen years in and out of various homes. No one

could find it in their hearts to give him the love he deserved. When not in foster

care he lived at the orphanage, but in all that time he never made friends. All he

ever told people was that when he was old enough he was going to join the circus.

The disappearance of his parents and all the other families was never solved.

The circus had gone by the next morning and nothing had been left to say it had

ever been there. Eighty-nine people went missing without a trace that night and

the police found no record of a travelling circus owned by Captain Monotone. It

was relegated to a file and forgotten as quickly as possible, a secret to be hidden

from the children of the town.

* * *

Nathaniel is thirty years old now and still he holds onto the dream that one day he

will join the circus. He still wakes every night screaming and the nurse always

rushes to unlock his door and soothe him back to sleep. He tells them that he has

no memory of that fateful night, but he does remember the giant telling him that

his family had joined the circus and that he was too young to be with them.

Well, it's almost his birthday and the circus is back in town. He's seen the

posters on his daily walk into town with his carer. It's going under the name of

Blackbeard's Circus now, but he recognises the clown on the gaudy advert. And

he's no longer too young; he's a man and tonight is the last performance. He has to

be there or he may never get another chance to be with his mum, dad and sister.

With this in mind he grips the handle of the steak knife he stole at dinner under

the sheets and begins to scream, smiling when he hears the running footsteps of

the nurse.

* * *

Copyright © Garry Charles 2007

Discover more of Garry's work at : www.garrycharles.com

http://www.garrycharles.com


'Deadland' : Copyright © Michael Calandra 2007

Featuring Bianca Beauchamp as a sexy and dangerous queen of the dead

Visit Michael's website at : www.calandrastudio.com

Also check out his showcase in Issue #6 of the Estronomicon eZine

http://www.calandrastudio.com

http://www.screamingdreams.com/ezine/Estronomicon06.pdf

http://www.screamingdreams.com/ezine/Estronomicon06.pdf

Tradition : 41

Tradition

by Cathy and Neil Davies

Halloween, when ghosts and all manner of spooky things come out of hiding. Such a good time of year don’t you think? Makes me happy and relaxed and excited all at the same time.

I love looking out of the window and seeing the kids go by all dressed up. Some of those costumes are really scary. Some, well, not so scary. But at least they make an effort.

I make an effort too. You know, to take part. It’s a community thing, don’t you agree?

The house. My house. It certainly looks the part, doesn’t it? All run down and decaying. Can’t afford to bloody well fix it can I! And he never did anything to improve it. The paint’s peeling, the wood’s rotten, the hedges are overgrown… Mind you, I prefer it that way. Stops the nosey neighbours looking in. At least I can go about my business without interference.

No one bothers me. They all ignore me, except on Halloween of course. I know the parents have told their kids to keep away, but hey, I make the effort don’t I? I let them have their big scare. I love to hear them scream in fright and excitement and, yes, fun too. Not so many came round last year (bloody miserable parents) but I’m hoping for better this year. Anyone would think I was a danger to them. Me? I’m just a frail old lady. What harm could I do to a bunch of kids?

It wasn’t always like this. I had such a lovely house, back when we bought it during our second year of marriage. I thought he’d take pride in it, clean it and maintain it. Did he heck! Came home drunk nearly every night. Never did a bloody thing around the house. I couldn’t do it. Didn’t know a thing about DIY, and it just wasn’t ladylike back in those days. It wasn’t done. I did my best to keep the inside clean, he was meant to take care of the rest.

So, there you go. Now the house looks like something out of a horror movie. To tell the truth, I’ve kind of got used to it. I like it.

The neighbours complain about the smell. What bloody smell? Toffee-nosed bastards. Ha! Toffee, see? Toffee apples. Got loads of them to hand out. All part of the magic.

42 : Tradition

Soon as Halloween season starts I get all the props out. You know, to take part like I said. The kids love it. The adults don’t. Don’t know what’s wrong with them. Mind you, the neighbourhood’s not as safe as it used to be. Not that it bothers me. I’ve had to deal with worse in my time. In fact, that’s how it all got started. That’s how he started it, and I made the best of a bad job.

He came home with an electric hedge trimmer. Oh, I knew what for. Not because the hedge was untidy, no, but because it was blocking his view. He was always peeping through the hedge to her next door. Tarty bitch! I mean, all those men coming to her house. Just how many handymen did one woman need? No one needed that many jobs doing!

So, he thought he’d do some gardening didn’t he. Not my fault he didn’t know how to use the thing. Switched it on and couldn’t control it. Like something out of an old comedy film. Like it had a mind of it’s own. I could see it all from the upstairs window. Quite fascinating, really, the way his head rolled, caught on a bramble, almost fell next door’s side but then dropped on ours. I think his eyes blinked a few times. Weird that. So, I made the most of it.

The blood looked good, spread around the garden and the hall floor and my clothes for good measure. I put his head in the window (the serrated blades of the trimmer had made quite a pretty frilly effect of the skin around his neck), put a few lighted candles around it and one in his open mouth like a pumpkin, to make it more spooky. The other body parts were put to good use too, placed carefully about, one or two nailed to the wall and the tree. As you can probably guess, I managed better with the hedge trimmer than he did.

The kids loved it. I’m pretty certain my house was voted the spookiest in the area that year. That made me so happy that I determined to turn it into a tradition.

Of course, things go off don’t they. You know, they rot!

The following Halloween he didn’t look quite so effective, and that’s when I had the brainwave. Turns out her next door actually ran a business hiring out handymen. Guess she wasn’t the slut I thought she was after all, even if she did look like one. Anyway, all those men came in real handy (if you’ll pardon the pun).

Now I get a nice new display for my house every year. Sometimes I amaze even myself with the ideas I come up with. This year, for example, I’ve got a lot of skeletons. I got very handy with a drill and string (even managed to put up a couple of shelves while I was at it) and the end result is so much better than those

Tradition : 43

plastic ones you buy from the shops. I even left some bits of skin and clothes on

for added effect. And I always make sure I have a good supply of blood. I keep it

in jars in the garage. Looks brilliant smeared here and there and everywhere. Of

course, I only do this at Halloween you understand. I wouldn’t want you to think I

was strange.

Oh, there’s the door.

A quick peep through the curtains. Look at their little faces, mouths wide open, staring up at my latest addition. It was a bit of a bugger hanging him from the eves, but I managed it with the help of a screwdriver and a wall plug in the back of his head. And I got really creative on the lawn, spelling out Happy Halloween in spare bones. There’s a few heads around and some severed limbs too. They always look good.

Well, can’t hang around here chatting all day. Got to go and hand out the candy. All part of my Halloween tradition.

* * *

Copyright © Cathy and Neil Davies 2007

You can browse Neil's website at : www.nwdavies.co.uk

A collection of Neil's short stories can be found inThe Midnight Hour, published by Screaming Dreams

http://www.nwdavies.co.uk




'Mummy' : Copyright © Stanley Morrison 2003

For more great artwork see : www.stanleymorrison.com

http://www.stanleymorrison.com

Pumpkin Night : 45

Pumpkin Night

by Gary McMahon

"Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark; and as thatnatural fear in children is increased with tales, so is the other."

-- Sir Francis Bacon, Essays [1625], "Of Death"

The pumpkin, faceless and eyeless, yet nonetheless intimidating, glared up at

Baxter as he sat down opposite with the knife. He'd cleared a space on the kitchen

table earlier in the day, putting away the old photographs, train tickets, and

receipts from restaurants they'd dined in over the years. Katy had kept these items

in a large cigar box under their bed, and he'd always mocked her for the unlikely

sentimentality of the act. But now that she was dead, he silently thanked her for

having such forethought.

He fingered the creased, leathery surface of the big pumpkin, imagining how it

might look when he was done. Every Halloween Katy had insisted upon the

ritual, something begun in her family when she was a little girl. A carved

pumpkin, the task undertaken by the man of the house; the seeds and pithy insides

scooped out into a bowl and used for soup the next day. Katy had always loved

Halloween, but not in a pathetic Goth-girl kind of way. She always said that it was

the only time of the year she felt part of something, and rather than ghosts and

goblins she felt the presence of human wrongdoing near at hand.

He placed the knife on the table, felt empty tears welling behind his eyes.

Rain spat at the windows, thunder rumbled overhead. The weather had taken a

turn for the worse only yesterday, as if gearing up for a night of spooks. Outside,

someone screamed; laughter; the sound of light footsteps running past his garden

gate but not stopping, never stopping here.

The festivities had already started; if he wasn't careful, Baxter would miss all the

fun.

The first cut was the deepest, shearing off the top of the pumpkin to reveal the

substantial material at its core. He sliced around the inner perimeter, levering

46 : Pumpkin Night

loose the bulk of the meat. With great care and dedication, he managed to transfer

it to the glass bowl. Juices spilled onto the tablecloth, and Baxter was careful not to

think about fresh blood dripping onto creased school uniforms.

Fifteen minutes later he had the hollowed-out pumpkin before him, waiting for

a face. He recalled her features perfectly, his memory having never failed to retain

the finer details of her scrunched-up nose, the freckles across her forehead, the way

her mouth tilted to one side when she smiled. Such a pretty face, one that fooled

everyone, and hiding behind it were such unconventional desires.

Hesitantly, he began to cut.

The eyeholes came first, allowing her to see as he carried out the rest of the

work. Then there was the mouth, a long, graceful gouge at the base of the skull.

She smiled; he blinked, taken by surprise. In his dreams, it had never been so easy.

Hands working like those of an Italian Master, he finished the sculpture. The

rain intensified, threatening to break the glass of the large kitchen window. More

children capered by in the night, their catcalls and yells of "Trick or treat!" like

music to his ears.

The pumpkin did not speak. It was simply a vegetable with wounds for a face.

But it smiled, and it waited, a noble and intimidating presence inhabiting it.

"I love you," said Baxter, standing and leaning towards the pumpkin. He

caressed it with steady hands, his fingers finding the furrows and crinkles which

felt nothing like Katy's smooth, smooth face. But it would do, this copy, this

effigy. It would serve a purpose far greater than himself.

Picking up the pumpkin, he carried it to the door. Undid the locks. Opened it to

let in the night. Voices carried on the busy air, promising a night of carnival, and

the sky lowered to meet him as he walked outside and placed Katy's pumpkin on

the porch handrail, the low flat roof protecting it from the rain.

He returned inside for the candle. When he placed it inside the carved head, his

hands at last began to shake. Lighting the wick was difficult, but he persevered. He

had no choice. Her hold on him, even now, was too strong to deny. For years he

had covered-up her crimes, until he had fallen in line with her and joined in the

games she played with the lost children, the ones who nobody ever missed. Before

long, he loved it as much as she did, and his old way of life had become nothing

Pumpkin Night : 47

but a rumour of normality.

The candle flame flickered, teased by the wind, but the rain could not reach it.

Baxter watched in awe as it flared, licking out of the eye holes to lightly singe the

side of the face. The pumpkin smiled again, and then its mouth twisted into a

parody of laughter. Still, there were no sounds, but he was almost glad of that. To

hear Katy's voice emerging from the pumpkin might be too much. Reality had

warped enough for now; anything more might push him over the edge into the

waiting abyss.

The pumpkin swivelled on its base to stare at him, the combination of lambent

candlelight and darkness lending it an obscene expression, as if it were filled with

hatred. Or lust.

Baxter turned away and went inside. He left the door unlocked and sat back

down at the kitchen table, resting his head in his hands.

Shortly, he turned on the radio. The Deejay was playing spooky tunes to

celebrate the occasion. Werewolves of London, Bela Lugosi's Dead, Red Right Hand...

songs about monsters and madmen. Baxter listened for a while, then turned off the

music, went to the sink, and filled the kettle. He thought about Katy as he waited

for the water to boil. The way her last days had been like some ridiculous horror

film, with her bedridden and coughing up blood, her thin face transforming into a

monstrous image of death.

She had not allowed him to send for a doctor, or even call an ambulance at the

last. She was far too afraid of what they might find in the cellar, under the shallow

layer of dirt. Evidence of the things they had done together, the games they had

played, must never be allowed into the public domain. Schoolteacher and school

caretaker, lovers, comrades in darkness, prisoners of their own desires: their

deeds, she always told him, must remain secret.

He sipped his tea and thought of better days, bloody nights, the slashed and

screaming faces of the children she had loved – the ones nobody else cared for, so

were easy to lure here, out of the way, to the house on the street where nobody

went. Not until Halloween, when all the streets of Scarbridge, and all the towns

beyond, were filled with the delicious screaming of children.

There was a sound from out on the porch, a wild thrumming, as if Katy's

pumpkin was vibrating, energy building inside, the blood lust rising, rising,

48 : Pumpkin Night

ready to burst in a display of savagery like nothing he'd ever seen before. The

pumpkin was absorbing the power of this special night, drinking in the desires of

small children, the thrill of proud parents, the very idea of spectres abroad in the

darkness.

It was time.

He went upstairs and into the bedroom, where she lay there on the bed, waiting

for him to come and fetch her. He picked her up off the old, worn quilt and carried

her downstairs, being careful not to damage her further as he negotiated the

narrow staircase. When he sat her down in the chair, she tipped to one side,

unsupported. The polythene rustled, but it remained in place.

Baxter went and got the pumpkin, making sure that the flame did not go out.

But it never would; he knew that now. The flame would burn forever, drawing

into its hungry form whatever badness stalked the night. It was like a magnet, that

flame, pulling towards itself all of human evil. It might be Halloween, but there

were no such things as monsters. Just people, and the things they did to each other.

He placed the pumpkin in the sink. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he set to work

on her body. He'd tied the polythene bag tightly around the stump of her neck,

sealing off the wound. The head had gone into the ice-filled bath, along with...the

other things, the things he could not yet bring himself to think about.

The smell hit him as soon as he removed the bag, a heavy meaty odour that was

not at all unpleasant. Just different from what he was used to.

Discarding the carrier bag, he reclaimed the pumpkin from the sink, oh-so

careful not to drop it on the concrete floor. He reached out and placed it on the nub

of Katy's neck, pressing down so that the tiny nubbin of spine that still peeked

above the sheared cartilage of her throat entered the body of the vegetable.

Grabbing it firmly on either side, a hand on each cheek, he twisted and pressed,

pressed and twisted, until the pumpkin sat neatly between Katy's shoulders,

locked tightly in place by the jutting few inches of bone.

The flame burned yellow, blazing eyes that tracked his movements as he stood

back to inspect his work.

Something shifted, the sound carrying across the silent room – an arm moving,

a shoulder shrugging, a hand flexing. Then Katy tilted her new head from side to

Pumpkin Night : 49

side, as if adjusting to the fit.

Baxter walked round the table and stood by her side, just as he always had,

hands by his sides, eyes wide and aching. He watched as she shook off the webs of

her long sleep and slowly began to stand.

Baxter stood his ground when she leaned in to embrace him, fumbling her loose

arms around his shoulders, that great carved head looming large in his vision,

blotting out the rest of the room. She smelled sickly-sweet; her breath was tainted.

Her long, thin fingers raked at his shoulder blades, seeking purchase, looking for

the familiar gaps in his armour, the chinks and crevices she had so painstakingly

crafted over the years they'd spent together.

When at last she pulled away, taking a short shuffling step back towards the

chair, her mouth was agape. The candle burned within, lighting up the

orange-dark interior of her new head. She vomited an orangey pulp onto his chest,

staining him. The pumpkin seeds followed – hundreds of them, rotten and

oversized and surging from between her knife-cut lips to spatter on the floor in a

long shiver of putrescence. And finally, there was blood. So much blood.

When the stagnant cascade came to an end, he took her by the arm and led her to

the door, guiding her outside and onto the wooden-decked porch, where he sat her

in the ratty wicker chair she loved so much. He left her there, staring out into the

silvery veil of the rain, breathing in the shadows and the things that hid within

them. Was that a chuckle he heard, squeezing from her still-wet mouth? Maybe,

for a moment, but then it was drowned out by the sound of trick-or-treaters

sprinting past in the drizzly lane.

He left the door ajar, so that he might keep an eye on her. Then, still shaking

slightly, he opened the refrigerator door. On the middle shelf, sitting in a shallow

bowl, were the other pumpkins, the smaller ones, each the size of a tennis ball. He

took one in each hand, unconsciously weighing them, and headed for the hall,

climbing the stairs at an even pace, his hands becoming steady once more.

In the small room at the back of the house, on a chipboard cabinet beneath the

shuttered window, there sat a large plastic Tupperware dish. Standing over it, eyes

cast downward and unable to lift his gaze to look inside, Baxter heard the faint

rustle of polythene. He stood and listened, his eyes glazed with tears not of

sorrow but of loss, of grief, and so much more than he could even begin to fathom.

50 : Pumpkin Night

Katy had died in childbirth. Now that she was back, the twins would want to

join their mother, and the games they would play together promised to be

spectacular.

* * *

Copyright © Gary McMahon 2007

Keep up with the latest news from Gary at : www.garymcmahon.com

- C O M I N G S O O N -

Different Skinsby Gary McMahon

Double novella. Twice the darkness!

featuring

Even The Dead Die&

In The Skin

Due to be published in 2008 by Screaming Dreams

Cover artwork by Vincent Chong

http://www.garymcmahon.com



Spooky Art Gallery : 51

'Death' : Copyright © Jason Beam 2006

Model : Anita Star

You can view more of Jason's work at : www.jasonbeamstudios.com

http://www.jasonbeamstudios.com

52 : Journal Entry

Journal EntryChillingham Castle

by Allyson Bird

October 29 th 2005

It has been a cold October morning, my birthday and what better time to write down the first entry in my journal. I have picked out Chillingham Castle in Northumberland to stay in, for my celebration because it is extremely beautiful from the outside and I had always wanted to live for a few days in a castle. I have been brought up on Walter Scott, Tennyson and tales of romance and chivalry, placing emphasis on the Pre-Raphaelites at Salford University. I didn’t pay any attention to the little ghost stories that I have heard about the castle and thought that I would just keep my little, six year old daughter away from the torture chamber and everything would be fine. How wrong could I be?

With my daughter, Janie and my husband, Malcolm, I am here in the Courtyard Apartment of the Victorian wing. I was a little disappointed not to stay in the heart of the castle which has been the home of the Earls Grey since the thirteenth century but it is too expensive. I think now that it is a blessing in disguise. Initially everything has been fine, we will stay for two nights leaving on Halloween and I have brought some white tulips and scented candles to make the rooms look and smell lived in. I did feel a little nervous when I had to go to the Honda for a few things. Our rooms are near to the Landseer apartment that is occupied but the voices of the occupants seem very far away and to add to the feeling of isolation there is a long, dark corridor that leads to the large, oak backdoor. The walls of this corridor are adorned with military memorabilia and old Victorian cradles line the sides of the dimly lit passage. One cradle stands out from the rest. It is covered with an old lace veil, that seems to hover over it but on closer inspection it is fixed to a thin wooden rod at the head of the cradle. It took a few trips to bring things from the car but I could never bring myself to look into that cradle as I passed.

The two bedrooms are adorned with beautiful, red flowered throws and deep crimson, velvet curtains. It all looks so inviting. Janie will sleep in the room opposite ours and on our arrival, today; she almost disappeared up the large, empty chimney that lay cobwebbed and open to the elements. I could just see the bottom half of her body as she ducked into it and the echo of her voice as she called my name. Nothing scares Janie, she just dives right in.

Journal Entry : 53

Tonight after Janie has settled down to sleep I curl up to write this journal, cosy and satisfied, amongst the opulent cushions of a high backed settee. My husband is snoozing in an arm chair in front of the only open fire. On an impulse, an hour ago, I decided to explore the contents of the many cupboards and drawers of the main living room. In an old wooden cabinet I found a visitor’s book and settled down to read. I am familiar with the television tomfoolery, “Most Haunted” and hardly ever watch it. The affable hand of one writer in the visitor’s book, mentions it in passing but what disturbs me is that the book appears to be compiled of diary entries of every ghost hunter that has ever visited the castle. There, in that old, well thumbed volume are accounts of orbs hurling themselves across rooms and the crying of hysterical children in the night but I could not stop reading. Janie is fast asleep in the bedroom below the living room, with no lights on and not a care in the world. My husband has just woken from his nap and we have decided to make an early night of it and I will go to bed soon, fortified by a bottle of good, red wine but fearing the shadows of unfamiliar rooms.

October 30 th

It is the morning. I have decided to pick up my journal and I write to say that I awoke at 3.a.m. I drew the curtain slightly. It was very frosty outside, well below freezing, as I could see sheets of ice in the moonlight. I let go of the curtain abruptly when I heard the whimper of a child’s voice. Slightly anxious I checked on Janie. She was fast asleep so I dashed back across the dim corridor between her room and mine. Every shadow was a threat, every creak in the castle a warning. I have not slept at all, even with the bedroom table light on beside me. I had simply stared at my castle – walled room and wondered what on earth had possessed me to book the place for two nights. Janie slept in darkness all night and I asked her, over breakfast of croissant and coffee, (milk for Janie) how she had liked her cosy, red room. Janie replied quite calmly that she had played with the little dog for a while before it decided to go off - through the wall. Well we certainly didn’t have a little dog but Janie was prone to playing with all sorts of invisible friends so I left it at that.

The day has gone well enough. We had lunch in The Tankerville Arms in the village and stayed out of the cold. I was dreading going back to the castle apartment so we walked around the Italian garden and down to the gatekeeper’s lodge on the west side of the grounds. I wish we hadn’t. The gatekeeper is called William Brown and has worked for the owners of the castle, the Wakefield family for twenty years. He told us about the lake. Apparently after a bloody and most vicious attack by the Scots, the then Earl, slaughtered hundreds of soldiers and threw them into the lake to rot. When the lake was dredged in the late 20th century hundreds of bones and skulls were found, giving credibility to the story.

54 : Journal Entry

Janie played with William’s golden retriever whilst my husband, laughed at the scowl on my face and decided to ask the man if he had any more horrible stories. The gatekeeper looked at me momentarily and then began his tale. He said that there was one night in February, a few years ago, when he heard his gatehouse bell ring. Before opening the door he drew the curtain at the window to one side, to see who was there. He looked out from the upper window and saw a hooded lady, wearing a long, dark cloak and holding a letter in her hand. He could not see her face as she had turned slightly away from him. It was dark but by the moonlight he definitely saw that it was a letter she was holding. He went down the stone steps and opened the door. There was no one out there. At this Malcolm laughed a little more, William hesitated but I urged him on. He said that he didn’t think much of it until two days later when he went to see the other caretaker, Annie Harding, who lived at the east gatehouse. William stated that Annie thought for a short while and then said that it must have been the lady Margaret; she comes almost every year to deliver a valentine to the castle. Her fiancée was killed in a battle but she has returned to look for him, many times. That was the 14th February. Of course I knew that before the gatekeeper confirmed it and with a snigger and a shake of the hand my husband walked off to find Janie and the dog.

Now this charming little story didn’t scare me at all but on my way back to the apartment in the twilight I tried to think about anything other than ghosts. Once back in the apartment, Janie settled to play with her toys and Malcolm began to study a plan of the castle. He proudly announced that on the other side of our very thick bedroom wall lay the torture chamber. That night I could not sleep at first but I eventually fell into a fitful slumber until awoken by my husband, turning in his sleep. I was then sentenced, to stare at the ceiling with all its half formed faces, for the rest of the night.

October 31 st - Halloween but this journal entry was written a few days later.

My first intention had been to stay for Halloween but Malcolm had to prepare some papers for a business trip the next day, so we were to leave Chillingham at around 4.p.m. I saved the castle tour for the last day of our little holiday. We packed our bags and put them in the Honda, gave our apartment keys in and set off to join the guide for a look around the castle. The elderly guide, as old and faded as the castle furnishings, led us up the stone steps to a very unusual room at the top of a tower. He told us that in 1255, Edward I, Longshanks, had stayed there on the way to vanquish William Wallace, Braveheart. The Edward I room was dirty, eerie and cobwebbed, as if Edward I had just left it. There were bats living up there too.

The chapel was an equally inhospitable place and the guide told us of his

Journal Entry : 55

experience there, when one dark evening, he had tried to light a candle for a tour he was about to conduct. He was alone at that point and the candle kept going out. The guide jokingly cried out, “stop that” and he then felt a cold slap across the forehead which terrified him so, that it was six weeks before he went back into the chapel.

A short blonde lad was in the party that toured the castle. He said that he was a medium and he was a real pain. He pronounced that he saw a blue boy with bloody fingernails and that was because he had tried to claw his way out from behind a wall, (this story was in the castle guide book.) My husband was moved to more stifled laughter and the medium gave him an indignant stare.

The Great Hall was a marvel. A long oak table lay before us, covered with rusty swords, helmets strewn around like remnants of the last beheadings and various contraptions which had escaped the torture chamber. Enormous suits of armour stood in each corner. They looked too large for the small stature of men of the period, in which they would have been worn.

It was time for the torture chamber tour. Janie begged and begged to go but I resolutely said no. Malcolm seemed in a rush to get off so I hurried her out of the castle and then she demanded to say goodbye to all her new found friends. Once in the car I breathed a sigh of relief, happy that I wasn’t staying on Halloween of all nights and then I looked across at my husband’s pale face. All he would tell me was that what he saw from the window of that Great Hall had changed his perception of reality for ever. His hands were still shaking as he steered the car up the drive and away from Chillingham Castle and this from a man who believed in nothing but that which science could lay before him. From that window of the Great Hall he told me he had seen a straggling band of soldiers, haul themselves up, out of the lake, in spite of their heavy armour and walk unfalteringly towards the castle, as if they were now searching for their long lost comrades.

* * *

Copyright © Allyson Bird 2007

Allyson's website can be found at : www.birdsnest.me.uk

Keep watching for her short story collection Bull Running For Girlswhich is due to be published by Screaming Dreams in 2008

Cover artwork by Vincent Chong

http://www.birdsnest.me.uk




'Mysteries of the Supernatural' : Copyright © David A. Hardy 1996

See more of David's wonderful artwork at : www.astroart.org

Also check out all the fantastic books he has written and illustrated ...

http://www.astroart.org

Here We Go Again : 57

Here We Go Again

by Bob Lock

I was born in the last few minutes of All Hallows Eve, or as many now call it, Halloween. I'm old-fashioned though and prefer to use the original terminology. It was a difficult birth–usually they all are. I try my damnedest to hang it out, to prolong the labour, just to get to All Hallow's Day or Saints' Day, the day after. But it never works it. Probably it will never work, but it's in my nature to try as it's in my nature to do all the other things that I do.

The mother survived this time. No big deal, some have survived before, and

some haven't. Perhaps those who did survive wished that they hadn't. When I

dwell on it I suppose most of them have toyed with that wish one time or another.

Once again I knew what was going on moments after the conception. Immediately,

upon fusion of the gametes even. When the sperm fused with the ovum. Even

before you could classify me as an embryo it all came back to me and I resigned

myself to nine months of utter boredom whilst waiting for the birth. As usual I

spent the time scheming. Upon reflection it's what I always do, trying to find some

way to prolong the pregnancy. Not by much, on times I've been very close to

achieving my goal, been seconds away from a non-All Hallows Eve birth but try

as I might my endeavours always fail. Perhaps I should resign myself to my fate

but when I ruminate on this possibility it isn't long before I admit that resignation

isn't a word I consider to be in my vocabulary. Patience, yes, patience is a word

that I use a lot. I have an abundance of patience, enough for eternity, if that is what

it takes. Anyway, I've only got until feeding time and then I'll have the peaceful

bliss of ignorance once more– until my next conception of course. Yet again that is

something I puzzle over and pick apart whilst the long, dark, boring nine months

drag by. How can I retain my memories this time? However, I know that this is an

old idea, one I've contemplated many times before. All my memories, and I do

mean ALL my memories are intact whilst I'm in the womb and also during the

first few hours of birth, right up until the time the teat is put into my mouth or

upon rare occasions– when I've been forced to feed intravenously through a vein

in my hand. Or they might even resort to gavage–which means they'll insert a

tube up my nose or down my throat and the milk or formula is introduced into

my stomach that way. Whatever happens I always end up feeding and forgetting.

Through subtle coercion I've even managed to get some of the mothers who bear

me to give me my true name in the hope that when I grow I will realise my full

potential, but so far it hasn't worked and that can be said about all the other

58 : Here We Go Again

triggers for my memory that I've attempted through the ages.

The neon light above my crib is harsh on my newborn eyes, I cry continuously;

scream until I'm red in the face with anger. It's just a taste of what is to come. Even

though I'll not remember any of my other pasts the future seems already mapped

out for me. As I've said, it's in my nature.

I'll be an unpleasant baby, prone to keeping my parents awake all night with

my constant crying and whinging until through lack of sleep they'll resort to

violence against each other, both verbal and physical, some of it might even be

directed at me.

As a toddler I'll be sickly, attention-seeking and the first glimmers of a darkness

within will manifest itself. Perhaps my parents will dwell upon the fact I was born

on such a foreboding day and put it down to that.

By the time I attend school I'll have already tortured to death some small pet or

other that I'd been given as a birthday present. Usually they'll refrain from having

anymore animals in the house and question whether or not it would be a good

idea to have anymore children. More often than not I'm an only child. Pity the

parents who think a younger brother or sister would perhaps calm me down.

My years as a youth are my best, well; I consider them my best, my victims will

think otherwise no doubt.

In my old age I'm the person you see who misuses the wealth, power and

influence he has accrued over his many years and in the twilight of my life I'm the

angry, frail wraith that clings to the last vestiges of existence by any means

possible–and at any cost, if it be financial or otherwise. Riches can procure you

anything, a kidney, a lung, a heart whether they are willingly donated… or not.

The future brings the promise of longevity. I wonder if that will ultimately

break this circle of repetition. Will I one day awaken to a future of immortality–

but of another kind? One in which I will not have to tread the same well-worn

stairs to eternity with all previous memories extinguished but will retain them all

and have an open book in which to write a boundless story of evil and corruption

until the end of time. My name is Samael, and–as you have probably worked out

by now–I am a Fallen Angel doomed to be born, live, die and be reborn again

until the stars themselves wink out of existence.

Here We Go Again : 59

It's almost midnight and the nurse is taking me for my first feed. Almost time

for me to forget my past– yet again. As the alluring smell of mother's milk assails

my senses and I'm brought forward to the breast I hear the mother's voice.

'There, drink your first drink… my little angel.'

And I think… here we go again…

* * *

Copyright © Bob Lock 2007

To find out more visit the author's website at : www.scifi-tales.com

Don't forget to buy a copy of Bob's debut novel ...Flames Of Herakleitos - published by Screaming Dreams

http://www.scifi-tales.com




'Suffering' : Copyright © Vincent Chong 2003

Many thanks to Vinny for also providing the fantastic cover on this issue!

You can follow his amazing artwork at : www.vincentchong-art.co.uk

http://www.vincentchong-art.co.uk

The Seasonal Witch : 61

The Seasonal Witch

by Rachel Kendall

Two figures of the same substance but taken from a different mould; bearing a likeness of texture, half-baked and still a little warm. A mother and daughter whose looks could not be further cast from two shores, but whose grave intentions were twinned. Elizabeth, the mother, bearer of child and beast; ugly as sin with a roving eye. She had nurtured her three children, brought each one to her breast, fed them them her own liquid core. But it was only the daughter Alizon who had drawn blood from those two bolts of flesh. She had sucked so hard on her greed that had she any teeth she would have bitten the nipple right off, said Elizabeth. And from that day forth the mother had taken a dislike to her daughter, who had blossomed into a beautiful swan, a pauper's princess, while she herself was shrinking into the shadow of a fairytale hag. Far from these simple aesthetics mother and daughter were one and the same. They fed on other peoples' anger and shared a bitter broth.

In these superstitious times, when babies were thrust violently out onto a bed of discontentment and dead souls silently searched for a vessel in the dark of every night, no one could escape the gnarled finger of guilt. One day a woman may be made to walk the cobbled streets clad in chains for her sin of adultery and then called a whore. The next a man may have his neck broken in the noose for the act of lycanthropy and the blood on his beard barely dried from the young girl's throat he had recently ripped out.

Elizabeth and Alizon did not go unnoticed. The whole family, siblings and grandmother Demdike, were under observation from the local gossips. But it was Elizabeth's name which fell fresh from their mouths. Being so very poor and of a tempestuous nature, her name just seemed to catch in the cracks of their lips, roll around ulcerated tongues and stick to blackened teeth. If the butter was spoiled or baby Anne fell asleep and did not wake, it must be the fault of Elizabeth Davies. If John Turnpike failed to arouse his member upon the gaze of his succubae wife Ursula, naked and trembling, it was because Ursula had forgotten to return Elizabeth's spindle, borrowed the week before.

The bond between Alizon and her mother had been shared for nigh on sixteen years. A bond based on an intense dislike and a mental dependency made clear by their behaviour towards one another, which was simply a mirror image. A curse and abnegation were their formal salutations. But together they were part of a puzzle which as a whole made up a small community.

62 : The Seasonal Witch

There were distractions. Alizon had a friend, Mary, someone she could fall out with when she felt the need. And Elizabeth had Ball. Since the day she had produced milk and had stopped bleeding nine months since, she had found a mouth to feed, a physical dependent. When her own children had grown too old or simply too vicious she had taken every opportunity to attach another's new-born to her sagging teat. When the mother is away, the crone will play. But once she was caught, the baby exhaled its last a few hours later, and this mother was no longer invited to visit either labouring women or those awash with fresh amniotic fluid.

And shortly after this, Ball crossed her path. On four padded paws he followed her home and instantly latched his velvety muzzle onto her breast where he was rocked back and forth in the arms of an anti-mother.

There were others, women who knew of this familiar, who knew of the clay figures, the Wolfsbane and Belladonna remedies. There would be get-togethers. The women, rowdy, raucous, bestial women from around Lancaster would come over, broomstick in hand. Talk of a play by Middleton where the women had cooed their way through each jolting scene. Now to be replayed over and over in slow Jacobean motion to music they could dance to. Music which Alizon could not hear. From a darkened corner she would watch between long lashes and spider webs as the women began an incantation. Between two palms she rolled a doll, the symbol of a past quite different from that of her friends. She would sigh and watch as the women undressed to fill the room with the crinkled flesh and stench of a dozen harpies, who never bathed and who still wore the perfume of their husbands' semen in their hair and the imprint of his hand on their thigh. A potion was collected from the hearth and the women would howl and inhale through flared nostrils as they lathered its magical properties onto the handles of the brooms. As their laughter turned into screams of ecstasy with each penetration of the handle into the darkened portals of withered flesh, Alizon chuckled and backed out of the house.

The texture and colour of her music was velvet mulled wine, warm and enveloping, a lining to a fantasy. Another mother may give the child the dream. But the anti-mother, the antithesis would not allow it. A child could have no interplay, only a doting, yearning, craving, to follow in the footsteps of a Mother Superior. Without this there would simply be ignorance and detachment. And so those desires became like coils of apostasy, barbed wire springs that poked metal fingers through velvet undertones. So, she took her song elsewhere, buried it in the bosom of someone stronger, cushioned it in the throes of a sentient flesh.

"Devil take me, I'm flying!" A woman's voice permeated the cold air outside.

The Seasonal Witch : 63

Hallucinogens, old glamour trick. The women were all lunatics who would one

day hang. And Alizon would personally like to slip the noose around each

withered neck.

A clown painted face of wood and strands of her own flaxen hair. The doll was always smiling. The white dress torn but still a perfect gift. A gift from the heart, a gift from her soul. Alizon rambled slowly towards the dark of the forest where her highest bidder and most fallen angel awaited her. Who needed a mother when a father could be found? She would kiss the gem between his buttocks and sell herself flesh and soul for the sake of one simple loving gesture.

* * *

Copyright © Rachel Kendall 2000

This story was first published in 'Dead Things'

Rachel writes horror/fantasy short stories and her work has previously been

published in Nemonymous, Connections, Darkness Rising 5, In Blood We Lust and

Whispers of Wickedness. She edits the literary zine Sein und Werden and has also

published a novella by Mark Howard Jones, which is available from ISMs Press.

Her story Scapegoat will be featured in the SD anthology, Dead Ends.

Cover artwork : Copyright © Anne Stokes 2007

http://www.kissthewitch.co.uk/seinundwerden/sein.html



http://www.kissthewitch.co.uk/ismspress.html

http://www.kissthewitch.co.uk/ismspress.html


'Weird Sisters' : Copyright © Les Edwards 2000

Don't miss the fabulous art galleries at : www.lesedwards.com

and the Edward Miller work at : www.edwardmiller.co.uk

http://www.lesedwards.com

http://www.edwardmiller.co.uk

Owlrain: 65

Owlrain

by Mark Howard Jones

Almost here, almost here, thank the Gods.

He lay in the ivy between two forgotten gravestones in the far corner of the

burial ground, next to the park. An owl mocked him from a nearby tree as he lay

still, feeling the rain wash the filth further down into his fur. Fitting, he thought.

This was owlrain, after all.

This time of year was easiest for him. All he had to do was curl himself among

some roots, stretch himself up against a tree or lie still among the brown and

yellow leaves that had fallen. Then their eyes would not see his pale golden fur or

his long brown snout and they would not trouble him.

When the sun had been high, in the middle of the year, he had hidden in a

remnant of the old forest. Afraid to venture out, he was certain he'd be spotted and

hunted for sport. While he could easily destroy a number of them, he would

eventually be overwhelmed. Only the rats seemed to breed in greater numbers

than them.

Now it was late and the cemetery was deserted. He stood and placed his

fingered paw against the wet bark of the tree. The owl blinked down at him,

apprehensive, before taking flight.

Curiosity had brought him here, up through the gateway on this night 12 months ago. He'd longed to know what they were really like. He'd heard the stories, seen drawings of them and had always been wary of them since childhood. But he had to see them for himself.

He'd assumed they weren't as bad as the stories made out. Not monsters, just

animals like him. His tears mixed with the rain forming tiny rivulets in his fur.

How could he have been so foolish?

Them. They were the stuff of nightmare. Them with their numerous

pink-skinned pups and their noise and their breeding and spreading and their

swallowing up of everything they touched. He shuddered when he thought of

them but now he was so close. He could almost smell home, even above the stink

66 : Owlrain

of the ruined air.

When he arrived, he'd assumed there would be gateways everywhere, as he'd

been told by the old tales, but the land was dry. Drained by them so they could

spread further; no place for marsh or wetland.

But near here, in the park, there was a pool that they kept for their pleasure, as if

to taunt the land with their cruel ways. On Samhain eve the gateway would open.

All he had to do was slip into the cool, welcoming water and he would soon be

home.

Their ancestors had known of the gateways and had cared for them, sinking

offerings, sometimes live ones, to the people of the lands below and beyond.

Occasionally one of them would cross over. They were never harmed but they

were made to forget, only wisps and fragments returning to them in dreams. The

homelands beneath the hill, the happy lands, must be protected.

And once back there he would never yearn to see the overland again, he

promised himself that. And he would tell his tales of the terrible things he'd seen.

Creatures in boxes everywhere, locking themselves away for fear of the gaze of

others, each imprisoned in their own fears.

Thankfully enough of the old beliefs still existed in their modern ways for the

passages between the places, the portals to the happy lands, to be opened. He'd

seen in one of their discarded parchments crude representations of his sisters and

one of his brothers, even of his mother. Though they could never know how

splendid his family really looked in their moon-fed nocturnal finery.

The time in the stars was the same but now they called it All Hallow's, in

honour of a new religion that exalted suffering and denial. Once he had tried to

peer inside one of their new houses of worship but the images of pain inside had

made his fur stand on end. Their ancestors were so much wiser than they are, he

thought.

He clambered over the cold wet stone of the wall and slipped down the other

side. The park was empty, locked away from their hands and their eyes. He felt at

last he could stretch himself to his full height, luxuriating as he stretched to touch

near the top of a fine old tree, shaking free a shower of raindrops.

He lay on his belly and slid across the ground to the water. Looking into the

Owlrain: 67

pool, he whimpered to himself, as a wretched thing stared back up at him. His

family would never recognise him with his filthy, matted fur and hanging pelt,

loose for want of food. These creatures missed their pups too easily and he had

never had enough to eat in the last year, surviving on smaller prey.

The moon reflected full in the water as the clouds cleared. He bayed at it

gratefully before slipping his forelimbs into the cold liquid, shattering the bright

moon and sending it scurrying away on a thousand ripples.

But as his long ears sank below the water, he could feel something wasn't right.

He should have felt it by now; he should be on his way. Where was the gateway to

home?

His outstretched paws found only the silty bottom of the pool. There was no

light inside his mind to show the way home, as there usually was. Had the

overlanders finally forgotten so many of the old ways that there was no energy

left to open the way?

He returned to the surface, filling his great lungs with air before diving once

more. The time was right, as was the place, but the gate was not opening. He was

exiled in this awful place.

He circled beneath the water, desperate to feel the surge in his muscles that

would mean he was being pulled through the passageway.

For one last time, he thought of his sister and lover Nerrhia, waiting for him for

all this time. He felt the pain of knowing he would never run with her or lie with

her again and his soul seemed to fill with dust.

Another year in this dreadful place was something he could not bear. There was

only one path for him, he thought, as he gratefully gulped lungfuls of water,

waiting for the darkness to fill him up, to take him home.

* * *

Copyright © Mark Howard Jones 2007

Mark's story Demolition Work will appear in the SD anthology, Dead Ends.


'Ripper's End' : Copyright © Paul Mudie 2007

You can find more of his work at : pmoodie.deviantart.com

Paul will also be commissioned for future SD book covers, so keep watching!

http://pmoodie.deviantart.com/gallery/

When Children Come Calling : 69

When Children Come CallingA Halloween Suite

by Peter Tennant

FIRST MOVEMENT: THE RITE OF SAGISTUS

It was the night of Halloween when all the wild things come out to play and the

curtain between the worlds is at its most thin.

It was the night of Halloween and for the first time in thirty years the stars and

planets were in perfect alignment for the Rite of Sagistus.

Abner Hewitt had spent nearly all of those thirty years preparing for this night.

He had lived alone in the house on the hill just outside of town that had been in

his family for twelve generations, shunning all human contact except for the man

who came once a week with his groceries and the lawyer who handled all his

affairs and visited once a month. He had purified his body with a strict diet and

exercise regimen, flagellating himself daily until his skin was hard as leather. He

had studied the ancient texts in his grandfather's library, training his tongue to

their barbaric speech and memorising liturgies that would have blasted the soul of

a man less well prepared.

It was the night of Halloween and Abner Hewitt was ready to perform the Rite

of Sagistus, to breach the veil between the worlds and summon up a demonic

army to serve his will.

As dark crept over the land, on the green slope in front of his house Abner

traced with rock salt the great circle of the summoning, casting the lesser spells

and enchantments that would keep him safe within its circumference. He threw

back the cowl from his head and howled at the moon, chanting words not meant

for human ears, his bare arms stretching high above, hands clutching at the air

overhead as if he meant to wrestle something tangible from the grip of the night.

Abner cut his arms with an obsidian knife that had once been used by an Aztec

priest to carve human flesh, his blood the sacrificial offering that would bind the

demons to his will, and cast sulphur on a lit brazier, watched it flare up as he

danced widdershins in the light of the full moon.

70 : When Children Come Calling

There came a moment when, as time dragged on and he came close to

exhaustion, Abner's faith faltered, but then he became aware of movement outside

the circle, figures that were not human in the distance, moving up from the road

that led into town, and his self-belief was bolstered such that he could barely

contain his glee, but knew that it would not serve him well to appear too eager as

the demons would seize on any show of weakness.

Abner could not tell their number. They were legion.

One was nothing more than a white, amorphous mass that seemed to float just

above the ground. Another had a face like a mask in which red eyes glowed like

coals and clutched a blade that had been dipped in blood. A third was female, the

body of an innocent young girl draped in gossamer threads, but with a terrible

knowledge in her eyes. Their leader had a skull for a head and carried a scythe,

sweeping it in front of him as he came, the blade cutting the air with a mighty

whoosh.

"Demons of the night I command you," bellowed Abner, in that strange tongue

he had spent years mastering.

And then something happened that should not have been possible. The lead

demon crossed the circle and advanced upon him, still swinging its mighty scythe,

like some remorseless engine of death and damnation.

Abner stumbled backwards. His hand touched the brazier and sent it flying, hot

coals scorching naked flesh but he did not feel the pain, so great was his fear.

Frantic he traced the sigil of Sagistus in the air, but on the demon came, relentless,

unstoppable.

Aghast, Abner turned and fled into the night, sure that his plans had gone awry

and all the hounds of hell were baying at his heels.

* * *

Tommy pulled the plastic skull mask away from his head, wiped a stray hair back

from his eyes.

"Sheesh! What was the guy's problem? All we wanted was some lousy candy."

"I told you coming out here was a waste of time," said Susie, the ghost at his


side, her voice muffled by the white sheet she wore.

Tommy shrugged. "I guess. Let's get back to town before all the goodies are

gone."

Billy was tugging at his costume, finger eagerly jabbing in the direction of the

forest. Tommy stared in the direction of the pointing digit. More kids were

milling at the edge of the treeline.

"Seems like we weren't the only ones to think of coming out here." He squinted

hard at the fast approaching newcomers. "Wow! Their costumes are amazing."

SECOND MOVEMENT: THE MONSTERS

They were about to get ready for bed when the knock at the door came, at least an

hour after all the other children had finished their rounds. Simon Peabody looked

at his wife Ethel and smiled. She picked up the big bowl that was still a third full

of candy and followed him through into the hall. They could make out shadowy

figures huddled together on the porch.

All night long there had been a procession of zombies, witches, vampires and

other assorted monsters to the Peabody residence and Ethel, who mourned her

own lost children, gone off to college or with homes of their own, had been happy

to send them away with their tiny hands filled with chocolate and other treats, but

these children were different. These children were…

"People," screeched Simon Peabody. "You're people."

Not just any people either. The boy directly in front of him was dressed in a

grey suit, with white shirt and tie, on his head a George W Bush mask. Standing to

his left was Condoleezza Rice, all designer chic and attitude, and to the right a

bloated, smug Dick Cheney look-alike. Hovering in the background was Osama

bin Laden, with bristling beard and turban, another child masquerading as that

British Prime Minister whose name nobody could remember now, and a third who

looked just like a TV evangelist who'd got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Why on earth are you wearing such ridiculous get-ups?" demanded Simon, the

indignation obvious in his voice. "Why aren't you dressed as zombies and

vampires and monsters, like all the other kids?"

72 : When Children Come Calling

"Our mother says people like these are the real monsters," answered the George

W Bush look-alike. "The monsters just want to be left alone to get on with their

lives, but people like these won't leave anyone alone."

Simon frowned. It sounded like something the child had learned by rote. It was

sickening, parents bringing their children up to spout political rhetoric, making a

travesty of what should have been an innocent celebration. And as a staunch

Republican he took it very personally.

Ethel, who had never voted Republican in her life, though there was no reason

for Simon to know that, stepped in front of her husband before he could make a

scene.

"Well now dear, I'm sure your mother is very wise." She held out the bowl.

"Why don't you and your little friends have some candy?"

* * *

Mother was waiting for them just inside the cemetery gates.

"Did you have a nice time, darlings?"

"The people were mean," said Sebastian. "Most of them wouldn't give us

anything."

"I don't think they liked our costumes," said Matilda.

"Well now," said mother, "people can be mean. They get scared of the things

they don't understand, and they act mean to hide the fact that they're scared."

"How stupid," said Sebastian.

"Stupid," repeated Matilda.

Mother smiled. "Now then, why don't you all take off those horrible costumes

and go down into the crypt. Father will be home soon and I want you all safely

tucked up in your coffins so that he can give you a good morning kiss."


THIRD MOVEMENT: LOST BOYS

There were four of them. The first one had a length of wire round his throat, rusty

stains that could have been dried blood garlanding the metal where it had been

pulled so tight as to break the skin. The second's shirt was all torn and bloody, a

gaping knife wound in his sparrow chest, and purple marks on his throat where

strong hands had crushed the windpipe. The third looked as if he wanted to go to

the toilet badly, shuffling from one foot to another, head twisted at an unnatural

angle. The fourth just stood at the back and looked up at the sky, as if he was

trying to count the stars, but blood trails ran down from both his ruined eye

sockets where the thumbs had pushed in.

Each of them held tiny hands out in supplication.

"Go away," said John. "I want you all to just go away."

And shut the door.

He knuckled his eyes and then went back into the living room where Elizabeth

was watching television with the sound off.

"Who was that dear?" she asked.

"Just some children. Trick or treating."

She frowned. "You'd think their parents would know better. Letting them out at

night, with all that's been going on."

"It's terrible," he agreed, and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Simply terrible."

"There's a fourth little boy gone missing," she said, and started to cry, while he

made soothing noises and his strong, tender hands rubbed the back of her neck,

his thumbs pushing down on the pressure points, knowing exactly where to touch,

how to take away all the pain that came with simply living.

* * *

Copyright © Peter Tennant 2007

Peter is the non-fiction editor for Whispers of Wickedness

http://www.ookami.co.uk




'Nymphetamine' : Copyright © Niki Browning at SkyeWolf Images 2006

Browse the galleries at : www.skyewolfimages.com

* * *

H A P P Y H A L L O W E E N !

to all Estronomicon readers

http://www.skyewolfimages.com

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