Halloween Flash Fiction Stories - first batch!

The 20-20 Club recently held a Halloween Flash Fiction competition, and this produced some excellent stories. I was astonished by how varied they all were and I thought they would be perfect for the blog. I've put a selection below, and there will be a second selection in a few weeks' time. Enjoy! 

Motorpsycho Nightmare

by Ron Hardwick

 

‘I bet you don’t have any spooky halloween stories, granda,’ young Harris asked me.

‘Oh yes I do, son.’

‘Tell me.’

Harris settled on my knee and looked up expectantly.

‘I was a salesman, you know - bathroom fittings. One Halloween I was driving along a country road when my car broke down. It was an awful night - the fog was so thick it was like walking through wet dishcloths and the cold made me shiver like an aspen. At length, I came upon a house, on its own, up a long driveway.’

‘Was it haunted, granda?’

‘I’ll say it was haunted. I knocked on the door and an old butler invited me in. “Come in, young sir, out of the fog.”’

‘Had he risen from the dead, Granda?’

‘No, Harris, but they’d just dug his grave outside. Well, son, I’d never seen a place like it. The walls were running with damp, there were cobwebs on all the cornices and the carpets were black with mould.’

‘Did the place smell, Grandad?’

‘Like an ancient crypt in the oldest graveyard in the world.’

‘What happened next?’

‘The ancient butler led me into the drawing-room. You’ll never guess what I saw.’

‘What did you see, Grandad?’

‘A witch. Old, dressed in black, back twisted like a corkscrew, a snoot like Concorde’s and more warts than a toad.’

‘Did she have a broomstick?’

‘Yes. It was standing by the door, next to her black cat, which snarled and spat at me as I entered the room. The witch asked me to stay to dinner - newts’ legs, fricassee of rat, followed by deadly nightshade and custard.’

‘What did you do, Grandad?’

‘What any other sane person would have done - legged it out of there and ran four miles to the nearest hotel.’

 

 

 

Accidental Death

by Louise Wilford

 

‘Bit of all right, this, sir!’

‘How the other half live, Bridges.’

It was a routine case. Homeowner electrocuted in his living room. Accidental death. Sad, but we see this sort of thing all the time.

The facts that made it exceptional were that it happened on Halloween, the dead man was Miles Tessell, CEO of the biggest IT company in Cambridge, and the person who found him next morning was his new, much younger, glamour-model girlfriend, Tricia Makepeace.

The fallen lamp that had killed Mr Tessell lay beside his corpse on the Turkish rug.

Ms Makepeace was sitting on the upmarket sofa, sniffling into a tissue, still drop-dead gorgeous. When my old woman cries, her face looks like she’s done four rounds with Tyson Fury, but Ms Makepeace’s mascara was unsmudged.

Detective Bridges could barely keep his eyes off her – at least when he wasn’t staring round the gaff as if he’d never seen the inside of a posh house before. Personally, I find these techy modern mansions a bit unnerving. I mean, they had those Alexa things in every room. Ms Makepeace had already demonstrated by telling Alexa to open the blinds, and – whoosh! – they slid open like magic. How the other half live, indeed.

Weird, though. You’d think an electronics genius like Miles Tessell would know better than to get himself electrocuted by a desk lamp.

I thought I’d try something.

‘Alexa, turn on the lamp.’

There was a pause that was just a bit too long.

‘Do it yourself,’ said Alexa, in a nasty voice.

We all stared at the squat little machine on the coffee table in shock.

Then we heard a quiet click.

‘She’s locked us in!’ cried Tricia, just as the lamp burst into flames…

 

 

 

Casa Battló

by Glen Lee

 

 

I’ve walked into the mind of a madman, a perfect place for another frail psyche. Gaudi breathed life into this structure but assuredly he was unhinged to have conceived it.

The year is turning from October’s autumn to November winter but still the tourists come. The inconsequential sounds made by them, the chattering and the clattering, fade as I explore Casa Battló, a strange building, fashioned like a slumbering dragon.

Inside the building’s cool interior, I sense an old and wakeful intelligence which appropriates my eyes and through the windows, over the tips of its ribs, we watch the bustle of modern Barcelona.

The lift, an aortal route, gurgles, spilling sightseers out onto the roof, where they collect like dandruff on the dragon’s scalp. The urge to shake our ponderous head, to brush them of, is strong.

But underneath, there’s something else. Hunger! And I wonder if all these people will get to leave at the end of this day? Joined to the creature, I taste the thought of sweet flesh being consumed and the remains excreted into the sewers which anchor Gaudi’s apparently somnambulant beast to this place.

And are motes of stale matter exhaled after dark into the Spanish city’s fug?

I am a Jonah, inside a hungry monster. I scratch the itch of healing cuts on my forearms and the answer to my problems resolves itself in an unlocked cupboard. I hide and wait to be found.

The spirits of the disappeared, some over a century old, cluster around me, pleased to anticipate my company at the stroke of midnight.

 

 

 

Bellbind in the Witchwood

by Louise Wilford

 

Mist curls around the trees, settles in hollows and dulls the noise of the walkers. I can feel their tread, however, in the roots that twist across the path – the sound of dry leaves as they’re kicked aside, twigs cracking, pine cones bouncing into the undergrowth.

I mark the wood’s northern edge, overlooking the village far below. People often come up here for the view - though not usually today.

It is All Hallows Eve, after all.

These walkers must be visitors. They won’t know that people keep out of the Witchwood at this time of year.

 

Here they come. One has a fallen branch he’s found which he uses to point at me, making a threatening, thwacking motion which just misses.

            ‘Look at that bloody bindweed!’ His voice is angry, disgusted.

‘What is it, Mummy?’ asks the child, pointing at me, entranced. My white trumpets glow eerily in the late afternoon light, bone-white in the mist.

‘It’s a bloody nuisance, that’s what it is!’ The father slashes at the foliage beside the path, close to my roots, again.

‘Language, Sam,’ hisses the mother, as the child runs towards me.

‘I’m just saying! It kills these old hedges, you know, and you can’t get rid of it if it gets into your garden. It’s a bleeding pest!’

‘There’s no need to raise your voice. I’m only standing a foot away!’

They’re crabby, this couple. Halloween in Witchwood is infecting them already.

 

The child is beside me, now, enraptured, stretching out her small gloved hand to touch one of my blooms. Behind her, a few paces away, her parents squabble, unaware. 

Then, the sudden cry: ‘Where’s Sarah? Sarah! SARAH!’

My ghost-pale flowers tremble.

Night is falling and I pull the mist round me like an overcoat.

 

                        *bellbind is an alternative name for bindweed

 

Moira Pays A Visit

by Ron Hardwick

 

‘Hello, Gran.’

‘My dear Moira. Come in.’

Moira enters the cottage and Gran shows her into an easy chair by the fire.

Gran sits opposite.

‘No kids come guising on Halloween any more,’ she says, ‘it’s such a shame.’

‘Remember when I used to come, when I was a kid?’

‘You dressed as a witch, with a pointy hat and a yard broom.’

‘That’s the only thing we had that resembled a witch’s broomstick.’

‘We made you sing a song, or recite a poem.’

‘I sang Danny Boy.’

‘And Scarlet Ribbons. I always had a tear in my eye when you sang that.’

‘You made lovely pumpkin pie, ’ says Moira. ‘I always looked forward to my Halloween supper.’

‘Your Granda grew the pumpkins on his allotment. They were always huge. Something to do with the manure, I expect. Do you remember?’

Moira nods. Gran continues:

‘After I’d scraped out the flesh, he made you a lantern.’

‘He was such a craftsman.’

‘I miss him so much,’ says Gran.

‘So do I.’

The pair sit for a moment, recalling with great affection the tall, slightly stoop-shouldered, absent-minded, kindly old man.

‘We had you bobbing for apples,’ says Gran.

‘My mouth was much too small,’ says Moira, laughing.

‘You’ve turned into a beautiful young woman,’ says Gran.

‘I must take after you.’

‘It’s late and I’m tired, my love,’ says Gran. Thanks for coming to see me, but it’s time for bed.’

‘Goodnight, Gran,’ says Moira, kissing her on the cheek.

 

The next morning Moira’s phone rings. She picks up the receiver.

‘Hello.’

‘Ah, Moira, at long last I’ve managed to get hold of you.’

‘I’ve been so busy, Derek.’

‘It’s just to tell you that your Gran died a week ago and the funeral’s next Tuesday.’

 

 

 

Arbuthnot & Taylor

by Glen Lee

 

Arbuthnot & Taylor Oddbones, Morticians, inspected the calendar. Halloween was a difficult time and something had to be done to stop kids bothering them. They wanted a peaceful life but with the kids egging each other on, literally, 31 October jangled the brothers’ nerves.

Last year it had taken ages to remove dried egg yolk from the stucco’d shop front the following day. They agreed it mustn’t be allowed to happen again. They were getting too old for all this malarkey. They had to dress up as horrible ghouls and frighten the little beggars away.

But they couldn’t decide what to wear. So did nothing and forgot about it. The dark, wet months were, after all, their busiest time of year.

Arbuthnot was washing the dinner pots when the bell rang. He answered the door, wearing pink Marigolds, a mortician’s pinny and a long and lugubrious expression, like that of a puzzled horse, and nothing else. Taylor had nicked his face shaving. He joined Arbuthnot at the door, globules of shocking-pink coloured shaving cream and blood dribbling off his chin. Arbuthnot accidentally stood on the dog’s paw as it scrabbled to make friends with the children outside. The dog howled. The grandfather clock whirled creakily and struck, once, twice, wheezed and stopped.

The kids fled. Arbuthnot and Taylor were puzzled, wondering why.

 

 

 

Followed

by Louise Wilford

 

As soon as I left the party, I knew he was following me.

            Wayne worked in my office. Last summer, he’d asked me out for a drink and, after I turned him down, I started seeing him everywhere, like on the corridor outside the Ladies each time I had a break, or in the queue at the sandwich shop where I bought my lunch.

            ‘You’ve got a stalker,’ laughed my friend Kim, but it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt creepy.

            It wasn’t as if my brush-off had been nasty. He was nice-looking, pleasant – but I’d just broken up with Ryan and that wasn’t something I could just shrug off. So I told him I wasn’t interested in dating.

            Kim invited everyone in the office to her Halloween Party. I kept out of Wayne’s way and left early.

            Walking towards my car, I heard footsteps behind me, quickening as I strode faster. I broke into a run, my heart hammering.

            ‘Vicky! Wait, Vicky!’

            I reached my car, fumbling with the electronic keyfob but finally getting it to work. Pulling open the door, I slid inside, slammed it shut and pressed the door-lock button. I leaned back in the seat, heart pounding. Through the wing mirror, I could see Wayne running towards the car, waving his arms like a madman.

            Terrified, I started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. For Christ’s sake, he was almost at the driver’s side window! I put my foot down and shot off down the street.

            My heartbeat didn’t steady until I’d put several streets between us.

            ‘Hello, Victoria.’

            The car skidded as my arms jerked with shock. Through the rear-view mirror, I saw Ryan sitting in the backseat, that familiar cruel grin on his face.

 

 

 

Spirit In The Sky

by Ron Hardwick

 

‘Why Halloween for this seance of yours?’ I asked Margaret, who fancies herself as a medium, which is why we have a black cat, obnoxious thing that it is.

‘It’s when the spirits are the liveliest and desperate to get in touch.’

‘Why Auntie Lil?’

‘You’ll find out.’

We sat round a table, all six of us. Outside, the kids were going from door to door trick or treating.

Margaret closed her eyes and wailed:

‘Is anybody there?’

‘No,’ said a wag from the other side of the table.

‘I repeat - is anybody there?’

A disembodied voice floated in on the ether.

‘I am here. Who is speaking?’

‘It’s Margaret. Is that Auntie Lil?’

‘Yes, this is Auntie Lil. Hello, Margaret.’

‘Ask her which horse will win the six-thirty at Kempton tomorrow,’ said the wag.

‘Do not waste my time,’ said Auntie Lil. ‘People are queuing up to use this waveband - I’ve only a limited time left.’

‘Auntie Lil,’ said Margaret, ‘I want to ask you whether you died of natural causes.’

‘No, she died of a Tuesday,’ said the wag.

‘Tell him to leave the room,’ said Auntie Lil. The wag went of his own accord, muttering that Margaret was a ventriloquist and her act fooled no-one.

‘I was murdered,’ said Auntie Lil.

‘Who by?’ I was suddenly interested.

‘By whom,’ corrected the old professor.

‘By my husband,’ said Auntie Lil. ‘He put a pillow over my face and suffocated me.’

‘Why?’ asked Margaret.

‘For the insurance money.’

‘Your husband’s dead, too,’ I said.

‘He’s in the other place,’ replied Auntie Lil.

‘Where’s the money?’ I asked, involuntarily.

‘In a deposit account.’ Her voice was fading away.

‘Which bank?’  I asked in desperation.

‘I’m going. My time’s up. Speak to me next Hallowe’en. I might tell you then.’