Halloween Flash Fiction Stories - second batch

 

Maggie

by Lin De Lazlo

 

Maggie loved Halloween. It was a special time for her.  

Unexplained things happened around Maggie, then she was moved on to another home. To avoid paperwork. There had been concerns.

Blond hair, blue eyes, she was like any other six year old. Distant but polite. An old soul. Her social worker called her an odd sock.

The new foster mother gave Maggie a pitiful look as you would an abandoned puppy and shoved her into a room littered with broken toys and an old chest in the corner.

‘Choose something for tonight. You’re going with the neighbours kids. Hurry up’. 

Left alone in favour of daytime tv, Maggie dug into the depths of the box discovering something that was just perfect.

The dress swamped her small frame. Musty and torn in several places, it felt like cobwebs and smelt of age. Maggie caressed the material, smiling broadly when she discovered a mouldy black hat, pulling it down over her curls.

This was fun.

A bucket of sweets sat by the front door. Halloween props lay on the floor ready to decorate the hall. She stared at a reel of wire, eyes glittering, watching it unravel and snake across the floor. She giggled and looked at the figure in the doorway.

‘Look. I’m a witch’.

The fosterer stood frozen, confused, mouth working soundlessly.

The wire wrapped itself around her neck tightly, dragging the frantic woman towards the stairs as if guided by invisible hands. It effortlessly lifted her mid-air as if she were a feather as she clawed uselessly at her neck. Eyes wide, she silently implored the girl to help her.

Silence.

The wire continued to wrap itself decoratively around the banisters.

Maggie was looking forward to trick or treat.   

  

 

Mr Pumpkin-Head

by Sue Davnall

 

 

‘Wanna pumpkin!’

‘You’re a bit young, sweetie. The knife’s too sharp. Why don’t you help your sister? You could collect up all the bits and put them in the compost bin for her.’

Big pout.

‘Don’ wanna. Wan’ my own pumpkin!’

‘Next year, maybe.’

Full-length tantrum on the floor.

‘Benji’s being naughty, isn’t he, Mummy? I never behaved like that when I was little.’

Thanks, Olivia, for pouring fuel on the fire, as usual. Only a seven-year-old could evince such superiority over a five-year-old. Maddy sighed as she stepped over her wailing son to empty the tumble dryer.

‘Here, Benji, come and help Mummy sort the washing.’

‘Shan’t!’

But she knew he would. Sorting washing was something grown-ups did and it made him feel important. No-one told Maddy before she had kids that an advanced degree in psychology would have come in handy.

 

‘Mummy, Mummy! Benji’s broken my pumpkin!’

              Oh for Christ’s sake… Maddy looked at her daughter’s tear-streaked face then at the assaulted pumpkin. Benji must have given it a hefty kick to have smashed it so comprehensively. 

              ‘Benji! Come here!’

              He was hiding behind the sofa in the front room. At least he looked contrite.

              ‘What do you say to your sister?’

              Pouty face again, then ‘Sorry!’

              ‘Right, no Peppa Pig for you today. You can sit right there and watch while I help Olivia make a new one.’

 

As Maddy stirred the soup there was an ear-splitting scream from the garden. Imagining all sorts of horrendous swing-related injuries she rushed out to see Benji backed against the patio wall, pointing a finger at Olivia’s new pumpkin. Glowing red, it seemed to be leering horribly at the little boy. Which was odd, as Maddy hadn’t yet put the candle inside.

 

 

Welcome Party

by Sue Davnall

 

I squinted through the windscreen, struggling to see the contours of the road through the dense fog. Could I have missed the turn-off? Three miles beyond the village, he’d said, can’t miss it, big wrought-iron gates with stone lions on the pillars. It felt like I’d been driving for ages. Thick hedges had lined the road for a while but now there was nothing.

              Ah, there! The tyres squealed as I swung abruptly towards the imposing entrance. The gates stood open; they were expecting me.

              The mist seemed thinner here. I could dimly make out the dark trunks of the trees lining the drive, their overhead branches dripping an irregular rhythm onto the car roof. There’d better be a hot toddy waiting for me! The autumn damp was cutting right through my light jacket.

              A flash of movement to my right. A deer perhaps? Seemed about the right size. Whatever it was, it had gone. There it was again, on the other side this time, or… no, it was a second one, the one on the right had reappeared. Three of them now, then four, blurred forms moving swiftly through the trees.

              The sound that followed was not made by any deer. The hairs bristled on the back of my neck, an atavistic response to an unknown threat. I put my foot down on the accelerator, swinging recklessly round each curve of the road until the manor emerged through the eddying mist.

              My host was waiting on the front steps to welcome me. As I shook his hand I noticed that he was slightly out of breath, panting through his wolfish smile.

              ‘So glad you could make it, old boy. Let me introduce you. My brother and sister-in-law, my dear wife Accalia. Shall we go in to dinner?’

 

Can’t Beat The Reaper

by Mike Poyzer

 

‘This is the life, mate.’

‘Not half, mate. Sun, sea and stretched out on the beach. I thought I’d had enough sun and sand for a lifetime, this last six months in Iraq. Sneaking around dusty buildings with full battle dress and helmet, waiting to get shot any minute. Doesn’t quite have the same charm.’

‘I’m Jim by the way.’ Jim stuck out his hand.

‘I’m Jack. 3 Para. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Ever been to Thailand before?’

‘No, never. It beats your Mykonos and Ibiza into a cocked hat, though. All these cracking little Thai women. I’m going to get this fellah stuck into as many of them as I can, starting tonight.’

‘How long you been here.’

‘Only arrived yesterday, Lucky to get the leave and then managed to get a flight. Apparently nobody wants to fly Christmas day. The hop-over flight to Phucket was alarming’

‘You missed Christmas dinner in the hotel then. ‘

‘Afraid so. Went straight to bed. I’ve slept about twelve hours.’

‘Food was nothing special. Now, I was last here at Halloween. That was some party. Some of the girls were scarier underneath the outfits. I took one beautiful girls mask off and I was kissing her for ten minutes, then found her cock was as big as mine.’

They both laughed.

We can go out tonight if you want. I’ll show you the ropes. Lots of beautiful young Thai girls. You only have to slip the owner a few bahts, then straight back to her place. These girls know how to make a guy happy’

‘Sounds like my sort of place.’

‘What‘s going on down by the sea. They are all stood looking.’

‘I don’t know.’ Jack stood up. ‘FUCK… Look at the size of that wave.’

 

Halloween Revenge

by Lin De Lazlo

 

 

From ‘I’m not wearing a stupid costume. What am I, five?’  to ‘Where’s my costume?’, the night before Halloween.

Stella could take no more. She had hoped that the attitude might have improved with age, but it was like living with a cactus. At least when her daughter Phoebe was younger, Stella had been able to pull down the blackout blinds, sing bedtime song as approved by supernanny, and shut the door. This approach did not work on a fifteen year old.

A frantic rush around the shops found nothing suitable. Tempted to suggest something along the lines of using a bed sheet and going as a ghost, would definitely have earned her ‘Unloving, Unsympathetic, Uncaring, Cruel, Mother of the Year Award’.

Four espressos later, to help her think, she had her lightbulb moment.

One whining, uncooperative teenager and a twenty four pack of toilet rolls later, sweet revenge was a pouting, outraged but passable mummy. Perfect.

‘Seriously?’, Phoebe was horrified and close to tears.

‘Well I think it’s ok’. Stella gulped her wine.

Phoebe needed a serious lesson in gratitude.

‘It’s a dry night, you’ll be fine’.

Her daughter glared, obviously plotting some sort of revenge for the future.

‘Come on, how many other mummies will there be?’

At the sound of the doorbell, Phoebe flounced out dramatically. Stella could hear the snorting laughter of her friends who owned the kind of parents who planned for nights like this. Phoebe was busy blaming her for everything, past, present and future.

The door slammed and Stella sighed. Thank god her weather app had promised a fine, dry, evening. What could possibly go wrong? She did a lone applause on behalf of her unbelievable creativity.

Peace at last.

Funny. Was that the sound of rain?

 

  

Obstruction of fate

by Mike Poyzer

 

James settled down into his seat, 32c. A nervous flyer at the best of times, he was tenser tonight, as it was Halloween and there was a typhoon raging outside. As the 747 began to pull away from the stand at Taipei, he checked his watch, 11.15 pm. He reflected on how much he was looking forward to seeing his wife in LA. This had been six months now, his longest stint.

     He turned and smiled at the passenger next to him. The passenger, who was oriental, probably Chinese, turned and smiled back at him. Then, to James’s horror, the man’s face suddenly turned to a glowing white skull with red eyes, before dissolving into a flaming inferno, then back to the smiling face. James was spooked. He unbuckled his seat and jumped up. A stewardess stood up in front of him, so he turned and ran back, down the aisle, squealing hysterically as he went. As he approached the rear, two more stewardesses stood and stopped him.  ‘I’ve got to get off’ he shrieked.’

     ‘Sorry, sir, doors are closed. Please calm down and sit here. We are taking off.’

James calmed a little and sat down on the back row. Perhaps I over-reacted. Did I imagine it?

     The plane revved high for its take off run and pulled away . Seconds later, it collided with several construction vehicles, as it had mistakenly turned onto a closed runway.. The plane broke into two and a fireball tore through the front section. Rows 30 to 40 between the wing fuel tanks were incinerated. The rear fuselage broke away and, without exception, everyone in it survived, most, virtually uninjured. This was Singapore Airlines flight 006, Singapore to Los Angeles (via Taipei) October 31^st 2000, 23.18 local time in Taipei.

 

 

Four-Poster Bed

by Sue Davnall

 

‘You’re imagining it.’

‘I swear I’m not. Listen…’

Pause.

‘No. Not a thing. Look, they’ve got those nice biscuits. Let’s have a coffee before going for an explore.’

Jeffrey took the kettle through to the bathroom.

‘Not for me, love. I don’t like those silly milk things. Just pour me a glass of water. I’ll have a biscuit, though.’

Joyce kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed.

‘OK. Shortbread or oatmeal crunch? Joyce?’

Jeffrey set the kettle down on its stand and glanced round at his wife.

‘What is it, love? What are you looking at?’

She raised a trembling finger towards the top corner of the four-poster bed.

‘There! Can’t you see it?’

‘See what? Ah, of course, Halloween joke. Haha!’

‘I swear, Jeff, I saw something, like a face or…I don’t know.’

‘Come on, forget the coffee, let’s get some fresh air. You’re probably a bit hazy from the drive. If you like, we can fit in a wander round the cathedral before dinner – we’ve got time.’

‘Alright, see you downstairs. I’ve just got to powder my nose.’

‘Don’t forget the room key.’

 

‘And what time was this, sir?’

            ‘I told you! About half past four. She was going to meet me downstairs.’

            ‘How long did you wait for her?’

            ‘About ten minutes. No longer, I’m sure.’

            ‘And you didn’t pass anyone as you came down?’

            ‘No!’

            ‘Alright sir, I know you’re distraught but try to be patient. It’s important to get the facts straight. What happened next?’

            ‘I went back up to the room. The door was open, and…’

             Jeffrey couldn’t bring himself to describe again her bloodless body, mouth distorted in terror.

            The police officer and the hotel receptionist exchanged a glance. Every year the same thing.

Words From Wonderland

 Words From Wonderland

The 20-20 Club has released an anthology of fabulous short stories, just in time for Christmas.

The book is packed full of stories, ranging from 100-word drabbles to tales of several thousand words, in lots of different styles and genres. There is definitely something for everyone in this classy anthology, now available on Amazon both as a paperback and Kindle - 

Here is the Link - https://mybook.to/WordsfromWonderland

In case you don't know, the 20-20 Club is a writers' group run by me and consisting of twenty students who graduated in 2020 from the Open University's Creative Writing Masters course. We review each others' work several times a year and organise several writing competitions for members. The anthology is a new venture, edited and produced by Jane Langan and Ruth Loten of Castle Priory.

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.’