It was a dark and stormy night. Lightning was striking everywhere but Dr. Frankenstein’s lightning rods.
Transylvania Edison kept refusing to run industrial-grade capacity to his castle, so it was lightning or nuclear.
Sure, Dr. Frankenstein was mad, but he wasn’t crazy. Lightning it was.
And without lightning tonight, his creature couldn’t come to life.
He called the rod manufacturer’s tech support line when the phones went dead.
That’s right. Lightning had struck the telephone pole.
Not even a dial tone.
He shrugged, hooked up the creature to the phone line, and that’s when lightning hit the rods.
Count Viper may not have been born a Yankees fan centuries ago, but he certainly died one.
For eighty years, the Count took in every night game, feeding on rude fans.
Well, never the ones with 3 on their back, out of respect for Ruth.
Last year, Alex Rodriguez shattered his bat and a piece flew into the stands where Viper had been a permanent fixture.
It pierced the vampire’s heart and reduced him to ash instantly.
A minute later, one of those rude fans brushed the Count’s ashes aside and watched the Yankees lose to the Red Sox.
Even though the Red Cross has opened up multiple massive shelters for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina, it is imperative that people are moved out to smaller accommodations.
Large, anonymous masses of people afford opportunities for criminal elements, or much worse kinds of predators.
Many people are opening their homes without any question or fear, but just as the dead float in the flooded streets, some still walk them.
Whether voodoo zombie or vampire, protections against inviting undead into your home should be in place. I’d suggest greeting your new roommate with plenty of garlic and exposed mirrors.
Woke up, no paper on my side table so I can catch up with things. Tivo’s been wiped. Went online to check my accounts, and they’re a mess. Everything’s overdrawn.
Damn servants always end up trying to stab you in the back. It’s only a matter of time, always happens.
I waste an hour with the hotlines my banks and brokers have for low-profile “after hours” customers like me. Everything’s taken care of, they should have the guy at my doorstep before midnight, as usual.
Drinking a traitor’s blood is the sweetest revenge.
Time to post on Hotjobs again: “Servant.”
Alfonse dragged the sack of bones out of the charnel house and down to the creek.
“Drown, you infernal hag,” grumbled the old monk. He emptied the bones into the water.
That’s how the Wasting Curse struck Creeksedge. Man and woman, child and beast broke out in massive, putrid boils. The sores would burst and run, making the victim mad with thirst.
More cursed water, more sores.
Alfonse watched it all from his hut, drinking bottle after bottle of the abbey’s wine.
The witch’s ghost knocked over his candle, incinerating Alfonse as he slept.
Revenge, whispered the wind.
School was done, and it was time to go home.
Sam and Joe dropped off their bags, took off their masks, and went back to Old Man Jasper’s.
The trees groaned in the breeze.
“I don’t like this,” said Sam. “Let’s go.”
“He gave out crappy candy,” said Joe. “He has to pay for it.”
Joe tossed a roll of toilet paper over a tree branch.
“See?” said Joe.
Suddenly, the tree reached down and hauled Joe up by the leg.
“HELP!” Sam screamed. “HELP!”
The tree shook him like a ragdoll.
The old man looked out the window, laughing.
As Halloween approached, Dana made a robe, tunic, and headdress of the feathers, stapling and gluing them into place.
She tried them on and turned in front of the mirror.
“Perfect,” she said.
“What are you doing?” asked Toby, her little brother.
“I’m going to be Queztocoatl,” said Dana. “This will get me lots of candy.”
“You look like a Las Vegas hooker,” said Toby.
“How would you know?” said Dana. “You’ve been watching all the blocked channels again! MOM! MOM!”
He lit a match and tossed it at his sister.
“Now you’re the Burning Bush,” said Toby.
They drive the backhoe off, jump into the hole, and shovel out the remaining dirt.
A crane lowers into the vault and bumps the casket.
“Who disturbs my rest?” I think.
They raise the casket, lay it on a gurney, and roll it into the truck.
Two hours later, the coroner cracks open the casket.
It’s so rare to see a body with a spear through its skull, but not everyone dies from mooning a Zulu tribe.
Somehow, this excites him.
Unspeakable, disgusting acts follow.
Finally, he takes my arm in his latex-covered hand and winds my watch.