Category: Halloween

Every time Elaine drank herself into a blackout and woke up in some strange guy’s bed, she swore she wouldn’t do it again.
Bagging up the guy’s body, washing the place up, putting him in his own car’s trunk.
Over and over and over.
One day, she’d slip up and leave evidence.
A hair, being seen together on a camera.
Dropping the car off at the chop shop.
“Nice BMW,” said the owner, looking in the trunk. “We’ll take the disposal out of your finder fee.”
That night, Elaine went out to celebrate.
And a guy sent her a drink.

A few decades ago, some dude took out an insurance policy on his two kids.
Then he spiked some Pixie Stix with cyanide.
He gave it to his kids and some neighbors.
In the end, only one kid actually ate the candy… his youngest.
Ever since then, paranoia about poisoned candy, razor blades in apples, and other evil fills the news.
Even though incidents of such tampering are few and far between.
The candy is quite safe these days.
As kids go around in black witches cloaks and grim reaper robes on unlit streets.
And get run over by cars.

Out in the grocery store, I saw a toddler running around in a “Don’t give up on your dreams” t-shirt.
With a picture of Freddy Kruger on it.
He was knocking down everything down the aisle.
No parent in sight.
The shirt, it didn’t bother me.
I mean, the kid can’t see himself in a mirror.
Doesn’t know what Freddy Kruger is… I hope.
And when he’s older, he’ll laugh at the baby photos.
The kid turned the corner and went into produce.
While the manager blamed me for the mess.
“Check the tape,” I said.
And grabbed some mustard.

Unlike Count Dracula, Count Your Blessings is a good vampire.
He’s polite and loves children.
Not in a “drink their blood” kind of way, either.
But as in a pay for their education and sponsor softball teams kind of way.
The smart ones, he sends to college to study engineering and technology.
His castle is a hotbed of science and innovation.
He doesn’t drink the blood of any innocents.
He only drinks the blood of the criminals we bring to him.
Speeding is just a fine for a first-time offense.
Here’s your ticket.
And I suggest you not speed again.

Every doctor at the West Clinic is named Eric West.
Yes, that’s very odd.
Personal records were destroyed in the fire that destroyed the clinic.
And the doctors’ bodies were burned beyond recognition.
No photos, no records in any medical school of having graduated an Eric West.
The lone surviving patient describes Dr. West as tall, lean, pale, bald, glasses, and a cane.
“All of them,” he wheezed. “Every one of them.”
Nobody is sure what the clinic was for.
Some say it was a lunatic asylum. For violent criminals.
Um, where did that patient go?
He was just here.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream.
But not just any dream will do.
The dreams you’ve been bringing me lately haven’t been dreams at all.
They’ve been nightmares. Really sick, awful nightmares.
I’d like to have dreams, like when I was young.
Also, I’d like for you to bring the dreams while I’m asleep.
Not when I’m awake.
That’s not a dream. Or a nightmare.
That’s called a hallucination.
Those make it hard to deal with things.
Especially while I’m driving.
So, to summarize:
Bring me a dream. At night. While I’m asleep.
Or I will be your worst nightmare.

The village’s Lord Ghost Talker lay in the church for three days.
People paying their respects, tapping the old man’s forehead with their thumb, as the tradition.
One by one, they closed their eyes, whispered his name, and waited.
Until, finally, someone heard him.
It was the girl from the Martin farm, the pretty one.
She went to the Ghost Talker’s vault, standing at the wooden crate full of keys.
“It’s this one, he says.” picking up the key the old man had shown her.
And she opened the lock.
The town elders began preparations for a parade and feast.

I bought a piano.
But it was haunted.
The ghost of a little girl played it at night.
And played it badly.
I hired the ghost of a piano teacher to give her lessons.
She got better, but the piano was out of tune.
So, I hired the ghost of a piano tuner to tune the piano.
“You need a living piano tuner,” said the ghost.
And he billed me for his time.
I refused to pay the bill.
The ghost of a collection agent kept calling me, over and over.
I hired an exorcist, and sold the damn piano.