Category: Halloween

The truth is, Mark David Chapman didn’t want to kill John Lennon.
He really wanted to kill Yoko Ono.
However, when he finally got his chance, outside of the Dakota, Yoko grabbed her husband and used him as a human shield.
Lennon lay dying on the ground.
Chapman, out of bullets, pulled out his copy of Catcher In The Rye and began to smack Yoko with it.
Yoko paid off the witnesses to get them to say he wanted to kill John, not her.
She was terrified that a sympathetic jury would let him go to finish the grisly task.

Zoe was a strange little girl.
When she saw other toddlers crying, she’d give them her blanket or teddy bear to calm them down.
She’d dry their tears, say nice things to them, and hug them until they were better again.
Over the years, she demonstrated an aggressive empathy to all those in need or in pain.
They called her Saint Zoe, and everybody loved her.
But nobody noticed that Zoe didn’t really do anything.
No homework. No quizzes. No tests.
No work at all.
Everyone did things for her. Out of gratitude.
Love is all you need, I guess.

I remember this one house that used to hand out Jack Chick tracts for Halloween.
They’d say “You’re all going to burn in Hell!” every time someone rang the bell, and they opened the door.
Kids and parents out for Trick or Treat didn’t take them literally. They thought it was a performance thing, and laughed and thanked them.
Because Halloween is all about ghosts, goblins, and the spirits of Hell and all that.
It’s like saying “Merry Christmas!” or “Happy New Year!”
We’d read them and laugh, and throw them away.
And go back to fighting over Snickers bars.

Don’t you hate it when the secret ingredient is love?
How many calories does love contain?
Are there any trans-fats in love?
Can you be allergic to love?
Ingesting it, of course, not experiencing it.
And I don’t mean the crude metaphor for oral sex, either.
And why is love a secret ingredient if you’re telling people it’s in there?
Doesn’t telling people defeat the purpose of a secret?
When I add secret ingredients, I don’t tell anyone.
I keep them a secret.
I mean, what if I were to say “The secret ingredient is poison?” when I poison people?

Every cut she makes, it reminds her of someone she’s lost.
The jagged scar along her shin for her grandmother.
The puckered hole on her arm for her mother.
The slashes on her hip for her father and brother.
The crisscrossed welts on her back from all of her boyfriends at the “wellness facility.”
And the fresh gash on her face for her therapist.
The blood on the letter-opener… some of it his, some of it hers.
She wipes it on the therapist’s sleeve, sits calmly in his chair, and waits for the orderlies to come to take her away.

When a priest exorcises a demon from someone, where does the demon go?
Does it go back to Hell? Or does it get released into the wild so it can possess someone else?
And if the demon goes back to Hell, what’s to stop it from finding its way back here to possess someone else?
Can daemons be destroyed? Because I’d think that would be a smarter option than just prying them loose and letting them go bother someone else.
Unless you’re in the business of exorcism, that is.
Can’t go threatening your customer base and revenue stream, I guess.

Traditional wedding vows state “Til death do we part.”
So when you die, you’re free.
However, some people prefer to remain married in the Hereafter.
That’s where I come in. I’m a Ghost Preacher, and I marry the dead.
Although they prefer to call it a renewal of their eternal vows.
Things get a little sticky when someone gets remarried after they lose their partner.
Not just because the spirits quibble and quarrel over who is more in love with each other.
But the fact that the ghosts tend to take it out on me, and that ectoplasm is disgusting.

Victorian London.
Carriages, top hats, gaslamps, and cobblestone streets.
Every Saturday, The Succubus Club gathers together.
The valet takes their canes and topcoats, and guides them…
To the study.
To the staircase.
To the cellar.
She is waiting there.
Over the centuries, she has survived.
She is the last of her kind.
Her sisters, loving one after another.
Leaving a trail to follow.
Discovered, hunted down, burned.
Unlike them, she loves many.
And they all love her. And protect her. And hide her.
The mayor arrives. The chief of police.
Captains of industry.
And they are so very happy together.

Remember me as I was, before the madness took me.
All the memories we shared. The things we did.
Those are all gone now.
What’s left, please don’t let it hurt you.
This is not me. This is something else.
Something sick, and evil.
And it can make you sick and evil, too.
Bury it somewhere, no matter how much it screams.
Or how much it begs you to stop.
Bring a shovel, duct tape, a machete.
And a sleeping bag. Or heavy blanket.
Whatever it takes.
Don’t let it touch you.
And, please, God, don’t let it bite you.

Leland’s mother liked to say “out of sight, out of mind” a lot.
She was also blind. And she was often out of her mind.
Some of it was the booze and pills, but insanity ran in Leland’s family, and he was sent off to live with relatives.
And then sent off to foster care when those relatives went missing.
Did Leland kill them? The police investigated, but couldn’t prove anything.
They never found the bodies.
People have a habit of disappearing around Leland.
“I don’t mind them at all,” he says.
And he smiles through the prison cell bars.