Category: Halloween

Mindy hated her new pet goldfish.
Her parents put the bowl in her room, saying “Goldie will watch you while you sleep. Say good night to Goldie, Mindy.”
And she did. And went to bed.
The next morning, Goldie’s fluttering fins looked different.
Mindy was trembling. “Why is Mr. Goldie…”
“Different?” interrupted her mother. “Goldfish do that naturally.”
Her mother had checked on the sleeping Mindy. And Goldie.
The fish was floating, dead.
So, her mother replaced Goldie.
Why was Goldie dead?
Not naturally.
No, Mindy had killed the hated Goldie.
Left his corpse floating.
AND NOW HE’S ALIVE AGAIN!

River Phoenix picked the wrong place to go trick or treating.
Instead of going door-to-door for candy, he went to John Frusciante for a four day drug binge, dying of an overdose outside the Viper Room.
Johnny Depp closed the club every Halloween out of respect.
Okay, he was twenty-three, a little old to go trick or treating.
But he was far too young to take a ride in the pine box derby.
Think about that the next time you complain about a sugar rush from a bag full of candy or brain freeze from drinking a milkshake too fast.

Kids sit around the campfire and tell ghost stories.
So, ghosts sit around the campfire and tell kids stories?
Yes. Yes they do.
They tell stories about kids doing horrible things, and then horrible things happening to them as a consequence.
Like casting a spell in a cemetery and getting eaten by zombies.
Or tormenting a black cat and the cat’s witch owner turning them into frogs.
Not to mention kids who steal other kids’ candy on Halloween and getting sick and dying from the poisoned candy.
Which is how they became ghosts.
Sitting around a campfire, telling their stories.

My brother took karate lessons for one week.
My parents were so cheap, they cut an old ratty white bathrobe down to his size.
The instructor turned him away and made them get a real karate robe.
So, for Halloween, he was a karate master, despite the white belt.
Eyebrow-pencil mustache on his lip.
I was given the white bathrobe.
“Two karate masters.”
The next year, he wore some other costume.
And I got the karate robe hand-me-down.
Well, more like “You will wear this and like it, you ungrateful shit”
To this day, I can’t watch Brue Lee movies.

Every morning, Frankie dumped out of bags of chicken parts into a metal drum, poured in special seasoning, and ran it for 20 minutes.
Dumping out the chicken into a bin to sit overnight in the walk-in cooler.
Then, yesterday’s batch went into the fryer.
Cooked and ready, the register girl bagged up the orders for sale.
One day, the special seasoning seemed a bit off.
It had green glowing crystals in it.
Frankie used it anyway.
But when he opened the drum, well, what came out… wasn’t chicken.
Pulling the screaming Frankie back into the cooler, shutting the door.

Cursed paintings. Cursed furniture. Cursed dinnerware.
Whether you’re selling or buying, Seraph-Minton is the auction house you’re looking for.
Our team of lawyers, priests, and assessors are always available for consultation.
Discrete arrangements, secure facilities, unequaled expertise in handling and shipping.
And, of course, reasonable commissions.
Seraph-Minton can turn your family’s shameful secret burden into cold hard cash.
No matter what the curse, there is always an interested party for it.
And through an arrangement with the Transylvania Historical Society, most governments offer generous tax breaks for charitable contributions to their extensive collections.
And, of course, all sales are final.

Witch powers run through family bloodlines.
But if a witch isn’t trained before she’s thirteen, she loses her powers forever.
Emily was trained by her mother, the Queen Witch, but over the years all she ever wanted to do was be normal.
She didn’t want her daughter Susan to become a witch, so Susan ran off to her grandmother’s house to learn.
The Queen Witch tried to teach her, but nothing worked.
Spells. Potions. Riding a broom.
Defeated, Susan came back home.
“I lied about your age,” said Emily. “You’re actually fourteen.”
And that’s how the magic died in Salem.

Becky lost her arm when she was six.
The Media Lab used 3D printing, nanoactuators, and an AI control system to construct a prosthesis.
A neural interface passed motor and sensory impulses.
She could feel its fingers, brushing on her face.
Strange… a little twitch?
“Just a calibration,” said the doctor. “Nothing else.”
The arm adapted to her needs, anticipating.
As she grew older, the Lab built new frames to fit, using the original AI system.
Until one day a researcher suggested a newer AI.
The arm tore out his throat.
In blood on the table it wrote “She’s mine.”

I’ve met the Grim Reaper.
And, as you clearly see, I’ve lived to talk about it.
The first time, he looked at me, collected a soul, and moved on.
The second time, he looked at me, did a double-take, and did his usual business.
Then came the respectful nods. The handshakes. The smalltalk.
Then, after about twenty times, he put his bony hand on my shoulder, and said “I see a lot of folks in your line of work, and I’m impressed at your skill. You never leave any witnesses. I’ll see you next time.”
Quiet in here, isn’t it?

Freddy believed that he had to sacrifice his life for the benefit of mankind.
But committing suicide is a mortal sin, and he’d be condemned forever for it.
He tried suicide-by-cop, but as hard as he tried to get shot and killed, he was either tased or clubbed into submission.
And his sentence wasn’t a death sentence. He got ten years.
Running for the electrified fences would be suicide.
So, he’d try to rile up other prisoners to kill him.
After some savage beatings, the prisoners tended to leave Freddy alone.
And he sat there in his cell, utterly morose.