Long ago, we used to tell ghost stories around the fire.
But now that we’re all dead and burning in Hell, we tell ghost stories in the fire.
The same stories. Over and over.
I suppose all stories are ghost stories when you’re a ghost.
Especially when the demons go around with whips to flog those ghosts telling happy stories, or stories about really good meals or memories.
You never get used to the flames. An impressive feat, really. Acclimation and desensitization never set in.
Hotter and hotter, while the ghost stories get duller and duller.
Here comes the whip.
Category: Halloween
The Witch
Gertie the Witch insisted on mixing potions from memory.
“I don’t need my spell book!” she’d screech at the Fire Department. “I’ve still got it all up here!”
He’d tap her forehead.. and noticed that her pointed hat was on fire.
The moment the firemen left, she was back in the kitchen.
Eye of bat…
Tongue of newt…
…or was it the other way around?
Her handwriting hadn’t been the best, even in her good days. And years of smoke damage had left the contents of her supply closet a grimy, sooty mystery.
I call dibs on her magic broom.
Greater Than Less Than
Some people learned that the greater than symbol is an alligator that eats the bigger number.
Other people learned that the less than symbol is an arrow that points at the smaller number.
My second grade Math teacher, Mr. Henson, taught us both.
“It’s up to you to decide,” he said.
The next day, when we arrived at school, there was a bloody trail leading into Mr. Henson’s room.
The room was a ghastly horror.
Last night, an alligator had broken into the school, and when Mr. Henson arrived, the beast attacked and ate him.
We all pointed and screamed.
The Abyss Above
“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”
Gromsch the Troll put down the dead paladin’s battered copy of Nietzsche, and for a while, he stared at his blood-soaked talons, opening and closing them.
“I fight heroes,” Gromsch muttered. “Will I become a hero?”
The paladin’s corpse did not answer.
Gromsch shrugged, slowly stood up, and crawled out of his cave.
The sunset and clouds were beautiful tonight, the most beautiful he had ever seen, and he wiped a tear from his eye.
And the Heavens above gazed back into him.
The Devil Is Near
When the Devil is near, radios and telephones pick up nothing but static.
WiFi, too.
He likes to go to Starbucks, just to mess with the hipsters on their Macbooks and iPads and iPhones.
Of course, the same thing happens when you go into a tunnel. Radio waves have a hard time getting through all that rock.
Before you start screaming “THE DEVIL!” over and over, check to see if you’re in a tunnel first.
If you’re in a tunnel, relax. You’re in a tunnel. It’s not the Devil.
Unless, of course, the Devil is in the tunnel with you.
Mummy Fighters
Allison filled the super-soaker with holy water.
Joe grabbed a pair of hand mirrors from the drugstore.
Ed has a hammer and a fanny pack full of wooden stakes.
Sally looked at them all and growled.
“We’re hunting mummies, not vampires!”
She lit a torch. “You know? Fire? Mummies hate fire?”
The others shrugged. “But we get paid more for vampires.”
Sally smirked. “You guys are idiots.”
She pulled out her cell phone and called the client. “My team’s gone nuts.”
The client hung up on her, and called the asylum.
“Four for pickup,” he said. “And bring silver bullets.”
Susie’s Monster
Susie was afraid of monsters, so instead of a bed, she slept in a hammock.
And instead of a closet, she kept her clothes in her dresser and an armoire.
“An armoire is just a freestanding closet, isn’t it?” asked Susie’s monster.
“Not according to union rules,” said his supervisor. “She’s got her bases covered. Even uses a clear shower curtain so you can’t sneak up on her.”
Over the years, Susie’s monster was jealous of the other monsters, who earned massive performance bonuses.
And then, after years of doing nothing, Susie’s monster was ready…
He was promoted to management.
Lawn Gnome
I was a small kid.
So, for Halloween, Mom used to dress me up as a garden gnome.
This wasn’t all that special, because she made me dress up as a garden gnome the rest of the year.
She’d force me to stand outside in the weeds and watch the street.
“It’s raining, Mom!” I yelled. “Can I come inside?”
The TV was too loud for her to hear me. Or she was passed out drunk.
Eventually, the county took me away and put me in a foster home.
Well, in front of a foster home.
I hate lawn gnomes.
The Farmer
I met a farmer who says that he uses every part of the chicken except for the cluck.
“What about cows?” I asked him. “You use the moo?”
“Nope,” he said.
“What about pigs?” I asked him. “You use the oinks?”
“Don’t use those either,” he said.
“So, what do you do with them?”
He took me to a cellar door and we walked down the stairs.
Rows and rows of jars, full of clucks, oinks, and moos.
“There’s also a few screams from nosy tresspassers,” he grinned.
I walked out with a jar, containing his last gasp of surprise.
Carving Time
It has been a long time since I carved a pumpkin for Halloween.
It has also been twenty years since I carved up my wife and son.
I’ve run out of appeals, and I just want this to be over.
I get an hour of outdoor time every day. But it’s in a concrete courtyard with a basketball hoop.
No grass.
No flowers.
And certainly no pumpkins.
I ask for a whole pumpkin pie for my last meal.
Two pokes for eyes, a long slash for a mouth.
I lick my fingers… it’s a smiley face.
Breathe in the cinnamon.