The online store said that it would take 2 weeks to ship my new phone, but it arrived the next day, wrapped in butcher’s paper and bearing a hastily-scribbled label.
Inside the box, the phone was almost perfect, even if the cables and headset were sloppily wound-up.
There was also a note from my Secret Admirer, telling me I deserved the phone more than the guy she’d killed and taken it from.
Her number was in the address book.
“Call me.”
Instead, I called the police.
What if she admires someone else who wants a phone even more than me?
Category: Halloween
Down For The Count
Van Helsing was leaving Dracula’s castle when the police arrived.
“I tried to stop him!” he claimed. “But The Count was too strong for me! He got into a coffin and pounded a stake through his own chest!”
He took them down into the crypt and showed them the corpse.
A mallet was in Dracula’s hand, right where Van Helsing had placed it.
His left hand.
“Wasn’t he right-handed?” said one of the police.
Van Helsing pulled out his wallet and gave them each twenty gold crowns. “No, he was a lefty.”
The men all smiled and agreed.
Case closed.
Alive!
After our daughter died, the neighbors came by to express their condolences.
And they brought a large number of covered dishes.
So many so, that I sketched up a few plans, converted the basement to an elaborate and functional mad scientist’s lab to bring all this tuna noodle casserole to life.
Sure enough, the moment my wife threw the switch, the noodle-creature rose up and moaned: “Mommy! Daddy!”
The neighbors heard about our experiment, and arrived at the door with torches and pitchforks.
“Please stop playing God,” they said. “And we want our Corningware back if you’re done with it.”
Inside Information
Ted’s an Afterlife Coach, helping the recently departed deal with post traumatic death syndrome and other issues.
He likes to say he gets ghosts to believe in themselves.
You’d think it’s hard for him to get paid. Dead people don’t carry cash. Their assets are usually frozen or bequeathed to family or given to charity.
And so few people actually have wall safes full of cash or buried gold coins in the back yard.
But when you can talk to spirits, the dead have plenty of dirt on the living.
Blackmail’s such a dirty word.
Let’s call it “Inside information.”
Grandchildren
Over and over, politicians keep saying that if we continue deficit spending and piling up debt, we’ll be leaving this financial burden to our grandchildren.
I always laugh, because I don’t have children, so I’ll never have grandchildren.
What do I care if we pile up mountains of debt, right?
That’s when I heard a knock on the door.
Through the peephole, I saw a crowd of children with torches and pitchforks.
I turned out the lights, barred the door, and got out the shotgun.
So what if they’re shouting “Trick Or Treat!” It’s all a trick!
Call the police!
Cans
I never go outside. It’s not safe out there anymore.
I get everything delivered.
I know what time of year it is by the designs on the Coke cans.
They do those polar bears in winter, fireworks in summer, and scary stuff in Halloween time.
And Santa for Christmas.
A kid comes to deliver the Coke and groceries, and he takes the empties out to the corner for pickup.
“You drink so much of that stuff, why don’t you get the two-liter bottles?” says the kid.
I like it in cans.
And I told the store to send another kid.
Messages
Ghosts carved messages on my arms at night.
Only when I showered off the blood did I see the messages clearly.
I ignored them, bandaged my arms, and went about my day.
So, the ghosts carved messages on to my legs… my chest… my back… my face…
More bandages.
I used up all my vacation time… should I call a priest… watching television… drinking… drinking…
Then, I realized… I don’t believe in ghosts.
I hired a nurse to tie me to the bed at night.
After that, the ghosts left me alone.
(But the nurse beat me with a hammer.)
This Is
The hospital room has yellow notes on everything. I read them as I drag the drip stand around.
This is a chair.
This is a door.
This is a mirror.
I stare at the bandaged and bloody figure in the mirror.
A horror movie monster, putrid and burned. It shocks me when it moves.
This is a nightmare.
This is an abomination.
I read the bag on the drip stand:
This is retromutagen.
The door opens; This is a robot enters.
The staff cannot risk exposure.
Again.
I wasn’t careful. One bit me.
Now, I understand why.
This is… hunger.
Skeletons in the Closet
Why is it that reporters always look for skeletons in the closet?
You’d think politicians would have figured out by now to put their skeletons in the attic or the basement, or stick them in a rented storage unit.
Why not donate the skeleton to a school to teach anatomy?
Or a haunted house to scare people?
And why is it a skeleton in the closet? Whatever happened to the wolfman?
Can’t be a vampire. Coffins take up too much space. Unless it’s a walk-in closet.
How about a mummy?
At least a mummy can be kept under wraps, right?
Mummy’s Curse
Despite what they tell you at the tavern, there is no Mummy’s Curse.
Maybe there’s the risk of exposure to deadly mold, but you just wore a breathing mask to avoid that particular hazard.
Simple.
The bodies are long dead, and their spirits have moved on.
Your only concern should be the authorities. They look unkindly upon grave robbers and have been known to torture then to death.
Thank goodness I found you.
I’ll just steal it from you, but contrary to popular wisdom, I do have honor.
You can cut through your bonds in an hour with your knife.