Just Another Friday Night [FICTION]

I remind myself again that I am not scared. This is a normal night, with an often maligned number associated with it. The day of the week on which a number falls does not imbue it with evil. Sometimes Friday will fall on the thirteenth day of the month. That doesn’t mean I will be attacked by a murderer wielding a machete. It doesn’t mean I should just crawl back under the covers and stay there all day. But the clock summons me out from under my cozy blankets and into a cold, dark day full of danger.

I decide to skip shaving my legs though I am sure I am now at risk of attracting Yeti and Bigfoot and all their fuzzy bipedal monster friends. I just can’t risk it on today of all days. I make what feels like a million extra cautious decisions before my work day ends, and then I am finally free to seek refuge in my own home. I close the door behind me with a final click, making sure I slip the deadbolt into place to keep the malignancy of the world out of my safe space.

As I flip on the overhead light, a light breeze ruffles my hair. I shudder and glance around the room. The curtains over the kitchen window blow outward toward me. I race forward and slam it closed, surprising myself with the loud report of wood coming home against wood. As I lock the window, I stare at it suspiciously. I know I locked that window.

I pass by a mirror in a gilded frame, frowning at the fear and worry emanating from the dark eyes of my reflection. I give myself a mental pep talk to try to calm the racing of my heart.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of your own shadow, especially not in your own house. How can one day have so much power over everyone’s baseless fears?”

It doesn’t help. Something still feels off. I turn slowly, looking carefully at everything in my cluttered living room. Nothing seems out of place, at first. But then my eyes make the circuit again and notice that a seashell now sits in the middle of my coffee table. Was it there when I first looked? I know I didn’t put it there.

I take a step forward, reaching out toward it. Then I reconsider and take a step back. Did it just move? 

I turn my head, looking at my own reflection again. I can see the coffee table over my shoulder. As I watch its newly acquired ornament, the shell does begin to move. A claw slowly creeps out of the shell and raps on the table. I turn around to get a better look, since it clearly no longer wishes to hide from me.

My heart races as a tiny crab emerges from the shell. I get a moment to relax before the feeling of wrongness takes over again. I watch with my mouth agape as the crab doubles in size then doubles again. It skitters to the edge of the table and grows even more. Soon it towers over me and walks sideways toward me, watching me with those creepy eyestalks as I find my mind again and begin to back away.

I reach the door and realize that all my attempts to keep myself safe may have backfired on me. I struggle with the locks. A high-pitched hum resonates around me as I pull the deadbolt back. I don’t realize the origins of the sound until it stops when a claw closes around my ankle just tightly enough to arrest my movement. I scream and the crab pulls on my ankle, knocking me to the floor.

As he skitters closer and clambers up onto my chest, I begin to cry, “What are you? Why me?”

“Because you dreamed up this nightmare. Your fear breathed life into me and made me real. And now I will devour your fear.”

I scream as his free claw comes for my face…

~Thought I would throw in an extra for Friday the 13th since my dear Carlotta didn’t let her creepy flag fly in the piece I composed for yesterday. Anyone up for crab cakes?~

Eleventh Rabbit Hole [FICTION]

“Come on, Bunny. Eighteen holes and we raise enough money to fund the children’s wing for another year.” Maria smiled as she waved the flyer under my nose.

“But I’m terrible.”

“People pledge support for you to finish a hole not have a low score.”

“It might be better if they gave me a dollar for every stroke I take.”

“Bunny, most of our friends can’t afford to pledge hundreds of dollars.”

We laughed, but I still found myself at the golf course three weeks later. With seven terribly long holes to go, I sliced and sent my ball careening into the nearby woods. I sighed and followed it. As I scanned the ground further in the forest, the ground cover thinned out. With no hint of white to be seen, I turned back to find a fluffy white rabbit gazing up at me. He stood up on his back paws, twitched his nose and peered into my eyes.

“Follow me.” He said and turned toward a hole in the trunk of an ancient tree.

“Didn’t someone already write this story?” I asked his fluffy cottontail as the rest of him disappeared into the dark recesses of the hole, but curiosity compelled me forward.

I squealed as I placed one foot into the hole and found myself sliding downward into the darkness. I plopped to a stop in a soft pile of what I hoped was dried leaves. I pushed myself up and stood slowly, surprised not to bash my head into tree roots. I blinked in hopes of dispelling the darkness.

“She’s here. She’s here.” Voices from a high shrill squeal to a deep low bass echoed around me, amplified by the darkness.

I inhaled deeply. I forgot to exhale as I a hush fell. My hand rose to cover my heart, which thudded anxiously. 

“She IS here.” A deep voice whispered in my ear as something furry brushed against my face.

I shuddered and let out a ragged breath.

“She’s cold.” The voice rose above a whisper and a soft weight lowered itself to my shoulder.

I jumped.

Thump.

“Light the fire.” The voice called out from somewhere around my feet.

I screamed. Hundreds of warm bodies pressed up against me as I sank to the floor again. I suppressed the next scream but still felt it tickling the back of my throat.

Bright light erupted to my left. I looked toward it, but my eyes closed against the brightness. I opened them slowly, biting my lip as the world around me came into view. A small fire leapt up from a rough teepee of wood at the heart of a fire pit of rough stones. A cavern disappeared in darkness far above my head.

Hundreds of dark shapes crowded around me. Round heads with long ears bobbing as they turned their heads this way and that to get a better look at me. As my eyes adjusted to the light, little bunny faces appeared, mouths ajar to reveal long teeth amidst fluffy cheeks. Dark eyes blinked curiously. 

The deep voice echoes again as a tiny form made his way back to my shoulder. “Bunny, we have been waiting for you.” He regarded me expectantly.

I licked my parched lips, surprised to find that my scream had dissipated.

“You are so glad you have finally come to be with us.” He intoned.

I shrieked and the bunnies laughed. Then they imitated the sound of my shriek as they crowded closer. Despite the warmth of so many tiny, fuzzy bodies, I shivered.

Sometimes it is scary to belong…

Trick or Treat. Feel free to thank me in the comments.

Boo [REVIEW]

Lack of sleep made my befuddled mind take a little prompting to get into this story, but Richard Laymon offered me an assist by throwing in a character dressed like Yoda. The little troop of trick or treaters made the terrifying journey from well lit front porch to next inviting house with the normal amount of enthusiasm. Even an unusual occurrence didn't stop them, though it probably should have. It even led to a longer night of collecting. To find out what happens, you'll have to find a copy and read it yourself.

I made some buckeye brownies, but my half asleep mind didn't compute the ingredients efficiently, so the final product was not photogenic. I baked a box of Ghiardelli double chocolate brownies and topped it with a mixture of butter, peanut butter, and too much powdered sugar. I topped that with a basic chocolate ganache of milk and semi-sweet chocolate. My husband assures me the flavor far outweighs the mess made by the super crumbly peanut butter filling.

Clearly, I thought I would eventually take some pictures and make the photogenic version of those delicious brownies. The holidays and momming clearly won the day and the following day and the day after that... You get the picture. May your holidays be filled with Star Wars awesome but very little terror. (I also have moved the identifying tags to the end of each post's title. I think it should clean up a few issues for me. Thanks for your understanding.)

[REVIEW] Three Tales of Terror

As I snuck in a few moments of spine-tingling reading over the past week, my mind noticed what seemed like an interesting similarity between three of the short pieces that I read. I should observe at this moment that my anthology contains poems and memoirs as well as short stories. It gives me s chance to explore that quote about reality being stranger than fiction, so I like it. The "My Favorite Halloween Memory" word art denotes the third story as one of these.

The first story focuses on the potential for terror that results from visiting Whitby, which apparently played home to Bram Stoker when he worked on his most famous tome. A romantic evening turns into something else as the heroine of this tale remembers that this night is mischief night. Constant rapping on the doors of her apartment remind her of this fact while she prepares for a quiet dinner at home with her husband.  As pranksters continue to plague her and her plans go awry, she comes closer and closer to addressing a fear she never realized she had. (This was my favorite of these three tales, but that shouldn't affect your opinion.)

This story follows the Halloween happenings of a man who finds his life in turmoil and returns to his hometown seeking peace. Despite his attempts to bury himself in his sorrows, an opportunity presents itself that gives him a chance to look back on Halloween past. He reflects on the joy he once felt creating the perfect costume in preparation for the big evening. Somehow his remunerations bring him face to face with his past in an unexpected way.

The writer of this snippet of memoir, reflects on the joy he once felt at piecing together a costume to go out seeking sugary treasure. He sadly recounts how that enthusiasm faded as the years passed and he grew too old for trick-or-treating. Even still, one Halloween found him making a costume from the cast-off remains of others he had once worn with more relish. In so doing, he somehow found a costume that haunts him still. Or is he haunted by something buried deeper in his subconscious?

For my treat, I decided to go quick and simple. I whipped up a batch of cookies following the directions on the bag of chocolate chips (Nestle, of course, and they are welcome to contact me about sending me free samples ;)). Then I decided to add a twist inspired by my reflections on tricks and treats. I flattened out a cookie dough ball and placed a chunk of peanut butter cup on top. I covered that with another smooshed cookie. Then I baked them for 13 minutes in honor of the mysticism surrounding that particular number.  If you feel like making treats to wow Harry Potter, you could tuck something less desirable into your cookies (boogers, wasabi peas, a slice of carrot, a chunk of beef jerky, vomit, any flavor bean you want) and make your cookie more of a trick than a treat, but I'll stick with my cookie-appropriate sweet stuffing.

[BOOK] [RECIPE] The Black Pumpkin/Cookies

A dear friend invited me to participate in a spooky cookie bookie event. The idea is that we read a book a week, make a cookie that somehow goes along with the major theme of that piece, and share with the group. Recent events have convinced me that I will not be able to read a whole book each week and may barely be able to slap together a whole batch of cookies without becoming distracted. However, I can't resist the doing my best to join the fun. Since my reading backlog contains an anthology of spooky short stories, I decided to read at least one a week and find or create a recipe that loosely relates to the reading material.

Dean Koontz's The Black Pumpkin got me started on the path of reading and yum. Having read other works by this author, I know his writing to be solid though I am still wary of what content he might slip into the pages. I once read one of his novels that addressed disturbing topics that my innocent young mind still doesn't want to completely understand. While this short story also disturbed me, it featured the normal "bump in the night" kind of creepy as opposed to "mental illness" disturbing that still has me shuddering.

As this was a short story, I fear giving away too much. Thus I offer a few cryptic statements.  I would describe this piece as an allegory of the rottenness of a soul finally showing through the outer shell. It could also be called a cautionary tale about buying carved pumpkins from someone else instead of carving your own. Intrigued enough to give it a read?

Feel free to make some cookies to sweeten your reading as you dive in:



Blackened Pumpkin Sandwich Cookies

These were supposed to be spritz cookies (those uniform little shaped cookies that you whip out with a cookie press), but I had to take a break to feed my little pumpkin and putting the dough in the fridge made it uncooperative, so I altered my method slightly. It gave the cookies more of a terrifying misshapen look that goes well with the story.

1 cup butter, softened
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice
1/3 cup canned pumpkin
1 large egg
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/4 cup whole wheat flour
cocoa
Nutella

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. 
2. Cream butter in mixer for about three minutes.
3. Add sugar and pumpkin pie spice. Scrape sides of bowl a couple of times to fully incorporate the spices into the butter.
4. Add pumpkin, egg, and vanilla and mix until fully blended.
5. Add flour and mix until dough forms.
6. This is where you can pop the dough into your cookie press and press out your perfectly shaped cookies onto an ungreased cookie sheet. I scooped out 1 inch balls of dough and pressed them flat with a fork dipped in cocoa powder (just like you do to make traditional peanut butter cookies).
7. Bake the cookies for 6 to 8 minutes.
8. Allow to cool and fill two cookies with Nutella to make a yummy, dark-souled sandwich.

A Child’s Terrifying Journey

My goal for the month of October is to celebrate the delicious holiday that it holds. What terrifies you? What do you think of this piece? Please comment below. 

Darkened streets and shaded lights promised a fright night that would never be forgotten. Should I choose to participate, gearing up proved essential. I slipped out of the attire of an everyday mortal then paused. Clothed only in my underclothes, I double-checked the door. Finding the lock securely in place, I turned to the items waiting on my bed.

A black spandex unitard with long sleeves lay next to a shimmering silver chest plate. I grinned and slipped one leg and then the other into the spandex. With a little adjustment to the arms, I could swing my arms freely. The chest plate came to rest against my boney sternum, which brought a grin to my face. I gently rubbed short, slender fingers along my newfound abs. I slipped the mask down over my head, tucking a few stray hairs under the cap. Then I surveyed the new me with a critical eye.

“Time to take out some bad guys.” I straightened my spine, stretching to my full height and replacing my smile with a stern look.

“Johnny, hurry up.” My mother’s impatient wail reverberated up the stairs.

In answer to the summons of my commissioner, I thundered down the stairs. I stopped when I reached the bottom to strike a pose. My mother laughed and patted me on the head. I stepped away from her, gently running one hand along my mask to make sure it remained in place.

“Come on, you.” She offered me a fanged smile as she tossed back her cloak and pulled open the door.

As we stepped out into the twilight of horror, she offered standard advice about my mission, cautioning me not to walk in the street or get too far away from her. I shrugged off her advice with a few cursory words of understanding. Then I slipped out into the throng of imps hiding behind masks. The wave of rock stars, animals, cowboys, and strange beings carried me along from house to house.

As the last remnants of sunlight fell victim to the darkness of night, the adventure truly commenced. In the dim light of porch lights and glowing pumpkins, I became more aware of the horrors around me. Mouths without faces twisted into dozens of expressions. Some grinned. Many gaped. Others grimaced. Lips in shades of purple, green, and red twisted away from broken teeth or sharp fangs. A few offered a semblance of a scream, but no such sounds interrupted the soft giggling of the imps who surrounded me.

As I followed one of the imps down the narrow steps of a white house with peeling paint and cobwebs hanging from every tree and bush on the lawn, the imp stopped to peer into his bag. I didn’t have time to pause. Attempting to veer around him, I tripped and fell onto the lawn. As I caught myself, something squirmed under my hands. Radioactive worms crawled around and through my fingers. I opened my mouth to scream but managed to squelch my fear just in time. Superheroes aren’t afraid of worms, even ones that light up the night and smell vaguely of fruit.

I managed to scramble to my feet despite the squirming worms. As I lurched forward, soft, silken threads floated out to touch my face. Dark, slimy spiders hung in the webs that clung to my skin. They didn’t move as I brushed the webs from my face. I shrugged free of the webs and scurried on to the next house with a backward glance to make sure the spiders didn’t follow me.

Dense unkempt hedges blocked off the next yard except for a narrow gate. As my flashlight played along this barrier, shimmering eyeballs caught the light. As they watched me, I walked faster and looked away from their empty depths. Soon I rounded the corner toward the next house.

Hurrying footsteps pursued me. I didn’t turn around. I ran. As my short legs pumped harder and harder, I could feel my pursuer closing the gap. Finally, a hand closed on my shoulder. I used my last dregs of courage to bite back a scream.

“Johnny, it’s time to go home.”

I slumped into the bracing hand on my shoulder and turned to face commissioner mom. She smiled down at me and released my shoulder. I took the hand she offered me, allowing my bag of goodies to bang against my leg with every step we took.

The next couple of weeks faded under a sugar haze. My mother tried to bring me out of it by offering me misshapen bones to eat. She tried to claim they were collie flowers, but I knew that meant bones even though they looked a little like albino broccoli. This fact did not enhance their desirability. When I refused to eat them, she’d grab one from my plate and pop it into her mouth, crunching happily as I shuddered.

By the time December came, she’d given up on getting me to eat the bones. Instead, she concocted a new torture. After waiting a half hour in the waiting room, a woman in lilac scrubs forced me into a machine that whirred around my head, checking to make sure their unique torture would work on me. Then I was guided down a narrow hallway to a tiny room with a chair illuminated by an oversized light. I sat down warily and waited.

The woman in scrubs returned with a tray full of metal instruments of torture. She talked soothingly as she poked and prodded with her metal picks. She even allowed me to pick the flavor of my torture paste before filling my mouth with almost bubble gum that left a gritty residue in my mouth. When she finished, she told me to stay seated and wait some more.

Soon, an old man with a short, grey beard joined me and smiled as he looked at his clipboard. “Your mother tells me you’ve been enjoying a lot of sweets over the past couple of months.”

I nodded my head as he leaned in and peered into my mouth. “Looks like you need a little more work here.”

“No.” I assured him.

He laughed softly and reached for something out of my range of sight. “You knew this was going to happen.”

He laughed again, a slightly maniacal laugh. Then the whir of the drill started and I passed out.