Boxing Day

Food dulls your senses. A full belly makes you slow. Even a small amount of wine puts clouds in your eyes and causes you see butterflies where there are bullets. That’s why this ritual makes no sense whatsoever. This entire day is just bizarre. Why would you schedule something so rigorous and challenging the day after the biggest celebration; the most excessive feast of the year? It must have been thought up by some infidel. Or maybe a Canadian.

“Help! Security! Help!”

Bob and weave…. Tuck my chin behind gloved hands…. flash my eyes over the top to draw him out. No? Nothing? Hell, he’s not even trying. In fact he’s running away, screaming.

That’s the third one already. Maybe I picked the wrong mall?

Well, I hope they’re not all going to be like this. Oh sure, I appreciate an easy git, but to think of all the treats I denied myself yesterday in preparation. Ho! You should’ve seen the table my sister-in-law set! Glazed ham, sweet potatoes, roasted veggies, a sauce the likes of which I’ve never tasted before; and then she had this spiced drink that – swear to God – was like sipping the best winter day you ever had as a child. But all I could do was peck at the food; gently kiss the cider, because I knew what today would bring.

I had to be lean and hungry.

I had to be ready.

For Boxing Day at the mall.

A crowd has gathered around me now, pointing and muttering: “…for no reason… just walked over and hit… I did call 911… what’s with the gloves?...”

I scan their faces. Mostly confusion, some fright, none of them look…. Ah ha! There’s one! Hard, grey eyes; tight closed lips; hair pulled back in a fighter’s bun and a long scar running the width of her high forehead. I check the ears: no rings, only cauliflower.

And she’s wearing a Kirkland’s employee apron.

We lock eyes.

She mouths the words, “No receipt, no return.”

It’s on.

I tap my gloves and make a beeline towards her. The crowd parts to let me through. She waits, hands hidden under the smock.

When I’m ten feet away, she raises her hands with the flourish of a cheap magician; the apron swinging around like a cape. My boxing gloves are worn, faded red with ‘EVERLAST’ on the wrists. Hers are onyx and look just like wet stone. The right one has a hammer painted across the knuckles; the left a lightning bolt. Her wrists read ‘THUG’ and ‘LIFE’.

“Store credit only, eh?” she snarls.

I place the accent. Canadian.

I’m glad I didn’t have that second helping of ham.

On the other side of the mall in front of Babbage’s, a dismayed boy watched the violence with a sinking heart. He held an ordinary, dull oak box in his hands.

The Kirkland lady jabbed her right at the strange man – BAP BAP BAP – keeping it at his nose. He risked dropping a hand to try a shot, but she slipped and continued to jab with her left – BAP BAP BAP.

The boy looked at his box. Someone had tried to scrape off the stickers; price and store, but he could still plainly see the letters ‘sale’ and ‘…irklan…’. The boy sighed.

Across the mall, the Kirkland lady seemed to be waning; her jabs came slower and sometimes missed – BAP... BAP … BAP. Encouraged, the strange man slightly lifted his head. A mistake. The Kirkland lady saw the opening and delivered a right hook that split lips and sent teeth rattling across the walkway.

The strange man wobbled, then fell flat on his face.

The Kirkland lady spat her mouthpiece onto the back of his head. She lifted her arms in triumph and began her victory circle, boldly proclaiming; “Without a receipt, eh?” she hollered, “You’ll only get store credit at the sale price!”

The boy tucked the box under his arm and turned to leave. It was a lousy gift, true, but then everything at Kirkland’s was full of lousy. He had no receipt, so he couldn’t get cash, and what could he trade it for? A corkscrew that looked like a pig’s ass? No, exchanging it wouldn’t be worth bothering the Kirkland lady.

He’d just have to find some use for it. There is always something you can put in a box.

The heart retreats when confronted by necessity

Pytor Kopivick couldn’t understand why any human being would choose to live in such heat. Certainly, those who were bereft of common sense or otherwise incapable of functioning in an advanced civilization, yes, those types of people would find a home here. But it didn’t make sense to Kopivick that so many seemingly normal, otherwise intelligent people would choose to live in this place.

This place called Texas.

Kopivick feigned raising a hand to wipe sweat from his brow then let it drop. Why waist the energy? The sweat would just return, popping up under his hairline, running in rivers down his forehead and into his eyes. Kopivick tried blinking then scrunched his eyes real tight to force the salty water away, but that just made things worse. It made it feel like he was crying. There was nothing to do in this heat but suffer.

He breathed out a heavy sigh and pushed the palms of his hands deep into his eye-sockets to grind away the sweat. Then he ran fingers through his hair, slicking the heavy, black locks flat against his scalp. He sighed again and rolled his neck, popping the spine. The lady he stood behind turned and scowled at him. She didn’t approve of all the commotion while the Mayor was making a speech. Kopivick smiled at her, his blood-red lips and porcelain teeth forming a sharp V shape under his long, slightly bent nose.

The lady decided not to wait for whatever apology might follow that smile and moved forward to get closer to the podium. Kopivick now had a clear view of the distinguished men and women lined up behind the Mayor who had come to this torched swath of desert sand, in the middle of the day, without a stitch of shade to protect them from the blazing sun, just to support Antelope Run’s highest elected official as he broke ground on the new Crane County Prison.

The Mayor droned on and on, talking about new jobs and Federal money and lower taxes…. Kopivick’s jaw dropped and his tongue lolled out. He panted like a dog. He put a hand up next to his head and felt heat radiating from his black hair which had been absorbing sun for close to an hour. It was like putting your hand over a blacktop highway. He wiped more sweat from his eyes and glared at the Mayor, compelling him to shut up with a hateful scowl. He even mouthed the words, shut up, but, of course, the Mayor kept talking.

Kopivick blinked, held his eyelids shut too long, and was momentarily sun-blind when he opened them. In the brief moments before he regained vision, he flashed back to another rally he had attended as a youth. A man was behind a microphone on a slapped together stage giving a passionate speech about communism. It had been a cold day in the Motherland, with snow hanging in the air. He remembered watching from a safe distance, like he was today, until the climax of the speech when the crowd erupted with cheers, pumping their fists in the air. None of them noticed as a young Kopivick charged the stage, drawing two guns from under his coat, blasting away at the demon behind the microphone…

Kopivick tried to swallow but found his throat had gone dry. The Mayor continued to blah-blah about the local economy and Kopivick realized that, horrifying though it may be, there is nothing better at shutting up a politician than a few blasts from a loud gun.

Finally the Mayor finished his speech and the small audience applauded politely. Kopivick drummed his hands together too, truly grateful that the man had stopped running his mouth. It proved to be a temporary reprieve, however, because as soon as the smattering of applause died down, the Mayor began introducing, by name, all the people responsible for “making this whole thing happen.”

Kopivick lowered his head and flared his nostrils, staring at the Mayor with hooded eyes. His trigger fingers twitched as the procession of politicians, contractors, civil servants, and whatnots shook hands with the Mayor, each saying a few words about how honored they were to be part this great accomplishment for the city of Antelope Run. Kopivick daydreamed about guns and cold weather.

“Are you bored child?” a voice, amplified by the speakers, filled the air and startled Kopivick out of his daze. The man behind the microphone had a wide face with a lopsided grin. He was wearing a cowboy hat, a western shirt that barely contained his comically large belly, blue jeans with a giant belt buckle that cut into the underside of his stomach, and boots. He looked right at Kopivick and winked.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be long now.” He was speaking in Kopivick’s native tongue and his accent was perfectly common, not like someone who learned it from a book. Kopivick couldn’t believe his ears. He looked around but no one else seemed to notice anything unusual about the fat Texan addressing him in gutter Belarusian.

“…and I look forward to getting to know y’all fine people of Antelope Run,” the man continued, speaking English now with a shit-kicker accent, playing to the crowd, “so don’t think y’all have to commit a crime just to come see me!” The audience rewarded the fat man’s witticism with a burst of spirited applause. The Mayor joined him behind the microphone, clamping a friendly hand on his shoulder.

“Van Gitney,” the Mayor announced, “we are truly lucky to have you as the warden of our new Crane County Correctional Facility!”

“Thank you, and I’m just as lucky to be here!” the man called Van Gitney said before waving to the crowd and stepping down.

Van Gitney, Kopivick wondered about the name. Dutch? Maybe German… Not Russian. Certainly not Belarusian. Kopivick studied the fat man from a distance. If there had ever been any Eastern European blood in that bloated vessel, the hot Texas sun had long since boiled it away. But only somebody who had been born in Belarus, or Byelorussian in the days before the United Republic, would speak the language that fluently. Plus, the words Kopivick had heard were out of context with the rest of the fat man’s speech, yet there had been no reaction from the crowd.

Kopivick worried that he might be having a sun stroke, something that would cause him to hallucinate. It went against his nature, and training, to question his faculties, but this damned heat was like a Nazi torture chamber. It set his flesh on fire. It melted his shirt to his back. The humidity blocked his sinuses, chocked his breath. What little air that did make it to his lungs was rank and stale, delivering barely enough oxygen to pump his sluggish heart. It was just a matter of time before he’d start to see pink elephants flying around in parade formation.

Kopivick put both hands to his cheeks and rubbed, working his jaw up and down. Focus! He commanded himself. All of the dangerous years he’d lived – the countless battles, the pain and suffering he had both received and inflicted as a soldier, only to let a little warm weather turn him into a simpering cripple.

A trickle of sweat escaped the elastic band of his underwear and rolled down the crack of his ass. He reached around to scratch at it through his pants. He muttered a string of curse words in his native tongue and started walking, moving his legs to get rid of that ‘not-so-fresh’ feeling down below.

Kopivick made his way to the side of the assembly where Van Gitney was standing. The warden of the new Crane County Prison shuffled his feet some, occasionally wiped his brow, but otherwise appeared to be very happy standing there. He whispered comments to the fellows next to him, all of them jiggling with silent laughter so as not to disturb the Mayor who was still talking. Kopivick marveled that they could find anything funny at being under the sun in the middle of a summer day in Texas.

Once again, the Mayor finished speaking with a flourish, promising to build “The best damn prison this side of Huntsville!” The audience applauded, some even shouting “Hoo-rah!”, but Kvorkia didn’t bother. He figured there was more nonsense to come and he was right. One of the contractors, a thick black man wearing a short sleeved work shirt, blue jeans, and a ridiculously bright pink construction helmet, brought the ceremonial shovel to the Mayor. They moved about five feet away from the podium, found their spot, and waited for the photographer from the local paper to get in position.

The photographer motioned for everybody to scoot closer together, which they did, grinning like fools. The photographer liked what he saw, raised his hand and started counting with his fingers – 1, 2, 3 – and he pointed at the Mayor.

The Mayor set his foot on the shovel and stepped on the spade, thrusting it into the ground. Dust spewed from the earth, like blood gushing from an artery punched by a razor. It billowed up in a fountain, knocking the Mayor off balance. He yelped as the sand blasted his face, and then started coughing as it filled his mouth.

Kvorkia felt his legs wobble and realized the earth itself was shaking. He reflexively reached for his guns, and then admonished himself when he remembered he wasn’t wearing them. He hadn’t worn the holsters because it was too hot to cover them with a jacket. Kvorkia spread his feet apart and promised himself that, if he lived through the afternoon, he would start wearing his heavy camelhair trench coat everywhere. Heat be damned!

In an instant, the dirt geyser stopped gushing and the earth went still. A cool breeze came from out of nowhere and dissipated the air-born sand in harmless swirls of burnt orange and dark yellow. Van Gogh would have been inspired. People started talking; questioning each other, but the Mayor wasted no time getting behind the microphone and assured them that everything was all right. He laughed it off as a “pocket of natural gas”. Said it was a good thing nobody smoked anymore.

Kvorkia felt a chill run down his spine. He turned to see the man called Van Gitney looking right at him. The future warden of the new prison had a wide, crooked grin on his face. When they locked eyes, Van Gitney winked and started shaking with quite laughter. Kvorkia smiled right back, running his tongue over his unnaturally long eyeteeth, feeling their points. This would be a lot more amusing, Kvorkia thought, if only he had brought his guns.

As if reading his mind, Van Gitney pointed a finger gun at Kvorkia and mouthed the word “pow!” Kvorkia snarled audibly, disturbing the people around him, and then turned abruptly to leave.

It would be here, then. The next battle in the everlasting war would be fought in Burnin, Texas.

The Halloween Horribles #4

Collinsville, IL. October 31st, 1988.

"Turn turn TURN!" Shane called out from the back seat, reaching forward to slap Virgil's shoulder. "Left, right HERE!"

"Well, which one?" Virgil twisted the steering wheel back and forth, swerving erratically across the center line of the State Route 157. "Left or right?"

"LEFT!"

"Wheee!" Virgil cranked the wheel hard and, in the back seat, Julie wound up on Shane's lap, her head nestled under his chin, his arms around her middle. They all screamed in joyful terror as a passing car laid on its horn with displeasure at their antics. In the front seat, Stacy braced herself with a hand on Virgil's shoulder. Mid-turn, he caught her eye and winked. She laughed.

The car, a heavy 2 door Oldsmobile Cutlass, fishtailed slightly, found its lane, and steadied. Virgil slowed to a crawl, waiting for Shane to reorient himself. "That was fun. Now what?"

Shane, however, was taking his time getting things situated. He kept his hands on Julie's hips longer than necessary when helping her move back to her side of the seat. Using the readjustment as an excuse, Julie sat closer to him now, in the middle section, their thighs touching. She smiled and gave Shane's knee a quick squeeze as if to thank him for catching her. Shane smiled back, placing his hand on top of hers.

"Shane?" Virgil prodded. "Where to?"

"Oh, right." Shane retrieved the map and smoothed it against the headrest. He turned on the dome light to see. "Keep going until we pass the water tower. Then another left on.... Arnotti."

"The Real Gates of Hell," Virgil said. "Here we come!"

***

October 27th

"The Gates of Hell is bullshit," Virgil said. "I've done it. A lot of driving around and nothing happens at the end."

"That's 'cause you haven't done the real Gates of Hell," Shane replied. He held out a map crudely drawn on graph paper. "Here. Take a look."

Virgil studied the map and grinned. "What is this? Looks like some of that Dungeons and Dragons nonsense."

Shane had, in fact, sketched monsters and heroes around the edges of the paper, but the roads and directions were legit.

"That's the map for the real gates. I got it from the Terrance Crier show. Look, it only works on Halloween, and we have to pass the last gate - here, this one - exactly at midnight. So the thing to do is start early, like 11:00-"

"-Come on, Shane. If it was on the Crier show, every weirdo in St. Louis has this same map and the cops will be all over those roads like gnats on a dog's dick."

"No, listen, Terrance Crier didn't announce this on his show. His producer gave it to me in private. He told me the truth...."

***

October 23rd

"Thank you for calling the Terrance Crier show. Topic please?"

"Yeah, thanks for taking my call," Shane said, speaking low into the handset as it was past one in the morning and he didn't want to wake his mother sleeping in the room across the hall. "I had a question about the Gates of Hell?"

A groan came from the other end of the phone line. "What about them?"

"Well, like...," Shane turned off his radio which he'd been listening to at a whisper volume. "Where are they? Are they real?"

"What are you? New in town?"

"Well, yes," Shane answered. "Sort of. I just moved here this summer."

"Figures. That Gates of Hell thing got played out in the '70s, son. But hold on a sec.," the voice spoke away from the phone. "Hey, Brian. Got a call from a tourist about the Gates of Hell. ... I don't know, some kid."

The voice returned to the phone. "What's your name, kid?"

"Shane. Muncie."

"Uh-huh. Where did you move here from?"

"Kansas."

"Well carry on my wayward son. Hey, hold on."

The voice moved away again, this time far enough that Shane couldn't make out any words. He leaned over his desktop and pulled the window shade back to look out at the night. Dark. That's one thing he'd noticed about Illinois: the nights were so much darker than they had been in Kansas.

"Hello?" another, different voice came on the line.

"Yes," Shane responded.

"Yeah, I'm the producer, Brian. You're Shane from Kansas?"

"Yes sir."

"Where 'bouts in Kansas?"

"Oh, gosh, you probably never... Bonner Springs? Kind of close to Leavenworth?"

"Yeah! Yeah, yeah, I know the place. I grew up in Tonganoxie."

"Okay."

"Christ, those shitty little towns fucking suck, don't they?'

"Man, you ain't kidding."

"Sometimes I miss it, though."

"Not me!"

"Yeah, well. You're young. Hey, anyway, we're not going to do the Gates of Hell thing tonight."

"Oh."

"Sorry. Last time we did it a bunch of kids got caught over in Troy; at the seventh gate? Anyway, they acted stupid for the cops and one of them wound up in the hospital. Fucking police called the station the next day and read us the riot act. That was only two years ago so we're going to lay low again this year."

"Oh, okay."

"But, hey.... Let me ask you something; when you were in Bonner, did you ever go up to Bell Point? Coffin Road? Off the Missouri River?"

"No. No, I don't know where that is."

"Really? Wow. Things must have changed. Back when I was living there, that was the thing to do on Halloween. Scariest shit I ever lived through, man. Tell you true; standing here today, I'm surprised I did live through it. Hell. Sometimes I close my eyes and see that thing, man, and it's coming for me...."

Shane waited for a long moment, and then said, "Hello?"

Producer Brian cleared his throat. There was a tremble in his voice when he continued, "Anyway, what I want to tell you is that Gates of Hell thing is bullshit. Which is to say; it is bullshit the way you've heard it or will hear it. In reality, there are only six gates; and you can't just drive through them. You have to.... Do you have a pen? You want to take this down?"

"Yes, I've got one! I'm ready."

"I'll be honest with you; I've never done this, I will never do it, I'm not interested in doing it, but my source is 100% reliable. So if, after I give you the info, you still want to try it - that's on you. If it turns out to be a wasted Halloween waiting in a sincere pumpkin patch, or if your soul is dragged down to hell by a pack of satanic dogs; either way, don't come bitching to me. I'm just telling you what I heard from someone I believe. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good. Okay, first...."

***

October 31st

Collinsville's water tower was shaped like a Brook's catsup bottle - the world's largest - and at night it was lit up with justifiable community pride by a ring of large spotlights. As Virgil drove under the metal tank, he contemplated, "You know, even if that were real, it still wouldn't hold enough ketchup to cover my wiener."

Stacy barked out a loud laugh. She moved her lips to Virgil's ear and whispered something. He took a hand off the steering-wheel and hugged her to his side, grinning like a fool.

"Don't encourage him, Stacy!" Julie said, but laughed and leaned into Shane. He dutifully put his arm around her shoulders.

"Careful you'll miss it," Shane said. "It's kind of hidden. There! Between those trees."

"Is this even a road?" Virgil asked. "Looks like a driveway."

"It's a road," Shane affirmed. "See the sign?"

Headlights fell upon a reflective green street sign. Locman, it read.

"Abandon all hope," Virgil said, and then slowly turned the wheel.

Snuggled together in pairs against the chill of late October, the four friends turned off the safely lit roads of South Collinsville into the dark mystery of Halloween night.

***

October 30th

"What do you think about Julie?" Virgil asked.

"She's cool," Shane answered. "Why?"

"She's coming with us tomorrow."

Shane looked up from the Fangora magazine he'd been thumbing through and made a non-committal snorting sound. Virgil elbowed him in the ribs.

They were sitting on the trunk of Virgil's car, waiting for Stacy to finish with basketball practice. Virgil, lean and in good shape, wore his leather jacket with jeans and BK tennis shoes. His wavy black hair, brushed back, curled over his shoulders and his dark, expressive eyes never hid a single emotion. Right now they were bright and lively with good humor.

"Come on, man, it'll give you something to do besides read while Stacy and I are making out."

"Get real," Shane said. Taller than his friend, but with less weight, he wore honestly faded, hand-me-down denim and nameless tennies from K-Mart. He, too, kept his hair long, but it was dirty blonde and limp. His eyesight was terrible so he wore thick glasses in rectangular frames. "She doesn't even know me."

"She knows you enough to tell Stacy that she likes you."

The magazine slipped from Shane's hands and he fumbled to keep it from hitting the ground.

"It's true," Virgil continued. "But Julie told Stacy not to tell me and Stacy told me not to tell you so, you know.... Don't tell Julie you know I know Stacy knows she likes you."

"Wait," Shane adjusted his glasses. "Now I'm confused. Who likes me?"

"I like you." Virgil made a move to hug and kiss on Shane, but he pushed him away.

"Get off, hoser!"

Virgil laughed and grabbed Shane in a headlock. They wrestled playfully for a while, and then stopped when they heard the school doors bag open. Practice was over and the girls came pouring out.

From the doorway, Stacy spotted them and waved. Virgil and Shane waved back.

"She let me get to third base last night," Virgil told Shane in a hushed voice.

"Wow! Great! Fantastic!" Shane exclaimed. "I don't even know what that means."

Stacy finished up a conversation with a teammate and came running over. An athletic girl, she wore her hair in a butch cut and her mannerisms and the way she moved came off slightly masculine. Her face, however, was feminine and very pretty; oval shaped with wide, hazel eyes, turned up nose, and full lips.

"I'll explain later," Virgil whispered, and then caught Stacy in a spinning embrace. They kissed.

Shane groaned and crawled in the back seat with his magazine.

***

October 31st
Gate #1

"So just drive through, huh?" Virgil asked. He had the Oldsmobile's nose pointed at a concrete tunnel running under an old, disused railroad track. Headlights bathed the entryway; not a single inch of the grey facade was untouched by graffiti paint. Snip-its of words - mostly foul - could be distinguished, along with some comical images, but the overall result of such defacement was one of utter chaos.

"No, that's a lie they tell about those other gates of hell," Shane explained. "What we have to do is get out and walk."

Stacy turned to look at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. There's something inside the tunnel we need to see."

"Can't we just see it from the warm comfort of the car?"

"I don't think so," Shane answered. "Not the way it was explained to me."

"Alright then," Stacy opened the passenger's door, letting in a burst of cold air. "But if you guys are playing some kind of Halloween prank on us, watch yer nuts 'cause I'm wearing my kicking shoes."

They piled out of the car and joined together at the mouth of the tunnel. It was a small enclosure, wide enough to allow one truck passage and maybe fifteen feet long, sufficient to accommodate the single track of railroad overhead. The car's headlights splashed against the concrete walls of the entryway and spilled through the opening.

The jumble of graffiti was dizzying.

Shane carried a tubular flashlight with a florescent bulb on the side. He clicked it on and said in his best Marty Feldman, "Walk this way." He lumbered into the tunnel with an exaggerated, comical gait.

Virgil shrugged and mimicked Shane's movement until Stacy slapped him on the butt.

Julie hesitated before entering the tunnel. She looked longingly over her shoulder at the Oldsmobile and the safety it represented, and then hugged herself as a chill wind caught and lifted her feathered brown hair.

And then she followed her friends.

***

Shane played light over the interior walls. The graffiti was just as intense here as it had been around the mouth.

"What are we looking for?" Stacy asked.

"The guy said we'd know when we found it," Shane answered.

"What guy?" Stacy again, sounding impatient. "What 'it'? Any clue?"

"I found something kind of looks like a dick," Virgil said. "And I think it's between two moons? No. No, wait. Those are boobs. See?"

"It is supposed to be a name," Shane said. "And it will only be visible on Halloween night, but it should be very obvious. At least that's what the guy said."

Stacy huffed. "What guy?"

"Hey," Julie called. "Look at this." She reached out and touched the wall, running her fingers over the rough texture, tracing a name.

They gathered around her and saw a square foot of clean, unmarked tunnel. No ink of any kind, the concrete as pure as it had been when first set.

Except for one word, written in bulky black letters on the dead-skin grey canvas.

"Asmodeus," Julie whispered reverently.

A blast of arctic wind tore through the tunnel.

***

Gate #2

The overpass looked exactly the same as the first, except this one was located in a heavily wooded area. The trees themselves made a tunnel leading up to the entrance and the car's headlights did little to dispel the overwhelming darkness of night.

"Those other gates, the fake gates, all claim their legend from the tunnels," Shane explained, sitting in the car. "You've probably heard the stories - that the KKK hung a boy in one; a car-full of kids on acid crashed and died in another."

"Satanic rituals and hell hounds," Virgil said. "Yeah, we've heard all that before."

"Right, well, the producer of the Terrance Crier show told me the real gates were born, not from what happened in the tunnels, but from what went on above. On the tracks."

"What tracks?" Stacy asked.

"See, you didn't even know. These old tunnels were built because there used to be private railroads all over the place. Mostly to connect factories and farms, but one was built to transport criminals and lunatics to the Elgin State Hospital. And that train ran over the real gates of hell."

"Of which this is the second one." Virgil confirmed. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

***

"Do we need to say it out loud?" Stacy asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"Yeah," Shane replied. "One of us does."

The four of them stood looking at the name written in approximately the same area of the tunnel wall; with exactly the same ink and font over another impossibly clean section of concrete.

Julie reached out to touch it, but Shane grabbed her hand. "I wouldn't," he said.

Julie's hand made a fist, and then she put it back in the pocket-pouch of her sweater.

"What are these name supposed to mean anyway?" Stacy again.

"So a lot of bad stuff happened on the train to Elgin State Hospital," Shane answered. "With the crazy killers it carried; murder... and worse, were pretty common. Routine, actually, and nobody cared because it was just lunatics doing other lunatics. But six inmates in particular were very bad. Like, killed-everybody-on-the-train-and-they-never-found-all-the-bodies bad. And the names of those six inmates are written on the real gates of hell."

"Chemosh," Virgil said, verbalizing the word on the wall. "There. Two down, four to go."

***

At the car, Stacy pulled the seat forward and held the door waiting for Julie and Shane. Shane dutifully climbed in, expecting Julie to be right behind him, but when he reached back to give her his hand, she was nowhere to be seen.

"Julie?" he asked. "Where's Julie?"

"She's right...," Stacy started, and then looked around frantically. "Julie!" she cried.

"What's going on?" Virgil asked.

Shane was out of the car in a flash; he and Stacy both shouting Julie's name.

"Here," Julie's voice came from the darkness between the trees. "Over here."

Shane hit her with the spot of his flashlight. For a brief moment, the light caught her eyes just so and they flared red like a predatory night animals. The effect caused a fear reaction in Shane, but it didn't last and soon the countenance of her face returned to normal. She looked lovely and soft in the light.

"I thought I saw something," she said, stepping out of the woods.

"What?" Shane asked.

"It was nothing." She smiled and took his hand, allowing him to guide her back to the car.

"Don't do that again," Shane said. "You scared the hell out of me!"

***

Gates 3 & 4

Gates 3 and 4 were side-by-side, one representing a spur of track that broke away from the mainline to take on water from a windmill and well that had long since been demolished and filled-in. The road leading to these twin tunnels was tore up with thick tree roots breaking through the asphalt and large chunks of stone making it impossible to drive close.

Virgil got the car as near as possible to the entry and killed the engine, leaving the lights on. Dead leaves driven by wind played over the uneven surface of the path. The tunnel's entry seemed very far away and very dark.

"There's no mystery," Virgil explained. "As far as pranks go, it's easy enough. Somebody just came around earlier, painted over the graffiti with whitewash, then added those names. And we just happen to be the suckers falling for it this year."

They had been discussing how those names had appeared, as if by magic, on the walls of the otherwise illegible tunnels. Virgil's conclusion made sense, but wasn't exactly reassuring.

"I still don't like it," Stacy said. "If somebody went through all that trouble, then they're probably waiting. Watching." She peered out the window, but it was far too dark and concealed to see anything in the heavy woods.

"What do you think, Shane?" Virgil turned around to ask his friend who had been uncharacteristically silent. "Should we forget this and go somewhere else?"

The reason for Shane's taciturnity was, on the drive over, Julie had cuddled up very close, placed her head on his shoulder; her breath warm upon his neck. Her body was crushed against his and her hand rested on his leg with the tips of her fingers touching the inseam of his jeans against his upper thigh.

With the resulting blood-loss from his brain, Shane hadn't trusted himself to say anything not-stupid.

"So what if they are waiting and watching?" Julie answered for him. "They can't do anything to us. And if they did go through all this trouble, we shouldn't disappoint them."

Virgil and Stacy exchanged a look. Julie was typically the kill-joy goody-two-shoes type; but the way she was all over Shane, maybe she'd decided this Halloween would be her coming-out night.

Stacy shrugged and opened her door. Virgil did the same.

***

"You felt the first one," Virgil asked Julie. "Was it wet?"

Julie shook her head. Her eyes were focused intensely at the word on the wall.

Virgil ran his finger around the edge of the unblemished area - careful not to touch the black ink of the name written therein - and then rubbed it against his thumb. "Dry. But they could have done it days ago. Here, Shane, get the light real close."

Virgil bent low and moved his face towards the concrete, squinting to make out any signs of whitewash.

"I can't tell," he decided, standing up straight.

"Halphas," Stacy recited the third gate's name suddenly. "What the hell? In for a penny....,"

Julie squealed with delight and planted a kiss on Shane's lips.

***

Julie stood on her tiptoes, took Shane's ear in her mouth, ran her tongue over the edges, released it with a wet kiss and whispered, "You do this one, lover."

Shane gulped and read the fourth gate's name, "Samael."

Julie wrapped him in a hug and covered his mouth with hers. Shane lost balance and fell against the wall. Julie pressed him hard, grinding her hips into his against the spot on the concrete where the name was written.

Virgil arched an eyebrow at Stacy. She shook her head in amazement.

***

Gate #5

"Here's another question," Stacy started. They were once again parked in front of a tunnel; this one very much like the first, except now Virgil was hopeless lost. And with the distractions Shane had been dealing with all night, it was somewhat of a miracle they'd managed to even find the fifth gate. "If the names are supposed to represent madmen killers," Stacy continued, "how come it's only been one word, one name, on the walls? No first and last; just one name? Like every psycho killer is as cool as Madonna or Sting?"

"Good one," Virgil replied. "And the names themselves have been really weird. I've never heard any of them before. Shane? Buddy? Any ideas?"

In the back seat, Shane extracted his hand from under Julie's sweater and cleared his throat.

"Well, the names aren't even human, are they?" he said. "That first one was a demon's name. I recognized it from an old TV movie. So I assumed the others are all similar; either demonic or just made up to sound like it."

Julie giggled. So silly!

"Sooooo," Stacy drawled. "That story about the crazy train is bullshit?"

"Who knows? I mean, I guess we're going on the assumption that somebody is doing this as a prank, right? So maybe there's another story being told that it was demons instead of psychos on the train. Or maybe demons that had possessed the humans making them seem insane? Anyway, the names we've been finding sound good. Real scary, you know."

Stacy sighed.

"I probably should have asked sooner; but what exactly is supposed to happen? When we get through all six tunnels?"

"Oh, the same thing as with the other gates of hell; a portal opens up and Satan comes out to greet us. And depending upon who you talk to, he might have some dogs with him."

"Wonderful," Stacy said.

Julie laughed.

***

"Oh no," Stacy said, taking a step back from the word written on the wall. "No, this is getting way too creepy."

"Hey, you know what I think?" Virgil said, wrapping an arm around Stacy. "I think this proves it's all a hoax. I mean, come on."

"Whatever. Let's not say this one out-"

"-Lucifer!" Julie blurted. Shane turned his flashlight and her face lit up. She was absolutely beaming; eyes bright, smile wide. "Lucifer," she repeated. "An easy one."

And she started back toward the car, hips swaying in the headlights.

***

Gate #6

"Okay, what is going on with Julie?" Virgil asked. He and Stacy were standing together in a dark copse of trees away from the tunnel's entrance. They had left Julie and Shane sitting on the trunk of the Oldsmobile, waiting for midnight. It was 11:58.

Stacy shook her head. "I have no idea. She said she was just having fun. That's all."

They'd arrive at the sixth gate ten minutes ago, but since the instructions specified the final name must be recited at midnight, they had time to kill. So Stacy made some excuse to get Julie alone - "let's go powder our noses" - with the intention of finding out why she'd been acting so weird.

And while the girls were having their pow-wow, Shane had spent the time jumping around Virgil like an excited puppy, seeking advice and, maybe, if Virgil had an extra one, a condom he could borrow, pleeeeeeease!

"Yeah, well." Virgil looked towards the lights of his car. He noted that Shane and Julie were sitting close, but not all over each other. "I told Shane to cool it. This is, after all, only their first date. I wouldn't want him getting a reputation."

Stacy smiled wanly. What she hadn't told her boyfriend was how Julie had acted and sounded when she'd said Just having fun. How she invaded Stacy's personal space; locked eyes with her and came close enough to kiss when the word's left her parted lips; Just having fun.

Neither did Stacy relate how she had almost tripped over a root backpedaling away from her childhood friend who, standing in the deepest, darkest shadows of the night, chuckled softly at her retreat. Or the warm spot on her hip where Julie had placed her hand.

"Let's not do this," Stacy decided. "Call Shane over here; let's just leave."

Virgil was about to protest; after all, they'd come so far and this was the last stop, but then he saw the serious expression on Stacy's face; the steady eyes and resolute set of her mouth, and decided she was right. This had gone on long enough.

But just as Virgil was going to call out, Julie's voice came first and it filled the night's air.

"Midnight!" she shouted. "Let's go!"

From the trees, Virgil and Stacy watched Julie snatch Shane's hand and run him towards the tunnel, leaping into the dark mouth of the entryway.

"Oh...," Virgil started.

"...shit," Stacy finished.

They raced side-by-side for the 6th gate.

***

The tunnel was empty. Shane's flashlight lay abandoned by the wall. It couldn't have taken Virgil and Stacy more than half a minute to get there; but by the time they had, their friends were gone.

Stacy picked up the flashlight. Virgil's eyes were wide and filled with panic. He called Shane's name and raced to the opposite end of the tunnel, frantically searching for his friend who would never be seen again.

Stacy took a stutter step to follow, but a low, soft laugh coming from right next to her froze the blood in her veins. It was the same eerie chuckle she'd hear Julie mutter out in the woods.

The sound diminished to silence. Slowly, Julie raised the flashlight and swept the walls with its beam. Empty.

But there, written in black on an incredibly clean section of concrete, the 6th gate's message. Stacy focused on the words, and gasped as she watched them fade; become obscure as a jumble of graffiti magically appeared to rise from the depth of that section of wall. Soon, the words were gone entirely, replaced by a jumble of nonsense paint; as if they had never even been there at all.

The final dispatch from the Gates of Hell:

Happy Halloween!

The Halloween Horribles #3

There is no middle ground when it comes to Candy Corn. You either believe it to be the perfect food - multicolored manna which should be used to replace dull and flavorless real corn; or you are disgusted by the overwhelming sweetness of the cheap confection - a waste of sugar you would gladly trade for any other treat; yes, even those terrible Mary Jane peanut butter abominations.

Virgil Templeton stood resolutely in the former camp. He loved Candy Corn. He loved everything about Candy Corn. The honey smell. The triangular shape; nibbling off sections by color. And which was sweeter? White, orange or yellow? Virgil could spend an entire afternoon chomping and testing, trying to decide.

But in the end, every section proved to be delicious. A just and righteous cuisine; Candy Corn does not discriminate.

In fact, Virgil adored Candy Corn so much; he became confused and even angered by the changes being made to his favorite Halloween treat. Even at his tender age, Virgil soured into an intractable purist in the face of the designer flavors being introduced to the racks at Walgreen's. Apple Pie flavored? S'mores? Caramel Macchiato? What the crap is Macchiato?

Virgil couldn't wrap his mind around these horrors, and that's how it all started.

***

"Mom," Virgil strode into the kitchen. "What's this?" He slammed a bag down on the island counter.

Standing at the sink, Mary Templeton cast a quick glance over her shoulder and said, "You can have some, dear, but not too much."

Virgil pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "No, Mom. No. What is this?" He held the bag up and showed her the lettering on the package.

"Candy Corn, honey. I know how much you like it."

Virgil sighed and his shoulders slumped. "Mom. It is bag of Candy Corn and peanuts. Peanuts, mom. They put peanuts in with the Candy Corn."

Mary glanced again. "Oh, so they did. Well, eat around the peanuts, dear."

A shadow fell across Virgil's face. He tapped his finger against the counter. Eventually he said, "This cannot stand. I have to put a stop to this before it gets any worse. Next they'll be mixing Candy Corn with marshmallows. Or pretzels."

"You like pretzels."

"Not with my Candy Corn!" Virgil exploded.

"Yes, dear." Mary took a knife to the lettuce. "Dinner is in an hour, so don't eat too much."

Virgil stomped out of the kitchen.

***

Storm clouds rolled in and forked lighting tore across the sky over the Bruch's candy factory. Twin smokestacks on either side of the boxy building added to the rolling black clouds. A large circular window in the middle of the entry-way gable glowed yellow, like a jaundiced eye gazing into the darkness.

Lighting flashed and thunder cracked. A trick of the light made it seem as if the window moved, redirected its focus, and came to rest looking right at Virgil Templeton.

The boy stood at the elaborately decorative iron gates and scowled. His hand clenched around the offending package of Candy Corn and Peanuts. The factory would not scare him away with its intimidating size and foreboding appearance - he was on a mission!

Virgil pressed and ground his finger firmly into the gate's buzzer.

"Yes, yes? What do you want?" a haggard, disembodied voice came out of the intercom.

"I need to speak to someone about this!" Virgil shouted, holding the bag up to the factory's window-eye.

After a long moment of silence save for the static from the speaker, the voice responded, "Very well. Come ahead."

A buzzing sound followed by a click indicated the gate had been remotely unlocked. Virgil pushed it open, hinges squeaking in agonized protest, and started up the long, winding path to the factory's door.

***

The sky opened up pouring buckets of rain on Virgil before he reached the entry. By the time the heavy, oak door swung laboriously open, he was soaked through and through.

"Oh, dear," the factory manager said as a greeting. "You're all wet."

Standing in the foyer, looking just like a drowned puppy with his dirty blonde hair plastered against his forehead, water dripping from his brow, and a puddle spreading around his feet, Virgil scowled at the tall, thin bureaucrat. He held up the offensive package of Candy Corn and peanuts and demanded, "Why did you do this?"

The manager sighed. He lifted the package from Virgil's hands and shook his head sadly. "I can offer no apology, only an explanation. First, however, let me see if we can't find a towel. Maybe some tea, or, no, hot chocolate? And we'll talk in my office where it is warm."

***

Later, dry and comfortable, sitting in an over-sized leather chair at a desk across from the manager whose nameplate read "Mr. Muncie", Virgil ignored the steaming cup of coco at his elbow and glared hatefully at the bag of Candy Corn and peanuts resting at the center of the otherwise empty desk.

Mr. Muncie cleared his throat. "How's the chocolate?" he asked, trying to sound conversational, but lack of experience in polities made the words seem aggressively inquisitive. Virgil didn't answer. He just looked at the manager's eyes, then back to the package, then the eyes again, before returning with blistering intensity to the bag.

"Oh very well," Mr. Muncie swept the bag from the top of the desk, hiding it in a drawer. "As I said before, there is no suitable apology. It is awful; but we can't take it back now."

"But why?" Virgil pressed. "Why would you do such a thing? What were you thinking?"

Mr. Muncie took a deep, chest-full of air through his narrow nose, held it, and exhaled mightily. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Virgil."

"Yes. Okay, Virgil. Do you know how much Candy Corn we make in a year? Last year it was 35 million pounds; roughly 9 billion pieces. They say there are only around 8 billion people alive on the face of this earth. That's one piece and a section for each man, woman, and child alive."

Virgil considered - Candy Corn for everyone? The man just described utopia!

"I see you're impressed," the manager continued. "As well you should be. We do work hard here, Virgil.

"But for all our hard work, we face a rather daunting and, seemingly, insurmountable problem. Can you guess what it is?"

Virgil shook his head.

"Simply and concisely - people hate Candy Corn."

"No!" Virgil exclaimed. "Candy Corn is the best! It tastes just like heaven! I could eat Candy Corn until-

Mr. Muncie held up a hand to stop the boy's outburst.

"Yes, yes, Virgil. You love Candy Corn, and we do appreciate it. And there are a few others like you, and we appreciate them, too; however...," Mr. Muncie took a remote from the inside pocket of his jacket and pushed some buttons. A wide screen monitor descended from the ceiling and flickered to life. In a short moment, the internet site Google was displayed.

Mr. Muncie worked his fingers over the remote and Virgil saw the search term 'most hated halloween candy' appear on the display. The magnifying glass was selected and a host of links appeared. Every one had a picture of Candy Corn next to it.

"No," Virgil whispered, eyes wide and moist as Mr. Muncie worked through the list.

"Dozens. Hundreds of websites," the manager explained as he continued surfing. Each page he visited had something negative to say about Candy Corn. "All of them filled with vitriolic hatred towards our product."

"Please, stop." Virgil wept openly. He wiped his eyes and said, "None of that's true. Candy Corn is not made of sadness and tears."

Mr. Muncie clicked a button and the screen went dark and then ascended back into the ceiling.

"Walk with me, Virgil," he said. "I need to show you something."

***

As they traversed down a long corridor lined with poster sized, elegantly framed pictures of Candy Corn, Mr. Muncie continued his explanation:

"...and juxtaposed against these sentiments is the incongruous fact that sales are up. Soaring, in fact...."

Virgil understood maybe every third or fourth word, but trailed along expectantly. He felt certain they were approaching a revelation.

"....so what does that tell us?"

Mr. Muncie paused, waiting for an answer. Virgil looked at him blankly.

"Well, Virgil. It can only mean one thing. People are buying our candy, but not eating it."

Virgil slammed a clenched fist into his palm. No!

"Indeed. They purchase it to use as decoration or, sometimes, a cruel joke. I've seen instances of pranks where cars, even a swimming pool, were filled with Candy Corn. Thousands of pounds - tons - of our candy being rendered inedible for a moment of childish devilry."

"Those rotten...!" Virgil muttered.

"Just so," Mr. Muncie nodded.

***

In the anteroom leading to the factory floor, wall-mounted display cases housed the many different varieties of Candy Corn based treats manufactured by Bruch's. Each display had a bag, a printed page with marketing language, and a lever that could be pulled to receive a sample. Virgil studied the options; many of which he'd already seen, some were new and confusing: pomegranate strawberry Candy Corn, root beer float Candy Corn, kale currant Candy Corn...?

"All this just to get people to eat Candy Corn," Mr. Muncie said, hands behind his back. "Feel free to take any samples."

Virgil shook his head.

"I don't blame you." Mr. Muncie pulled a lever for a handful of Candy Corn with the color pattern black, grey, purple. He rattled it in his fist like dice then tossed it in a trash can. "They are distasteful to the eye as well as palate."

"Then why do you do it?" Virgil asked. "Why do you care if people eat it as long as they are buying it?"

"A very good question." Mr. Muncie put his hands on the double-doors leading to the factory floor, paused theatrically, and then gave a mighty shove. Mr. Muncie motioned for Virgil to enter.

Virgil stepped forward slowly. His eyes grew wide as he looked around the over-sized warehouse.

Monsters! Dozens of giant, shapeless blobs sprawled at intervals along the concrete floor. Their skin was grey and slick with slime, with no legs or arms, just shifting rolls of blubber twitching under the florescent lights. Their massive heads lolled woefully from their own weight. Rows of fluttering tentacles covered their mouths and their noses were but gaping slits in their faces.

But their eyes! Their eyes were huge and dark, soulful and sad. Each had an expression of such fathomless misery, Virgil felt a lump of pity rise in his throat whenever he caught one of their eyes.

Mist fell from pipes in the ceiling and men in hazmat suits walked the floor with brooms and mops, scrubbing the mysterious beasts in a way that seemed to bring comfort. Like scratching their backs - if they had backs.

On the far side of the warehouse, a movie-theater screen displayed a 24 hour news channel, currently showing war footage; from each side of the room, rows of speakers played sad, old country songs.

"What the...?" Virgil started, but then it happened.

One of the creatures let out a slow, agonized moan. All the workers on the floor rushed towards it, working their mops over its gross skin. The moan rose to a wail and the eyes - those mournful eyes - rolled back.

And suddenly the beast cried out and, from its eyes, geysers of Candy Corn tears burst forth. The first salvo was of such volume, it completely covered the warehouse floor with rattling candy. Subsequent sobs brought forth more waves of the white, yellow orange confection, but at lesser amounts. When it was over, Virgil stood knee deep in an ocean of his favorite treat.

A hanger door opened and a harvesting machine rumbled in to collect the bounty.

"So you see, Virgil." Mr. Muncie put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Candy Corn actually is made of sadness and tears."

***

Back in the office, Mr. Muncie fortified Virgil with another cup of hot chocolate and tried to explain things in a way the boy could understand.

"There is an overage of agony in the world, an imbalance if you will, and those creatures you saw do their best to control the distribution of sadness among all people. They take as much as they can hold, but eventually there has to be a release. As a sort of gift to us humans, their surfeit is a delicious treat - Candy Corn. Well. You and I consider it delicious, don't we?"

Virgil sipped chocolate and waited.

"Indeed we do. But we're in the minority. Therefore, tons of this converted-sadness is not being ingested in a joyful manner. Instead, it is returning to the earth where it decays and festers into yet more imbalanced sadness.

"Does this make any sense to you?"

"No," Virgil said. "Not really. But if the point is I need to eat more Candy Corn, then I'm okay with that."

Mr. Muncie smiled wanly. "I know you are. Unfortunately it is not that simple. For all your enthusiasm, you alone cannot make a significant difference. What we need is to find a way to make large amounts of Candy Corn tasty to a vast majority of people.

"I don't know what to tell you," Virgil said. "Candy Corn is pure and good just like it is. Giving it weird flavors is unnatural."

In a heretofore unseen burst of emotion, Mr. Muncie slammed his fist on the desktop and exclaimed, "What choice do we have! We have to do something!"

Embarrassed by his own outburst, Mr. Muncie sat back and rubbed his mouth. "I am sorry. Forgive me."

Virgil shrugged.

"The thing is; each new flavor we try comes at a great cost. Every failure is.... painful."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Mr. Muncie stood up and paced the room. He moved his lips silently, as if reasoning with himself, then nodded and returned to his chair.

"Virgil," he said, "There is something you can do."

"Anything!" Virgil drained his coco and licked marshmallow foam from his lip. "You name it."

"Based on what you've seen," Mr. Muncie fixed his eyes on Virgil, "can you guess how we develop the new flavors?"

Virgil shook his head and, for some reason, that simple action made him dizzy. The room tilted and he had to put both hands on the desktop to stead himself.

Mr. Muncie continued. "I'll make this fast so you understand. It is in the diet we feed them. That's how we effect the change. Mostly they prefer plants; easy to attain vegetation such as hay and lawn clippings. But we've found that by secretly adding other organic materials to the compost they ingest, it changes the color and flavor of the Candy Corn they expel.

"At first we tried other fruits and vegetables with little success.

"Then we tried artificial vitamins and supplements - that was a disaster.

"Meat, however, yielded promising results - some of which you've seen and, I'm sure tasted. Nothing exemplary, but enough to give us hope to continue trying.

"The issue, then, becomes one of trial and error: what kind of meat will deliver the most flavorful treat?"

Virgil tried to stand up, failed, and collapsed back into the giant leather chair. His vision blurred and grew dark around the edges. Mr. Muncie's face appeared and filled the landscape.

"Little girls gave us the root beer float flavor," The manager said, reaching out and grabbing Virgil's shoulders with two vice-like hands. "And we have high hopes for you, Virgil.

"If it is any consolation," Virgil felt himself being lifted and carried away, "you will be mourned."

Virgil was able to scream one last time before he lost consciousness:

Happy Halloween!

The Halloween Horribles #2

Sasha ran a mental tally: A shot of vodka has 65 calories. Lunch? That crap pasta must have had a butt-load. But I haven't had diner yet, so...

She tossed the vodka back with a whiplash motion, set the glass on the bar and motioned for another. While the 'tender shuffled over, she looked down at her lap. Under that stylish, blood-orange skirt, those thighs.... Those thighs were spreading.

"Good show tonight," the 'tender made conversation as he poured. "I like what you did with the recycled pumpkin story. I never knew you could drop 'em off at the zoo. Yeah, I called my sister and told her. She'll get everybody at-"

"-Thanks." Sasha cut him off abruptly. She swiveled around, showing the man her back. Freakin' perv. Pretending to study the bottle while he's really looking at her tits. Pumpkins my ass. She wouldn't even cast a shadow in this dive if it wasn't where everyone in the industry came to wet their beaks. Not that she needed the connections anymore - after twenty years she was well established as the face of NBC affiliate channel 12's local station - but old habits die hard. Besides, these were her people: the anchors, reporters, cameramen, meteorologists, sportscasters, and producers who brought you the news, live, every day, at 5, 6 and 10.

Oh, and don't forget the traffic gals. Those little tramps who can barely string two words together but stand in front of a big map during rush hour with wide, panicked eyes waiting for somebody to tell them how to pronounce a street name: "Uh. A car fire on.... Piss-on-it? Is that right?"

No, you slut. Bissonnette. It's French. Like the whores who gave my grandfather syphilis in World War II. Ask your grandma.

Sasha sipped the liquor now, smiling. Always nice to craft zingers after the fact, but that one wouldn't have passed anyway. The traffic gal who had started giving Sasha the stink-eye and spreading rumors how management was looking for "fresh" talent at the 5 o'clock seat was named Portugal.

Jennifer Portugal.

And with her long, straight black hair; dark, almond shaped eyes; smooth, mocha complexion; and voluptuous curves; Jennifer Portugal's grandma would have been about as French as a bean fajita.

There - just thinking about the back-stabbing bitch caused another shot of vodka to disappear. Was it worth it to subject herself to the pop-eyed 'tender for another refill or should she put a cap on it? Go home, eat a fistful of raisins, and hit the sheets?

Suddenly, the decision was made for her:

"Hey now," Virgil Templeton called from the door. He started towards her, walking across the room with his pronounced limp. "Is that Sasha Monroe? And is she holding an empty glass?" He waved to the bartender and pointed at Sasha's head. When she turned around, the bottle was posed and waiting.

Virgil saddled up on the seat next to hers. His drink came - a whisky - and they touched glasses.

"Come on, man," Virgil motioned to the mounted television screen currently broadcasting an ESPN documentary. "Turn it to channel 12 and turn it up."

"No can do," the bartender said. "You know the rules. No preferential treatment to any local station. 11, 13, 9, hell, even 55 are here tonight."

"Fuck 'em." Virgil downed his whisky and received another. "None of 'em rate any higher than a kiddie clown show anyway."

The bartender moved away to service another drunk.

Virgil turned his attention to Sasha and smiled. "Hey beautiful," he said, leaning in for a kiss. She met his lips with hers, and then gave him a taste of the vodka on her tongue. "I saw you on the 6 today," he said, wiping his mouth. "The camera loves you, but it always has."

Virgil was the station's senior live action camera man. A Vietnam vet, he was fearless, fast and sharp. His team always beat the competition to every breaking news story. Some of his camera work had become legend - racing through a burning building; jumping in front of a fleeing car; smoking guns aimed right at the lens. They said he had standing offers with every national outfit, but he refused to leave Houston. Something to do with familial obligations, although the specifics were vague. Rumors of an institutionalized wife or disabled child made the rounds, but nobody really knew the truth. Virgil was remarkably tight-lipped about his personal life.

When Sasha first started out as a roving street reporter, she'd been given some good counsel to be friendly with the cameramen as they were the ones who could - depending upon how they treated her - make or break her entire career. In retrospect, she may have taken this advice a little too far - spreading herself like a communal rash over the station's camera crew - but twenty years later, seventeen of those as the top rated anchor woman in H-town, you couldn't argue with the dividends paid out by those early investments.

And, yes, Virgil had been such an investment. But, unlike the others, she continued to put into that account over the years. In fact, she still knocked on his door sometimes when she needed the ultimate stress relief. He had a decade or more years on her; his hair was long and gray and tied in a hippie ponytail that was embarrassingly passé; and he had physical and mental scars that Sasha didn't even want to know about; but for an older man, his body was remarkably trim and firm and he had the stamina of a cross-country train. Men half his age - hell, one-third his age - gave out faster.

Virgil went wherever he was needed and he didn't stop until the job was done. Tossing him a "please keep me in focus" fuck when she'd first started at channel 12 had been one of the best decisions Sasha had made as a professional newscaster.

"Too bad we can't watch our station," Virgil said. "Shane is doing that haunted house thing over in Magnolia. They're breaking into regularly scheduled to show live bumpers."

Sasha wrinkled her nose. "Really? Just to show scantily clad millennials acting like assholes around those stupid fear factories? We've sunk that low, huh?"

Virgil shook his head. "No, not those haunted houses. The Settergast Home. In Magnolia? It's a real Haunted House. Shane's out there with Brian and Archer and a group of 'paranormal investigators'." Virgil laughed. "Spooky shit. Good T.V. Going to do half an hour live at midnight."

"Played out old retread boring filler," Sasha groused.

Virgil put his hand on her knee, lifting her skirt, and slid it all the way up to the top of her thigh. His finger dug under the line of her panties. "I love it when you talk like a grumpy old man."

Sasha cleared her throat and drank.

"You sure you don't want to go watch?" Virgil said. "We can go to my place?"

"Maybe we should."

"Yeah."

Virgil tossed bills on the bar. "Besides," he said, taking Sasha's hand. "Portugal is with them. I know you wouldn't want to miss seeing her jumping up and down in that sexy witch costume, squealing with fright."

Sasha froze. "Jennifer is there? Dressed like a witch?"

"A sexy witch," Virgil corrected.

"Cleavage?"

Virgil nodded solemnly.

"How much?"

Virgil inspected Sasha's chest, made a determination, and gently placed the tip of his finger at point of her sternum.

"Oh that miserable bitch...." Sasha muttered. "Hey, how far away is Magnolia? Can you get me there before midnight?"

"Easy."

"Great. We gotta stop by my place first." Sasha flashed her deadliest smile. "I need to change into something more appropriate."

***

Sexy witch, huh?

Working as long as she had in the confines of local news, Sasha had learned a thing or two about sexy. It's the conundrum of every female anchor working for an affiliate: they must use their sex to attract attention; but cannot be perceived as sexual creatures. At least, not at the main news desks. Weather, traffic, and the occasional sports girls could get away with murder. But the news desk anchor? She has to present an alluring figure so any man - or woman, for that matter - channel surfing will pause to take a look. Now. How do you keep those eyes focused on you when you can't show skin or act silly?

The answer is class. Confidence. Squared shoulders and an engaged expression. They stop to notice the hourglass figure and round breasts, but stay when your voice is clear and compelling. When your eyes look right at them - unwavering. When you smile and the room feels a little warmer for it.

Then there are those like Jennifer Portugal, Sasha considered, who had to be reminded by the assistant producer that she'd better buy another bra because, hey, we have to keep the temperature low in the studio, you know?

Class, skank, Sasha talked to Jennifer in her head. Something your generation has lost. She finished clasping a black velvet choker with a costume emerald inset around her long neck. But don't worry, sweetie. I'll give you a lesson in it tonight.

She turned away from the dressing mirror and presented herself to Virgil. Sitting on the bed, he looked up from the magazine. His eyes widened and his mouth formed an O.

"Holy mother of God," he said. "You sure that's legal?"

"Ha!" Sasha ran hands down her flanks, smoothing out the fabric of the black silk dress. Strictly speaking, it was more than legal - it would actually pass channel 12's professional code. It showed no flesh below the collar bone and no skin about the knee.

But, oh, the way it hugged her; the closeness to her skin. How light traveled over its obsidian surface, accentuating every curve.

And Ms. Portugal may very well believe that she was the definition of exotic, but Sasha Monroe's blood danced with gypsies. Hers was the exotic as imagined by Lucifer. When she set down with intent at a mirror, she could make her eyes, hair, lips and face call back to a time when men were truly beguiled by ethereal beauty.

Sexy witch? Child's play.

"So what are you supposed to be?" Virgil asked, placing his hands on her hips and looking up at her face.

"A vampire," she replied. "We'll need to stop for some of those fake teeth."

"I love it." Virgil moved his hands around and caresses her buttock, pulling her close.

Sasha was about to protest - she didn't want to get mussed up - when Virgil's cell phone shrieked. "Hell," he said, snatching it from its holster.

He stood up and paced the room while carrying on a conversation:

"Yeah?
"No, I'm at my apart-
"No, I haven't heard-
"Right, what's the gag?
"Wait. Wait. Wait wait wait. No shit? 911? For real?
"Shane wouldn't....
"No, I told you, I'm at my apartment.
"Look, I'm 90 seconds from the van. Feed it to me there."

Virgil killed the connection and arched an eyebrow at Sasha. "That was Kent. The Magnolia up-link just went dead and there was a 911 call from the Settergast home. Nobody can reach Shane or any of the crew.

"We won't have time to stop for teeth."

***

Virgil drove and manipulated the technology in the news van at the same time with supernatural instinct. Doing 80 mph up Highway 249, he rarely set eyes on the road ahead, mostly focusing on the knobs, switches and buttons of the computers set around the dashboard. Even still, he swerved and maneuvered through traffic without once tapping on the brakes.

This reckless behavior didn't bother Sasha in the least. She trusted Virgil implicitly.

"Something with the equipment?" Sasha offered an opinion. "A breakdown?"

They were watching footage from the Magnolia shoot on the dash monitor. A grainy, black and white image of some people standing around a keil-lit yard, flanked by grasping post oak trees, a dark house looming in the background. Suddenly there is a flash and noise and everything goes static.

"No," Virgil cued it up again. "Wouldn't happen like that. There are too many fail-safes. No tech problem could make it just drop. Listen."

The scene played out again. Audio was bad, but you could hear human voices. Virgil tweaked some knobs and the voices came in louder, clearer:

"What was...?"

"I can't get.... I can't...."

"Did you? Hey, Shane! Hey!"

And then an inhuman, guttural snarl immediately followed by a multitude of terrified screams before everything went snow.

Virgil drove in silence. Sasha tried again, "A joke, then. Like you said. Good T.V.?"

Virgil shook his head. "No. Shane's not answering; not even his personal cell phone. And the 911 call. That's not a joke."

The van picked up speed.

***

Red and blue flashing lights from the police car against the stone facade of the Settergast home turned the scene surreal. The house looked alternately large when exploding in shocking red; then smaller when bathed in blue. Virgil stopped the van before entering the turn-a-round that would lead them to the front door. The police car twenty yards away; another Channel 12 action van parked next to it.

"Virgil?" Sasha said. She looked at the station's senior live action camera man and saw something on his face she'd never seen there before in their twenty year history together.

Fear.

"Virgil?"

"Where are the cops?" he asked.

The police car was empty, both driver and passengers' side doors wide open. Nobody was in the yard, nobody on the porch of the house.

There were no people anywhere.

"Inside, probably," Sasha replied. She opened the door and Virgil grabbed her arm.

"Virgil!" she exclaimed. "What the hell? Come on."

"No, don't - " but he was too late. She'd already shrugged him off and left the vehicle. Virgil scrambled after her.

Sasha stopped at the front of the van and looked around. Aside from the click of the cruiser's strobe lights turning, the night was completely still. Not a sound, not a movement. Sasha hugged her bare arms against the chill.

Virgil stood next to her. "This ain't right."

"Yeah," Sasha whispered. "Go get a camera."

***

"Light me up," Sasha ordered. She was on the Settergast porch, at the front door, microphone in hand. Virgil stood in front of her with a shoulder mounted camera that was pointed at the ground. In spite of himself, he took a few steps back until his eyes framed the news-anchor between the elaborately stenciled lead-framed side windows and the ornately carved wooden beams of the overhang. Maybe sweep down from one of the houses peaked gables then the wide shot of the facade before zooming in on Sasha's beautiful face.

"Fuck this," Virgil snapped, realizing he was committed. He heaved the camera onto his shoulder and hit the spot. Sasha held a hand up, momentarily blinded by the light, and then gave a nod.

"Whenever you're ready," she said.

Virgil raised his hand high then lowered it.

"This is Sasha Monroe reporting from the Settergast house in Montgomery, Texas. Earlier tonight, Channel 12 sent a news crew here to investigate the rumors of hauntings for a Halloween special. Approximately half an hour ago, the live feed from that event was disrupted and an emergency call was placed to this location. My camera man and I arrived just a few moments ago to find an abandoned police vehicle and no signs of life. We are now going to enter the house to see if we can discover what has happened to our coworkers and the police who responded to their call for help. This is not a hoax."

Sasha turned on her heels, reached for the knob, but before she could touch it, the door flew open and smashed against the interior wall with a force that made her jump.

"HO!" she cried. "Did you get that?"

Virgil didn't respond - but then, he wouldn't. A cameraman should never be seen or heard.

"Okay," Sasha steadied herself. "Okay. Come closer, get the light in here."

The house was dark. Virgil adjusted the camera's spot light to present a wider beam, illuminating more of the floor so Sasha could see where she was walking.

"Stay with me," she said and stepped through the doorway.

"We are now inside the Settergast house," Sasha reported as she moved slowly through the foyer. "I can tell you that the atmosphere here is one of -"

A loud crashing sound from somewhere deep inside made Sasha scream, "Goddamit!"

"Ah, fuck!" she turned to Virgil. "What's our delay? Am I fucked? Shit."

Virgil turned off the camera and said. "Ten seconds. They'll catch it at the studio."

"Camera's off now, right? Okay. Okay okay okay," Sasha lifted herself up on her toes a few times, smoothed out the front of her dress, and then said, "Fuck shit fucking hell fucking shit shit motherFUCK! Get that shit out of my system NOW!"

"We good?" Virgil asked.

"Yeah. Except what the FUCK was that?"

"I'm more than willing to turn around and leave right now, Sasha. I'm only here for you."

Sasha placed her hands on her knees, bent forward, and blew wind. She stood up and said. "No. Turn the camera back on. Wait. How do I look?" She wiped her upper lip. "Any snot hanging out? How's my hair?"

"You're fine."

"You'll take care of me, right?"

"I always make you look good, honey. You know that."

Sasha smiled bravely and nodded. Virgil turned the camera on and gave her the high sign.

"We just heard something from inside the house," Sasha spoke to the lens. "We're going to investigate."

She turned and Virgil followed. There were two rooms off each side of the foyer. A quick sweep with the spotlight found them both empty. Virgil checked the switches - nothing. No electricity at all.

A dark hallway loomed ahead. The camera's spot wasn't powerful enough to illuminate the entire length, only the first few feet of the walls before all light was swallowed.

"We're going to check down this hallway," Sasha continued, her voice strained and tense. "The interior of the house is very dark. It is difficult to see where I'm...."

Sasha stopped. She caused a sticky, sucking sound by lifting her foot. When she inhaled, she almost gagged from a terrible stench.

"Virgil," she whispered. "Point the light at the floor. Virgil?"

When the light didn't move and she received no response, Sasha turned around to face the camera.

"Virgil?"

The camera's spotlight remained steady and focused at her head. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the hot-spot. Now she could make out the bulk of the machine along with smaller read and green lights indicating the device was on and running.

But there was no shape behind the camera. Only an impossible nothingness where the body - Virgil's body - should be.

The camera was floating in midair.

At the realization of this, Sasha gasped and the camera immediately fell to the ground. The light broke with a loud popping sound and the hallway was cast into total darkness.

From ahead and behind, at the entry and exit of the hall, graveyard voices began to laugh softly as they approached. Sasha whimpered, frantically spinning around to try and find some point of reference in the absolute void.

Her foot slipped in a viscous liquid and she went to one knee. A palm slapped against the floor and came up sticky and reeking of blood.

"You're fine," one of the gathering voices hissed.

"We'll take care of you," a different voice came from behind.

"We'll make you look good," this one very close now. Sasha lashed out but hit nothing.

"So good!" exploded in her ear.

Sasha screamed.

Happy Halloween!

The Halloween Horribles #1

They called it the War on Christmas, but it wasn't much of a fight. No bullets, tanks or bombs had been necessary; just the passage of time and sociocultural evolution. Devotees argued the change had been made to expunge religion, specifically Christianity, from society; but at the time of the switch-over, very few churches complained. In a way, it was a relief to the true believers. The holiness of Christ's birthday would no longer be marginalized by commercialism.

But more than the distasteful, garish marketing that had become so entwined with the holiday; people came to the realization that the perceived obligation to spend the season being cheerful with family was heinous. First; it's cold. Nobody should be expected to be cheerful in single digit temps. Second; family sucks. They're nosy and pushy and you spend too much time and money buying them all the best gifts only to get soap-on-a-rope in return. Besides, some of them are just too goddamned weird to be around anyway. So at the beginning of the 21st century, people grew wise to the old Christmas-time guilt-trip of; Yeah, I hate visiting family, but it's only once a year.

Clearly illogical. If it's so awful, why do it at all; ever?  

Therefore, in 2020, the federal government stopped recognizing December 25/26th as a national holiday. They moved it to October 31st/November 1st.

And why not? Halloween is just the best! For the kids - candy, fantasy, and staying up late watching scary movies; for adults - parties, colorful booze, and slutty costumes that fall right off as the night moves along. No burdensome commitments or unpleasant trips to overcrowded malls. And for those unfortunates who were lonely and depressed around the holidays - a bowl of candy and front door light ensured they'd have gleeful company frolicking around their yard on this special occasion.

Christmas had always been a giant pain-in-the-ass; whereas the only baggage that came with Halloween contained fun-sized candy bars.

The War was over. Long live Halloween!

***

Blood, or worms.... Blood, or worms....

Virgil toggled the switch on his new projection effects kit and watched as the walls of his living room alternately oozed blood then squirmed with toothy annelids.

Blood, he decided. The nightmare worms crawling sluggish up and down the walls did look terrifying, but that would get old. However, after the initial shock of seeing the room streaked with vibrant blood, the other effect settled into a fun sort of lava-lamp vibe. Perfect for the pre-party gathering Virgil had planned for his friends.

The doorbell rang and Virgil heard giggling. Early? he thought, and then noticed it had in fact turned dark outside. He'd lost track of time while futzing with the projector.

He opened the door and group of youngsters dressed up as the Guardians of the Galaxy yelled "Trick or Treat". Virgil dumped candy in their pumpkin buckets, fist-bumped Star Lord, and waved to the parents watching from the street.

And so it begins!

In a whirlwind of activity, Virgil zipped through the living room - blood seeping all around - into the kitchen where he started prepping snacks and drinks. Multi-tasking while he set out the food; Virgil also went around the house placing the rest of his decorations: plastic skulls, hanging rubber bats, scary-face pumpkins, and monster heads. Occasionally he also answered the door to distribute treats. On his frequent trips through the bloody living room, he checked the clock over the television that was set to mute. Whenever he did, he was tempted to sit and watch "The Great Pumpkin" or "Garfield's Halloween Special", but there was too much to do.

And he hadn't even decided on his costume yet!

He'd bought a rubber werewolf mask, but since then he'd invited Julie Muncie and she was really obsessive about her Halloween costumes. She'd shown him pictures of her past efforts - a mother nursing a foam-rubber beast; a ten foot tall 'slim-woman' phantasm; a sexy red-skinned fem-devil with the naughty bits covered only with fiery fur - all self-designed and crafted by hand. A store-bought mask wasn't likely to impress her.

And Virgil desperately wanted to impress Julie.

Distracted by these thoughts, Virgil realized he'd stopped moving while standing in the center of the living room surrounded by blood. The television was now playing The Halloween Tree and the childish part of Virgil's heart broke because he couldn't stop to enjoy one of his favorite specials. I have it on DVD he thought. I can always watch it later.

But he knew that wouldn't be the same.

The microwave's beeping sent him running for the kitchen. He hadn't noticed the blood pooling on the ceiling above his head at a place where the beam from the projector couldn't possibly reach.

***

Doorbell called and Virgil ran to answer. More kids; Avengers this time. As they accepted candy, the Hulk peered into the house and exclaimed, "Whoa! Look at all that blood!"

The living room was sopping with it now. It flowed down the walls in waves.

"Cool!" the assembled Avengers agreed, then skipped away. Virgil closed the door softly and moved slowly into the living room.

This wasn't how the projector should work. It was only supposed to display streaking trails. And this blood was much darker than the vibrant red he'd first seen.

He inhaled. The room stank like a surgical ward.

Suddenly the volume on the television came up. Loud. Virgil literally jumped, both feet left the ground.

On the television, Moundshroud was talking, his death-head filling the entire screen, breaking the 4th wall in a scene Virgil didn't recognize though he'd seen this show a dozen times.

"...of Halloween," Moundshroud said. "You still don't understand, do you?"

A flicker of motion caught Virgil's eye and he whipped his head to catch it. On the wall, under the flowing blood, he detected movement. A dark shape. Swimming in the blood.

"Hey, boy!" Moundshroud cackled. "After all this, you still don't get it? Bah! You're a fool!"

Virgil shook his head. This was impossible! He felt something push against his feet. He looked down and let out a cry of alarm.

Blood. On the floor. Seeping at him from all four walls, trapping him in a closing circle.

"The spirit of Halloween," Moundshroud whispered using Leonard Nimoy's most wizened and musical voice, "isn't parties and treats. It isn't even fall harvests or remembrance of those who have died. Costumes and pranks. None of this. Do you hear me, boy? Do you understand?"

Virgil shuffled his feet, trying to escape the rapidly gathering blood.

"The real spirit of Halloween is...," the eyes of the charmingly retro, two-dimensional Hanna-Barbera rendering of Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud twinkled like stars, "The point behind it is...."

Blood washed over Virgil's feet.

"You're not safe!" Moundshroud bellowed.

Instantly, from the ceiling, an ocean of blood fell crashing over Virgil's head. From the walls, dark and hideous monsters splashed through the waves and reach for Virgil with eager claws and fangs.

The blood at his feet became glue and Virgil could do nothing but stand and scream.

Happy Halloween!