TBT #14: Halloween Frightacular

Wow, Halloween sure snuck up on us, didn’t it? It seems like only yesterday it was Thanksgiving, and I was eating Turkey and other assorted Thanksgiving things and generally having a good time. “Halloween,” I scoffed, “is so far away that I am doing it a FAVOUR by even mentioning it!” But I was wrong, friends. Halloween was not so far away. In fact, Halloween is here, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. There is also nothing you can do to stop the terror you will feel upon reading these scary stories I have written for the occasion. Prepare to be horrified!

These spook-tastic stories are The Best Things ever for October 29, 2004.

One: Oh Hell Gnaw

I always figured people stopped playing footsie in the 1940s. Sure, it was a major plotpoint one week on a particularly hilarious episode of Who’s The Boss, but other than that, it just didn’t seem like something people really did anymore. Because, seriously, what’s the point? It seems to me that I’d much rather skip the footsie part of the evening and just get right into the heavy petting. But then, nobody ever called me a romantic.

I was sitting in the library one evening. Lately I had been going to the library so much that I’d developed a silent circle of friends. I rarely talked to them — barely even knew their names in a lot of cases — but we always nodded when we saw each other, and usually we ended up sitting at the same table. In my core group, there were three girls, and two guys, including me. All of the girls were good looking, I’d say, but I never really thought about dating anyone because, well, I’m not very good looking.

It was around 9 p.m. when I felt a foot against my leg. We were at a small circular table that night, so theoretically any one of the other four people at the table could be the culprit. I first assumed it was just an errant brush-up, and went on working. But the foot remained pressed against my leg. It slid up and down my calf, feeling soft and silky the whole time.

I was getting very warm.

The rubbing against my left leg brought an explosion of warmth, the likes of which I had never felt before. I surveyed the faces of the people at the table. They all seemed to be studying quietly. None of them displayed any sort of indication that they were engaged in such an erotic activity. I tried my best to compose myself, but the rubbing continued, and I felt myself grow flush.

“Stop, Stop,” I whispered, knowing that I couldn’t take much more of this.

The blonde girl sitting to the right of me, heard, and noticing something was wrong, looked at me quizzically. “What is it?” she asked.

“Just stop, whoever that is,” I said quietly.

Everyone at the table looked confused. The rubbing continued.

“Come on,” I said again, louder now, “It’s not funny.”

“What’s not funny?” asked the blonde.

Seeing that no one at the table seemed to have any idea what was going on, I brought my gaze down to under the table. I gasped in shock as I saw what was underneath. A brown-furred beaver had gnawed off my left foot and was working on my right. His gaze met mine, and he gave a cheerful grunt.

“God dammit!” I said, “A beaver gnawed my leg off!”

“That’s what you get for being made of wood,” said the whole table, in unison. I shrugged. We all laughed. Fucking beaver.

Two: Dairy Scary

Steven and James were both walking down the street one day. First, they went to the store to get some milk. Then, they went to the arcade to play a few rounds of X-Men vs. Street Fighter and some Time Crisis 2. Then, they realized they should have bought the milk after the arcade because lugging around a jug of milk all day was going to suck. So they threw the milk down a sewer grate and went to a bowling alley where they soon died of fright after a ghost jumped out of the ball return. The milk was haunted, you see, and by throwing it out they angered the ghost who lived in the milk jug. The lesson Steven and James learned that day was do not throw milk down sewer grates because it will make the ghosts angry. They never threw milk down a sewer grate again, after that, because they had learned their lesson. And, also, because they were dead.

Three: Dream Police

“Jesus Christ, man, this is heavy,” I said, as I steadied the end of the couch I was carrying. My best friend, Tom, was moving into a new apartment, and I was helping him. It had been a hard couple of years for me and Tom. We hadn’t had much luck with the ladies, and we’d both flunked out of school because we couldn’t stop playing the Yahoo! Online game “Text Twist!” Both of us had moved back in with our parents, but now finally Tom was moving out on his own again. I was happy for him.

“Yeah, but it was only $15! Can you believe that?” The couch was covered by rips and tears and there were ants living inside of it.

“No, man, I can’t,” I lied.

As I opened the apartment door, the other end of the couch fell to the ground with a crash. A bunch of ants and what I think was a rabbit darted out from between the cushions. “Man, what the hell was that?” I yelled in shock.

I walked around to where Tom had been standing. He was gone.

“Tom!” I yelled, “Where the fuck did you go?”

I turned back to the couch, only to see that it too had vanished. Soon the whole building was fading away.

“Tom!” I yelled. “What’s going on!”

It was all fading to white. I ran straight ahead, into nothingness, hoping to find something, anything, that could save me. Instead, it all just began to fade.

I woke up in a cold sweat in my old dorm room. Everything was exactly as I remembered it, right down to my posters of Reservoir Dogs, The Usual Suspects and a Giant Bob Marley. I stumbled, confused, out of bed and into the bathroom. There, Tom was shaving.

“Tom? Where am I?”

“The bathroom, dude.”

“I think the last three years of my life were just a dream!”

“Whoa, really?”

“Really!”

“Was it good?”

I thought about this for a minute.

“No, man, it sucked.”

“Haha,” he laughed.

Four: Fearing Fear Itself

All of your ghosts are wrong decisions, missed opportunities and the roads not taken. The glance you swore was directed at you for just a moment when you left class. The hand that you decided not to take. The relationship you ruined in a drunken haze of missed kisses and rough sex. The roses on the floor. The letters you threw out. The dreams you can’t remember, and the phone call you never made.

All of your vampires are things you can’t leave behind. The person you hold that hurts you. The friend you don’t even know. The phone call you can’t end. The smiles you keep faking. The uneasy agreement to a shared ride, a loaned dollar, a day at the park. The merri-go-round you want to get off of. The song that hurts your ears.

All of your ghouls and goblins are inside you. They’re the wrong urges, the illogical actions, the without-thinking words. They’re statements of love on a first date. They’re betrayal on the ninth month. They’re promises broken. They’re endings left in stale blue ink. They’re the anger that overflows at common sights. They’re the arguments at night that neither wants to happen. They’re rolling over in bed, and going to sleep.

All of your mummies are the reincarnated remains of mummified Egyptian kings, risen from the grave to destroy you and everyone you care about. They show only anger to our contemporary society. They will not stop, not for anything, and there could be one in your closet or behind your door right now. There’s no use fighting them. There’s no use running. They will find you, and you will die. If you encounter a mummy, throw yourself in front of a train or other speeding object before they get to you.

Five: Twisted Remains

Dear Marie,

I went over to your house yesterday, to collect a few of my things that I’ve left there over the years. And I got to thinking: we have a lot of history, don’t we? I don’t know how six years went by so quickly, but, all in all, it was a good ride, wasn’t it? I understand why things had to end — I really do — so don’t worry. This isn’t want of those reconciliation letters. I just had to talk to you, and this is the only way I knew how to go about it.

I was walking up the stairs in your family’s house to your room. I smiled when I heard the sixth step creek. I remembered how you used to point at me with a finger to your lips as we snuck upstairs, afraid of waking up your parents. I saw, in your room, the teddy bear I won for you at the Carnival in 1998. I saw the mix CDs I made for you, with those silly summer songs by bands I can’t even remember the names of. We used to drive for hours listening to those.

And I saw your sweaters and your scarves and I remembered how cold you used to get in fall. And how it was always my favourite time of year, because it meant I got to hold you, and hug you, at bus stops and in playgrounds, and it meant more to you, then, you know, then it ever did anywhere else. I felt like you really needed me then, and I think that’s why it was an October when I finally told you I love you.

When I had boxed up my things, I went downstairs. I was wondering if you were in the living room, avoiding me — which is something I’d understand — so I kind of peeked in there, and saw your father. I always got along well with the old guy, so I thought I’d say hi. I asked how you were, and he said something that really got to me, he said “Marie’s been dead for 3 months.”

I understood right away what he meant. I wasn’t good to you, Marie. I lost touch. My life took itself in weird directions I really wasn’t prepared for, and I just found myself was so much on my plate. And the other girls — I know that was wrong. I understand now why you hated to see me rationalize it. It was wrong. I was hurting you so much that you withdrew from the world. And it makes me so sad to realize that now.

I wish our relationship had ended better. I wish we had actually had a break up. But, I guess, in the end, I wish a lot of things. If I could go back in time and do it differently, Marie, I would. You’re worth it. I feel so terrible for having lost you, and for hurting you as much as I did. Just know — and I know this won’t make a difference — that I love you. And I always will.

Yours,
Dan

P.S: I just realized that maybe your dad wasn’t using a metaphor for how you were feeling and that maybe you ARE actually dead. If this is the case, I’m really really sorry. I probably should have called you more, I guess.