Halloween is with us and so I've written three flash fiction pieces. They're inspired by a few creepy photographs I found in the cellar of a forgotten cabin out in the woods. They were underneath the Necronomicon before I opened it and recited the words "Klaatu barada nikto." Actually, that's a lie, I of course found them on the internet. Where the hell else?
Demon in the Lake
(350 words)
At first, everyone at the school Halloween party stopped
talking. They smiled and pointed, and some of the adults—all teachers—even
laughed. The six children wore identical costumes. Their masks were simply boxes
sporting pointy-eared and pointy-nosed faces, framed in clumps of lank hair.
They had come as some kind of creature. Certainly the best costumes that night.
And of
course, everyone thought their shotguns were toys… until they opened fire on
the teachers.
Screams roared
but weren’t as loud as the gunfire. Shells were spent and immediately reloaded.
Those six children emptied their weapons over and over. They didn’t fire at the
other children, it was only the teachers. Limbs vanished in red bursts, and hands,
feet and heads popped like blisters. All but one teacher fell: the headmaster
who cowered beneath a table. He thought it strange that none of the children screamed
nor fled. It was only the adults who yelled, cried and backed away. Then he
started to remember things… something about the lake? And a demon?
The roars echoed and died, and finally the
shooting stopped. Cordite fogged the hall and swirled between the legs of the six
children. The spent cartridges peppered the floor around them like red candy-wrappers.
Bloody patterns streaked the floor in wet, glistening patches. Each of the
teachers now a heaped mess of raw redness, crumpled and silent.
As one, the
other children moved from the walls they’d pressed themselves against. They cheered
and clapped.
When the
sheriff arrived, and his deputies took away the six children, the headmaster emerged.
Eventually he admitted those masks reminded him of something from fifty years
ago. He still couldn’t place it: the lank hair, the sharp features, those freakish
ears. That face… yes, that was it. He remembered the local legend: the Demon in
the Lake. He remembered how he’d almost drowned. And the demon that had… rescued
him?
As a child he’d attended this school. This had happened
before. He, too, had applauded when his teachers were shot down. How could he
have forgotten all this?
He did not
feel like applauding now.
~ ~ ~
Pumpkin Patch
(390 words)
As sisters, Mary-Ann and I have always been close. Even
though she’s always the first for everything, including Ma and Pa’s love. It’s
never bothered me, I’ll always love her. We live with Grandpa too, but he
doesn’t say much these days—not since Grandma died last year.
When
Mary-Ann found Grandpa’s memoirs I told her not to read them, and when she used
the paper to make her Halloween costume she said she’d hang me up with the
scarecrow if I ever told. Her papier mache effort was much better than mine—I
ended up settling for a not-so-scary paper bag over my head. She’d made a
pumpkin mask, and it was amazing. Everyone said so and maybe even Grandpa
smiled. It covered her whole head and looked like a real pumpkin. I couldn’t
help thinking how Mary-Ann had slapped the glue over Grandpa’s handwriting.
One afternoon Mary-Ann sat in the pumpkin patch wearing it.
I first thought she was looking for ideas on how to paint it. You know, to get
the right colour and pattern and stuff, but it looked finished already.
Halloween
was still weeks away, yet she always wore it. One evening I followed her out to
the pumpkin patch and heard voices. She spoke with someone whose deep voice
sounded a lot like Grandpa’s. As the sky darkened and the clouds removed the
moonlight, I saw Grandma. The cold October air snatched from my throat. She wore
that flowery dress of hers and didn’t look dead. She hovered above the ground.
I wanted to run to her, to hug her, but the mud sucked at my feet.
Grandma
leaned towards Mary-Ann and grasped her pumpkin head. Then my sister collapsed
and Grandma vanished. The papier mache pumpkin rolled away and the moon
returned.
Finally I tugged
my feet free and ran over to it. I snatched it up, not even seeing if Mary-Ann
was okay. I pulled the pumpkin over my own little head—it didn’t really fit—and
I could smell Grandpa’s tobacco. I gagged and quickly yanked it off.
Mary-Ann
was getting to her feet. She rubbed her head.
When we
returned to the farmhouse hand in hand, the sound of Ma’s misery swept towards
us. Pa sat on the rocking chair outside the front porch.
“Grandpa’s died,”
he murmured.
~ ~ ~
Mother’s Ideas
(275 words)
The seasons have been cruel and harvest poor, removing us
from the Halloween fun. Other families have costumes. We didn’t, until Father came
home with the sacks and those sheets. We were ecstatic. Mother scrubbed them best
she could, then cut holes for the eyes and the nose, a slit for the mouth. One
for each of us, her and Father included.
Mother
always has great ideas.
I’m wearing
mine now, with the stink crawling up my nose. I’m so excited. We all are.
Mother is
the first to kill. She has an axe, and doesn’t stop hacking our neighbour’s neck
until his head rolls. She’s off to the village now.
Father takes
me out to the fields, to a hole he wants to show me. It’s deep and at the
bottom are several rotted bodies.
“Where are
their heads?” I ask.
Father
shrugs and grabs his shovel.
Screams
echo from the village: that’ll be Mother.
“Where else
do you think I found the sacks, those sheets?” he says and swings the shovel at
me.
It’s hard
to see through my mask, but I manage to duck. I want to kill as well. This
isn’t fair, so I run. I’m much faster than he is. Soon I find my sister’s head.
It’s like she’s kissing the doorstep. Her body’s not far: it lays across the
threshold in a red puddle that glistens. Again, that’ll be Mother’s handiwork.
Father bounds
onto the porch and slips in the blood. He crashes into the door frame.
Look, there’s
an axe. It’s not as big as Mother’s, but it should easily slice through
Father’s neck.
When Mother
did it, it looked fun. She always has great ideas.
Thanks for reading! If you liked these, you can find more flash fiction here.
Your comments are always appreciated.
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Your comments are always appreciated.
Mark Cassell's dark fantasy novel is available
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| Author photo (c)Christopher Shoebridge |
Mark Cassell lives in a rural part of the UK with his wife and a number of animals. He often dreams of dystopian futures, peculiar creatures, and flitting shadows. Primarily a horror writer, his steampunk, fantasy, and SF stories have featured in several anthologies and ezines.
His debut novel, The Shadow Fabric, is a supernatural story and is available from Amazon.
Twitter: @Mark_Cassell ~ Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorMarkCassell
His debut novel, The Shadow Fabric, is a supernatural story and is available from Amazon.
Twitter: @Mark_Cassell ~ Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorMarkCassell
