For October and the haunted holiday it brings, I thought it would be fun to tell some creepy tales. Keep coming back for more frights all month long.
Here’s part 1 of our second original story, entitled Trick or Treat:
The woman returned the umbrella to its stand and took off her white gloves and black hat. Her hair was full of pins and she looked ready for business. Sitting at the kitchen table, she poured her son’s Halloween candy out and shook the pillow case until satisfied it was empty.
Her son reached for a Butterfinger and his mother slapped his hand.
“Not until I’ve looked through them, Michael.”
She ran her fingers along the packaging looking for tears, then snapped the bar in half. Crispy peanut butter flakes fell to the glass table. The boy, dressed as Optimus Prime, waited with patient confusion for his mother to finish her massacre. His father, never straying from his Dracula costume, rounded the corner with an empty bowl. His cape billowed behind him.
“That’s the last of it. How did you do, son?” His fake teeth gave him a lisp but he kept them in anyway.
“I don’t know.”
Michael’s father surveyed the scene. A home made costume always seemed like a good idea. The Youtubers made it look simple enough. What he had created for his son was a transformer only in that the boy went from an upright stack of boxes to a horizontal stack of boxes. At least the colors were right, maybe. What his wife was doing, he couldn’t understand.
“What are you looking for, Jo?”
Jo looked to her son and then up at her husband. “Things that he shouldn’t eat.”
“He shouldn’t eat any of that stuff.”
“Foreign objects, Dennis.”
“I don’t know that candy.”
The woman sighed as she cracked a Twix going the wrong direction. “Dangerous foreign objects.” Then she mouthed the words “razor blades” so her son wouldn’t hear.
“Razor blades?” Dennis asked with a chuckle. “That’s not a real thing, honey. Fake news. Never happened.”
His wife crushed a Cadbury egg. It oozed fondant over her fingers and onto the table.
“Really,” Dennis said exasperated, bringing his wife a hand towel, “what are you doing?”
She wiped her hands and shifted the pile. A round object rolled over to them and stopped. It was something wrapped in orange tissue paper cinched with green ribbon and a stick extended from it, also painted green. She twisted the stick until the little orange orb revealed a tiny face.
“It’s a Jack-o-lantern,” the boy said with a smile.
The face of the homemade pumpkin was ghoulish. It was sinister.
Jo untied the ribbon to show a layer of parchment paper beneath the orange, and then a candied apple within that.
“That’s nice,” Dennis said. “Someone made their own candy. That’s a lot of work for how many kids were out this year.”
Jo got up from the table with the apple and went to the kitchen, pulling out the cutting board and a large knife. The father and son were standing next to the table, gawking at the woman preparing to cut into the treat.
“Why is Mom so crazy?” whispered Michael.
“I don’t know,” said Dennis. “Full moons make her a bit wild. It used to be hot.”
“Nothing,” said the father.
Jo held the stick over to the side and sliced through the soft caramel, piercing the apple’s skin and flesh. Halfway through the knife met with resistance. Like winding a watch she twisted the stick, turning the apple over for a new cut. Again she came down and the knife stopped. Her brow furrowed. She twisted it again. Clink. Again. Clink. Putting aside the knife she gripped the end of the apple, twisting and pulling until it freed itself from the other half.
“Ow!” Jo exclaimed, dropping the apple halves to nurse her finger. She stared at a tiny slice down the tip of her index finger. There was nothing, and then blood flowed in a fury.
“Oh, hell,” said Dennis, giving her the same towel from before. Jo winced and inhaled through her teeth as she went to the sink, slamming the faucet to cold. “That looks bad.”
“I’ll be fine, Dennis.”
“What is this?” their son asked from behind them. They turned to see Michael holding an apple half. Protruding from its center was an unmistakable razor blade.
“Holy shit,” said Dennis
Jo gasped, then growled.
Michael giggled. “Dad said a swear.”
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