Night is Blue

photo © Thomas Raven

Jassi had been the volunteer lighting designer at the Jasper Community Theater for a few years, most of which had been spent trying to convince them to spell the word theatre correctly. She’d started her professional life as a lighting designer before various twists and turns had led her off of that path and onto more stable ones.

While working for an experimental dance theatre in DC, Jassi had been given free reign to indulge her artistic inclinations. As long as there was side light to elongate and define the dancers’ forms, she could do pretty much anything she wanted. This experience had spoiled her for the real world where most people just wanted to see things that looked exactly like other things that they’d seen before. This was no more evident than in the world of community theater.

Despite the presence of scripts, usually from well-known and easily marketable properties, community theater shows were more like pageants. They were a way for people in otherwise drab lives to show off their talents so their friends and family would stroke their egos. The worst parts for Jassi were the so-called production meetings.

These meetings were usually convened at the nearby Applebee’s and they were presided over by the theater’s artistic director, Franklin L. Darlington. He’d come upon his position by donating piles of money to the theater. So much, some said, that he had it in his contract to have the theater building named for him after he passed.

Jassi had slowly grown to despise this pretentious twat to his very core. His fake, old-south accent and fiddle-dee-dee approach to theatre angered her so much that she refused to quit. Instead, she stuck around to challenge his ignorant preconceptions about the stage at every turn. She corrected his terminology, pronunciations, and even some of his stage directions. You’d have thought he’d have fired her, but he couldn’t. Jassi had enough board members in her pocket from helping with their children’s school productions, that there was no way for Franklin to get rid of her. They remained in a dreadful stalemate until one October evening.

They were producing a highly truncated version of Macbeth for Halloween season. Franklin had seriously gutted the production by editing the bard to death and inserting some of his own dialogue to patch over the inconsistencies he’d created in the process. It was, as they say, a train wreck.

At the last production meeting before tech rehearsal, Franklin brought up Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene, telling Jassi that he insisted it be “bathed in blue light.”

Jassi immediately turned on the director with a grimace. “And why is that, Franklin?”

“Because, my dear, night is blue. We all know it and we all recognize it when we see it. Now, on to the poster design…”

Jassi’s ears rang with heat and hatred. They’d had this same argument time and time again and it was no easier to stomach now than it had been the first time. Jassi had explained to Sir Twattington that blue light had become a convention for lack of better options. The fact was that human night vision captured very little color detail and this was often emulated with the use of pale blue lighting gels. Her argument had always been that night, in fact, was as colorful as daytime and could be dimly lit in a way that emphasized the artistic impetus that drove the scene. She secretly suspected that Franklin didn’t know what impetus meant, but whatever the reason, he’d stuck to his guns with his feeble truism, “Night is blue.”

In the past, Jassi had tried to win the man over, but he had shown that he would not be swayed. “Night is blue” was his only argument and he repeated it ad infinitum when he saw that it got a rise out of her.

After the Applebee’s meeting, Franklin drove home in his Volvo station wagon and stumbled to his bed. He thought he’d probably had one too many appletinis as he belched up an acrid fake apple taste. He took off his clothes and fell into his bed. It was only after he’d laid there for a few minutes that he noticed a curious blue glare outside his bedroom window. As sleepy as he was, something about the light was annoying him and keeping him one step away from the blissful slumber he so craved. He got out of bed and opened the blinds only to find…nothing. The light from the street light outside was as garish as usual, but it certainly wasn’t blue. Franklin concluded that his appletini-addled brain must have been playing tricks on him.

He crawled back into bed only to awaken once again to the garish blue glare. It was like it was burning into his brain by way of his retinas. He leapt up and opened the blinds again only to find nothing there. Nothing blue, at least. He immediately thought of Jassi. This had to be some bullshit prank designed to drive him insane. He needed his rest! He had a tech rehearsal tomorrow night!

For a third time, he laid down but this time he didn’t close his eyes. He kept them focused on the blinds and he waited. When the blue glow began to creep up again, he quietly got up and walked out to his front door. He slung the door open and shouted, “AH-HA!” but no one was outside the house and no blue glow could be seen. Dejected, Franklin closed the door, locked the deadbolt, and angrily slithered back to bed where he struggled to get more than ten minutes of shuteye at a time.

Tech rehearsal was scheduled to begin at 7PM sharp. The show, while no longer the three hour original, was still chock full of light and sound cues. Trouble was, Franklin was nowhere to be found. The stage manager had called everyone she could think of in a vain effort to track him down, but he could not be found.

Jassi, being the take-charge woman she was, decided to plow ahead. They had a dress rehearsal tomorrow and a preview performance the day after that. They couldn’t lose this night to a wayward director. She took charge of the rehearsal and worked through all the inevitable bumps in the road. They made it all the way to the sleepwalking scene when Franklin burst into the theater and ran down the aisle screaming, “Oh, Night is blue! Night is blue! Macbeth, the night is blue!”

Jassi stood, ripping her headset off her head, not quite believing what was happening. The stage lighting was so dim that she could barely make out the figure of the director as he haphazardly stumbled down the aisle.

“Stop! Franklin! The pit!” That was all she had time to shout before Franklin’s voice became a scream and then was silenced.

“No one move!” shouted Jassi. She grabbed her headset and had the house lights turned on. Gasps erupted from the stage.

Jassi looked down into the orchestra pit to see Franklin’s twisted, lifeless body crumpled at the bottom. She’d lowered the pit earlier that day so she could mount extra lights down there to enhance the otherworldly look of the sleepwalking scene. If the light had to be blue, at least the lighting angle would be unusual. She’d had the house manager put stanchions around the open pit and had instructed him to mount the permanent wall the next day before the cast arrived. Unfortunately, that would be one day too late for Franklin.

The Package

Mrs. Griffin had worked as a mail carrier in Middleton for most of her adult life. She liked the regular hours and the fact that she wasn’t stuck in an office all day. She’d spent one summer clerking at the post office and she’d immediately applied to be reassigned. Out on the road, she was on her own. There were no bosses and no whiney customers. People were usually happy to see her. The only downside to the job was Christmas.

Every December, the job turned into a nightmare of long hours, heavy lifting, and rude patrons. Her first Christmas as a mail carrier had been tolerable. She might have even said it was invigorating, but as each year passed, the Christmas season became more of a burden than a joy.

It was a cold December day when she had to return to the station for her third load of packages in the gathering darkness. She called her family to let them know that she was going to be late for dinner…again. She sighed and turned up the heater in the little mail truck. At least the streets had been plowed.

That whole “neither sleet nor snow” thing was yet another big Christmas downer for Mrs. Griffin. Her customers liked to cite it as if it were the word of the mail gods. Fortunately, snow wasn’t an issue on this brisk night. It had snowed hard the night before, so the day had that quiet feeling of being wrapped in blankets. It was nice until Mrs. Griffin had to get out and trudge through the stuff that people hadn’t shoveled off their walks.

The evening went fairly smoothly and Mrs. Griffin surprised even herself by humming a few Christmas tunes. She was particularly fond of Smokey Robinson’s Christmas Everyday even though she didn’t wish for any such thing.

She pulled over and opened the back of the truck. There was only one package left and it was a small one. Great! She was ready to eat dinner and try and forget about the route for a few hours.

Mrs. Griffin picked up the box and found it to be surprisingly heavy despite the fact that it was only as large as a couple of paperback books. She’d long since passed the point where she wondered about what the boxes she delivered contained. She just eyed the label. 4653. The Millers.

She closed the door to salvage what little heat was left inside her truck and she marched toward the Miller place. The house was dark, so she approached the mailbox. It was one of the old, loaf-shaped boxes on a post. It would be plenty big enough to hold the little box.

Mrs. Griffin grabbed the metal handle and pulled. The door opened with a creak and she plopped the package inside. She was about to close the door when a voice inside the mailbox said, “Wait, Robin Griffin, wait.”

“Oh, no. Uh-uh,” said Mrs. Griffin. “I ain’t got time for no pranks.” She leaned into the mailbox and spoke loudly. “Can you hear me? Who is this? Frank, did Lonnie put you up to this? He ain’t funny and neither are you.”

She slammed the mailbox shut and strode back to her truck. Of all the nerve! She was pulling away when she reconsidered. What if the Millers opened that package and complained? It was one thing to prank a mail carrier, but there were strict rules about dealing with customers. Besides, that mailbox was technically government property. There were even fines for its misuse.

Mrs. Griffin sighed. That Lonnie was going to pay for this. She turned her truck around and returned to the Miller house. She stomped over to the mailbox and opened it but there was no package inside. Huh? Mrs. Griffin reached inside but the mailbox was empty.

She looked down at the snow covered ground. Maybe she’d accidentally knocked the package out of the mailbox when she slammed the door. She wasn’t sure how that could even happen, but the little box had to be somewhere. She even looked a second and third time to convince herself. After thoroughly canvassing the area, she gave up. Maybe some package thief had seen her drop it off and had rushed in to grab it. If so, they were going to get quite a surprise.

Mrs. Griffin chuckled as she opened the door to her mail truck, but she froze when she saw the package addressed to the Millers sitting right in the middle of the driver’s seat. She looked up and down the street but it was a silent night. There wasn’t even any traffic. What was going on?

Snow began to fall as Mrs. Griffin stood beside her truck and stared at the box. There was no way that anyone had placed it there without her seeing them. No way. At the very least, she would have heard them opening and closing the mail truck door. It slid along a track that squealed like a multitude of the heavenly host whenever it was opened or closed.

The snow picked up as Mrs. Griffin struggled to understand her situation. It was just a box, right? Just a prank? Then why was she so freaked out right now?

She went around to the back of the truck and opened the gate. She grabbed one of the beat up, white, mail containers and walked back to the driver’s side of the vehicle. She turned the basket upside down and put it over the package, then she pulled it toward her. There was a thump and then…nothing. Mrs. Griffin looked at the container in her hand and then back at the driver’s seat. The package wasn’t on the ground, so it must have fallen off the edge of the seat and slid underneath. Holy crap, how was she ever going to explain all of this when she got home?

Mrs. Griffin stooped low and tried to look underneath the seat but it was too dark, even with the dome light on in the mail truck. She was going to have to reach in and feel around for the package.

She stood up and pulled one of her gloves out of her coat pocket. After slipping it on, she got on her knees in the snow and reached into the dark space under the seat. She felt around for the troublesome package but all she found was a hard gummy bear covered in grit. Ugh. The package was gone.

With a frustrated sigh, Mrs. Griffin struggled back to her feet and looked around the snow-covered area one last time. She glanced at her watch. Her kids were going to watch the Grinch tonight just like she’d done as a child. She smiled to herself and stood in the crisp, new snow admiring the silence.

That silence was broken by a tremendous flash of light that was followed by a long, rumbling roar. It came from just up ahead, so Mrs. Griffin jumped in her truck and took off. The missing package was all but forgotten.

About a half mile away, she pulled up to see that a massive fire had engulfed a warehouse. Mrs. Griffin could feel the heat from inside her mail truck. Several cars on the street outside were already burned beyond recognition and one had apparently exploded. She could hear the sirens in the distance so she knew someone had already called 911. The local businesses were empty so there really wasn’t anyone to rescue. The fire department would handle putting out the blaze.

Mrs. Griffin looked at the torched cars and breathed a sigh of relief. It would have sucked to have been driving by there just as that huge explosion happened. She was happy she’d missed it, but that didn’t stop her from pulling out her phone and snapping a couple of pics. Jim and the kids would have certainly heard the commotion and would want to know what happened.

The fire trucks pulled past the little mail truck and one of the firemen jumped out and motioned for her to get clear as he placed cones in the road. She waved her thanks, turned her truck around, and took the long way home.

The Marshall Tomb

photo © Thomas Raven

It had been a couple of months since Sara had taken the part time job at the mausoleum and it had gone better than expected. When her aunt had recommended it, Sara had immediately scoffed. Why would a college student want to work in some creepy old place full of dead people? But after her aunt’s prompting (and a serious lack of other employment opportunities), she’d applied.

The job interview had gone well enough. There really weren’t a lot of qualifications necessary for a cleaning job and the schedule was extremely flexible. Sara was relieved that the title was “custodian” and not janitor or maid, even though that was basically the gig. The large building was filled with marble and stained glass which needed light cleaning on a regular basis. As long as she didn’t have to see any dead bodies, Sara knew she’d do well. She liked working and the quiet time would give her a break from the crowded apartment she shared with two other students.

At first, working at the mausoleum had been like working in a cathedral. Sara had been careful to remain quiet and inconspicuous so as not to bother the visitors. She’d assumed that most of them would be mourners, but most appeared cheerful and some were even talkative. After her first few weeks of afternoon cleaning shifts, she began to relax. But there was one area that still creeped her out.

During her initial orientation, the funeral director, Mr. Bryant, had shown her every inch of the space and had given her a clear understanding of how to divvy up her workload from day to day. He even had a map with days of the month for each area or chore. Only one area was off limits. It was the Marshall family tomb.

The Marshall family tomb occupied a back corner of the expansive building. It was enclosed by ornate, iron gates that Mr. Bryant warned were never to be unlocked. The corresponding key on the custodian key ring Sara used was even painted red as a warning to never, ever unlock the gate. Inside, were just run of the mill marble boxes with a single, large urn. Cobwebs draped from the urn to the marble surface on which it rested and the floor was covered in dust.

This was the one area of the mausoleum that Sara avoided. It made her feel sad and a little bit scared whenever she passed by. Sara didn’t really believe in the supernatural. If hard pressed, she’d have to admit that she had her doubts about the whole god thing in general, but her family was devout so she kept those thoughts to herself. Still, the Marshall tomb made her feel like something was watching her. Some thing.

Sara was able to ignore the Marshall tomb most days. She only had to clean that area once every month or so. Nevertheless, she began to dread the days when her schedule required her to work nearby. She even began a sort of countdown in her mind. Only five more days until she had to work near the Marshall tomb. Then four, three, and so on. And then the day arrived.

The office was empty when Sara arrived and clocked in. The cleaning schedule on the wall seemed to mock her but she kept her chin up. By the time she had her cleaning supplies in tow, she’d convinced herself that it was just another day.

Sara wheeled the mop bucket to the spot where she’d stopped the day before and she put up the warning signs. “Cuidado!” they exclaimed. No one else was around, so she got to work. The marble floors required a spray mist of water, then mopping with a cleaning solution, then mopping with water and finally drying. Mr. Bryant had explained that many marble floors required hand drying but that theirs contained no iron in the marble or the grout so they could simply air dry. He seemed particularly proud of this fact. Sara was just happy she wouldn’t have to dry the floors on her hands and knees. Once a year, a crew came in to buff and polish the floors, but that didn’t involve her.

After cleaning the first section, Sara moved to work directly in front of the Marshall tomb. It was cold in there. She felt like she was standing next to the open door of a walk-in freezer. She tried to ignore it and focus on her work.

She was almost done applying the cleaner when the wrought iron doors of the Marshall tomb rattled loudly. Sara started. She took a deep breath and told herself it was her imagination. She’d grown up in the area and they got earthquakes from time to time. Some of them rumbled but most just felt like big bumps. Surely, that’s what had just happened.

The cleaning solution was down, so Sara mopped the area with water to pick up the cleaner. She was wringing out the mop when she heard a female voice behind her say “please” just as plain as day. Sara held onto the mop like it was a weapon and turned to find…no one. Of course there was no one. Her imagination was obviously running wild.

She went back to work and a few minutes later she heard it again. “Please!” It was more insistent this time. Pleading. Sara approached the wrought iron gate and slowly reached into her pocket to feel the heavy set of keys. She withdrew them and wasn’t at all surprised to see that she had her hand on the key that was painted red. The key to the Marshall tomb.

She looked around, hoping that someone was playing a trick on her, but there was no one there.

“Pleeeeease!”

“Please, what?” asked Sara out loud. Her voice echoed down the hallway.

“Let me out,” said the soft, feminine voice. “I don’t deserve this.” And then she started to weep.

The sound tugged at Sara’s heartstrings. For a moment, she forgot herself and felt as though she were talking to a living, breathing person. Perhaps she was. “Why can’t you get out?” she asked, genuinely curious. The gate was hardly a barrier for a disembodied spirit, if that’s what this was.

“I can show you if you invite me in,” said the weeping woman.

“Um. Okay. Come in.” Sara thought she was inviting the voice into the mausoleum, but that wasn’t what the voice had in mind.

With a blast of cold air, the woman’s sadness turned to elation. Sara felt something enter her chest like an ice pick and she fell into a deep sleep.

An elderly couple rounded the corner and saw Sara opening the gate to the Marshall tomb. The elderly man said, “Excuse me, miss. Can you tell me where the Lord’s Pasture section is?”

Sara turned to reveal a cold blue fire in her eyes. To the man, it looked like a reflection off the stained glass window overhead. Sara pointed and the couple scurried away.

Sara looked around and grabbed the mop. It would have to do. She broke the mop head off and held the long, sharp end before her like a spear. She headed toward Mr. Bryant’s office.

The Legend of the Flaming Angel

photo © Thomas Raven

The legend had been around forever. No one knew where it started, but James knew it couldn’t be true. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself as he marched toward the local cemetery.

At one edge of the cemetery, there stood a man-made grotto that overlooked some of the oldest graves. Some dated as far back as the 1800s. Inside the grotto was a small votive stand and a life-sized, marble statue of an angel. James didn’t know if the angel had a name. He only knew her story. The story said that if you touched the angel’s lips at the exact moment of the autumn equinox, it would come to life, burst into flames, and destroy you.

The bursting into flames bit seemed pretty cool to James. If it was something you could pay to see at the county fair, he’d have saved up to witness it. But this was a real cemetery, not the midway at the fair. Statues didn’t come to life no matter what the circumstances, flames or no flames. James had openly mocked the believers and that mockery had put the burden of proof squarely on his own shoulders.

He’d agreed to the challenge when the equinox was still weeks away, but now that it was here, it was becoming harder to keep walking. He turned back to see his friends clustered in a group a good 100’ behind him. You know, just in case the flames were bigger than expected.

The guards at the cemetery entrance would have never allowed James and his friends inside, but that wasn’t a problem. His house bordered on a strip of forest (known only as “The Woods” to the boys) that acted as a visual barrier between the neighborhood and the large cemetery. James and his friends even played army around the disused, concrete vaults sometimes, having no idea what they really were. It would be a simple task to cut through The Woods to get to the grotto and its guardian angel.

It was a cloudy day and the early autumn chill cut right through James’ flimsy windbreaker. He neared the edge of the tree line and looked out to see the grotto and the side of its marble denizen. If he looked back at his friends, he’d appear to be afraid, so he tried to feel confident as he marched out of The Woods and across the dying grass toward his goal.

He glanced at his phone to check the time. It was 3:55. The equinox was supposed to happen at 4:02 so James had set his phone’s alarm for that time. When the alarm went off, he was supposed to touch the angel’s lips. But would he be able to do it? His heart was pounding rapidly and he felt like he had a big rock where his stomach should be.

“Go on!” hissed one of the boys who looked on from the edge of The Woods. James knew the voice belonged to Ricky Bobo. He stifled the urge to run back to the woods and beat the crap out of him. Ricky was bigger than he was, but with all his pent-up nervous energy, James felt like he could take him.

James checked his phone again. It was 4:00 sharp! Where had those five minutes gone? Weren’t things supposed to slow down when you were scared?

He marched up to the grotto and looked around. There weren’t any adults to be seen anywhere. They were never around when you really needed them. One stern adult could have put an end to this experiment once and for all.

James walked over to the angel. 4:01. He would have to stretch to touch her lips but he could reach them easily enough. Her cold, impassive eyes stared down at him. She didn’t look angry or menacing. She looked sad, like she’d just had to bury her dog. James could relate to that feeling and it gave him courage.

The phone alarm blasted in James’ hand and the device that was a hand-me-down from his older brother hit the ground with a clack! It was now or never! He squinted his eyes, turned his face away to protect it, and stretched his right arm forward to touch the angel’s lips with his index finger!

The air was still, like it had been locked inside a tomb for all eternity. There were no sounds. No smells. There was nothing to sense except for the cold, hard reality of those stone lips. For a split second, James thought the statue was going to open her mouth and bite his finger off! He stood there in the blast of the phone’s default alarm sound and waited. Nothing happened.

James thought he’d feel triumphant. Instead, he felt like some of the color had just drained out of the world. His friends emerged from The Woods, drenched in disappointment. This was worse than seeing a bad movie.

The other boys, emboldened by James’ success, caressed the statue’s lips one by one. It was just a statue after all. Nothing to see here. Move along.

They played off their disappointment by shoving one another and making crude jokes at the expense of the angel. Pretty soon, they were all bored by the whole thing and they headed back into the woods. James lagged behind. His energy levels had been so high that he was having trouble dealing with the release of it all.

He turned back to take one last look at the statue. When he did, a brilliant orange light suddenly engulfed the statue and was just as quickly extinguished. James wanted to run back over to the grotto, but he quickly pushed that idea aside. Why risk it? He grinned as he ran to catch up with his friends.

The Last House

photo © Thomas Raven

Billy and Mark stood at the top of the hill where the streetlight offered them some protection. At the bottom of the hill, at the very end of the dead-end street, stood the only house in the neighborhood they hadn’t visited that night during their annual trick-or-treating adventure. They usually skipped that house. It was dark and unkempt, and they’d never seen the owners. Occasionally, lights could be seen down there, but only late at night. Most of the neighborhood kids gave the place a wide berth, especially on Halloween.

“Why bother with the Miller place?” asked Mark. That’s what the kids called it because it had the faded word “MILLER” in all caps stenciled on the side of the mailbox. Mark opened his trick or treat bag and stared at his loot. It was a pretty good haul and it had been a fun night. Why ruin it? he thought.

Billy felt the same way, but his older cousin, Marty, had dared him - DARED HIM - to trick or treat at the house in question and get a picture as proof. If he didn’t go, he’d face a year of derision from his biggest tormentor while a simple knock on the door earned him bragging rights for the rest of his life. He knew for a fact that Marty (Billy usually called him Farty but never to his face) would never so much as approach the house himself.

“Look, we’ll just run down there, take a picture, and run back, okay?” pleaded Billy. “It’s not a big deal. Really. They even have Halloween lights up.”

It was true. The Miller porch was adorned with purple lights, a jack-o-lantern, glowing skeletons and even a smoking cauldron. People who went to the trouble to put up Halloween decorations couldn’t be all bad, could they?

“Donny Freund says the decorations are there to lure victims because they weren’t getting any victims on this, the most unholy night of the year,” said Mark.

“Do you believe anything that idiot Donny Freund says?”

“No. But, it sounds right to me. I mean, why put up decorations this year all of a sudden? They never did before.”

Billy looked at the house. It felt like it was a hundred miles away. How bad would a year of torment be? After all, how often did he see that jerkface, Farty? Twice a year? Three times? Maybe it was closer to five or six, but he was trying to justify a decision here. He was about to cave and head home when they heard it. Cheesy Halloween sounds were being blasted out of speakers on the porch of the Miller place.

“I have that record,” said Billy. “It’s called the Chilling Thrilling Sounds of the Haunted House.”

“So?” asked Mark. He’d thought he was home free. It was like the house was one of those plants that used lures to trap flies. Only this thing was trying to trap trick or treaters.

“I listen to it all the time. It’s a sign.”

“Uh huh,” mumbled Mark.

Billy turned to face his friend. “Listen, I’m going down there. If you don’t want to go, I get it, but I think we’re making something out of nothing. Nothing bad has ever really happened at that house…”

“That we know of.”

“Okay, that we know of. But something’s changed and it would be rude not to trick or treat there. That family is a part of this neighborhood and they’re trying to show us that they’re cool.” He was thinking on his feet now. The Halloween record had tipped the see-saw away from Farty the Tormentor and toward the long walk down the hill.

“I’ll make you a deal,” said Billy. “If you walk to the mailbox with me and take my picture knocking on the door, I’ll give you whatever candy I get. And you get to stay safely out of range. How’s that sound?”

“Okay,” was all Mark said. He didn’t sound too convinced, so Billy immediately marched off into darkness.

He walked quickly at first, but the further they got from the streetlight, the slower his gait became. This section of the neighborhood had never been fully developed. A few lots had been cleared on this street extension but only one house was ever built there. Billy’s father had blathered on and on about some kind of developers and financing and other boring adult stuff. He said the house had always been vacant, but Billy and the other neighborhood kids knew that to be false. They couldn’t remember actually seeing the residents, though. It was more like a feeling. Someone lived there, and they were about to give Billy the trick or treat motherlode!

The boys approached the mailbox together and Mark patted its cold metal surface with his hand, signaling that this was the end of his journey. Billy handed him his camera, took a deep breath, and began walking down the gravel driveway toward the house. The Halloween record was blasting at full volume. It was so loud that it hurt his ears when he climbed the steps to the porch. He looked down at the jack-o-lantern and imagined that the candle inside was indeed a coal from hell, like in the story of old Jack he’d been told at school.

Billy cautiously peered into the window that overlooked the porch. He could see a round table in there with a worn tablecloth and a large, black kettle. The only lights on inside the house were all bright blue. These people really were strange. Maybe there weren’t any people living there after all. He took a deep breath and looked back at Mark as he prepared to knock.

Mark held up the camera and took a picture. The flash went off and illuminated the front of the house like a crime scene. The Halloween record stopped instantly! There was a split second of ear-bleeding noise and intense, otherworldly lights and then nothing but perfect silence in an impenetrable darkness.

After exactly six minutes, six seconds and six milliseconds, the house lights came back on and the Halloween record resumed. The boys were never seen again.

Wolfgirl

photo © Thomas Raven

Rima peeked through her curtains at the glowing orb overhead. The moon was full. Oh no! Will it happen again? she wondered. She felt that terrible pain in the middle of her stomach that was usually reserved for taking tests or getting shots.

At least it was Halloween. She’d be able to disguise her transformation with her costume, but would she be able to maintain control? Trick or treating was normal for an eight year old girl. It was something altogether different for a wolf girl who felt hunger pangs for things other than candy.

She took a deep breath and laid out her costume. She was going as a white wolf. Perfect! if she started acting all wolfie, she could blame it on being in character. As long as she didn’t hurt anyone. But that was silly, right? She hadn’t hurt anyone before. At least, not that she knew of.

Relax, she told herself. If someone had been attacked by a wolfgirl, the story would have spread quickly. If she’d eaten anyone, even in a large town like hers, the news would have been talked about at school for weeks. The adults would have gone crazy with theatrical displays of anti-wolfgirl security measures. Besides, killing was a bloody business and she’d never woken up with so much as a speck of blood on her. At least, not that she knew of.

She finished dressing and grabbed her trick or treat bag. It was going to be alright. She was going to have a wonderful Halloween evening just like everyone else. If she transformed in the light of the full moon, she’d probably just win best costume or something.

Her mother oohed and aahed at her costume, but she’d hear none of it when her daughter said she wanted to embark alone. Rima grimaced under her wolf mask. If she transformed, her mother would surely notice. Maybe she could just stay in the shadows. After some trial and error, she’d decided that it was the moonlight shining on her skin that caused her to transform. What if…

Rima ran back inside the house and grabbed an umbrella. “Do wolves carry umbrellas?” asked her mother with a smile.

“This one does,” said Rima as she opened it and slung it over her shoulder. And, she thought, you’d better hope it works.