We all have mouths, and we must scream...

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.

At least, we tell ourselves it’s for ice cream, as we scream our lungs out at the unknowing, uncaring, impassive sky, voices filled with existencial dread, desperately and ultimately fruitlessly seeking something, anything, out there that might distract us from the looming fact that we’ve grown increasingly dissociated from one another, from ourselves, and from the world we’ve built...

We cannot face that this is why we scream. So we don’t.

“Yes,” we say, “yes, it’s simply ice cream for which we scream.”

Simply ice cream.

Ice cream is good…

On the subject of Murder Clowns...

I did spot a Murder Clown, once…

It was a few weeks ago, maybe a month, and I hadn't heard much about people dressed as scary clowns in the news yet, so I didn't know it was a thing that was happening around the world, it was just a clown to me, simply this and nothing more.

Simply a demonic-looking clown, in early September, walking down 17th avenue in the middle of the night, holding a machete and drenched in what appeared to be human blood. Nothing to see there, nothing to worry yourself overmuch about…

And what’s odd is: I didn’t worry myself overmuch about it. It was early for Halloween, to be sure, but I’m all for starting Halloween early, the Christmas people are starting November 1st nowadays, why shouldn’t those of us who like a scare claim a second month? We’re worth it, and the holiday of my people is every bit as valid as theirs!

By “My People” I mean “Aging Goth Kids,” that was clear, yeah?

Yeah?

Good.

So yes, I did see a Murder Clown, and rather than recoiling I smiled, nodded, and exchanged a quick high-five before continuing on my way home, filing it alongside all the other ways 17th avenue can be a messed-up place to go after dark on weekends.

Only a month later, reading a think-piece asking “What does it all mean?” Did I realize it might be anything noteworthy, sociologically speaking. At the time it was simply two dudes who are a little too into Halloween connecting with one another, the way that humans do, over their shared love of a thing, distressing though that thing might be to some, then coming away feeling a little closer and more connected to the world in which they live, having learned that that world is a wider, weirder place than they give it credit for being in their day-to-day lives…

Because, at the end of the day, that’s exactly what it was.

The Beast

The Beast lurks, out in the woods.

In the woods It lurks, awaiting prey, and any who venture out into the woods do so warily, with greatest care, for they know, as they have always known, as they have been taught since childhood, that there, in the woods, lurks a Beast, and that any who face this beast must first abandon hope that they might be anything but Its prey…

Full disclosure: The Beast is not, as of this moment, lurking in the woods.

The woods are SO BORING, you guys, there is like nothing to do out there, and the Beast can’t be expected to spend all day, every day, lurking, awaiting prey. I mean, come on, seriously? Seriously? You expect It to literally just lurk twenty-four/seven, waiting for someone from one of the nearby villages to venture out into the woods, alone, and fall into Its clutches? I mentioned the part where everyone in all of the nearby villages has been taught since they were children that a Beast lurks in the woods, awaiting prey, right?

So no, while The Beast does lurk in the woods, there is no Beast in the woods this very moment.

The Beast has shit to do, you guys.

The Beast has gotten into standup comedy recently, at a couple of local open mic’s, and while It admits Its set isn’t very good yet, It finds the whole process a great deal of fun and is grateful to have found such a warm, welcoming group with whom to perform.

The Beast is teaching Itself the banjo, and has been attending a local Celtic music jam at a coffee bar on the outskirts of town, in one of the more upscale neighborhoods. It has surprised Itself at how naturally the banjo has come, never previously having suspected that It might have any natural aptitude for music.

The Beast has, of late, been frequenting a local BDSM club, where It’s discovered that an actual primal, eldritch, man-eating, forest-dwelling monster beyond human description or comprehension can find Itself VERY popular among a certain type of submissive.

The Beast has no interest in pursuing this any further, but It finds the attention enormously flattering.

The Beast is a fully fleshed-out, completely unique individual, is what I’m saying, It is a real, living thing with thoughts and hopes and dreams and feelings and an internal life every bit as real and meaningful as your own, and it does not appreciate being stereotyped as a one-note monster lurking in the woods, waiting to kill and eat your children.

Although It IS a monster and, should your children venture out into the woods unattended, It WILL eat them. That’s still a large part of who The Beast is, it’s just not ALL the beast is.

If you catch the distinction there.

So yes, The Beast lurks in the woods, and while no, It is not lurking there right this very second it will, with time, return to the woods, once more to lurk, once more to await prey, and since you do not have a copy of The Beast’s schedule you will never know with certainty whether The Beast is in the woods or not at any given moment, and as such will find it would be safer to treat the woods as though The Beast were lurking within, rather than take the chance that The Beast has a cold or something this week and has chosen to cancel Its plans, choosing instead to lurk within the woods in which It dwells….

Awaiting prey….

You know what? Fuck it. Why am I even still trying to justify myself with this? Just keep your god-damned kids out of the god-damned woods!!!

Spiders

When offered a choice between a bunch of little spiders or one big spider, take the big spider. One big spider is much easier to deal with than numerous tiny ones.

I mean, bounds of reason.

It’s definitely important that you clarify exactly HOW big the one spider is before you make the decision…

I’ll know that for next time.

So far, I’ve been lucky, comparatively speaking. The spider knocked out my wall on its way out into the street, yes, but it was my neighbours’ place across the way that it chose to make its nest, rather than my own, so I feel like complaining about the property damage here would be petulant of me. The repair costs over there are going to be MUCH more expensive, after all.

Also, my neighbours across the street are all dead, long since consumed by a giant, rampaging spider. So there’s that as well.

I’m tempted to call for help, but to be honest I have no idea who I would even call. This does seem beyond the normal purview of 911, and I suspect pest control isn’t equipped for this level of pest either, so what options do I realistically have? The military? Perhaps, but if there IS a way for a private citizen to summon the military to his private residence, it’s certainly not something I’ve ever been told how to do.

Plus, really, this IS my own fault.

I picked the big spider rather than the small ones.

And I picked it specifically because I thought it would be easier to deal with.

I suppose I do have a responsibility here…

Okay, you know what? Screw it; I’m going over there. Complaining never accomplished anything for anyone, and there comes a time in a man’s life where he’s gotta stand up to his responsibilities and face them head on. And if I can’t do that with a giant, carnivorous spider making its nest in the wreckage of my dead neighbours’ home, when can I?

My courage isn’t going to screw itself to the sticking place, after all!

I just need to grab a couple things from the shed out back, and then I’ll be on my way.

I’m going to put a saddle on that motherfucker and ride it off into the sunset, or I’m going to die trying…

The Slumbering One

Long have I slumbered(1) beneath this city’s streets.(2)

I’ve slept what seems an eternity,(3) time beyond measure,(4) since the ancient ones(5) banished me, and in moments it feels as though I should never awaken.(6)

But I shall.(7)

I shall awaken, and when I do I will devour all(8) that lay before me(9) on my way to do my horrible business,(10) business I dare not even mention.(11)

All shall fear me,(12) upon that hour.(13) And none among them shall survive.(14) And truly, this end will please me greatly.(15)

I am an unstoppable thing, unpreventable in my coming,(16) as though I were the sea itself,(17) or the uncaring sky above,(18) or the blind, mad God who’s long since turned his uncaring face away from this pitiful world, ashamed and afraid to look upon it.(19)

But I am here. I am here,(20) in this world,(21) and the hour of my waking draws near.(22) Do not dare attempt to put this moment off,(23) for it is coming and soon it(24) will be nigh….

For so it has been written.(25)

And thus so shall it be.(26)

(1)Probably something like nine or ten hours. Way more sleep than my usual.

(2)I live in a basement apartment.

(3)It was not an eternity, obviously. but it seems like it was, due to time passing weirdly when you’re dreaming. Have you ever had that? Where you’re convinced a dream goes on for years and years? It was like that.

(4)The time COULD be measured, obviously, it just hasn’t been yet.

(5)An eighteen year-old Scotch I’d bought myself as a post-mother’s day present.

(6)In hindsight I should not have had as much of the Scotch as I did.

(7)I have no choice in the matter, I have things today that need to get done.

(8)Breakfast Food

(9)Probably something quick. Toast or some such. Maybe a PB&J sandwich. I’m almost certainly going to be running late and I’ve never been much of a breakfast person anyway.

(10)My Day Job.

(11)My day job is very boring, I’ll spare you the details.

(12)I am by no one’s estimation a morning person, and this plus my hangover means I will almost certainly be arriving at work in a foul mood.

(13)But after an hour, maybe two, with a lot of water for hydration and a few cups of coffee to wake me up, hopefully my mood will improve.

(14)Myself included. Death is, barring one or two exceptions depending on your religion, inevitable to us all.

(15)After all, life’s finite nature is what makes the things we do during ours meaningful. Death is always a painful moment, but it’s a necessary one, and I understand this as well as anyone.

(16)I could probably be prevented from going to work, but I don’t see any reason why anyone would bother.

(17)Insomuch as I am mostly made of water.

(18)Insomuch as the atoms of my body were forged in the same big bang as the stars.

(19)We have displeased our creator, and It has grown over time to resent us more and more for our arrogance, our inability or unwillingness to steward its creation, the lack of respect we’ve shown It through the lack of respect we’ve shown one another. It has abandoned us, and let us pray It never turns Its face back toward our pitiful little world, for should It do so Its wrath will be a terrible thing indeed, and surely all that we’ve squandered our squallid little lives valuing will in a heartbeat be reduced to nothing but ash, with none even to remember we were ever here...

(20)My basement apartment.

(21)A world that lurches toward its fate at the hands of a blind, mad God.

(22)I really do need to get out of bed at some point.

(23)I may be late for work already.

(24)My scheduled shift at work.

(25)I literally just finished writing it.

(26)Much like the end of all things, at the hands of a blind, mad God who’s grown to hate its creation…

Marty

When the Libyans came for Dr. Scott, Marty had no choice but to jump in the DeLorean, open it up to 88mph and thrust himself back, into Hill Valley’s past, seeking refuge from the dangers of the present in the relative safety of history.

What he hadn’t known, in that moment, was that he wasn’t alone in the car…

Musca Domestica, one of the most common insects in the world, and not the sort of thing anyone, in the heat of the moment, running for his life from terrorists who’d inexplicably brought along a rocket launcher, would notice inside the car with him, but there it was, tagging along without his knowledge, for the ride and its horrible aftermath.

Because the time machine, you see, had only been built for one, and Doc Brown had had no idea what, if anything, would happen if two living creatures were shunted back in time simultaneously, if he’d known he’d have taken some provision, that such a thing might be prevented ever happening.

Of course, at that point Marty would only have been shot by a Libyan terrorist with a rocket launcher, so there’s every chance that even if he had been warned of what was to come he’d still have made the choice he did, assuming that with life comes hope, however slim, and as such assuming that more life, even a little bit, would be the preferable option.

And, at first, that seemed to be the case.

Although he had changed, had been changed, by what had happen to him, at first the results of this change were universally positive. He found himself stronger, faster, his senses heightened by what he’d been through, in ways he couldn’t begin, even with the assistance of a much younger Doc Brown, to explain. He’d become a superman and, stretching his now much more powerful legs in a version of Hill Valley 30 years previous to the one he’d known, he reveled in the power he’d been granted.

Biff something, the bully who’d so tormented his father in their time together at school, was found dead, his arm broken in two places, his neck snapped similarly. And you don’t even WANT to know what he got up to with his then high school aged future mother…

But things inevitably went wrong, horribly wrong, as they had always had to do. Primate and inectoid DNA, after all, are not designed to blend, and by the time Marty dragged his tumored, bloated, disfigured wreck of what once had been a body, now completely unrecognizable as what it once had been, toward his unknowing mother, pulled the barrel of her shotgun into where his mouth had been and gargled “Please” up at her, it never even crossed her mind that what she was shooting was human anymore, let alone her son.

Not that she’d known who he was; it was Calvin she would mourn. Marty died alone and afraid, killed by a mother who never even knew her son, much as Doc Brown would die alone and afraid, thirty years later, at the hands of Libyan terrorists, unwarned. A shame, that such a tiny thing could cause matters to go so horribly wrong, but the moment Marty and the insect travelled through time together his fate was set, the mutation had already begun, and there was nothing he could do, no step he could take, to save himself.

And, by the end, he knew it.

By the end, he had truly become: The McFly.

The Plumbing in my New Place

It’s an old building and as such it has its share of quirks.

I was told that the day I moved in, and I have no right to complain as each specific quirk, in its turn, reveals itself to me. I’d been warned, after all, and forewarned is, as they say, forearmed. Nevertheless…

There’s some issue with the pipes beneath the floor, you see, and when I shower they spray water up, just a little, gradually soaking through the floorboards and carpet, leaving a wet area and watery footprints leading out of the bathroom when I’m done. No matter what I do, the footprints appear, every time I shower without fail, tracking water across the carpet.

Which ought to be fine, it ought to be something I could easily live with. My building super knows about the issue, after all, and I’ll never be called upon to pay for either repairs to the floor or replacement of the carpet. With that in mind the issue is annoying, but eminently live-with-able, the sort of thing that would elicit mild grumbling but no more thought than that.

Except…

The footsteps don’t lead to my bedroom, you see, where I walk after my shower, the way that they would if they’d been made by my own two feet.

Instead, they turn right, and walk off down the hall toward God only knows where.

I live alone. I’m the only person in the house.

And, until those footprints dry, each day, I find myself afraid to follow, and see where they might lead…

...on Humanity

I’ll loan you my pen, if you need to borrow a pen, but you do have to give it back.

I’m not kidding around about that, if you try to steal my pen I will humanely end your life.

It’ll be completely painless, I’m not a monster. Lethal injection or some such, it’ll feel just like you’re going to sleep, you’ll barely know you’re dying. A warmth will come over you and you’ll settle back into it, comfortable as the end swallows your consciousness whole, allowing yourself to drift off into that eternal sleep that is the end point of every one of our journeys.

I don’t want you to suffer, after all, there’s no reason that I would want you to suffer. I consider us, if not friends, at least friendly acquaintances, as evidenced by my willingness to loan you the pen in the first place, and I’ll be genuinely saddened to see your life end, saddened further to know that I was the one to end it. But there will be nothing I can do about this, because much though I might regret your death, I will know that it is necessary.

I won’t cause you pain, because I don’t want for you to suffer, but I will end your life because, if you try to steal my pen, your life will need to end. It’ll end that I might send a message of warning to others and, more importantly, it’ll end in punishment for a minor crime that, repeated time and time again, ceaselessly, over the course of a lifetime, has worn down my patience to the point that its commission now drives me to murderous rage, fury that I can not manage but give into, and that I am no longer willing to even try to suppress.

So yes, painlessly; But death will come should you try to steal my pen.

And I suspect that, on some level, you understand why.

Because really, we’ve all had pens stolen and, really, we all know how fucking irritating it is…

Through the Doors

In an instant the night was destroyed by day, which in turn was divided by night, by endless night...

And in that night it came, it came for us, one and all.

Nobody knew exactly what it was we’d inadvertently unleashed when we breached the wall between worlds, thrown open the doors, because nobody had ever seen it and survived, but whatever it was it was not of this world, and all that was left of its victims…

I can’t, I can’t even begin. I’m sorry, I just can’t. It sickens me, my stomach hurts at the thought, my soul hurts. I don’t ever want to think of what it did to those poor, damned fools, not ever again. And yet, part of me knows that it’s not something I’ll ever be able to forget.

So those of us left scattered to the four winds, in the hopes that whatever it was we’d given access to our defenseless world might allow us to live out our days. We wouldn’t live them out in peace, there would be no peace for any one of us ever again and we knew it, but we hoped we might be allowed at least to live…

Even as the world ends, even for those responsible for ending it, hope springs. And though we knew there would be nothing we could do to save our miserable world from the unspeakable thing we’d unleashed, we held on to our hopes for base survival.

And so, we tried to run.

We tried to hide.

Because something had broken through, from the other side…

At 3am...

I splash cold water onto my face, breathing deeply, and stare at myself in the mirror, taking three long breaths to get myself back under control.

I am alone in the house, I am not having a panic attack.

I’m not.

I do not have to worry, I’m just naturally panicked, I’m a little brittle and that’s okay. Lots of people are brittle some of the time, and with the year I’ve had it’s natural I’d have a weak moment now and again.

It’s okay to be a little brittle, so long as you don’t let it control you, so long as you don’t give in to panic. I splash more water and grip the sink with both hands, to steady my nerves.

I am in control of my nerves, you see, and brittle isn’t broken. I know there is no need to be afraid.

“I am alone in the house.” I tell myself in a whisper, staring at myself in the mirror, alone in the reflection I find.

“Yes,” comes a voice from behind me, “You are.”

The Week After

In celebration of Halloween, I filled my apartment with spiders.

As one does.

And the webs they spun, I must admit, proved very festive. Overall, I have no complaint as to the quality of cobweb they provided, A+, 10 out of 10, would cobweb again. My guests were duly impressed by my décor and everyone found the whole place downright spooktacular.

I cannot stress this enough, I have zero complaints about the way my place was decorated for Halloween by the infestation of actual spiders I inflicted upon my home.

It’s just that now…

It’s not Halloween anymore, you see, and the spiders are still here, and however much time I spend clearing away cobwebs there always seems to be more by the end of the day.

I’ve tried spraying, but it’s done nothing. I don’t know where they’re hiding, where they’re laying their eggs, but there seems to be more of them every day, skittering out of the way when the lights come on, cleverly avoiding my tread as I walk through the place, and at night…

…at night I feel them crawling, crawling 'cross my skin. Ten thousand tiny legs caressing my body as they swarm me, covering every inch of me, up over my torso and onto my face and into my mouth…

…oh God, into my mouth.

I wake up now, most nights, screaming and spitting out spiders, afraid I’ll never get a full night’s sleep again, afraid that this will soon drive me mad if I can’t find a way to get rid of them, afraid of where they might be laying their eggs. There are moments where I catch myself believing  that this place is their true home, not mine, and that it is I who am the interloper in their sanctuary. But this is madness, surely? It has been but a week since I allowed them in, they cannot have made the place their own so completely in so short a time?

In my mind I know this to be true. But in my heart? In my heart I do despair that this tale has only one ending, and that it is not an ending that I will survive.

Bearing this in mind, I cannot give your “Spider Infestation Service” the full five stars. I hope that you will understand.

4.5 stars out of 5

Halloween

I have a friendly, easygoing demeanor, and because of this fact people tend to instinctively trust me.

A shame, since I’m a horrible person.

Not that that’s your neighbor’s problem.

Your neighbor has no part in my plan, after all, beyond loaning me your extra key so I could check your mail. I returned it two hours later, and she never even realized I’d run to Home Depot and had a copy cut.

Why would she suspect anything along those lines, after all? I’m so pleasant and charming. And anyway, I did it months ago, by now she’s completely forgotten it ever happened.

But I haven’t forgotten. Not least due to your key on my key ring, waiting for the right time to be used.

The time when, as you sleep, I use your key to sneak into your home and creep up on you in your bed, so silent that you never once stir, that you never once suspect someone else might be in the room.

You look so peaceful when you sleep.

And when you wake up and check your cellular phone, you’ll find you’ve received a text reading “Happy Halloween,” that was sent from that same cellular phone during the night.

Just keeping things nice and festive.

Keeping you in a heightened state of paranoid terror.

Because it’s the reason for the season.

Happy Halloween.

Illness

You know that feeling you get when you’re just starting to get sick?

Not the feeling when you ARE sick, being sick is a completely different feeling. Merely the feeling when you’re ABOUT to be sick.

You’re healthy, or at least you’re okay enough to go about your business, it’s just that you’re about to be sick. The feeling where you know it’s building, at the back of your throat, behind your eyes, at the bottom of your stomach, nothing’s wrong, but you know you only have a day or two before it all becomes tremendously wrong. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but your health’s about to drop out from under you, and the combination of pre-sickness and dread at what’s to come haunts you, lurking behind your every moment, making every cough and moment where you think you might sneeze but don’t, a horrific taste of what’s to come. You know that feeling, yeah?

Of course you do, we all do. That’s an important part of being human. We’ve all been sick, and therefore we’ve all been about to be sick. It’s as normal a feeling as breathing, or hunger, if a less frequent feeling as either.

There’s nothing wrong with feeling thusly, so long as you don’t feel it all the time.

Anyway: Going forward, you will feel that all the time.

Every second of every day, from this moment on, you will be about to get sick. You will never actually be sick, but you will always be on the verge, always skating the edge, always dreading the onset of a debilitating illness, every moment of every day, waiting for illness to set upon you.

It’ll never be a bad illness, merely the flu, the sort of thing you could recover from in a day or three if you could only just get it over with. But you’ll never get it over with, will you, no matter how long you might wait to…

You will never be sick, therefore you will never get better. You will merely be about to be sick. Every day. Forever, for all eternity. This is your existence, every moment of every day, until the end of time.

This is your punishment, for your sin. This is what hell is for you.

Other than that, your existence will be exactly as you’d expect it. You’ll go about your business as though nothing was wrong, but you’ll feel as though you’re about to get sick.

But you’re not sick.

But you’re about to be.

It seems like a minor irritant to deal with, I know.

Over the length of eternity, I look forward to watching you realize that it is not.

My Soul

I recently sold my soul…

I called up a demon at a crossroad, out in the middle of the woods, as is traditional with these matters, and offered up the essential, immortal bit of myself that demons traditionally seek.

And he was very impressed.

Apparently, comparatively few people bother with the old ways anymore, and when somebody goes to the trouble, it’s appreciated by those in the know. Craftsmanship, and what not.

That’s a selling your soul fun fact, by the way. Demons appreciate craftsmanship. If you ever choose to sell your own I hope the information serves you well.

In return for my soul, I asked for immortality, because really, if you’re pulling the trigger on something like this you might as well go big on the asking price, you might as well go as big as you can possibly imagine. It’s your soul, after all, and you only get the one, so go big or go home.

Or, in my case, go big and then go home. I asked for immortality, and it was quickly granted. I don’t know if the demon had some big scheme to cheat me of my prize, or if he just appreciated my combination of commitment to tradition and gumption, but he paid my price with a smile on his face, even asking if there were anything else I might want in addition.

And there was.

I asked that he take my soul there and then, at the crossroad, that my mind and body might live forevermore without it.

My soul, you see, had at some point or other become a burden to me. Existence is a hard thing, as you well know, and I’d seen what felt at the time like far more than my fair share of tragedy. I could not bear the grief, the sadness, the thousand tiny cuts that living in the modern world had inflicted upon me, and I’d hoped that, without a soul, accepting my lot in this world might be a little easier.

You cannot be weary to your very soul, after all, if you have no soul with which to feel the weariness.

So I asked, and the demon obliged, glad as he was to take his payment without needing more than a minimum of effort, and I’ve been soulless ever since. Which some would call a tremendous tragedy.

Some would say that without a soul, however long my body and mind might live on, my existence has no meaning, that there is no purpose to my presence here on earth, that I am nothing. And this might well be, who am I to say?

I’m not here to debate metaphysics; I’m simply here to explain the choices I made that have brought me to this point.

Because this point, I’ve got to admit, is a magnificent place to be. The moment my soul was taken, all the worry and pain and grief and self-doubt that had plagued me went with it. It was as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, and for the first time in my life I felt truly free.

I walked forward from the deal soulless and, finally, genuinely happy. And there has been not one moment where I have regretted the decision I made.

Also: I am now immortal. And while that wasn’t the real reason I unburdened myself of my cumbersome soul, it is a not inconsiderable perk. I don’t doubt the coming millennia will be fascinating to see.

Admittedly, I’ve been killing WAY more people than usual, lately. But that’s neither here nor there.

Two roads diverged in a wood, you see, and at the crossroad I sold my soul. And it’s made all the difference…

...every child must play.

I have no kids, as my actions have demonstrated time and time again.

I do, however, make a very good cool uncle.

A little irresponsibility, after all, is important to the development of a well-rounded, fully-formed person, and parents overprotect children, so it’s the job of every cool uncle to break kids out of their parentally imposed comfort zones.

In short: I do not apologize for buying your four year old a Chucky doll and leaving it in his room while he slept.

When the nightmares finally end, the love of classic horror films it imparts will last a lifetime…

Halloween Horror

I’ve never been an easy man to scare.

As a lover of the horror, both literary and celluloid, I’ve seen every premise play out a thousand times, in every possible setting, with every possible spin applied to them. And yes, this has desensitized me to some degree. Zombies, Werewolves, Vampires, all old hat to me. Torture porn: A laughable bit of exploitive nonsense, good for a cheap thrill perhaps but by no means an actually visceral experience. I loves me some ‘80s slasher films, but more out of a lingering sense of nostalgia than any effect they might genuinely have.

And don’t get me started on ghost stories. Especially the ones where the cameraman can’t keep his damn camera steady.

I have nerves of steel, I suppose. Whether I might want them or not.

With that in mind, people are often disappointed at how tough it is to make me jump or squirm with fear. Halloween-based pranks inevitably fail, I simply lack the nervous disposition required to fall for them.

Still, when she claimed she could terrify me beyond belief, I tried my best to keep a straight face.

I loved her, after all. She was the woman I wanted to spend my life with, and laughing out loud at her heartfelt wish to give me a genuine moment of terror during the run-up to Halloween would be pointlessly hurtful, something I could never be. Not toward her, at any rate.

So I smiled, and I nodded, and told her  “I look forward to seeing what you come up with. I’m sure it will be great.”

And then I went on with my life, confident that whatever she might have planned would roll right off me.

She’d do her best, I knew, and when she did I’d genuinely appreciate the effort she put into whatever plan she had. It would be an expression of love, after all, that she wanted to share Halloween with me in a way I could appreciate, and I’d love her all the more for having gone through all the effort.

Even if I wasn’t particularly frightened by the results.

Three days later, I came home to find her crying, holding a pregnancy test…

Comfort

Baby, I know you’re a little freaked out after the movie, and that’s natural, it was kind of a freaky movie. With hindsight, a midnight showing of a horror film might not have been the best idea. But, and I can’t stress this enough, you don’t need to be nervous.

Don’t worry; everything will be terrifying from now on.

We’ll get home, fix a snack, make a pot of tea, convince ourselves that the irregular thumping on the walls is just the sound of pipes settling, and head to bed. You’ll wake up in a cold sweat after something pulls sharply on your left leg, turn over and see me, fast asleep, muttering in something that sounds suspiciously like Latin being spoken backward, head to the bathroom, squeeze your eyes shut when the walls start dripping blood and, when you finally suppress your unvoiced scream and open them again, you’ll convince yourself it was your own sleep-addled brain playing tricks on you.

And by the time you get back to bed, the whispering at the back of your mind telling you that you’re all alone and that nobody will save you will be something you’re so used to that you can almost ignore it.

Almost.

By morning, of course, the baby-headed spiders will be nearly done their hive in the closet. But you’ll wear a t-shirt, so you won’t realize it’s there until three or four days from now. Which will be two or three days after you’ve killed me with an axe, believing that I’ve been replaced with a perfect replicant that hungers for human blood.

Which, by the way, will not be the case. It will actually be me that you kill. Still, the bloodthirsty replicant will continue going to work in my place, so you’ll never be questioned about my absence. Not that the police would have much time to question you even if they did realize that the real me was dead, chopped up and hidden in the hallway linen closet.

Because, like I said, three or four days from now, you’ll open the closet to find a button-up blouse, and realize that the baby-headed spiders have long since occupied it, and moreover that they’ve been breeding freely. And, finally freed from their confinement, the first thing they’ll do will be to…

…well, I don’t want to give away EVERYTHING that will happen. After all, what is life without surprises, right? Sufficed to say, it won’t be pretty, and you aren’t likely to make it out of the room. But, if you do manage to make it to the door, get past the ghost twins and find your way down the endless echoing hallway and out of the suddenly abandoned building, don’t take any pleasure from it. The only thing your unlikely survival would mean is that you get to see what happens to the world around you once the plague of baby-headed spiders is released upon the unsuspecting city.

And that might be the worst part of it all.

No, wait, the coming of the Hungry Ones. Had I mentioned they were coming? No? That’s my bad, they are, I’ve invited them and they assure me they’re coming. And that’ll definitely be the worst part of it all, that part will be really bad.

So, you see, your life going forward will be an endless nightmare. You will know no peace, no moment of respite, for the rest of your potentially very short existence.

From here on in, everything will be terrifying.

I’ve already arranged it all.

And that’s why, you see, there’s no need to worry…

The Sanctity of Life

It seemed, at first, like the perfect crime.

The state had recently passed a personhood amendment granting single, fertilized eggs the same legal standing, rights and protection as fully-grown human beings.

Meaning that, due to this amendment, life would for all legal intents and purposes begin with that single cell and, whatever might happen to it from that moment on, it would be the same life it was at the moment of conception.

The legal ramifications were, indeed are, obvious.

Identical twins begin as a single cell, which then divides in two, both parts growing into what, previous to the passage of “Personhood”, was considered a separate individual human being. However, due to the deliberately indistinct wording of the amendment, from a legal perspective the single cell is now a complete legal entity in and of itself, and this doesn’t cease to be the case simply because that one entity happens to inhabit two physically distinct bodies.

So, when Michael contracted me to murder his twin, I knew there’d be no consequences to the crime. Murdering a twin, after all, was no longer murder. It was at best assault with the intent to cause grievous bodily harm, and unless Michael pressed charges (unlikely as a paper-trail existed connecting him to the act) there was no way that case would stand up in court. I’d be brought in, he’d testify on my behalf that I’d done him no lasting harm, and that would be the end of it.

Like I said, the perfect crime. He’d have done it himself if he hadn’t been so squeamish. Understandably so, whatever the legality the act killing a twin does still feel sort of like murder.

Still, that’s where men like me come in handy. I don’t get squeamish easily. So on the appointed day I walked into the office Michael’s “brother” worked in, went to his desk and put four bullets into his chest. I dropped the pistol, came out with my hands up, turned myself in and prepared myself for three or four days navigating the criminal justice system before my inevitable release and subsequent payday.

The best laid plans…

What I didn’t know was that Michael was hit by a bus on the morning I’d been scheduled to kill his twin, and as such by the time I shot him he was the only surviving brother. So here I sit in my little cell, awaiting arraignment on murder charges with a mountain of evidence piled up against me.

My lawyer thinks he can talk it down to criminal negligence, as my only real crime was failing to do my due diligence that morning, and I hope he’s right, but I have to admit, the chances don’t seem good.

The state also has the death penalty, and they’ve proven time and again how much they love to use it.

They’re very serious, in that regard, when it comes to protecting the sanctity of life…

The Basement

Don’t go into the basement, whatever you do.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not haunted. I haven’t filled the freezer with corpses, nor have I converted it into some sort of twisted Nazi sex-dungeon, it’s a perfectly ordinary basement.

The light doesn’t really work, it kind of flickers on and off, and the stairs squeak, but other than that, it’s an unfinished basement like any other unfinished basement anywhere else in this neighborhood.

However: I will lock you in there if you go, and I don’t promise to let you out quickly. So, for your own good, don’t do it.