Rippers End by Paul Mudie

Halloween Dinner

by Erin Landers

A skeleton and Chucky the killer doll paused on their trek, pillow cases weighed down with candy, sweat dripping down their bodies despite the brittle chill hovering in the air. They were on their last house.

“I don’t wanna go there,” Chucky said.

“Come on man. This night sucks anyway, let’s hit this last house and go home.”

“Dude, the guy is like 35 and still lives with his mom. And he’s weird.”

“I’m going.”

Not waiting any longer, the skeleton led the way up the driveway. The house looked different from the surrounding ones – it was isolated, and old, like an abandoned grandmother at the nursing home.

Almost immediately a heavy set man answered. His smile contrasted with a rancid, unidentifiable smell wafting out the door from inside.

“Hi there! Say, you trick-or-treaters look like you’re nearly in high school. Do you really have candy in those pillowcases, or are you just having some fun terrorizing the neighborhood? Eh?”

“Cameron! You stop harassing those boys!” came a shrill voice from inside. Cameron sighed and joined the boys out on the porch, shutting the door behind him.

The boys each groaned internally as they realized there was no hope of getting candy and leaving.

“I’ve been where you are,” Cameron said, nodding as if they were all true comrades who had gone through some traumatic event together. “Don’t waste your youth. This is probably your last year trick-or-treating, right? Make it count. Do some Halloween mischief. Go crazy.”

“Like what?” said Chucky.

“Like that house over there on the left? The woman there is a real bitch. You guys should go egg her car.”

No one said anything.

“I got some eggs. Be right back.”

Alone again, the two looked at each other.

“No,” Chucky said flatly.

“Aw come on. Ya chicken?”

“For Christ sake.”

“Come on, man.”

The skeleton gently pushed Chucky and in response Chucky shoved him back – hard. The skeleton fell onto the rusty banister, scraping his sleeve open, the wood scraping his skin underneath. Seemingly out of nowhere Cameron appeared with a carton of eggs and a white dish cloth, which he used to soak up the blood as quickly as liquid going up a straw.

“Thanks. . .”

“Anytime. Here are the eggs. Go wreak some havoc.”

* * *

“They’re after us! The cops are after us! She called the cops let us in!”

The door opened and the boys scrambled in but stopped dead from what they saw and smelled.

Cameron and an old lady with frizzy hair surrounding her like a cape hunched over a boiling black pot; she was squeezing the blood out of the white cloth into the mixture.

There was another pounding on the door and then, “Open up! Police!”

“Oh do let them in too, Cameron. I need more ingredients.”

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Erin Landers is a writer and a foodie. She double majored in English and Communications. She now works in a farmers market with a part-time writing/editing job on the site. She is finishing her first novel and writing short stories.