Author: Amanda Miller

      “You don’t know all the cruel and unhealthy things that a dude like that might do.” Ned grabs a napkin off the table where we’re having beers, wipes sweat off his neck, dabs at his brow. “Everybody in the neighborhood runs scared of the man like he’s a walking piece of Evil on Earth. Have you seen those prison tats on his arms, and on the knuckles of his hands? Hey, I’m sorry that he’s beating his wife–but when he stomps over to your place the next day and smiles, saying It’s quiet around here while giving you the gun finger, shaking it in your face–then let me tell you, brother, you’ve gotta stay quiet. You don’t get involved. And get a For Sale sign on your lawn, soon as you can. The thing is, he’s a bad man. Know what I mean?”

                                                                          *

      I gave myself a week to process the information. I’m touched by Ned–his genuine fear for the neighborhood, plus his concern on my behalf–the way people should be. Caring. Looking out.

     But the thing is, Neddie, you don’t need to worry about me. I’ve been living in the midst of all these sins for a while now, and after due consideration–I’ve made my kind of peace.

     The thing is, I don’t expect apologies for the rudeness, the injustice, the overt fallacies of superiority that loaded and lode-stone people strut around with, magnetized for money, drama, selfishness. The tart tongues, the unthinking dismissals, the laughs at a lesser person’s expense. They see you as the little piggy living in a house of sticks, act like they’re the big bad wolves who huff hot air and dare more than you.

     The thing is, and the thing I will never tell you, Ned: I’m the middle school kid who put twenty Ex-Lax pills in Mr. Johnson’s coffee pot after he wrote me up for cheating when I didn’t. I’m the teenager who slipped the proverbial turd into the punch bowl at Lily Beazley’s Sweet Sixteen party a month after she made fun of my zipper being down. I’m the college waiter big shot customers impolitely bark at–who goes into the kitchen’s shadows and spits into his fashionable bowl of ancient grains and salad greens. I’m the one my nepotistic boss fires, dismissing me when it was actually his impatient son who made the colossal and costly mistake for his family’s business–I’m the premeditated individual who one year later happily discovered the old man’s vintage sports car didn’t have a modern locking cap that might have prevented the fine pour of sugar into the gas tank.

     I’m the simple fella who knows how to navigate the nets, both light and dark. I’m the wanna-be chemist who searches for and finds the perfect fix-it recipe: Drano, tin foil, and a little water. The guy who wears gloves and plucks a used but still-capped plastic drink bottle out of a random person’s garbage can–along with DNA that isn’t mine. The one who carefully plants it on the front lawn of Mr. HELL tattooed across his right-hand knuckles, FIRE inked across the left. I create a sweet spot of foreign waste right outside his door.

     The one who doesn’t rush the process, who doesn’t make a peep while slowly combining it all together, who sets it just so and then drives on, past sleeping dogs–losing gloves, shoes, foil, and the Drano can down various sewer grates of the moon-shady city. I’m the calm soul who reads the over-editorialized paper the next morning, about how the poor man found this odd bottle with liquid on his grass, cursed litter bugs and rubbish, lifted the irritating, innocuous bottle; I serenely read how he shook it uncomprehendingly, confused by the solids inside. I perused the newspaper’s extra feature box with its dire words of caution, warning good citizens about how the insides build up, then explode with enough force to remove your extremities. The paper corroborated every volatile detail I’d stirred up–about how such a wrongful mix will scald and burn with the intensity of an inferno. I go back to the main article, to the writer’s documentation of how Mr. HELLFIRE’s eyes boiled to tears, how he no longer has hands–to announce himself with, to beat anyone with, to point fingers in malice and judgement.     

The thing is, dear Ned, the world is full of men. All types. You just never know who a bad man might be.

—

Scott Hutchinson’s previous work has appeared in Liquid Imagination, Reckoning, The Raven Review, Weirdbook, and Heroic Fantasy Quarterly. New work is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Fiction Southeast, Vestal Review, Hearth and Coffin, and Slipstream. 

This is a Halloween piece by Abby Whittington entitled “Dreadful.” It shows a character haunted by their past.

Since Abby has offered to withdraw their artwork from the Halloween contest in order to serve as a judge, I wanted to showcase that awesome work here!

Thanks for all the WONDERFUL submissions! If you are one of the winners, we’ll be in touch personally to give you the good news, and then the winners will be announced here on our website during the week of Halloween.

We are very excited to announce that we are nominating three pieces from our Spring 2022 issue for a Pushcart Prize!

They are, in no specific order:

“An Ode to my Period” by Jaqueline Rose Gregory

“The Bath” by Alex Gibson

“With the Wash on our Hip” by Megan Wildhood

Huge congratulations to these three writers! It’s been a pleasure to publish your work!

What’s a Pushcart Prize?

October’s Final Days, WINNER, Fiction

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“…and the pieces of her body slowly move towards each other, worming and squirming underneath the surface of the dirt until they can reconnect again.”

“Her ‘pieces’?  Ewwww….” squirmed Shyloh.

“Well, that’s what they are”, I reasoned.  “Pass another marshmallow and I’ll finish.”

“There’s Bailey,” said Shyloh. “Hey, come over! Preston’s telling a true Halloween story!   Start it over.  The real ones are the creepiest!”

I began again.  “Here in St. Charles, Missouri there’s a story most kids hear in high school – Molly’s Grave.  Back in the 1800s, a woman named Molly Crenshaw lived by herself outside of town, so people thought she was a witch.  One winter, the ground froze and the farmers couldn’t get anything to grow the following spring.  They began to whisper among themselves, ‘It’s that witch’s fault!’.  They blamed Molly and grew angrier the more they complained.”

The breeze made us shiver and Bailey inched closer to the firepit.

“One Halloween night, the farmers exploded into rage.  They banded together with pitchforks and stormed her home.  Molly refused to take the blame and argued with the mob.  ‘This is NOT my doing, I SWEAR!!’  But despite her cries, they dragged Molly to the town’s square for a horrifying execution.  A public death would serve as adequate punishment!  She pleaded for help from the townsfolk who’d come out to watch.  Wouldn’t anyone stand up for her?  But there was no stopping the farmers.  As she lay there, she realized that nothing would convince them of her innocence.  She was going to die!  Mustering her courage, she spun a bone-chilling curse.  “Anyone who harms me!  Or watching my death!” Molly screeched.  “YOU’RE CURSED!  I’ll come back to life and bring my vengeance!  To YOU, your family, your children, and grandchildren!”

The fire flickered wildly and we all jumped. 

“While they didn’t stop, the mob hesitated.  How do you keep a witch from resurrecting?  Someone yelled, ‘Cut her in half!  She can’t come back if she’s not a full body!’  Molly screamed her last words, ‘I’LL STILL COME BACK!!’  Undeterred, they agreed on this solution and Molly was sawed in half. 

Molly’s body was buried in separate graves.  One at a private cemetery near where the high school is now.  The other, miles away in an unmarked grave near the river.  The town went back to its everyday life and the farmers returned to their fields.  But no crops grew that year.  And despite the miles between them, Molly’s body started moving towards each other from the moment of her burial.  As if magnetically attracted back together, aching for new life and a taste for revenge.  Wiggling like worms underneath the unsuspecting town.  Once the pieces meet, Molly will live again and wipe out all of the farmers’ descendants and of those present at her death!  How soon will it happen?  How close are the pieces now?  How much time is left?  Are YOU a descendent?! No one knows…”

“Let’s go!” blurted Bailey, already standing.

“Where???”, asked Shyloh, not wanting to know the answer.

“Umm, bad things happen to anyone who disrespects Molly,” I warned.  “Some kids went looking for her grave once…and the police found them impaled on a cemetery fence.  Like DEAD.”

He scoffed.  “Scaaaaaaared?” 

I rolled my eyes.  “It’s just a story.”

“Well, if there’s nothing to worry about…”, Bailey taunted. 

We piled into Bailey’s car, wishing for the first time that he wasn’t old enough to drive.  I wasn’t listening as he mapped to our destination – a private cemetery near the high school. 

As we pulled up, my stomach knots relaxed.  ‘That’s it?!’, I thought, seeing a chain link fence surrounding a dozen markers.  Bailey grabbed a flashlight as we stepped out into the darkness.  The crickets serenaded us, unphased by our intrusion.  We hopped the fence and Bailey lit each grave, mumbling their names.  I held back; the fence felt safer than stepping over graves. 

Shyloh’s voice unexpectedly cut into the crickets’ song, “Molly, we aren’t afraid of you!”  The cacophony of crickets suddenly died to a deafening silence.  My neck hair prickled as I realized the wind had abruptly stopped, too.  We stood motionless. 

Waiting. 

Listening. 

Petrified. 

My stomach knotted as Bailey shifted his weight and a stick cracked like an old bone.  “Look at the ground!”, he sputtered.  “Something’s moving underneath!!”  Bailey dropped the flashlight and bolted.  Shyloh followed but I couldn’t – my legs had hardened into cement.  She ran, leaping to clear the fence but caught a barb and she crumpled with a cry into the rail before crashing to the ground.  Was she impaled?!  I couldn’t see past the stinging tears. 

Bailey made it to the car first, keys jangling as he shook.  The car simply clicked, refusing to start.  I stood frozen solid, watching Shyloh groan on her bloody leg.  Bailey cursed at the car as if that would convince it to work.  Numb and blurry, all I could do was watch the flickering flashlight cast eerie shadows on the gravestones.  Terror took ahold of my body and I saw my breath in the chilly air.  Molly was here.  We’d been disrespectful and there were dire consequences in store.  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, “I didn’t even want to come.”  I choked as panic engulfed my throat.  “Please, Miss Crenshaw! We’re sorry,” I pleaded with reverence.  The words hung like corpses over my head.  Throbbing silence beat on my ear drums as I held my breath, not wanting to see it billow out again. 

Then, one lone cricket ruptured the nothingness.  Then another.  The key clicked and the car struggled to life.  “PRESTON, MOOOOOVE!!”, Bailey screamed wildly, his voice octaves above his normal tone.  I exhaled, my breath no longer visible.  “Thank you, Molly”, I sputtered, shaking as the words tumbled off my tongue.  My legs, now complying, flew with newfound speed towards the car, grabbing Shyloh and dragging her in as I jumped inside.  Bailey stomped the gas pedal to the floor.  As I took one more look out across the graveyard, the flashlight’s flicker caught what looked like a woman’s shadow.  I squeezed my eyes tight, whispering apologies as we sped away.

---

Vicki Liston is a multi-award-winning voice actor, video producer, and writer.  She served as the resident DIY and Home Expert for DontWasteYourMoney and SimpleMost (both E.W. Scripps companies), writes and hosts for Hometalk TV, and has appeared as a contributing writer in two recent editions of the multi-million-dollar book series, Chicken Soup for the Soul, published by Simon and Schuster. Vicki has been a featured expert in The New York Times, The Today Show‘s website, MSN, Forbes, Family Handyman Magazine, Apartment Therapy, House Beautiful, The Spruce, The Washington Post, and more.   She also writes, voices, and produces the award-winning series, ‘On The Fly…DIY’, which has over a million and a half views on YouTube and raises money for no-kill animal shelters and rescue organizations. 

October’s Final Days, WINNER, Poetry

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‘Twas Halloween Night all the children were dressed
As ghosties and ghoulies to scare all the rest.

They set out for adventure – sweet treats for the taking
Clouds swept past the moon – a night of tricks in the making.

Dark streets were lighted – Jack O’Lantern’s glowing
Nobody knew that true danger was growing.

Kids giggled and skipped house to house, door to door
“Trick or Treat” they would shout, rudely asking for more.

The neighborhood houses were decked out as well,
Graveyards with monsters and demons from Hell.

The scene was a treat for the imagination,
Until Sam finally snapped and sought retaliation.

As kids filled their bags up with neighborhood goodies,
Terror lurked in the shadows wearing black pants and a hoodie.

Sam hated this tradition, greedy kids, noise and laughter,
He’d make people think twice from now on, ever after.

As the children ran past him, his patience was waning,
He needed to strike – his insanity gaining!

One house was designed to give kiddies a fright,
The front lawn was a graveyard just for tonight.

Fake zombies struggled to rise from the ground,
It was one of the best Halloween scenes to be found.

Danny crept near a place where he shouldn’t have been,
A quick blade ‘cross his throat and he’s part of the scene.

An old oak spread its limbs in a park down the street,
Fake monsters were hanged there – a cool breeze blew their feet.

Sandy, dressed as a ghoul, got too close to the dark,
A noose tight ‘round her neck added feet to the park.

Red strobe lights flashed brightly from the depths of a well,
A bloody, handwritten sign read:  “The Gateway To Hell”.

Away from his friends, Timmy wandered too close,
One little shove – his screams add to the show.

The horror continued all Halloween night,
Kids disappeared to the left and the right.

Sam did his handiwork the whole evening through,
Until one child was left who didn’t know what to do.

He stood under a streetlight, whimp’ring, cold as a bone,
Wond’ring, through sobs, why his friends left him alone.

Sunrise discovered a most grisly scene,
More murders in one night than there’d ever been.

What once was tradition became nightmare that year,
No more tricking, no treating, no laughter, no cheer.

Sam was convicted and locked up for good,
Only one child survived from the whole neighborhood.

That child is all grown now – he’s not been the same,
Stories say now he plays a most frightening game.

He wanders the countryside, from town to town,
He hasn’t got friends and he can’t settle down.

Wherever he visits on Halloween Night,
He pretends he is Sam and gives children a fright.

Once he finishes playing his Halloween game,
It’s said that the children are never the same.

He fills neighborhood children with terror and dread,
When all’s said and done the kids wish they were dead.

So, as you put on your costume with plans to have fun,
Keep looking behind you, be ready to run.

A madman is lurking ‘round every dark turn,
To teach you a lesson all children should learn.

Stick together, say thank you and please be polite,
And you just might survive this Halloween Night! 

---

Darryl Womack’s love for storytelling was spurred from family camping trips and his many colorful tales shared around the campfire in the backwoods of California. A high school English teacher by day, Womack is now brought those vivid campfire tales to life in his 2016 book, Tales of Westerford. When he is not writing, Womack enjoys the outdoors, traveling, mountain biking, reading, and spending time with family and friends. A graduate of Humboldt State University, he currently resides in Redlands, California with his wife of 34 years, Patty. Together they have three sons, Garrett, Kevin, and Christopher, two daughters-in-law, Morgana and Catherine, and two granddaughters, Maddie and Kate.

will be published on Halloween, at 6 am EDT, to boost you up on your Halloween Monday!