Spook Inc.

spook /spo͞ok/ n. 1. A ghost, specter, or phantom 2. Slang for an undercover agent; a spy 3. Offensive slur for a black person v. 1. To make frightened
It was a dark and stormy night, aside from the bright flash of orange that, too, stormed through the pattering rain. It was a Wednesday. And it was October. And it was cold. And the rain didn’t help with that. And in the middle of the woods, the bright orange of a Loom County jumpsuit stuck out like a sore thumb — a sore thumb still stained with black ink.
“Take ‘em again,” he said, lifting his thumbs between the cold metal bars that separated him, the warden, and the chaplain. It wasn’t the first time he asked for a retrial either. And every time he got turned down.
“Your ass is going to the chair, Sammy,” the warden said, smirking as he turned to the chaplain beside him, who wore a somber face. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here. And no fingerprints ain’t gonna change that, now.”
One booming crack of lightning snapped him from his daydream and Sammy realized that he was sinking into the earth — a good two inches or so — where the rain lapped up in layers like bubbling vomit against the mossy mud. He lifted one of his shitty shoes — the eyesore, cheap-o kind from the prison — and continued charging through the storm, with damp and fallen leaves snapping beneath his feet.
The dogs would be coming. There was no time to rest.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest, Jesus said,” the chaplain said. He rested a hand on Sammy’s shoulder, which was muscular and warm, and tense.
“I can’t rest,” Sammy said. “There’re things I haven’t done, yet.”
“What have you left undone, Samuel?” the chaplain said, his hand squeezing Sammy’s shoulder, now.
Sammy spoke through gritted teeth, “I haven’t killed ‘em, yet.”
“Who?”
“The people that put me in here.”
The chaplain removed his hand from Sammy’s shoulder and cleared his throat.
“Deuteronomy 32:35,” the chaplain said, calmly. “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord-“
“No,” Sammy interrupted, “it’s mine.”
Another crash of lighting, this one closer and sharper, caused the ground to rumble beneath those shitty shoes of his. Sammy looked forward and realized that he was approaching a clearing. So, he approached.
It was a wide-open field amidst the woods, the full Hunter’s moon looming overhead as the rain pummeled the acre or so of darkly shaded grass covered with a thick fog, whisking about in the wind. And at the edge of the clearing, where the tree line met with a misty knoll, sat a house — a mansion, with large pillars that stretched over the rows of broken windows and chipped-off paint slivers. It was a plantation house, one of those ones from the Antebellum days.
An abandoned plantation house.
Shelter. A hiding spot.
Sammy trotted across the field, looking over his shoulder and listening for the dogs, until he reached the giant building that, despite its apparent vacancy, seemed oddly out-of-place, and out of time.
The rain stopped as soon as he took his first step up the six stairs toward the front door. He could still hear it drumming on the mansion’s roofing, but for now, he was sheltered.
At the last step, which creaked beneath his weight, he could hear the thud of his damp shoe ricochet throughout the porch, only to be drowned out by the continual rain and thunder that boomed in the distant woods. He approached the large, wooden doors with lion-shaped door knockers on either side. And instead of using them, he merely pushed his muscle-bound shoulder against the wood. It creaked, and then the door swung open.
He wasn’t expecting the light. Neither were his eyes, which took a long moment to adjust to the inside of the house. It was candlelight, with a faded, somewhat eerie, glow of orange draped upon the blackened, and torn, wallpaper. It flickered in the stillness of the house, with dust left unsettled before Sammy, somewhat unsettled himself, spoke up:
“Hello?” he asked into the surrounding darkness, glancing down at the candles perched atop a nearby desk. He took another step inside.
“Close the door,” a woman’s voice said, out of nowhere. It spooked Sammy so bad that he let out a gasp and jolted, which seemed contrary to his large stature for a response to such a soft-spoken request.
“You’ll let in a draft,” the woman smiled, though Sammy couldn’t see it. He turned to face the door again but noticed the broken windows aligning the wall; the rain flying in and pooling up on the creaky, old floor.
“Only kidding,” she said, “this place is a draft.”
Sammy turned to face the woman as she stepped into the candlelight. She was younger than her voice made her sound, with chiseled cheeks and puckered lips, and hair that swung past her shoulders. Sammy’s natural reaction was to wonder whether or not she was good in the sack, but then a heavy fear washed over him as he wondered why in hell she was even there at all.
“What’re you doing in here?”
“I could ask you the same question,” the woman smiled with a flash of her white teeth, coinciding with a conveniently timed bolt of lightning outside, “but judging by your outfit, I already know the answer.”
Sammy looked down to the bright orange of his jumpsuit, somewhat darker than usual given the rain. He began to take it off, revealing some of his dark skin beneath but stopped when he realized he wasn’t wearing anything else, and the woman had her eyes locked on him.
“You can take that off all you want, Sam,” she said with a grin and a wink, approaching him, “but as long as you’ve got this,” she said, pinching his dark face beneath his jaw, “you’ll never stop running.”
He froze, somewhat turned on by the woman, but more concerned about how the hell she knew his name.
“How did you-?”
“Please, Sam. You think you’re the first runaway to stumble across us?”
Sammy’s face puckered like he had eaten sour candy, “We?”
The woman lifted her head, and Sammy followed. Above them, aside from the pitter-pattering of the rain, he could make out the sounds of light footsteps from the second floor.
“You really think I’d be out here all by my lonesome? Little ol’ me?” she smiled.
“Who are you?”
“Who are we?” she asked, correcting him. “We’re in good company, remember?” she said while pointing upward. “And that’s exactly what we are: a company. Spook Incorporated,” she said.
“Spook Inc.?” Sammy asked, a smile creeping onto his face at the sound of such a name.
“Sorry,” she said, “hope I didn’t offend you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Spook Inc. has been around for a long time, Mr. Price. All the way back to the underground railroad, in fact. Some of those very tunnels still exist beneath this very house, to this very day,” she said as she tapped the creaky floor with her foot, ever-so-slightly.
“So, what are you? Some kind of civil rights activists?”
“A bit more, actually, Mr. Price. We are activists, but we go well beyond the civil.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, being civil is all well and good, Sam. But real change, most, unfortunately, requires violence. Take, for example, the reason you wound up in Loom County-“
“I’d rather not talk about it,” Sammy interrupted, looking over his shoulder and into the rainy woods outside. Another flash of lighting filled the tree line across the way. No dogs. No cops.
“Fair enough. But my point still stands, Sam. Violence is an inevitable solution. If it were up to me, I’d let you go free,” she smiled. “And it is.”
“It’s what?”
“Up to me. Of course, you can run out of here and probably get chased down by dogs, pinned against your car the next time you get pulled over, or hell, just look over your shoulder for the rest of your life-“
“Or?” Sammy asked, expecting a type of sales pitch.
“Or,” the woman reverberated, “you let us help you.”
“How?”
The woman smiled.
“You’re a man of few words, Sam. Some would say you sound smart. Let’s see if you are-“ the woman said. She beckoned him to sit down, across from her at the candlelit desk. He followed, and sat in a creaky chair, weary from his escape.
“Now,” she clicked, “I don’t suppose you know what spook means-“
Sammy lifted his tired eyebrows at the woman’s question.
“Not that meaning. Though, I suppose, Spook Inc. has had a rather, how should we call it, institutional history. So, it wouldn’t surprise me. But, no, the other meaning.”
“You mean, like, ghosts?”
“Spies, more or less. But yes, Mr. Price. See, Sam, if we let you go back out there,” she said, pointing out one of the broken windows with a long, sharp fingernail, “your manhunt will never stop. As long as you look like that,” she emphasized, pointing to his face. He blinked and scowled at her.
“So, what’re you sayin’?”
“I’m saying,” she began, but her voice trailed off. “Have you ever heard of Jimmy Hoffa?”
Sammy nodded.
“Ever heard of Adam Seagram?”
“Who?”
“Exactly. The cops, the feds, hell, the mob…they can never find that which does not exist. Just like Spook Inc., Sam. We don’t exist. We’ll make you-“
“Like a ghost,” Sammy said. The woman nodded. “Then, what’s in it for you?”
“Oh, we have our reasons,” she smiled with a roll of her eyes, “census manipulation, mostly. Ever heard of ‘dead voters’?” she asked in air quotes.
Sammy nodded.
“That’s the idea. You’d be surprised at the amounts people’d pay for an identity that you don’t want,” she said, stopping and intently looking at Sammy. “You don’t want to be Samuel Price, do you Sam?”
Sammy looked down at his own hands, his thumbs covered in black ink, and he shook his head.
“Then we can help you. There is, of course, only one more thing-”
“I knew it,” Sammy said.
“No, no…nothing like that,” the woman cackled, “this isn’t a deal with the devil. This is simply…tying off loose ends,” she nodded, folding her hands, and looking across the candlelight at him. “Is there anything else you want to do as Samuel Price before he dies? Say, something that would potentially damage the new identity we’d create for you?”
Sammy thought about her question and what it implied, “You mean like…illegal shit?”
“Well,” she grinned, “I’m not sure I’m supposed to say that but-“
“Yes,” he answered coldly before she could finish. “Yes, I do.”
She nodded.
“And would this…’illegal shit’, as you called it, have anything to do with, shall we say, unfinished business?”
“Maybe.”
The woman grinned, though it was a bit more sinister; a dark intent in her eyes, somewhere, “Well, Sam, perhaps we can assist with that, too. We are, after all, advocates for un-civil unrest.”
The woman looked down and tugged a rigid drawer open from the wooden desk, and it squealed as she did so. She began thumbing her way through a series of dusty manila folders until she reached a fresh one, and slapped it onto the desk, aside the candles on either side.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, just some information you might like to see: telephone numbers, addresses…”
“Of who?”
She grinned, this time it was a purely sinister glow, “Exactly who we’d pick, too.”
He snagged the folder and began reading through the list of names, numbers, and addresses. And the further he went down, the wider his smile grew — revealing a full set of yellowed teeth. That is, until, a certain name crossed his gaze.
“How’d you know about-?”
“We have our ways, Mr. Price,” she nodded. She reached down and pulled something else from within another drawer: some folded-up clothes — a costume. She handed it over, scooting it across the wood.
“Consider this a temporary identity change,” she said, “none of them will see you coming. Just keep the mask on.”
He lifted the folded fabric mask on top of the pile of clothes. It was a white sack with black eyes, which made it look like a sheet ghost from that Charlie Brown cartoon.
“This is supposed to be my disguise?” Sammy scoffed, looking from the woman to the glorified pillowcase. “They’d see me from a mile away.”
The woman leaned forward, her chair groaning and her nose hanging overtop one of the candles, and grinned, “Not tomorrow.”
Sammy sat back and realized what day it was: October thirtieth.
Tomorrow was Halloween.
Nicky Robinson
The first of many lies from his attorney-at-law, Nicky “the Quicky” Robinson, was that he’d never have to pay unless he won. Yet, all Sammy had been doing since he lost was paying. That guarantee alone went to prove that if there was one thing that Nicky was good at, it was lying.
However, if there was one truth to be told out of his lying mouth, it was that Nicky loved Halloween.
“Why do you love Halloween so much?” Clarissa asked, sitting next to Nicky on the couch. Clarissa was Nicky’s fiancé, though really, she should’ve been called his financee, because if there was one thing she loved more than Nicky, it was his money.
“Because babe,” he said, taking a nip of his blood-red Cabernet Sauvignon, “well, think about it. What’re people doing tonight?”
Clarissa thought, though she wasn’t very bright.
“Eating candy?”
Nicky chuckled, “Yeah…if you’re a kid…or a lonely fat bastard sitting on his carpet dressed like a hush puppy.”
“You know what I mean. Trick-or-treating,” Clarissa said, correcting herself.
“And what do kids do when they go trick-or-treating?” Nicky asked.
Clarissa thought again, “They eat candy!”
“No,” Nicky said, taking another sip and watching the crackling fire across the living room, “they run around, in low-visibility masks, in the street, babe.”
“So?”
“So? Babe, do you know what it is that I do — what puts the bread on the table?”
“What bread? You know I don’t eat gluten.”
Nicky slapped his own cheek and rubbed his eyes, “I make money when people get hurt or die. It sounds messed up, but it’s true. And tonight, a lot of people — mostly kids — get hurt or die. Tonight, is a goldmine, baby. That’s why I love Halloween.”
“That’s pretty messed up, Nicky.”
“I know. I just said that.”
“No, but I mean you shouldn’t love this holiday just because kids are dying.”
“Trust me, you want the kids to die, too, Clar. You like the cab,” he said, raising his glass, “you like the bags and the purses and the clothes and all that shit, right?”
She thought about it. She did.
“Well then, shut up,” he smiled, taking a big ol’ swig and smacking his lips. “And that’s just the civil suits, baby. Imagine if some whacko starts hackin’ people up dressed like Michael friggin’ Myers. We’ll be rolling in the dough!”
“Just like that other jackass,” Clarissa said, rolling her eyes.
“Who? Sammy?”
She nodded.
“Babe, Sammy Price paid for the damn Lexus. You want a Fiat?
Clarissa shook her head adamantly.
“But there are other reasons to love Halloween,” she said, “not just ‘cause you make a dollar. There’s the pumpkins and the pies and the candy and the dressing up-”
Nicky leaned across the couch and planted a kiss on her juicy lips, trying to sneak in some tongue.
“Now, I don’t give a shit about any of that other stuff…but if you dress up, tonight…I’ll have a very, happy Halloween,” Nicky winked.
“What should I be?” Clarissa said, seductively. But just as she did, there was a thud. Not anything too out-of-the-ordinary, but just enough. Clarissa’s eyes darted from the direction of the sound to Nicky, who was gulping down the rest of his red.
“Aren’t you gonna go check that out?” she said, scolding him.
“Babe, it’s probably just some kids.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of-”
“And that’s why I use a rubber. Baby, listen, Halloween is one of the biggest nights for pranks. If we’re lucky enough, it is a prank, and then we’ll sue the little bastards and make even more money,” Nicky smiled, “I told you…I love Halloween!”
Then there was another thud. Or was it a thump? Or a bump?
“Nicky, please go check-“
“What? I thought you loved Halloween, too.”
“I do, but-“
“Well, this is a part of it: getting scared shitless by a twelve-year-old dressed like Captain Crunch. Please don’t go batty on me, babe.”
Clarissa took in a deep breath, and a huge swallow of cab, and calmed herself down.
“Better?” Nicky asked. Clarissa nodded softly. “Good,” he said, scanning the other windows in the room just in case. And it was when he did this that he noticed something off about the room — and the entire house with it.
“Clar?”
“Yeah, Nicky?”
Nicky took in a deep breath, “Where’s all the Halloween shit?”
“What do you mean?”
“Y’know, like the skeletons and the jack-o’-lantern and the little Frankenstein you leave on the windowsill?”
“It’s Frankenstein’s monster, Nicky.”
“You’re avoiding my question, Clar,” he said, slowly growing agitated by her games, “where the hell is it?”
Clarissa swallowed, “In the attic.”
Nicky let out a deep, booming sigh.
“And why, the hell, is it up there?”
Clarissa attempted to take another sip of her cab, but the glass was empty, “Because I needed to make room for the Christmas, Nicky.”
Nicky held back the anger in his voice, “It’s Halloween, baby. Why in the hell would you need to make room for the fucking Christmas?”
“Because it’s next, Nicky! If we’re gonna put up the lights Saturday, then we need to get the Halloween shit down by tomorrow.”
“Why would I take the Halloween down on Halloween?”
“Because, this year, I’m gonna whoop Sylvia’s ass.”
Sylvia, who was one of Nicky and Clarissa’s neighbors, was an older, Hispanic woman, who didn’t give two hoots about Halloween but come Christmas, she turned her front lawn into Disney World, complete with a full-to-scale nativity scene and three Santa Clauses.
Who the hell needs three Santa Clauses?
“I need three Santa Clauses, Nicky!” Clarissa said, spastically shaking her hands in his face.
“Why three?”
“A white one, a black one, and a Mexican one. We’ve got to stay inclusive.”
“What about Asian?” Nicky asked, jokingly.
“Shit. Four Santa Clauses, Nicky.”
Nicky slapped himself in the face.
“I’m not having this, okay?” Nicky snapped. “You know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna put up all the Halloween shit that you took down — all the pumpkins, and the skeletons, and the Frankenstein monster. Happy?”
She wasn’t. She never was.
“Ladder’s in the garage,” she said with folded arms.
“Thank you,” Nicky replied with a fake smile. He stood and walked out of the living room, making his way to the three-car garage. He stopped, midway, when he reached the hall and pried open the lace curtains to check outside.
It was just past seven, and the elongated shadows of costumed children were descending the street with their silhouettes eclipsing the lamplights. They were giggling and laughing and blissfully unaware of all the potential dangers that awaited them. Nicky glanced over to the porch and squinted at the barren stool, which hours earlier held up a tiny pumpkin-shaped bowl full of pre-diabetes. He would’ve been pissed, if not for the fact that he had security cameras installed and was just hoping that some snotty-nosed ‘lil bastard would’ve snagged his property.
Not to mention that he was very deliberate in his wording on the note, taped just below the bowl, reading, “PLEASE TAKE ONE CANDY”, because he knew simply scribbling “PLEASE TAKE ONE” could’ve implied the bowl itself, at least in a court of law.
He pulled himself back from the foggy glass and tugged the curtains together, turning and swiftly entering the garage, which was chillier and darker than usual. He eyed the new Lexus that was parked in the blackness as he hoisted the ladder beneath his arm, scanning the shadowy shapes along the wall on his way out.
“Are you really gonna put all that shit back up?” Clarissa was waiting for him at the door. He strolled right past her and tilted the ladder until it rocked just beneath the ‘lil attic access door.
“Really, Nicky? It’s seven ‘o clock.”
“And still Halloween.”
“It’ll be over in five hours.”
“You can do math? Wow.”
Clarissa, pissed out of her wits, stormed off down the hall, leaving Nicky and the ladder alone at last. He shook his head and began ascending the steps, the ladder rocking after each foothold. After the fourth step, he looked down and gripped either side of the thing, waiting for it to stop jittering. Or maybe that was just him. At the ninth step, just below the top of the ladder, Nicky reached the attic access, pushing it up with his hands and sliding the loose door to the side. He looked up, smelling the mildew that those damn cleaners promised they’d “take care of” and saw that little Frankenstein monster looking down at him. He reached out to grab it and, naturally, looked back down the ladder before his descent.
And that’s when he saw him: the masked man. He must’ve been standing there before, but Nicky — with perhaps too much cab in his gut — didn’t notice. He was quiet, and still, and staring up at him with those big black eyes that harshly contrasted with the white sack that covered his head. Before Nicky could even scream, the man lifted his gloved hand to the sack and yanked it off.
And then Nicky really screamed.
Without another second passing by, the man kicked the ladder, and it folded beneath Nicky, and he fell, and his chin slammed against the top of the thing, and something snapped loudly, like a wishbone. His body, along with the ceramic Frankenstein monster head, tumbled to the ground and shattered, and the instant outpouring of blood from Nicky’s head began staining the white tile floor.
Sammy looked down at the blood pooling beneath his boot and noticed the tip of Nicky’s lying tongue gliding across the red stream.
Ironic.
Suddenly, there was a second scream from down the hall, and Sammy looked up to see Clarissa, pale white and mouth wide open, with a sexy cat-like costume strapped against her body. Sammy reached down, without hesitation, lifted a fragment of the broken Frankenstein monster, and charged down the hallway toward her.
She didn’t even do anything to him, but he figured that she was just an added treat.
It was Halloween, after all.
The Honorable Judge Percy Smith
It pained Sammy — physically, at times — to have to refer to a cretin, such as Percy Smith, as “your honor” because merely speaking to the man proved to be about the most dis-honorable thing he could do. That, and having to live out whatever dimwitted judgment he decided.
He was so seemingly dimwitted, in fact, that he had forgotten what night it was. Either that, or he simply chose to ignore it, favoring the company of the local news on the tube. But it was the inevitable ringing of the doorbell, interrupting the segment on the couple found murdered four blocks over, that forced the old bastard off his ass.
“Tick or teet!” the young ‘lil whippersnapper snapped, gagging on his plastic vampire teeth, and pulling them out, saliva pooling along the porch top beneath him. He excitedly looked at the old man and instantly realized he didn’t have a single thing in his hands. And he immediately frowned because of it.
“Was that tonight?” Percy grumbled, rubbing the crusties out of his tired eyes, “I hate Hal-” he began but stopped when he noticed the boy’s disappointment.
The boy looked to either side of him and realized that not an inch of Percy Smith’s house was covered in even an ounce of spider webs, jack-o’-lanterns, or anything even remotely spooky — unless an unhealthy gnome collection counts.
“Eh,” Percy mumbled, “come inside. I got somethin’ for ya.”
The boy swallowed and loosened the cape strap across his throat.
“I’m not supposed to.”
Percy stopped beyond the doorway and turned back to face the little Dracula, who looked like he might piss himself.
“Nah, I’m not gonna-“ Percy began but stopped, “well all right, wait here.”
Not two minutes later did Percy Smith return with something in his hand: a fresh Granny Smith — bright green to the eyes and cool to the touch.
“What’s that?” the kid asked.
“It’s an apple.”
“For what?”
“You.”
“Why?” the kid asked, genuinely confused.
“’Cause,” Percy groaned, “it’s good for ya.”
The kid made a sour face, almost as sour as the apple itself. And before Percy could retort, a single egg flew past the ‘lil Dracula’s face and cracked into one of his windows. They both turned and noticed the gaggle of six or so teenagers hiding behind Percy’s enlarged sycamore tree — presently draped in toilet paper like an unwrapped mummy — as they giggled on like little gremlins.
“What the hell are you kids-?” Percy began, but before he could finish a second egg zipped past him and cracked, again, into his window. One of the six, a larger one than the rest, stepped forward, juggling an egg in one hand, and a half-eaten candy bar in the other.
“No treats. So, you get tricked, old man,” he said, muffled by his devil mask — which seemed to fit him quite nicely. He wound himself back, like a major leaguer, and flung his final egg at the window, splattering runny yolk along the frame and shattering a hole straight through the icy glass. Percy’s mouth dropped, and he angrily looked down at the kid on his stoop, who was now smirking up at him. The kid-sized Dracula took a glance down at the apple in his hand, and quickly chucked it toward the hole in the window, missing, and shattering it more. He then lifted his arm and gave Percy the bird, before he, along with the other six, ran off down the dimly lit street, cackling and high-fiving as they did.
“Damn hoodlums,” Percy grumbled, biting his lip. He leaned forward off the porch and assessed the window. It was broken, all right. And it wasn’t like he was a damn carpenter or anything. He’d have to cover it up temporarily — unless he wanted more hooligans on his private property — and figured a couple of two-by-fours oughta do the trick. At least, until the morning.
After a trip to the basement, the pisser, and a shot of whiskey, in that order, mind you, Percy shuffled back out the front door and down the steps, three two-by-fours in one hand, a hammer in the other, and five nails clenched between his teeth — with the sixth having slipped out and landed somewhere in the uncut grass.
Four taps onto the first nail in, Percy’s next-door-neighbor — an old bitch of a woman the neighborhood called Snoopy (because, if the name couldn’t imply, she snooped) — waddled her fat ass outside and faced the old man on the porch.
Now, Percy Smith might’ve been an actual judge, but it was Snoopy who really decided the verdicts — because, for some reason, despite the unanimous disdain for the bitch, it was she who was voted as head of the HOA.
“Thought those were trick or treaters bangin’,” she said, curlers hanging ever-so sloppily out of her hair, “you know the noise ordinance goes into effect in forty-five minutes, Percy.”
“I’m aware Snoo-“ he caught himself, “Barb.”
“The hell happened?”
“Kids,” he grumbled.
“Yeah, I saw.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Percy said sarcastically.
“I didn’t tell you shit,” she said, “all I was gonna tell you was that the Association doesn’t cover broken windows. So don’t get it in your head.”
“Thanks, Barbara,” Percy said, clacking away on the nail and waving her goodbye. She didn’t get the memo, like usual, and remained on the porch. And Percy, also like usual, was fantasizing about the day her wide ass would be sitting in the defendant’s chair, subject to his verdict.
Well, his and the jury’s.
“Thank me for what?” Barbara snapped, “I sure as hell ain’t fixin’ your windows. But here’s a tip for ya: put out a damn jack-o’-lantern or some shit. Your house looks the same as it did on fuckin’ Groundhog Day. I’d egg your ass, too!”
And with that, Snoopy waddled back inside.
Percy rolled his eyes and sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. For such a chilly, autumn evening, he was sure hot as hell. He finished the first nail and reached for the second, which he had placed, alongside the others, on the ledge of the windowsill. And as his fingers fumbled for it, while he was holding up the wooden beam from swinging, the tip of nail number six pierced just below his knuckles, before a firm grip ripped the hammer from his hand and swung it against the nail head. Percy wailed in pain and terror, twisting his neck up to see the dead, black eyes of a ghost mask before it lifted from the mysterious stranger’s head. And when it did so, he nearly suffered a heart attack, if not for the fact that, but a second later, the hammer came down on his balding head.
Sammy left him there: a dead old judge with his bloody hand nailed to the windowsill — a grisly sight, for sure.
And for some of the kids passing by, the spookiest Halloween display on the block.
Chelsea Ray
It wasn’t merely the fact that her word, alone, lead to his sentence, but rather that Chelsea Ray was considered a “key eye-witness” in the first place, given that all she did was stare into that pesky phone of hers.
Some “eye-witness” she was.
“Boo!” the kid screamed, interrupting her endless scrolling. He was wearing a glow-in-the-dark hockey mask with ears that stuck out on either side, like doors on a Sedan. He coughed once, because of the fog that lingered in the tiny room, and lifted his mask.
“Not scary,” Anthony said, squeezing the crap out of Chelsea’s hand. He was her little cousin, and on Halloween, while her parents and auntie and uncle went to some hoity-toity Halloween ball, she was on babysitting duty.
And, sometimes, it really was doody. Because, sometimes, these haunted houses made little Anthony shit himself silly.
Not this one, apparently.
“Why not?” the kid said, pulling back down his hockey mask, “I’m Jason!”
Anthony smirked and pointed up to his big cousin, “She saw Sammy the Strangler.”
The kid’s eyes bugged out, even from beneath the hockey mask, as he choked back his words. Every kid in town knew about Sammy “the Strangler.”
He was essentially the boogeyman.
“Nah-uh,” the kid said, shaking his head in disbelief, while still, simultaneously, believing it.
Chelsea rolled her eyes, “I was the key eye-witness testimony that sent Sammy-boy to death row.”
The kid stood there quietly. He didn’t understand a lick of what she just said. Chelsea sighed.
“I saw him kill his girlfriend and they sent him to prison because I did.”
“So, you like…got him?”
Chelsea shrugged, “I guess.”
The kid’s mouth dropped. He took off his hockey mask like it was a baseball cap during the national anthem and rested it over his heart. The continuous strobe lights and organ music began to get on Chelsea’s nerves, so she tugged on Anthony’s arm and continued on through the haunted house, littered with cobwebs, plastic skeletons, and fake blood. When they both finally reached the end, Anthony snatched a piece of chocolate out of a black and orange bowl and continued down the driveway of the stranger’s house.
“Was he scary?” a familiar voice said, stopping the cousins in their tracks and forcing them to spin around. It was the hockey mask kid, and he was a little too close for comfort. They could both smell the candy corn on his breath.
“I guess,” Chelsea said, “he was a big black guy with a knife. What do you think?”
The kid shrugged, “My parents told me he’s not real.”
“Well, your parents lied to you, kid.”
“They wouldn’t do that.”
Chelsea lowered her gaze, the only thing more ironic being her This is My Halloween Costume t-shirt, “You know about Santa?”
The kid swallowed, “No.”
Chelsea grinned and leaned down towards him, “He died.”
“No, he didn’t,” the kid snapped. Chelsea nodded fervently.
“Sammy the Strangler got him. They canceled Christmas ‘cause of it. And they’re gonna replace it with a second Halloween.”
“No, they’re not,” the kid said, tearing up with trembling lips.
“I saw it,” she said, “I watched Sammy the Strangler kill Santa. And he’s gonna kill you, too.”
The kid, half screaming and half crying, ran up the driveway with arms flailing above his head and disappeared back into the garage.
“Why’d you do that?” Anthony asked, tugging on Chelsea’s arm. He looked sad.
“It’s Halloween, Anthony,” Chelsea said, reassuring him, “you’re supposed to scare people.”
Little Anthony nodded and surveyed the nearly empty cul-de-sac, his eye catching on something. Someone.
“Like him?”
Chelsea looked up from her phone and noticed the dark figure standing way off down the street: a man in a black jacket and pants and a ghost mask.
“Exactly like him,” she said, “that’s a good costume,” she lied.
“What’s he supposed to be?”
Chelsea shrugged, “Why don’t you go ask him?”
Anthony immediately shook his head.
“I didn’t know you were going as a chicken for Halloween-”
“I’m not. I’m-“
“Chicken,” she said, pointing down the way. Little Anthony swallowed deeply and watched as the stranger watched him take his first step closer.
“I don’t want to-“
“Fine,” Chelsea said, refusing to look up from the glowing screen, “but that means we’re going home.”
Anthony took another timid step closer, “But what if-“ he was about to finish but then looked up from his dinosaur feet.
“What if what?” Chelsea said, her face flooded in bright light, contrasting with the night.
“He’s gone.”
Chelsea looked up and noticed that the stranger was no longer there. She rolled her eyes.
“Poor Anthony,” she said, grabbing him by the shoulder, “scared another one away. Good job,” she winked. Anthony smiled.
The walk back the way they came was mostly quiet, aside from the occasional dog barking or car driving by and blaring Don’t Fear the Reaper. When they finally made it home, Chelsea plopped two pumpkins onto the front porch, overlooking the sleepy street.
“You can do mine,” she said, staring down at her phone. Little Anthony nodded, looking up from the two orange gourds and watching the silent stranger, the man in the bright-white ghost mask, disappear behind a house in the distant darkness. It sent a shiver down his spine, which was the same feeling that little boy must’ve felt when Chelsea scared him, he thought.
“Were you lying?” he said, looking up to Chelsea, who was barely paying any attention.
“About?”
“Sammy the Stranger killing Santa,” he asked.
Chelsea sighed, “Yeah,” she said, “you can’t kill someone that doesn’t even exist.”
Anthony slumped, leaning in Chelsea’s direction, “Santa’s not real?”
“Anthony, it’s Halloween, not Christmas. Ask me in two months-”
“Chelsea,” he pried, “is he?”
Chelsea lowered her phone, for what must’ve been the first time in her life, and grumbled, “No. But if you tell your parents I told you I’ll beat your ass. Got it?”
Anthony’s little mouth hung low, “He’s not?”
“Ugh,” Chelsea moaned, “how old are you anyway, like ten?”
“I’m eight.”
“Whatever. You’re too old to believe in Santa anyways.”
Anthony swallowed and thought about it for a second, “What about Sammy the Stranger?”
“What about him?”
“Is he real?”
Chelsea rolled her eyes, “Of course, he’s real. I saw him, remember?”
Anthony squinted, “But I saw Santa at the mall-“
“I’m done talking,” she said, cutting him off, “carve your frickin’ pumpkins.”
Anthony looked down, “I don’t have a knife.”
“I’ll go get it. Just…stay here.”
And with that, Chelsea lifted her phone, nearly running into the front door, and stepped inside. Anthony sighed and tucked his legs crisscross beneath him, looking around the nearly empty neighborhood.
After about three quiet minutes, Anthony stood and tugged open the front door, slightly.
“Chelsea?” he called into the motionless house. There was no response.
And then, there was a scream.
It was Chelsea’s voice, ringing through the house. Anthony creaked the door open a bit more and called out again:
“Chelsea?”
Nothing.
He began to creep, on those dinosaur feet, across the hardwood floor until he reached the kitchen. It looked untouched, aside from a knife removed from the wooden block. He swallowed and took a step backward, bumping into something.
Someone.
Anthony let out a scream as the figure behind him lifted his frail little body, kicking and screaming, and flung him into the nearby sofa. He scrambled to his knees and watched as the figure, covered in a white blanket, of sorts, approached and began to laugh.
It was Chelsea’s voice.
“Oh, come on,” she cackled, lifting the sheet, “it’s a frickin’ blanket,” she said, noticing the dark stain spreading across Anthony’s pants. “Shit,” she murmured, “that better not be shit, too.”
He nodded. She shook her head and threw the blanket at him.
“Clean it up,” she said, “that’s nasty as hell.”
And as she stepped backward, she felt a sharp pain in her back, followed by something warm traveling down her leg — piss, blood, maybe a mixture of the two — as she let out a shriek of pain. Anthony didn’t seem to notice, however, figuring it to be just another joke, as he swirled the pool of pee on the floor with the once-white blanket.
Chelsea looked up to see the black eyes of the ghost mask peel from the stranger’s face, and her eyes rolled back into her head.
Officer Jeffery Blakes
Of all the despicable souls on his list, there was nobody that Sammy wanted the privilege of strangling more than Officer Jeffery Blakes — the son of a bitch that brought him in. Blakes was a patrol officer at the time, not even a damn detective, meaning the arrest was a double insult — and also meaning that Sammy would have to double his punishment.
“One more, please-“
“Yeah, one more, Daddy!”
Billy and Alice Blakes, though it was well past their respective bedtimes (given that Billy was nine and Alice was six), were both well awake, probably because of the sugar rush from their Halloween candy — some of which was still wedged between their teeth. It was nearly eleven, and they wanted one, final scary bedtime story.
“Well,” Jeffery shrugged, checking the clock, and beckoning his wife to head to their bedroom and kiss their two little ones goodnight, “I suppose one more. It is Halloween, after all.”
There was an exuberant, yet hushed, cheer between the two before they settled, piling the blankets over their pajamas in the chill of night as the television’s light flickered yet another muted episode of Casper. Jeffery scooted the bedside chair closer to the two twin beds along either side of him before he spoke:
“Now, it’s not gonna be a scary one-“ he began, met with a couple of groans from the kiddos, “because you’ll both have nightmares,” he said. “This is an old one my mother, your grandma, used to tell me when I was your age-“
“Is it about the guy with the hook hand?” Billy teased, making a hook with his finger, and wiggling it toward his younger sister.
“No ‘cause, remember what I said, it’s not scary.”
“Then, what is it?” his daughter peeped up.
“It’s a legend,” he said, “about the jack-o’-lantern,” he smiled, patting one of the two tiny pumpkins resting on the nightstand, looking down at the two engraved faces flickering in the dark, looking up at him. “See, when grandma was a kid, she liked to make jack-o’-lanterns, too. But, for her, it wasn’t all fun and games-“
“I thought you said it wasn’t a scary story,“ Alice chirped, halfway beneath the covers. Jeffery chuckled.
“It’s not. See, your great-grandparents, my grandma and grandpa, were Irish. And in Ireland, they believed that jack-o’-lanterns scared away evil spirits and ghosts,” he said, making an oooooo sound with his mouth and wiggling his fingers. “So, as long as you have these,” he whispered, patting the pumpkin pair, “you’ll be safe.”
“See, that wasn’t scary,” Billy said, looking over at his sister.
“Your brother is right. Now, the both of you, sleep tight…and remember, no monsters will bite you tonight.”
Jeffery smiled, leaning toward each of his children and kissing them on the forehead, before lifting one of the pumpkin tops to blow out the light.
“Don’t Daddy,” Alice said. Jeffery looked down at his little girl’s troubled face and nodded, wishing a final goodnight to the both of them and shutting the door.
“Did you blow out the pumpkins?” his wife said as he shuffled to the bathroom to shave. He stopped halfway across the room.
“No, I couldn’t,” he said, “I just got finished telling them how much they’ll protect them. I’ll blow ‘em out when they fall asleep.”
“Good. The last thing we need is a fire.”
“I know, right,” Jeffery said, continuing his stroll into the bathroom and flicking on the light. His eyes adjusted for a moment and, after they did, he leaned down and pried open the lowest drawer — where he kept his radio. Even though he was off duty, ever since they promoted him to detective, he felt obliged to listen in every night, just to make sure the streets were safe. Perhaps, the force really drilled it into him that everybody was out to get him, but after catching Sammy Price, and seeing the wake he left behind, Officer Blakes grew a bit paranoid, to the dismay of his wife, whom he never told about the radio, which was why he never cracked the volume past a level two.
“-caucasian female, age twenty-four. Multiple stab wounds. The other body belongs to Anthony Mayland, a caucasian male, eight years old. Witnesses mentioned the same ghost character that the Barbara Sanders woman sighted fleeing the Smith residence earlier tonight-“
Jeffery pressed down on the ‘speak’ button and leaned into the mic, carefully quiet, “What’s this all about?” he whispered.
“What the hell…Jeff, is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell’re you doin’ on at this hour?”
Jeffery swallowed, “It’s Halloween — lot of crazies out there tonight.”
“Tell me about it. We just found our fourth and fifth bodies on Lincoln Avenue. It’s bad, Jeff. Really bad.”
“Who the hell are they?”
“Some girl and her younger cousin — a Chelsea Ray and an Anthony Mayland. Both were stabbed in the back about thirty minutes ago-“
“Wait, Chelsea Ray?” Jeffery began, “Wasn’t she the eye-witness in the Price trial?”
The radio chatter went silent for a second.
“Holy hell, Jeff — you’re right. Oh, shit-“
“What?” Jeffery nervously swallowed and flexed.
“Twice a coincidence, three times a pattern-“
“What is it?” Jeffery demanded, his voice stern. The wife might’ve heard him from the bedroom.
“Jeff, the other three victims were Nicky Robinson, his fiancé, and Percy Smith…the-“
“-lawyer and the judge,” Jeffery finished. “It can’t be-“
“-it isn’t. It isn’t.”
Jeffery slid the drawer open further, revealing the hidden, loaded Glock he kept at home, and cocked it.
“Unless you can guarantee me that, I’m gonna need a squad car outside — my kids are here, Burt.”
“I’ll get on it.”
“And send someone to check on Donna Limburg — she was the bailiff.”
Suddenly the bathroom, and, by extension the entire house, fell quiet, aside from the occasional owl’s hoot outside.
“Honey, what was that?” Jeffery’s wife said, standing in the bathroom doorway and rubbing her eyes.
“Baby,” Jeffery said, “there’s no need to panic, but I need you to take the kids to the basement and lock yourselves inside-“
“What?” his wife snapped, “You’re not serious, Jeff?”
Jeff nodded, “I don’t know what’s going on, but they’ve found some people murdered who had ties to the Price case. I’m not saying anyone’s coming here to hurt us, but I just wanna be safe.”
“Oh my gosh,” his wife gasped.
“Shh,” Jeffery said, placing a hand on her shoulder and lowering the gun in the other, “everything’s gonna be okay, just tell the kids they can sleep on the couch down there.”
“I don’t know if we should even stay here, Jeff…including you-“
“It’s just a precaution. Now, go get the kids. Trust me.”
And the missis did just that. She rushed to the children’s room, waking them amid the dim, crackling candlelight of the jack-o’-lanterns and the faint buzzing of crickets outside, and began to escort them out of their beds and down the hall, passing by their father.
“Daddy,” Alice said, groggily, “what’s going on?”
“Nothing baby,” he said, “we’re just having a slumber party in the basement. That’s all.”
But Billy Blakes, with the same keenness as his old man, knew something was wrong.
“Is it the boogeyman, Dad?” he asked.
“No,” Jeffery replied, “it’s nothing. Just listen to your mother.”
The trio descended the basement steps after Jeffery and his wife shared a kiss before she shut and locked the door. Jeffery then sighed, both in the comfort of knowing they were down there, but also in the nervousness of what was to come. Before he could even think, the radio, which he had snapped to his pajama pants, buzzed to a familiar voice, jolting him:
“Jeff, you copy?”
Jeffery caught his breath from the scare, “Yeah, copy.”
“We got a squad car on the way. ETA five minutes. Think you can hold out ‘til then?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. Copy.”
Then everything went quiet.
As Jeffery knew it, too quiet. Then the screen door banged against the house, and Jeffery’s eyes narrowed onto it, lifting the gun and his flashlight toward the front of the living room. Did he leave the screen door unlocked? He couldn’t remember. They trick-or-treated until about ten-thirty and then walked back home. But he couldn’t even remember if he had locked the door.
Shit.
“Sammy,” Jeffery said, gun raised, the flashlight beam moving for the hallway, “I don’t know if you’re in here, and I don’t know how the hell you got out, but if you are and if you did…you better believe that if you try to hurt my fuckin’ children I will put a bullet through your skull — no hesitation. Understand?”
The quiet house replied with silence. Jeffery chuckled to himself, considering his paranoia to have gotten the better of him, perhaps. That was until he brushed by the hallway bathroom, and, from the shadowy darkness, a large figure slowly emerged; white covering its head.
“Then I guess I’ll have to kill you first-“ Sammy hushed, slashing down on Jeffery’s extended arm with a kitchen knife and knocking the Glock out of his hand with a BANG. Jeffery tumbled to the ground and fumbled for the gun as Sammy raised the knife over his masked head and-
BANG. BANG. BANG. Jeffery fired three rounds into Sammy’s chest and watched as he stumbled backward into the hallway wall.
And yet, for Sammy, he couldn’t feel it.
Confused, Sammy lifted the sack from his head once more and Jeffery’s eyes widened at the sight or, rather, the lack thereof: there was no face beneath the ghost mask…as if he were staring at the headless horseman — an actual ghost.
Sammy re-lifted the knife and Jeffery scurried on his hands and knees into the children’s bedroom, gun clenched between his sweat-and-blood-soaked fingers. Sammy followed and kicked open the door that shattered the mirror against the wall into a thousand pieces.
“I’ve been waiting to do this for a long time,” Sammy’s disembodied voice said, from somewhere above where the black jacket collar ended. He started for Jeffery with the blood-smeared knife but, as he did, Jeffery raised the jack-o’-lantern above his head and screamed and, like magic, the clothes — the black jacket and dark pants, ghost mask and the knife — dropped to the floor without form.
And aside from Jeffery, now, and the image of Casper on the tv, the room was empty.
Samuel Price
When Sammy came to, he was butt-ass naked in the same, creaky chair at that same, candlelit desk in the old, cold, spooky mansion: Spook Inc. He cupped his rough, dark hands against his…parts…and, both in shock and embarrassment, looked up frantically at the young, pretty woman sitting across from him; her eyes burning unlike ever before — and sneaking a peek down south.
“What did I tell you, Sam?” she t’sked at him playfully, “Just keep the mask on. And you couldn’t even do that,” she said, pointing a sharp fingernail toward a small, crystal-like ball resting at the edge of the desk. “We see everything. Believe me.”
Sammy, catching his breath (not that he truly had one), looked from the pearl-like orb back over to the woman.
“Wait-“
“There just had to be a jack-o’-lantern in the room, huh? Our luck,” she said, flirtatiously shaking her head and flipping her hair. “No matter, there’s always next year.”
Sammy’s face crumpled, “What?”
The woman shot a glance over to the grandfather-style clock hiding in the shadows. It looked so worn that it couldn’t’ve possibly worked. And, yet it did. It was eleven-fifty-five on the dot.
“Next Halloween, Sam. Y’know it’s the only night to crossover, right?”
“Crossover?”
The woman coyly chuckled, “You still haven’t gotten it yet, have you?”
“Gotten what?”
The woman sighed, “Y’know we usually like to ease our clients into this discussion but-“
“What discussion?”
The woman, hearing the frantic clatter upstairs just as the clock ticked to eleven-fifty-seven, folded her hands atop the desk; the six-or-so-odd candles illuminating her face, beneath her chin, dramatically, “We’re Spook Incorporated, Sam.”
Sammy shrugged his broad shoulders, “And?”
“And whether or not we use the word spook or specter or phantom or spirit, you of all people should know, Sam, that there’s only one way to become a ghost.”
Sammy Price, for perhaps the only time in his adult life, gasped like a child.
“You’re what we call a ‘vengeful spirit’ case — quite a rare client these days, yet awfully rewarding. Though usually, vengeful ghosts haunt for unjust deaths — like the clients we once served in our heyday of the railroad — whereas yours was completely justified — your ass got the chair!” she cackled.
“You mean I’m…dead?“
“Better than dead, Sam. Un-dead. At least, today you were. See, on Halloween, the veil between living and dead becomes…blurred. Samhain, as we once called it, celebrated that fact. And I’d like to believe that the work we do here at Spook Inc., what you’ve done on this night, has honored that tradition — and the gods.
“The gods?”
The woman nodded with a grin, “They’ll be most pleased with our sacrifices. And, when we summon you again next Samhain, we’ll be able to give them even more.”
“Summon me?”
The woman nodded again, watching the clock hand resting on eleven-fifty-nine, “C’mon Sam. I’m sure there are more names on that list of yours. And when the names run out…we’ll give you a new one, and a new list — not that you’ll remember the old one, of course. All you’ll remember…is that you were angry. Hate tends to linger for a while.”
The clock struck twelve then and there — midnight — November first. Samuel Price was no longer seated in that chair from across the woman.
She began blowing out the candles, one by one, fanning the warm smoke rising in the crisp air, before murmuring softly to herself, simply, “Happy Halloween, Sam.”
Category:Halloween
Category:Ghosts
Category:MakRalston
Category:Longpasta