This is what I heard last night coming from under the bed and out from the closet… Happy Halloween! Hee heeeeee!
(Thanks to Maddie for the starting sentence.)
I woke up at 3:13 a.m. to the sound of persistent scratching that came from the wall above the furnace.
“Too early!” I called out. “You’re a day too early! It’s not Halloween until tomorrow.”
The poltergeist, or whatever it was, took no notice. The scratching continued.
These noises were an annual event. Strange noises appeared every Halloween, but this time they were a day too early. Nor had I ever heard them at night before. The first time it happen I was terrified out of my skin. Now that it’s occurred on Halloween for the last nine years I find it more annoying than anything else. There are footsteps, and a little bit of giggling, the sounds of a boiling kettle whistling and of water flushing, and scratching, scratching, scratching. I have never heard any speaking. It seems that poltergeist don’t like to talk.
And then I heard it! A faint and muffled voice. “Help! Help!” followed by more scratching. “Help! Help!”
“Too early!” I called out again. “You’re a day too early! It’s not Halloween until tomorrow.”
The noises stopped. The call for help faded away. I went back to sleep.
The next morning, quite early, there was a gentle knock on the door. It was a distraught woman. Had I seen her husband? Every year he came to clean my chimney at this time. She remembered because it was always on Halloween. But this year he was two days early because of a daughter’s wedding, and she hadn’t seen him for two days.
It was very spooky. Within seconds of Natasha getting wet in the shower (this is at night time) the bathroom light would go off. It started only about a month ago, and occasionally. Now it happened automatically, every time.
“Blow it,” thought Natasha, not as yet equating the event with supranatural causes, “I shall walk dripping wet across the bathroom floor and turn the light back on.” She did just that. But no sooner had she got back into the shower the light went out again.
Next above the sound of water falling, she heard “hee hee hee”. It was a woman’s voice. It was coming from the direction of the light switch. Natasha began to feel scared. The “hee hee hee” had certain nasty overtones.
Natasha stepped immediately out of the shower, strode to the light switch, turned it on and reached for a towel. All the bathroom towels had gone. Not even the usual hand towel was there.
And then she saw it. OMG! She saw it! Natasha screamed. That scream was the last sound ever to come out of Natasha’s mouth.
Hee hee hee!
When Garth set fire to the bus it was so he could drive it while still burning into the wing of the local hospital. It was an old wooden building. He did it because his life time enemy, Josephine, was in a bed somewhere there.
It so happened that all patients were able to walk, and very quickly they gathered at the bottom of the staircase ready to make a hasty retreat outside.
Garth was still in the bus, laughing his head off. His aim, once the building was aflame, was to dash outside and never be seen again.
As Garth alighted from the bus ready to make his dash, Patient Gwendoline tripped him up with her crutches. Patient Josephine, who had just finished reading “Fifty Shades of Grey” and whose husband, while she was in hospital, had brought her some grapes and a pair of handcuffs to cheer her up, managed to handcuff Garth as he passed and close the other end of the handcuffs over the springs of a bed on wheels.
All traipsed quickly out, except for Garth who dragged the bed behind him and got stuck in the doorway. He burned to death. His dying screams could be heard all over the suburb.
Now, children, tomorrow’s Halloween. The bed Garth burned to death in is the very bed you’re lying in. I managed to get it cheap at the secondhand place. I’m going to turn the light out and you’re all to get a good night’s sleep. We don’t want kiddies yawning their way through trick or treating tomorrow do we?
I think I’ve put a stop to this nasty little practice of kids knocking on my door and asking for candy. I have lots of delicious confectionary. It looks so tempting. Then the little snotty-nosed neighbours arrive dressed up completely unscaringly and ask for sweets.
I tell them, holding out the big basket I have, I tell them “Here, take some, but know that one of them is poisoned”. Isn’t that a scream? Trick and scream, I say to myself. Trick and scream! Scream your little hearts out you snotty-nosed neighbour’s sprogs dressed as Hiawatha. It works every time.
Of course, one of the sweets IS poisoned, but I know which one. Then when they’ve all screamed and run off I get to eat them all myself. All except for the poisoned one of course.
This year I got some Mackintosh’s Toffees and some Peanut M&M’s – best before February 2017. I’m already drooling at the thought of devouring them.
I’ll just have a wee peek. Which one is the poisoned one? Which one? Oh. There’s several of the same sort. I think it’s this one here.
(Today, in some Christian traditions, it is the Feast of All Saints. Some call it All Hallows. It is where we get the word “Halloween” from: “All Hallows Evening”. To commemorate this day I’m going to re-tell a traditional tale from Italy. I didn’t make it up; but it’s one of my favourite folk stories! It could be added that hagiography is a genre that today rightly suffers – mainly through its own fault – from a great deal of unpopularity…)
Saint Joseph was married to Mary, the Mother of Jesus.
There was this man who prayed only to Saint Joseph. He completely ignored God, and Jesus, and everyone else. The only person he ever prayed to was Saint Joseph.
Eventually the man died. Saint Peter met him at the gates to Heaven.
“You can’t come in,” said Saint Peter. “You only ever prayed to Saint Joseph. You never prayed to God. Only those who prayed to God can enter.”
Saint Joseph appeared at the gate.
“Let him in,” he said. “If you don’t, I’m taking my wife and Kid elsewhere.”
(A story for Halloween)
Warren lay in the hospital bed. He couldn’t move but he could hear.
“We’re sorry, but he’s clinically dead. When you’ve said your goodbyes, the machine will be turned off.”
Don’t pull the plug! Don’t pull the plug! screamed Warren inside. I’m still alive!
“Thank you, doctor. We would like to switch the machine off ourselves. Goodbye, Warren.”
Warren heard the switch click. He knew they were wheeling him to the morgue. He heard the mortician complain about the amount of fluid in his system.
“It must’ve been one hell of a gigantic cyst. Look at all that stuff draining off.”
He heard them injecting him with embalming fluid. He felt it. It was excruciating. He heard his funeral; every word. He heard them lowering the coffin into the grave.
I’m not dead! I’m not dead!
He heard the clunk of the dirt falling.
He heard his body rot; bit by bit; piece by piece. Decaying bones take centuries.
He was dead, but this was Hell.