Category Archives: Halloween Horrorgasmic Orgy of Horror(gasms) 2011

Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

Pumpking

So, when I “posted” Pumpking during the Halloween Horrorgasm, I failed to notice that I hadn’t actually, uh, posted the story. That’s remedied now, so if you’re curious as to what a black hole of non-talent looks like, you can find it right here: https://seanganus.wordpress.com/2011/10/31/pumpking/.

Hope you all had a Merry Christmas , and that you don’t mind this little detour back into Halloween.

– The Awful Writer

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Pumpking

Final installment in the orgy folks, and it’s about time. I’m absolutely soaked in pumpkin goo, and my girl’s giving me a look of horror that no amount of cuddling is going to erase.

Sorry for the typos today, by the way. I post these as I finish them, and don’t get around to posting the revisions until several days later, usually as edits to the original posts. So the misspellings aren’t from dyslexia, don’t worry. I’m just a sloppy drunk with access to a computer.

Happy Halloween, folks. It’s been real. I’ve had fun. Hopefully we can do this again next year. All three of us.

Except you, Brad. God, I hate you so much.

Anyway, I’m off to eat candy and work on the first installment of The Midnight Special. It should be a blast, writing my spooky thoughts down by the light of the pumpkin’s glare…

Sleep well. We'll keep watch in the night, just for you...

***

Pumpking

© Copyright 2011

Sean Ganus

            Old Ted swept the pumpkin guts off the bare wood porch. The chunks had gathered in a sticky mountain by his feet, and they left a weird wet stain where they’d soaked into the wood.

It almost looked like a smile.

***

            From the first light of the first day of October, Ted had carved.

He did it the same as he’d done it for thirty years. Sitting in the rocker that leaned in a new direction every time he sat down, using an old iron steak knife with a handle of corded leather.

Beside him, sitting in a patch of grass that would somehow survive the month, a hill of pumpkins taller than his tractor.

The rest he sold, paying for his land another year. He had ten square orange acres that would empty out by September, given out at three dollars a pop. The ones from his garden, he gave to the cool nights and the breezes in the trees.

He had boxes of candles, irregular, molten candles. Tall, squat, pink, fused, tea lights, scented; hundreds of dollars in candles.

And when he’d cut a new smirk or leer, in they went. He lit long furnace matches, dipped them in, and made them lanterns.

His cottage was an orange temple come Hell Night.

***

            The truck’s suspension was taller than the cab itself. The pallet of pumpkins at the end of Ted’s drive exploded like pulpy bombs, spewing veins and combusting candle vapor.

They’d only meant to take out his mailbox. It was a dented, unloved thing, and Ted never cared when he found it knocked over in the morning. But they had been in the way, and they’d paid for it.

The gore of spilled seeds proved addictive.

“Let’s do it again!” The Girl behind him pleaded. “Please?

The Boy behind the wheel looked back, threw the truck in reverse. “Why the hell not?” he called out the window, gunning the motor nearly losing traction on the slick chunks he flattened as he went.

The Other Boy laughed in a choking giggle, swigged a bottle with wax along the neck. “Fuck yeah!” he hollered, throwing the bottle in the face of a pumpkin standing over fourteen inches. The monolithic jack o’lantern burned bright as the alcohol washed over its candle.

Other Girl stuck her arm out, took a picture with a tiny camera. She cackled like she wanted to draw crows, tossed blond hair brittle as straw over her shoulder.

The Boy driving craned the wheel, took Ted’s driveway with half his truck in the grass. Pumpkins blew like balloons, bounced and cracked like rotted basketballs.

In a quarter mile they’d reached Ted’s porch. He stood in the doorway, staring through thick rimmed glasses, his skin dark from days wiled away in fields and porch swings.

“Trick or Treat!” the Other Girl yelled, a day early, sacrilegiously. She waved in stupid, banal rebellion.

The Boy didn’t want Ted catching his license plate, and threw his truck in reverse. He juked the wheel, careful to get every pumpkin on the other side as he retreated.

Ted watched peaceably until they’d left, shut the screen door as he went back inside.

***

            The Boy listened to the Girl whisper sweet, private things through the music, when he clipped something heavy and slid in the wet grass. A stump caught the undercarriage, jacking the truck’s ass off the ground even higher than it already was.

He gunned the motor, spinning the tires.

They got out, crouched to see where it was caught. The Girl started screaming.

The Boy fell over when she nearly clipped him with a flaming arm.

She dropped to late to do any good. She thrashed around, but not enough to suffocate the fire. Her skin caught, the oils in her body bubbled. She hissing, whining sounds as she screamed.

The fire burned long and slow before the Boy thought to take off his jacket and throw it over her.

Her breath hitched, her joints made a burned, snapping sound when the fire was out.

She coughed, building herself to “D-D-Docto-…” when she was snatched from the road and pulled into the brush.

She came alive enough to try to scream. There was a choked, gurgling sound, and that was all.

There was a flash of orange and yellow, a cataclysmic blast of thunder as steel gave in to a superior force. The Boy and the Other Girl thought they heard tree branches breaking.

The great orange mass bounced off the truck. The Other Boy’s shattered body sagged against the truck, glued too strongly in place by its own greu to fall into the dirt.

His flattened head reminded the Boy of the annihilated pumpkins. Especially the rounded chunks of shattered skull.

It was a tall, heavy thing, trailing a mass of writing vines that twirled behind it. It spun, its eyes chaotically festive, its maw zealously hungry.

The Pumpking drooled molten wax, thick layers of it caking the corners of its mouth. A candle wick burned big as a bonfire, the excess wax bubbling in a chunky pool laced with outreached arms and kicking legs.

The Other Girl shielded herself as the Pumpking belched a stream of fire. Her straw hair burned the fastest.

The Boy ran, stumbling on the jagged slabs of broken asphalt. The road shattered under the Pumpking’s weight.

He stumbled, veering to the side and plunging between trees growing close together. But the old pines parted for his pursuer, pleased at seeing their ancient friend.

The Boy was crying, heaving for breath and shitting his shorts. He prayed to a God he always hoped had favored him.

Thick ropes of twisting wood snatched his legs from under him. His chest spasmed like it had been shocked when he slammed onto the ground, and he found he couldn’t breathe, much less fight back.

He slid along the ground, splashed into the warm, stiffening river of wax.

He was stuffed inside.  He reached out, and the Pumpking closed his fangs on his arm. The points were soft, painless, but definite.

He sank in the wax. It was warm in some places, stinging in others. He thrashed, fought to swim upstream. His head broke the surface, and he gasped for air.

The torch atop the mound burned bright. The scowling image of a skull leered from within the flame.

The Boy swam, splashing his way through the chunks of wax and the bodies tangled within. He stepped down on the Girl’s ashen face, reached for the flame.

If he could snuff it out, if he could kill it…

The candlelight started swirling, growing, pregnant with power.

The Pumpking, triumphant, opened its great, horrible mouth, and roared.

The flame of the candle was all. It melted, it scorched, it obliterated.

It trailed out of the Pumpking, casting a flaming face into the night. A deadly torch to light the way.

***

            Ted sat stolidly, busily rebuilding his children with clumping fistfuls of sticky wax.

They were tired and broken, but they only needed to stand their post for one more night.

He’d already repaired so many, and they shone their loving light on his work.

It would be a long night, but Ted led by example. The little ones did not abandon their guards. Ted would not abandon his.

His basement window glowed a deep, dull orange. Inside something burned with a force of life so great even the dead cowered in its light.

Ted took the life’s wax and sealed a ragged gash on the side of another lantern’s face. He had to work diligently; by tomorrow’s moon, they would be needed to give light to a long, dark path.

He was their dutiful ward. They were the shepherds of a deeper night.

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Halloween Horrorgasmic Orgy of Horror(gasms) – Midnight Special

Look for the first ever Midnight Special tonight, after I post my final installment in the Orgy. Probably after I wrap up the actual orgy I’m taking part in tonight. Seriously, I’m, like, covered in pumpkin goo. And a little of my own goo as well.

Anyway, yeah, new segment coming, with an emphasis on that lonely feeling you can get when you’re sitting in an all-night diner, in the dim light of a flickering fluorescent bulb, your only company the waitress working on her last cigarette, as the night chirps beyond the frosting windows….

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Buggy

The Horrorgasm continues!

I don’t know how successful this has been so far, since I haven’t bothered looking at the site stats or anything, but here’s to doin’ it for love of teh scareez.

The third entry is a good deal less kid-friendly than “Ghosts in the Graveyard,” but hopefully it’ll give you cause to feel a little more suspicious about those prickly feelings you’re getting along your spine, right now, running up your shoulder…

***

Buggy

© Copyright 2011

Sean Ganus

            So I’ve had a problem with bugs ever since I moved into my apartment. The super insisted nothing was wrong, but of course he would, right? But the maintenance guy said the same thing, and Tony’s a pretty straight-up fella. I still saw bugs even after he looked around, but I thought, hey, he’s maintenance, not an exterminator. Can’t fault him when I ask him questions outside his field.

But then I called, like, three professionals, and they all said the same thing. No bugs here, man. Place is clean as a whistle. Not even a freakin’ mite, they told me, and they ran UV lights and shit over everything.

So, right, the exterminators tell me there’s no bugs here either. And admittedly, it’s not like they’re everywhere. They don’t pour out of my cabinets of clog the drain. They’re just always there, out of the corner of my eye, scurrying into some crack I can’t see before I turn around. But I always see them. They’ve gotta be stacked a foot deep behind those walls.

Anyway, I guess it’s not all bad. They don’t get into my food or anything, so that’s a plus. Still, I sleep better at night knowing there’s a can of Raid by the bed.

***

            So it’s been three months right, and every time I bring friends over, I always have to look around, feel through the couch cushions, because I’m afraid one of my cuter female friends is gonna reach for her drink and get a handful of bug.

I still can’t prove anything, but I know they’re here. Fuckin’ scurrying out of sight whenever I try to get a look at ‘em. Sometimes I get lucky, see one in retreat before it vanishes. Jesus, they’re ugly things.

They aren’t roaches. I…I really don’t know what the hell they are. They almost look like spiders, but I’m sure they have six legs, and spider’s have more than that, right?

I know they have six legs ‘cause the fucking things are huge. Like pipe cleaners covered in rose thorns. Just big, gnarly, awful things, bright yellow with spots of…I dunno, green I think.

And sometimes I see antennae. I definitely see antennae. Sometimes I’ll just look up and see ‘em wiggling over the edge of the cabinets, long, orange, just waving around like how you’d hang your arms if you were laying in a hammock.

But as soon as I get a magazine or something, they’re gone. Where, I don’t know. Seriously, I don’t even think there’s any cracked paint in here.

It pisses me off, but what am I going to do? Can’t knock a hole in the wall, not without voiding my lease anyway. Can’t ask the other neighbors if they have bugs ‘cause, well, I don’t know. Fuck the neighbors, really.

They still don’t seem to bother me much, but it’s hard to go about my day knowing they’re there. I hear them when I sit down to watch TV, and I have to turn the sound up sometimes just to drown them out.

***

            Shit, it’s a real problem now. I woke up thirsty last night and thought I’d get a drink of water. Then I hit the light and there it is, on the foot of my bed, just walking around like it’s scoping out property.

I screamed like I was ten and kicked the sheets. That thing dropped to the carpet with a thud heavy enough to make me wonder what else I’d kicked off.

Then I grabbed a magazine even though now I wonder what I was thinking I’d do with it. Piss it off, I guess. But it was gone, like they always are.

I need all of these fucking things gone. Soon.

***

            So they mostly stay out of sight, which is good, since me and this one girl are kinda getting serious now.

I like her. She’s got black hair and black eyes and she fucks me like a demon. Sometimes her legs wrap around me so hard I wonder if she’ll dislocate my thighs from my hip.

It’s good right now. It’s real good. She’s naked all the time when she’s over, and I love that.

I’m always looking over my shoulder, watching for thoe fucking things, but they stay hid out when we’re together.

Which is good for now, but I might want her to move in with me, and if I do that I’m gonna need to know these damn bugs aren’t going to be a problem.

***

            Okay, so I think they’re definitely going to be a problem.

So I was plucking my hairline, ‘cause I got some weird patchy widow’s peak that’s not sharp enough to be cool and if you tell anyone I pluck I swear I’ll eat your mother. And I guess I haven’t been getting enough sleep because while I was yanking out one realy thick and gnarly hair I passed out. Just…BOOM. Right to the floor.

But that’s not the important part, even though, yeah, I know, it should be, but look: when I came to, I didn’t see too clearly at first. Just a lot of blurry spots, wavering around like I had a bad drunk on. But then I finally blinked my vision clear, and when I did I saw them.

Just…fucking saw them. So many of them, just standing there, those gross legs bouncing up and down as they skittered around, waving those freaky orange antennae. They were everywhere.

And one really big one had a stinger.

I freaked the fuck out and kicked at that one, and it squealed and smack the shower wall, and I grabbed my sneaked and swung at the others. I was knocking them everywhere, and they were making these weird squeals and ducking for cover. They hid really fucking fast, just vanished into God knows where the fuck.

Anyway, they’re all gone now, even the one with the stinge, and that pisses me off because I kinda wanted to super-kill that one, but whatever.

What worries me now is this spot that looks like something stung me, right on the side of my neck. It’s not swollen, not like most stings are, but it’s red and there’s a hole in the center, and it’s got me worried. Real worried.

***

            So I’m still alive, thank Christ. Place where it stung me didn’t even start to itch, though I’m pretty sure it’s what made me pass out, so I definitely don’t wanna get stung again.

Yeah, so I need to get these fuckers gone. My girl still hasn’t seen ‘em, so that’s good, but we’re talking about her moving in, and I kind of want to make it soon ‘cause her crazy-ass ex is starting to leave her threatening phone calls. I know I can’t take the fucker in a fight, but at least she’ll be somewhere where we can both lock the doors.

She doesn’t seem to hear them either, whenever she stays the night. I ask her sometimes if the noise at night ever bothers her, and she usually just gives me a weird look and goes “What noise?”

***

            Nobody fucking hears them, which, I’m not gonna lie, has me a little worried.

I know crazy people say they see and hear bugs all the time. And my mom…my mom kinda had a little of that. Schizophrenia, even though she was able to keep it under control pretty well. But I remember her yelling about bugs whenever she forgot to take her meds.

So it’s got me a little worried that no one else seems to know they’re here. They never hear ‘em, and in point of fact they always ask me why I have the TV so loud.

But I can’t help but gag when I see them shoveling handfuls of cereal in their mouths. I sometimes wonder if it’s right that I don’t tell them. Still, I can’t see how they don’t know already. I hear those things all the time. They’re so damn loud.

***

            Her boyfriend comes over. It’s her first night in, and already he’s freaking the fuck out. I don’t know how he found out our address, but he’s kicking on the door so hard I feel like he’s gonna dent the aluminum.

She’s curled up against me, scared and shaking and I wanna go out there and punch the guy, but we both know I’m not gonna hurt him like he can hurt me. The guy’s huge, bigger than both of us combined.

So we sit here, and she seems to like me holding her tight in my arms ‘cause soon she’s kissing the side of my neck, close to where I got stung, and I feel her tongue on my ear and she’s whispering these little sexy things and soon we’re fucking.

And I mean fucking hard. Her on top, holding her tits and yelling, him outside hearing everything and losing his fucking mind. I’m pretty sure it turns her on and I’m not gonna deny I liked it more than a little bit.

Finally a neighbor says he’s gonna call the police, and the guy yells back at him, and the neighbor says he ain’t afraid of some punkass, and they yell a little at each other before the boyfriend finally leaves. And through it all she’s whining and grinding and I’m moaning, and everybody’s making all kinds of noise.

Especially them. I hear them loudest of all, their squeals needling their way in my brain.

***

            I walk around at night, too kept up to really sleep. She’s sound asleep, too spent to be bothered, I guess. But I’m up and looking in every nook and cranny I can find, spraying bug spray that I’m not entirely sure is legal for me to own.

I don’t see how they can get in or get out. There’s not a loose board in the place. But I hear them. I hear them everywhere I go in here.

That low squealing. It’s like I hear them whistling in my brain.

***

            A few days pass. Good days for us. Constructive days.

But soon he’s back, banging on the door and shit. It sounds like he gives up after a while, but later when I open the door to go get the mail he’s there. He throws his weight against the door and barges in. I’m almost thrown off my feet, but I stumble around till I’m steady.

He comes up to me, yelling and waving his arms and I get real tired of it, real fast. I’m already having a shitty day. My jaw’s been killing me all day, and my mood was already shot before this asswipe dropped by.

He doesn’t care, of course, just pushes me so I stumble a little more and keeps yelling “Where is she, you little shit?” And without even giving me anytime to answer he rears back and comes at me.

Then he looks over my shoulder and screams.

I don’t really get why he’s screaming so much. She’s pretty safe and it’s not like she can hurt him or anything. That cocoon’s, like, four inches thick, easy.

But he won’t stop screaming, and I can’t have him going apeshit all night, so I come up to him to ask him to keep it down. And he jumps back like I’m poisonous, which is silly but he does it anyway. And I have a feeling he wants to escape but he stumbles into the door and it closes against his weight, and he doesn’t seem to be in the right frame of mind to open it when my jaw comes off.

Jesus, I can’t tell you how much better that feels. They’ve hollowed me out pretty good but it’s still pretty crowded in here. With my jaw gone they can pour out a lot easier, and that cramped feeling when they come and go is gone.

They come spilling out, two, sometimes three at a time. And he covers his face with those heavy tattooed arms of his but really, what does he expect that to do? Not get him cocooned? Please.

He’ll be a good’un. Lots of meat on this fella’s bones. I’m pretty sure we can eat around the tattooed parts if we have to.

Most of the hive is busy wrapping her ex, so I sit down to watch some TV. They’ll call me when they need help hoisting him to the ceiling. I’m pretty sure I can catch Weeds before I gotta get to work, though.

I turn up the TV, and the hive does its best to keep it down while I watch, but I don’t mind anymore. I don’t really don’t have a problem with bugs.

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Ghosts in the Graveyard

The Halloween Horrorgasmic Orgy of Horror(gasms) continues, but with considerably less orgy-ness this time.

The noonday story is a simple little something for the kiddies, assuming anyone forgets that I’m not allowed with 300 feet of children. But c’mon, it’s Halloween! Be festive! Let the children come unto me, as someone or other once said.

But seriously, you probably shouldn’t let your kids come over. I could get in trouble.

 

***

Ghosts in the Graveyard

© Copyright 2011

Sean Ganus

 

 

We took flight, but the voices flew faster.

This yard, this hallowed night. The phantom whispers carried high on the wind.

Leaves crunched as we made our way down the broken cobblestone path. I heard twigs snapping under thunderous footsteps.

Lilly, Evelyn, Scott, and me. Chased like intruders in the home of the dead.

We took off to the right, Scott crying out as a terrible voice shouted to the others: “Here! I see something! Over here!”

So loud! How can anything be so loud here, in this deathly quiet place…

“They see us!” Scott howled. “They’re everywhere! They know we’re here!”

I grabbed him and pulled him along, ducking behind a crumbling mausoleum housing the remains of valiant Boys in Grey. Lilly and Evelyn continued picking their way through the crumbling stones of the yard.

“Evie!” I hissed, and she turned to see us hiding. I motioned her over, and she grabbed Lily’s sleeve.

“Lily, come on!” she screamed, but Lily would not have it. She thrashed her arm, throwing Evelyn’s hand off with a vicious swat.

“They’ll find us!” she hissed. “They’ll find us there!”

“Lily!” I called out after her, but I watched her disappear behind the shadow of a Weeping Willow.

Evie started making her way over to us, but ghastly flickers of light began piercing the air around her. Roiling fog twirled around her skirt, and those voices, those horrible voices…

“We found her!”

“Here, here she is!”

Evelyn ran, but the horrid sounds ran with her. The light grew brighter in the mist, until the whispers and the screams enveloped her in a flashing cocoon.

They had her.

Scott took off running, and I followed. For a moment it seemed like we’d get away, until I heard them again.

“Here, here! Another, another!”

“Come, come! There’s more, there’s more!”

The shouts were lustful in their eagerness, as the spirits that prowled these grounds made their way around the broken stones, illegible stones. We reached a fork in the footpath, and Scott faltered, indecision cutting him deep.

The ghostly lights began to swirl again, the fog whirled as unseen figures closed in.

I heard Scott yell, heard him curse, saw the fog take him away.

I only ran. I’m not proud of it, but I ran. They were falling, one by one. All because I’d taken them with me, wanting to explore the cemetery on Halloween Night.

And now I’d pay my toll, to cross the spectral bridge between our world and theirs.

Stones with Hebrew symbols began pocking the landscape, and behind the largest, flattest marker I saw Lily. She was crouching, shivering like she was cold, were eyes flashing in the moonlight.

“Lily?” I called to her. “It’s me, Rog-…”

“Go away!” she hissed. Her voice was sharp, and she bore her fangs like a snake. “Go away!”

“Lily, what…?”

“You’ll lead them here! You’ll lead them to me! This…this is all your fault!”

“Lily…!” And then the lights were on her. They swept up behind her, and my look of terror must have alerted her, because she spun and saw into the fog, and screamed.

I made my way to the monument at the center of the yard, hoping I could find a way to get out from the top. I ran while looking over my shoulder, but stopped dead in my tracks when I heard them.

The awful whispers, the hideous giggling. I could barely make out sinister figures in the mist.

They wrapped around the monument like a barricade, blocking the way.

Eye, hungry and gleeful, saw me. They seemed to waft, as though carried by the wind.

And they made their way to me.

I started moving back, trying to run though I wanted to freeze. The ground disappeared from under me, and I was falling, falling.

An open grave, empty and waiting. I fell to the bottom, saw the misty air glow with their horrible luminescence.

I crawled into a corner, pressed my back against the damp soil. Happy, awful grins peppered the sky.

An eerie glow filled the grave. The mist spilled inside.

I threw my arms over my face, and screamed.

***

            They’re still here, still running loose above. They’ll probably be here all night.

We’re not the only one’s they’ve run down. Others tell me of the awful shrieking, the relentless hunting. No one can walk above ground tonight with any peace.

We’re getting very angry.

I see Lily again. She’s still angry that I brought attention to her, but she’s more angry at them, especially their disrespect.

The flowing white dress she was buried in is tattered from the stress she has suffered tonight. We all look a little haggard. This much activity wears us out.

We can look absolutely frightful if we expend too much energy. But it seems like these people won’t leave before dawn. Not without a little…encouragement.

So we’re gathering our strength. The abandoned church at the edge of the old graveyard serves as a nexus for us to gather, and plot.

They run and giggle, holding their cameras and waving their flashlights. They yell and scream, jumping with fright and rejoicing in mockery. They creep into private crypts, they wrestle open boxes that should only stay closed. Offered flowers have been spilled, unsteady stones have been toppled.

This rudeness won’t last for long. We grow stronger in our anger, and soon we’ll spill from this church in a wave of outrage. Our wraith’s fury will burn the night, beneath the watchful, flickering eye of the full, loving moon.

We will sweep through this yard and cast out the garbage. We will howl and shriek louder than even they can imagine. Our glowing faces with contort and bend to demonic shapes.

And when it is over, we will rest. We will return to our comfortable earth, return to the peace and rest that eternity has offered us.

But tonight, we will rage, and we will haunt.

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The Pumpkin Carver

Happy Halloween, everybody!

Hopefully this horrorgasmic experience will be a regular thing. Maybe I’ll follow it up with a Thanksgiving Terrorgasm or something.

Christmas Carnagepalooza. I’m likin’ it.

Anyway, here’s entry #1, a little sumpin sumpin to get us all in the mood. Lay down by that fire, baby, I’m fittin’ ta get freaky.

***

The Pumpkin Carver

© Copyright 2011

Sean Ganus

            The great teacher spoke: “The wax binds. The wax breathes the life.”

The pumpkin carver had all his tools ready. His teacher sat on its pedestal, the anointed tools used in its birth sitting on the floor before it. They lied in a row on the strap of old, cracked leather.

The small shaping knife, powerful in its compact strength. The spoon for scooping the guts. The candle for giving life. The matches to impart the light.

The teacher whispered its wisdom in the pumpkin carver’s ear. It looks to the carver, looks to the girl with her hands and feet bound in chains lined deep with great gobs of wax. Thick vines crunched between her clamping teeth.

The pumpkin carver grabbed his knife. It was time for the shaping.

***

            “You brace your challenge against the night, and the night runs before you.”

The teacher grins, the points of its orange fangs curling against its soft jaw. The pumpkin carver takes the little knife, looks to the girl in the mirror. She will be the standard by which the teacher judges.

The carver takes the knife, starts to open each cheek to the ear. The burning is immense, but not so acute as when the carver lines each cut with dripping wax from the work light candle.

The stinging shoots through his face with each little splash. But the thick red spilling from his mouth is plugged, and the carver can continue.

The girl is unconscious. Her panic has exhausted her, but she does not truly sleep. She’s fainted, and she will see his work soon.

The carver plunges the little knife below his right eyebrow and slashes up. The flesh stretches with the blade until the thin eyebrow twists to where the carver can glue it with fresh gobs of molten wax.

The girl comes to as he finishes the other eyebrow. She tries to hyperventilate, but her gag stymies her until she simply passes out again.

The carver applies more wax, and takes his knife further through his yielding flesh.

The teacher’s rind wrinkles at the eyes, in esteem of its pupil.

***

            “You must open your body, so that your light may blast the fading light of your life through the darkness.”

The carver had one arm peeled, but had passed out from the pain of cauterizing it just as the girl started screaming again.

He was pretty sure he’d blacked out through most of the night. The girl’s chest was heaving in her attempts to gulp down air. Her breath hissed through her earthen gag.

He was still in pain, and his fluids found ways to seep through their wax bandages. Still, the work needed to be done.

The night needed its ward.

The pumpkin carver’s knife sank deep into his unblemished shoulder, the pasty skin staining red as he tore it down the bicep.

Beyond the red gash, the flesh looked almost orange in the light of the teacher’s elucidation.

***

            “Remember,” the great teacher told him, “the wax binds. The wax breathes the life.”

The pumpkin carver was having difficulty pouring. The stream was finding ways to bypass his arm, miss the twisted, carven muscles. And the carver could barely stay conscious through each grating singe that dripped into his wounds. Sometimes it felt like hours would pass between the little drips and the smaller cuts.

Sometimes he looked to the girl, to reflect the terror that was his form into her eyes.

She was sweating and shivering, salivating through the vines. Her eyes has a look like polished glass.

The teacher spoke again: “You are the womb, from which the candle will burn. The candle’s light is the spark from which the soul will flicker.”

The carver returned to work. The girl shivered, freezing from heated panic.

***

            The teacher had stopped talking again. The carver placed a fresh candle atop the mound of wax and light the teacher back to life.

Its eyes glowed bright as it took its birthing breath. Then its eyes settled on the pupil, and after a moment of thought it said:

“The light. The light needs room in which to shine. You are the womb.”

The carver sank the little blade in, for its final run across his flesh. He worked it slowly across his middle, and when he was ready, he dug his hands into himself and pried the rind apart.

The fruit glistened in the moist light, and he set his knife down, and took up the spoon.

The girl’s screams turned to choked gagging, and he thought he heard something liquid churning inside her. The room smelled faintly of bile through the candle fumes.

The spoon scraped away inside the carver, spilling its contents into the attendant bowl.

***

            The teacher’s voice was raspy. Mold and heat were aging it rapidly. How long had this lesson gone on?

“You need…light…”

The carver was hollow, the severed ends of his scooped-out gore tapered off with the scalding wax. It took hours before he was strong enough for the last lesson.

The girl tried to scream, but it almost sounded like she was coughing. She’d vomited again, her sick spurting through her knotted gag.

It was messier than he would have like, but at least he knew his night would be fruitful when he finally took his post.

The candle was heavy, goddamn heavy. The pumpkin carver had to pull it over like he would haul a bag of concrete.

Finally he had it stuffed inside. He took the box of matches, took a matchstick, struck the head against the strip along the side.

The teacher’s light was fading. Its once staunch body sagged. Wrinkles marred its proud flesh. The room was growing dimmer in the light of its death.

The match glowed, faded. Sparked, glowed, faded again.

The girl sounded like she was trying the breathe again. Then there was that gagging sound again. Deeper this time. Choked.

The match sparked, glowed, faded. Sparked, glowed, faded.

The room was glowing dark.

***

            The great teacher was dead. Its body had collapsed an hour ago, its light smothered in its leaking gore. White fluff sprouted on its corpse.

The carver had finally gotten the candle lit. The girl stared in horror, but the horror was empty. She’d choked on her gag, and died hours before the teacher had.

Stored breath whistled from her nose.

The carver has little strength. Crawling backwards, he made a step at a time. In two hours he was out of the basement and by the front door.

It was dark, just barely. Someone knocked, right on time.

He took the bowl of candy that would stand vigil with him this night, and swung open the door.

There was the piercing scream of children. The howls of parents terrified enough to throw their brood like shields against the horror at the door. Sometime later there would be the squeal of brakes from cars and trucks with flashing lights.

The night balked in terror, and everything ran before him.

He was the watcher, the sentinel in the night.

The lantern against the frightful dark.

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Filed under Halloween Horrorgasmic Orgy of Horror(gasms) 2011