The moment I stepped in that house, I wanted to turn and run right back out. I would have nightmares of being raped before I even knew what rape was. Twisted images of my brothers being hacked up and my family burning. Thoughts of someone coming into the house and stabbing us all in our sleep. My brothers, being only babies, crying that heart-wrenching cry babies have as they suffered. Terrible, awful dreams. I also began to develop severe irrational anxiety at that age.
I still have it now. The nightmares and anxiety were just an added bonus of that house. I was afraid to be in most of the rooms there. I hated going in the bathroom, dining room, or anywhere in the basement. I would lie in bed and hear footsteps in the hall, I would see shadows out of the corners of my eyes, my two and one year old brothers would cry and point at nothing, though something had clearly terrified them. Doors would open and slam shut by themselves. Lights would flicker. Things would fall to the floor and shatter.
Objects would float and fly across the room. Healthy pets would drop like flies. Sometimes even the smoke detectors would go off. No firemen ever came. They would just beep endlessly. After about a year of living there, we moved again. My sisters, Lilly and Mary, fraternal twins, three years old. That almost brings you up to date in my story.
Remember how I said that all of these creatures feed off of negativity, but one kind is worse than the rest? Well, in this house, there is one of those things. Or shadow creatures, evil shadows, shadow people, evil entities, ghosts. Some call them demons. One of them lives here with us. There is also a little girl dressed in blue named Sally. She has blonde hair and green eyes and looks much like I did at her age. She was seven when she died. She got really sick one winter, but no one believed her until it was too late.
Her big brother died in a car crash, so he is not in the house, but she is. They are the reason the previous owners moved out. I like Sally. I treat her like my own sisters. Something was holding her back. Something was keeping her here. Something was hiding itself from all of us. She would only tell me that a mean man told her not to go.
To see if this was true, I tired cleansing the house, just in case, by burning sage and going from room to room. It was only after I was done that I began to feel the malevolent presence. There was something else here, and the cleansing only made it angry. I tried hard to ignore the bad feeling in my gut.
That night, I talked to Sally. She said he was very angry now, and that he would come to me that night.
I was very wrong. I went to sleep that night. In the middle of the night, I woke up to the sound of scratching on my door. We own six cats, and one of them usually wants to come in my room at night. Many of which are little glass skulls and dragons, strange things like that. So I ignored the scratching and went back to sleep. I dreamt of searing pain like someone was raking fire down my back. My body and brain were accustomed to it since I have such frequent, realistic nightmares. However, when I woke up the next morning and got dressed for school, I felt something warm and sticky running down my back.
I looked in the mirror and saw three deep, long, thick, bleeding scratches in between my shoulder blades. The edges of them were blistered and raised, and the skin was obviously burned. I ran down stairs and told my mom. I showed her, and she freaked out. About a week later, I was lying awake, unable to sleep when a cold draft hit my face.
I shivered and pulled the blankets around me. It felt like someone with icy breath was breathing down my neck. Wanting to know the source, I turned and looked. Nothing was there, but I felt a cold hand touch my arm. I tried to scream, but another hand covered my mouth. I thrashed and writhed and tried to scream, but a hand closed around my neck and I passed out. I woke up hours later, covered in cuts and bruises and burns. Everything hurt, and I was bathed in my own blood. No one else was in the house, so I screamed at the top of my lungs for whatever it was to show itself. A shadowy apparition appeared before me.
It had the form of a tall person, but its arms were too long for its body, its legs were skinny and unstable looking. It was tall and thin and lithe. Its image became clearer, and I could see it in detail. Its eyes were bright red, its flesh was rotting away. The skin that still clung to the bones was gray and dis-colored. It basically looked like an awkward zombie. Can you guess what his costume is going to be? This pregnancy costume is pretty easy. Grab yourself some green body paint and get creative turning your bump into this lovable Monsters, Inc cutie.
- What goes bump in the night?.
- The Red Balloon.
- What Goes Bump In The Night: A Halloween Paranormal Romance Anthology by C.R. Jane.
- See a Problem?.
- Halloween events 12222.
Happy Halloween! Points to anyone who understands our family costume. We got a lot of blank stares this year, dressed up as The Red Balloon. If you haven't watched the classic French short film, do yourself a favor and find it on YouTube. I showed it to Bowie and he was completely mesmerized. He's dressed as the little Parisian boy. Hal is the stereotyped French director. And my week pregnant belly plays the role of the big red balloon!
- Other Albums by Vincent Price;
- Halloween Poems?
- From the Archive: John Berryman's Halloween Reading.
Another super simple pregnancy costume. Simply cut out a circle of red fabric and attach to a plain top using iron-on fabric adhesive. Finish off the costume with some string and get the rest of the family involved. Anyone got Halloween on your mind? Tag your expectant mama friends for this DIY Halloween costume idea!
My step-by-step tutorial is at short URL: amysav. The classic pregnancy costume to flaunt your bump. Cut out a piece of cardboard in the shape of an avo and then paint with light green and darker green paints. Measure your bump and cut out a hole for it to peek through. Transform this into a family outfit with a teeny Siracha sauce and a grown-up taco. The iconic duo from the coming-of-age comedy is the perfect last minute pregnancy costume for any expectant mamas and their partners.
All you need is a yellow and white striped top, a dark hoodie and a low ponytail. One day I will pay for these crimes against language, I am sure. Once you reject the rules of spelling, worn can turn to worm, leaf to leech. Even etymology, at a glance, read hastily in dying light, can become entomology. My crime and confession. I pick up the volume, wipe the dust from its roan cover.
I raise my scissors to the page and cut oh, how I shall pay for this. I am a killer, not only of words but of the books that contain them. The scissors slice across the paper, giant mandibles chomping. The letters seem to squirm like the veins of worms on a dissection table. Still I cut, determined to have my word, till I hear a squeak on the stairs.
The Bibliophile! But no. My enemies close in from all sides. From the outside, no one need know a page is missing. Books can keep secrets. How much more so books like these—old, abandoned, the property of the dead. The deed is done. I hold the fresh-cut paper to the light and try to read. Just a minute , I scream to the intruder about to knock. I just need to see it, to confirm my eyes have not betrayed me again. The paper shudders in the wind from some unseen crack in the window, beating like the countless slips pinned to the board, moth wings trying to break free.
My own hairs stand on end—a paper scrapes across the floor. I turn away for one moment, toward the door about to open, and when I glance back all my countless words have turned to insects. Befriending Lisa By: Kalea Gore.
Things That Go Bump in the Night (3:15 Season One)
Little Lisa up in the steeple Why is it you cry? Alone By Dustin Fisher. I am alone. Silence crept through her door. Outside, the moon stalked shadows. The silver path, cut the woods. I was alone. Walking, quickly. Shoes, slapping gravel. Silence echoed. Looking behind, nothing. Looking ahead, nothing.
Did I turn off the light? Wind rattled the cold pane. Limbs reached through the glass. Familiar trees snaked and tore through the ceiling. No light in the hall. No light down the stairs. He is there. I was always alone, alone alone alone… The hallway is black. Limbs cover the ceiling. In the dark. He grins. The wind blew cold. He was behind. He was beside.
31 Halloween Events NYC Has For A Spooky Good Time in
He was in front. I closed the door. I turned off the light. I locked the door. Did I lock the door? She struggled. His rotted breath. The trees shielded the night. The wind silenced her screams. Light slid under the door. Shallow footsteps on the gravel rug. He was always beside. Darkness stained the sheets, twisted between white bare legs. Wet grass, chilled her stained palms.
The hallway light, silenced. The door, locked. Her room, vacant. The trees part, moonlight gouges through the gnarled fingers. Drying blood. The black eyes watched me pace across the pressed wood. I was self-possessed when my circular saw was cutting out all the slats. I decided to rip them up after I saw a second face in the wood. Do you see it? Two faces in the one veneer? Be careful with this when handling it. My hands are full of splinters from making the sawdust pile big enough for my head, but the deepest ones came from these edges as I scryed into the faces to find if I truly loved you they each had a different view.
Bruce Banner, and this letter will serve as both my confession and my reconciliation with the world.
Children’s books round-up: Scares and laughs that go bump in the night
At the time of your viewing this letter I am either dead or, at the very least, I have allowed my sins to consume me, both mind and body. For the sake of those I love, I pray it be by death that they may be spared the knowledge that you are about to partake of. Alas, before you subject yourself to this message, be wary that what prayers you may have for me now will soon wilt within shame; for when you have heard my story you shall see no justification regarding my actions, and if but only one request be granted me by God, it be that He show you mercy in this; for I too feel as you soon shall feel, you will see through my eyes, and the truth shall give me no quarter from those who may judge righteously.
My story begins a few years back, the exact dates I can no longer recall, for the duality of my life feels like I have lived for two men rather than one. I had sought out to use my youthful, but ignorant, knowledge to better the world through the use of gamma radiation.
It was various government contractors who hired me to find a means that would save lives in the battlefield; by using radiation as an accelerant, we were searching for a way to diffuse hostile situations in times of such crisis. Of course, this knowledge was never presented to me upon the request that I continue my research under the watchful eye of military dogs. I was naive and a different man than what I am now; the promise of greatness at my fingertips was more than enough to wet my appetite, and my palate was eager to experiment with new things.
Little did I know that soon I would learn the error of my thinking, and the realization that the deception of men comes from deceiving themselves first. It was only another year that would go by until happiness fell into my life again. My work had become my jealous lover when I first met my assistant, Betty Ross. Betty was magnificent; from the moment I had first laid eyes on her, everything that I am, that I was, was to be hers. Still to this day, I have found no equal. I could not bring myself to share the truth of my work with Betty and therefor saw it wise to forsake her to a life of warmth and love rather than the path that I have recklessly carved before myself.
It was as poetic as any conventional horror story; one night while working late in my laboratory, an accident occurred while I was working with gamma rays. Explosions, screaming, and destruction were all that would follow me for the rest of my days. What was once the work of turning men into gods became my vice and exaltation. Yes, this was the manifestation of my inner demon. The intense feeling of power became so intoxicating that I began to believe what people were calling me; indestructible, incredible, unstoppable.
Newspapers had many names, but one always remained the same; HULK. Over the next few months I wrestled with myself in reverence of the beast. Its power was magnificent, but justifying its thirst for destruction was what waned heavily upon my soul. It pains me to write these truths but I only do so that every man may become privy of my mistakes. Eventually, I learned that anger was what called forth the beast from the depths of my consciousness; and at times I would beckon it for my own sinful pleasures. Perhaps it is true that the nature of man is the cause of calamity; and I pray you dear reader, forgive me for when I say that living in the shell of my doppelganger, I found paradise.
Now my story must draw to a close, for even as I write this letter with regret hanging in my heart, I can feel the beast climbing his way out from the pit. The creature has no boundaries and has surpassed all surmountable odds thrown at him; and I am but a single man of no consequence. Truth be told, I am surprised as to how long I have been able to contain my Abaddon; my strength and will have wavered many nights these last few years, and quite frankly I am tired.
I fear that the beast seeks to consume me now, and as I write these words you will take notice that my hand shakes wildly. If this is to be the last legacy I leave behind, I wish it to reveal the damnation that consumes me, and that it allow to fade silently away into the dust from whence I was conceived; but for the creature, let he live to be a testimony to those who seek godhood. I pray once his task has been served that he be dealt with swiftly and to no fault of those who swing the mighty axe of execution. Let the tyranny of the Hulk forever stand as a warning to those men who seek power; let them see how the fruits of their labors spoil before the harvest.
My pain grows sharper now, both mentally and physically. My beloved Betty, I pray you not learn of this letter, but if it comes to that please know that the man I once was died years ago. The pieces of my heart have become too broken from the destruction I have caused in this world, but my life without you has shattered those fragmented remnants.
I beg of you to forgive this wretch of a man inside a hollow machine of emerald. I was blinded by my own guilt and saw it fitting that my last act of humanity be one of piece and not chaos; to let you live a life of your own away from my madness proves that still some part of me remains, even when all seems clouded by rage. I love you Betty, and I beg that you try to find it in your heart to forgive me. Bruce Banner. Insidiously cruel, depraved, hellish jeers, they fill my webbed, tangled thoughts like a rapidly congealing liquid.
The cacophony maddens, muddles me. The grinning devil sits in my room, each head producing its own insupportable laughter. It sits curled, almost gnarled in that corner, eyes never blinking or erring from me. Skin burned, blackened, teeth gleaming in serpentine smiles, a monster sits in my corner never fading or tiring.
Its gleeful, ghastly snickering guts me playfully so. It tears through the seams of dreams, corroding what were once lustrous towers into crumbling heaps of ash and stale smoke. Beggars Night By: Kelly Ludwig. The smells of fall fill me as I walk away. Magic enchant my mind. Darkness of the night steals my thoughts. I see masks so clearly now, Just not the one you wore. Thoughts of you were sweet, and made into bitterness and trickery. Just a show to amuse you. The moon shines down on me, casting spotlights on my thoughts.
It beckons me to make up excuses for you, Cover the truth it says. Why not? This is the night of cheap plastic masks and the darkness calls to me. Sweet faces hide the horrid truth. It is Halloween. Sarah Doebereiner. A garish sun peeked over the horizon. It sat; a tyrant upon the thrown of heaven. It rose yesterday. It had risen the day before that. Every day since its conception was the same. This sun was an ever-present burning that seared the surface of the world from where it smiled down from paradise. It was supposed to bring salvation from the dark.
In the real world it never did shit anything to help anybody. A lie. Robin Phillips knew that all too well. On that morning, just like every morning, the heartless rays of the bastard sun where pushing though the bent places in her blinds. At first, dim sunspots danced along the sill. Then, they crept out from the mangled plastic bars towards her fragile body. Tears welled up in her eyes. She sobbed quietly, mentally scorning the golden beams for attempting to etch cheer into her flesh with their fiery grin. Today was not going to be a good day.
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- Dead Hunt (DIANE FALLON FORENSIC Book 5);
- Halloween Exploits.
To the contrary, it was the worst day in Robin's young life. The light touched her gently. It was an unwanted lover licking the curves of her body. The skin beneath was warmed, perverted by its touch. Her throat tightened around her sobs. She closed her already puffy eyelids and wondered how long she has been sitting there. Waiting, for nothing. Her face started to grow hot from underneath the bitter, joyful sun. A groan escaped her lips.
It sounded like treading on freshly fallen snow. Somehow muffled. She pushed herself deeper into the already sinking mattress. Her hands fumbled to pull the blankets tighter so they envelope most of her body. It was useless. The light blue sheets were long enough for her to tuck under the back of her head and under her heels. She covered her head.
Things That Go Bump in the Night
The blankets weren't quite wide enough to cover her budging belly. For a moment she envied the baby inside; wrapped in a cocoon of flesh. Her breath bounced heatedly off the corners of her fabric sanctuary. After a few moments beneath the sheets she felt the air thickening. Each breath was less satisfying than the last. She longed for fresh air, but hated the sunbeams. The sheets were glowing because of the rays of the pressing sun. She saw no beauty there. The shimmers on the paw print covering taunted her with their brightness.
How could the world be so bright on such a terrible day? She wanted to stop seeing, to stop feeling, and most of all to stop breathing. She touched the top of her firm, round belly. No, she couldn't quite bring herself to wish to stop breathing. Instead, she wished to blow the sun away. She wished it would find a way to stop time, only stop everything yesterday to keep that yesterday from turning into this.
This hell. She sat up with difficulty. The cover slithered down from her body. She let it go. It wafted off the bed and settled in a clump on the hardwood floor. The growing baby turned sharply. He always stirred till dawn.
Already a night person like your father, she thought. A sick feeling swayed her thoughts. He moved again. It might have tickled her once. It might have made her laugh, yesterday, but not today. There was no laughter for a day like this. Her stomach churned. The taste of acid invaded the back of her throat.
As she stood up her body felt heavy, pressed, and her belly ached. If he heard there was no sign of it. She wrapped one hand around her belly before sliding off the bed. Her legs held her up for only a moment before they started to wobble. Thick fluid pooled in her mouth. She swallowed it hard and sunk to her knees. Her body rippled to the floorboards like a wilting flower.
Tears poured down her cheeks. They stung the dry places where her lips were getting chapped.