Headless

 Never mess with Miz Flora's girls

“So, will you come with me to visit Miz Flora on Halloween?” Janet grinned at her boyfriend, who rolled his eyes.

“Is that the height of horror in this town? Roll up and see the creepy old lady? I can think of better things to do.”

Janet laughed. “If you want to fit in around here, you need to know the local legends. Miz Flora not only knows all of them, she is one, herself. Everyone hits Miz Flora’s house last on Halloween, to hear her tell the story of the Headless Ghost of Foxfire Creek.”

“Does this involve a big black horse and a flaming pumpkin?”

Janet shook her head slowly, her eyes promising mischief. “She’ll be our first stop, so you can hear the story from someone whose family has passed it down from first-hand accounts.”

“How true is it likely to be, then?” Bill laughed, but Janet’s expression didn’t change.

“Every folk tale has a grain of truth at the core,” Janet told him. “That’s what Miz Flora says. You’ll see.”

Bill took her into his arms. “I’ve got a job waiting for me with a good firm in Houston. We’ll get a nice little house off the loop.” He patted Janet’s belly. “The mother of my son isn’t going to live above a hick town ballet studio, teaching a bunch of no talents.”

Janet’s expression changed, though Bill never saw it. There were many things about Janet that Bill never saw because he was always looking at visions of his own success. He found them preferable to the sight of Janet’s hometown and wondered how the hell he’d let her talk him into spending Halloween in the middle of nowhere.

At ten o’clock that night, Janet led him up the steps of a small, neat, frame house surrounded by small, neat flower beds. The gingerbread-trimmed porch was lined with artfully carved Jack-o’-lanterns and a row of costumed children seated at the feet of an old woman.

The creak of her rocking chair played counterpoint to the creak of the oak branches in the night wind. “Y’all wanna hear ‘bout the Headless Ghost?” the old woman asked.

“Yes, please, Miz Flora,” the children sang in unison.

Bill and Janet sat down on the porch steps. A handful of parents lingered about the lawn, pretending not to listen. Miz Flora leaned forward in her rocker.

“Y’all know why nobody swims in Foxfire Creek?”

“The Headless Ghost!” The children sang.

“That’s right,” Miz Flora cackled. “That ol’ ghost don’t want no one messin’ round the Foxfire, not down by the old trestle, ‘cause that’s where he lost his head. Went sneakin’ through the pines to see his gal, took the shortcut ‘cross the trestle, got himself caught by the midnight express. Not no diesel train, no. Big steam engine, whistle screamin’ like a banshee as it come up on the trestle, big ol’ headlight, like the full moon fallin’ out of the sky, right on top of him. Pistons pumpin’, drivin’ rods pushing those big steel wheels so fast they’re a blur. Some said it was the drivin’ rods tore him up, stroke by stroke, till there was nothin’ left but his head, wedged between the spokes of a drivin’ wheel. Crew found it there at the next water stop, but no one ever found the body. Some say his head got tore off clean, and the body fell right back into Foxfire Creek. Say it happened so fast, he didn’t even know he’d lost his head. Which is why if you look down into the water on a full moon night, you can see what’s left of that ol’ trestle, and you can see him, still swimmin’ round down there, lookin’ for his head. You go swimmin’ there, that Headless Ghost, he’ll grab your head!”

The children scrambled back, shrieking with delighted fear, as the old woman rocked forward with clawed fingers reaching for their heads.

 Miz Flora stood up, and the children gathered up their bags, lining up for their treats. Within minutes, the street was empty as the little goblins faded into the night. Porch lights went out, and Bill suppressed a shudder as darkness and silence closed in around them.

“You kids want a nightcap before you go for your walk?” Flora ushered them through her front door, and on into her kitchen. “Wanna try a nip of the family ‘shine, Bill?”

“Now, Miz Flora,” Janet half warned, half teased. “You know I’m gonna take him down along Foxfire Creek. That ‘shine of yours sneaks up on a fella. He’ll set off feelin’ fine and be stumblin’ drunk just in time for something dreadful to happen, just like that Headless Ghost.”

“Dandelion wine, then,” Miz Flora replied, guiding them into her kitchen. She poured three small glasses of golden liquid and joined them at the table.

Bill took a sip of the dandelion wine. It went down surprisingly smooth. He found himself staring at the Halloween centerpiece, a skull with flowers protruding from the eye sockets and a black rose between its grinning teeth.  He gulped down the rest of his wine. “So, this Headless Ghost, who was he? Or is he just a story?”

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Happy Halloween

 The history of Halloween

In the year 609 A.D., on the 13th of May, Pope Boniface IV dedicated the Pantheon in Rome to honor Christian martyrs. This led to the establishment of the Catholic holiday, All Martyrs Day, in the Western church. Later, Pope Gregory III expanded the celebration to include all saints and changed its date from May 13 to November 1.

As Christianity grew in the 9th century, it began to merge with and eventually replace traditional Celtic customs. In the year 1000, November 2 became known as All Souls’ Day, a time for commemorating departed loved ones. Many believe that this was an attempt by the church to incorporate and alter the existing Celtic festival of the dead into a more acceptable holiday.

The Samhain festivities were quite similar to the celebrations on All Souls' Day. People gathered around big bonfires, paraded through the streets, and dressed up in costumes resembling saints, angels, and devils. The day of All Saints was known by various names such as All-hallows or All-hallowmas (derived from Middle English Alholowmesse which meant All Saints' Day). Over time, the night before All Saints' Day, also known as Samhain in Celtic beliefs, became known as All-Hallows Eve and eventually evolved into the holiday we now call Halloween.

In America

Halloween was not widely celebrated in colonial New England due to the strict Protestant beliefs of the region. However, in Maryland and the southern colonies, Halloween was a much more prevalent holiday.

As the traditions and practices of various European and Native American groups intertwined, a unique version of Halloween took shape in America. The earliest festivities featured "play parties" that were open to the public and celebrated the bountiful harvest. People would gather to share ghostly tales, foretell each other's destinies, and partake in music and dance.

In colonial times, Halloween was celebrated with traditions like telling ghost stories and causing trouble. As the 19th century progressed, autumn festivals became more popular, but Halloween was still not recognized everywhere in the nation.

During the latter half of the 19th century, America experienced a surge of immigrants. Among them were millions of Irish people seeking refuge from the Irish Potato Famine. Their arrival played a significant role in spreading the practice of Halloween festivities throughout the nation.

History of Trick-or-Treating

Influenced by European customs, Americans adopted the tradition of dressing up in costumes and going door to door requesting treats or monetary donations. This eventually evolved into the modern "trick-or-treat" tradition. It was believed that on Halloween, young women could use yarn, apple peels, or mirrors to discover the name or appearance of their future spouse through various tricks.

By the late 1800s, there was a growing movement in America to transform Halloween into a holiday centered on fostering community and bringing neighbors together, rather than focusing on ghosts, tricks, and witchcraft. As the new century approached, Halloween parties for people of all ages became the most popular way to commemorate the day. These gatherings revolved around fun games, seasonal treats, and creative costumes.

Between 1920 and 1950, the centuries-old tradition of trick-or-treating experienced a resurgence. This practice allowed for the entire community to come together and celebrate Halloween without spending too much money. In addition, families could ensure that they wouldn't be subjected to any pranks by giving out small treats to the local children.

Halloween Parties

As the 1920s and 1930s rolled around, Halloween evolved into a holiday that was more focused on community rather than religion. Parades and town-wide parties became the main forms of entertainment during this time. Despite the attempts of schools and communities to maintain order, vandalism became a problem at many celebrations

In the 1950s, town officials were able to control vandalism during Halloween and the holiday became focused on entertaining children. With a significant increase in youngsters during the baby boom of the fifties, parties moved from public venues to classrooms or homes for easier management.

And so, a new custom was created in America, and it has only grown since then. Presently, Americans are estimated to spend around $6 billion every year on Halloween, making it the second most profitable holiday in the country, only behind Christmas.

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WHAT IF- ANTHOLOGY - Golden Box Books Publishing

Burdens of Immortality

She didn't want to live for centuries

After enduring three exhausting weeks of arduous travel through the rugged countryside, they finally made their way back to the magnificent palace. Aya eagerly anticipated the comfort of her luxurious quarters and the flock of servants who would cater to her every need and whim. At just eighteen years old, she emitted delicate beauty that had stolen the pharaoh’s heart when he took her as his third wife only a year ago. Her flawless skin glowed in the sun, framed by luscious dark locks and deep, alluring eyes.

***

Although she had initially resisted the arranged marriage, it was a great honor and elevation in status for her family. Yet deep down, her heart still belonged to Tanamet, her first and only love. He was a low-status merchant, and they both knew their forbidden relationship could never be more than stolen moments of happiness during her time living in her father’s house while Tanamet delivered his delectable baked goods.

On her wedding day as Aya said her final goodbyes to Tanamet, her heart ached with the realization that she may never see him again. But he promised to find a way for them to be together, and she clung to that tiny shred of hope as she was whisked away to the wedding ceremony.

Despite the grandeur surrounding her, Aya couldn’t stop dreaming about Tanamet. She complacently followed orders and endured the middle-aged pharaoh’s clammy hands groping at her and his wet kisses on her body. The marriage bed was only visited once a month, much to her relief, and when she became pregnant, the pharaoh showered her with gifts. With the birth of her son, Aya’s status rose even higher, inciting bitter jealousy and hate among the other wives who could only bear daughters. Fearing for her son’s safety and his role as her ticket to higher status, Aya surrounded him with loyal servants from her father’s court. The palace was filled with intrigue and tension, with sharp daggers hidden in the eyes of two wives who held higher status than Aya’s own. And though the pharaoh doted on his son with joy in his eyes, he showed no interest in his daughters, who seemed to fade into obscurity after their births.

***

Aya strolled through the palace, her steps gliding effortlessly as three handmaidens followed closely behind. The grandeur of the long corridors never ceased to amaze her, with its breathtaking wall paintings and magnificent statues of the Gods. Her heart swelled with a sense of longing and nostalgia as she walked, each footfall echoing off the marble floors.

As they reached the ornately carved door to her quarters, Aya’s pace quickened, and her eyes sparkled with excitement. The servants bowed and opened the massive door for her, revealing a lavish room filled with luxurious furnishings.

With a joyful smile on her face, Aya rushed inside and scooped up the chubby baby boy from the nanny’s arms. She held him close, examining every inch of his healthy body. “Is he well?” she asked the old woman who had nursed her as a child.

“He is thriving and content,” the woman replied with a warm smile, bowing her head respectfully.

Aya showered the child with kisses before gently handing him back to the nanny’s care. “My skin feels rough and dry,” she noted, turning to her handmaidens. “I think a milk and honey bath would wash away the grime of the awful travel.”

The young women nodded in agreement and quickly scurried away to prepare the relaxing bath. Aya motioned to her favorite maid to assist with undressing her. “Ugh,” she sighed wearily. “I feel soiled.”

“You will feel clean and refreshed after your bath,” the maid promised, handing her a cup filled with cool lemonade.   

***

The piercing screams and chaotic yells jolted Aya awake from her peaceful after-bath nap. She stumbled out of bed, her heart racing as she spotted Tanamet leaning against the wall with a dark, sinister look in his eyes.

“How did you...” she stammered, fear coursing through her body. “What did you do?” she screamed, horrified by the sight of her loyal servants lying lifeless on the carpet, their once vibrant clothes now drenched in blood. “Where’s my son?” she demanded, panic rising in her voice.

With a firm grip on her arm, he dragged her toward the adjoining room where the old nanny stood trembling, cradling Aya’s baby in her arms.

Tanamet threw Aya to the ground and shouted, “You belong to me!”

She cowered before him, lowering her head and whispering through quivering lips, “Why did you kill my servants? What happened to you?”

“I died,” he laughed. “And now I’ll live forever.”

“You’re not the Tanamet I fell in love with,” Aya whimpered.

“No!” Tanamet laughed again. “I was weak. Now I’m strong, and I do as I wish.”

“Kill me, but spare my son. He’s just an innocent child.” Aya begged with tears in her eyes.

He took a step back and observed her with a calculating gaze. “Your son will be Pharaoh! But that old man can’t touch you anymore. You’re coming with me.” The air hung heavy with tension as Aya resigned herself to her fate, knowing she had no choice but to follow Tanamet’s command.

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The Pumpkin's Curse

 They're desperate to stay alive

I have always felt an odd trepidation towards pumpkins since my early years. Their twisted faces made me feel as if they were watching. This fear stuck with me into my teens. Mom, a teacher, is always busy grading papers late into the night. Despite her busy schedule, I still felt safe until we had to move, leaving behind my friends and family.

Mom bought a house in a small town called Dark Creek, where she got a job at a school just a few blocks away. Our new address is 1300 Dead End Street. The house is ancient, with broken windows and glass scattered everywhere. The backyard borders the forest. And, of course, there’s a basement. No doubt, it holds stories of its own.

Mom and I are waiting for the movers to bring our furniture, and a few men from town offered to fix the windows. I found it strange how they whispered among themselves as if keeping some big secret. But I ignored them, focusing instead on helping Mom clean and unpack.

We ordered pizza and shared it with the workers. By the time they were getting ready to leave, it was already dark. They promised to return the next day.

That night, lying in bed, I hear noises from the basement. The sound is eerie, sending chills down my spine. I don’t want to go down there. But, like the people in horror movies, I feel compelled to go where I shouldn’t.

Instead of running away, I head toward the basement door. My heart pounds, and the flashlight I’m holding flickers on and off, just like a scene from a typical horror story.

I open the door, and it creaks like old houses do. The basement light doesn’t work. With each step, a strange ticking sound grows louder. Suddenly, I bump into someone, and we both scream.

“What are you doing down here, Scarlett?” Mom says, her voice shaky.

“Mom! You scared me half to death!” I snap, catching my breath. “I thought I heard something down here.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, rubbing her arms. “I found some boxes left by the previous owners. Look at this.” She pulls out a pumpkin with a terrifying grin. “Doesn’t this look like the Joker from Batman? I bet they loved Halloween.”

“Ugh, I hate Halloween. And I really hate pumpkins,” I tell her, shuddering.

We head back upstairs, and the next day, I see the same pumpkin on the porch. The workers laugh about it, comparing it to the Joker’s signature smile. But to me, it looks sinister. I throw it in the trash and try to shake off the creepy feeling as I continue unpacking.

Later, I decide to take a ride to the store for some snacks and magazines. As I’m locking up my bike, a guy about my age stares at me.

“Hey there,” he says. “Never seen you around here. You new in town?”

“Yeah, we just moved to 1300 Dead End Street,” I reply.

The guy’s expression changes. “That old house? Your family must be brave to stay there.”

I frown. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“My name’s Donald Winters,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not trying to scare you, but that place has a reputation. I could tell you more if you want. Maybe we could meet tomorrow at the river.”

“Nice to meet you, Donald. I’m Scarlett,” I respond. “I’m definitely interested in hearing more.”

As I ride home, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something Donald knows about our house that I don’t. When I pull up to the porch, I freeze. The pumpkin I had thrown away earlier… is back.

“What the heck?” I mutter, rushing inside. “Mom! Are you home?”

I peek out the window, but Mom’s car isn’t in the driveway. She’s probably still at work. Maybe one of the workers thought it would be funny to put the pumpkin back as a prank. But I’m not laughing. Feeling uneasy, I bag it up and throw it in the trash again.

Later, when Mom gets home, we start cooking dinner together.

“I’m glad you decided to put that pumpkin back on the porch,” she says casually.

“What? I threw the pumpkin away, Mom!” I exclaim.

I run to the porch, only to see the pumpkin sitting right where it had been. This is getting weird. Someone must be messing with my mind. Frustrated, I grab a market bag, toss the pumpkin inside, and dump it in the neighbor’s trash bin.

We eat dinner, and after reading for a while, I check on Mom. She has already fallen asleep, so I gently cover her with a blanket.

At least the men finished fixing the house without pulling any more pranks. But I can’t shake the nagging thought that the pumpkin will reappear again. It's becoming a mystery I can't ignore.

The next morning, we hear voices outside. The police are at Teddy Shaw’s house. Had something happened? Mom and I go to see what’s going on. Detective Jerry Marsh asks if we heard anything unusual last night. We tell him no.

“Teddy’s body is missing,” the detective says gravely. “All that was left behind was his head... and an axe.”

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Haunting Memories

 John's mind is flooded with long-forgotten memories

As John trudged through the relentless downpour, each step felt like a burden on his exhausted body. The rain pounded against his umbrella with fierce determination, creating a symphony of splashes and echoes that reverberated through the streets. But it wasn’t just the clamor that unsettled him; it was the onslaught of memories that flooded back with every drop. Memories of heartache and betrayal as his ex-girlfriend tearfully ended their relationship under the stormy skies. Memories of fear and pain from a harrowing night when he narrowly escaped death in a tragic accident and when his father drove off in the thunderstorm. John never saw him again.

Since he was a young child, each heavy rainfall seemed to unleash a line of disasters, painting the slick streets with shades of sorrow under the hazy glow of streetlights. Every droplet felt like a stab in his heart, dredging up emotions he had long tried to bury beneath the surface.

The bustling city, usually bursting with life and energy, was now draped in a somber cloak. The incessant rain seemed to have washed away all traces of joy, leaving behind a heavy sense of foreboding. As John made his way through the crowded streets, every step felt like a battle against his past. Each drop of rain that fell from the dark clouds above seemed to mirror his swirling emotions and haunting memories. But he persisted, determined to conquer both the physical and emotional challenges posed by the storm. John’s mind flickered back to a particularly emotional memory from his elementary school years.

***

It was a long afternoon when he and his mischievous buddies were hunched over their desks serving detention. They were so engrossed in their work that they didn’t notice the sun slowly fading behind thick, dark clouds. Suddenly, a distant roar of thunder echoed across the sky, sending shivers down their spines as ominous clouds gathered. The air grew heavy, and a bolt of lightning cracked through the air, signaling the impending storm.

The teacher and students were caught off guard, their minds still occupied with the math problem at hand. But Mother Nature had other plans, unleashing a fury of wind and rain. The students eagerly packed their belongings and rushed out of the classroom, determined to outrun the approaching storm. The first few drops landed on their skin, almost teasingly, before exploding into a relentless downpour. Within minutes, the streets were awash with the sound of heavy rain, drowning out all other noises and creating a hypnotic symphony of water hitting pavement and rooftops.

Navigating through a maze of winding streets and narrow alleys, their feet finally carried them to a park where their paths diverged - each heading toward their homes on opposite sides. John’s eyes darted around. Deciding to take a shortcut through the park, he stepped onto the footpath but soon found himself struggling to keep his balance as rain-slicked patches made it treacherous and difficult to progress. The heavy droplets came down with an unrelenting force, soaking his clothes and skin. Despite the obstacles, John pushed forward, determined to get home as fast as he could.

Fueled by a sense of urgency, John braced himself against the relentless onslaught of rain, his arm shielding his face as he pushed forward. With each step, his feet seemed to sink deeper into the muck and mud, making it increasingly difficult to move forward. The rain beat down on him with such ferocity that it penetrated through his clothes, drenching him completely and weighing him down. His hair clung to his scalp in wet, tangled strands. But despite the discomfort and fatigue setting in, he refused to give up or falter. His determination was unwavering, propelling him onward through the storm.

Suddenly, piercing cries shattered the sound of the hollering wind, followed by the sharp report of gunshots. John’s heart pounded in his chest as he recognized the unmistakable sounds just a stone’s throw away. Without hesitation, he dropped to the ground and pressed himself against the wet vegetation. Through the dense curtain of rain and tangled foliage, he could make out a dark figure hunched over a motionless form on the ground. The only source of light came from sporadic flashes of lightning, casting eerie shadows that danced across the scene before him. Fear and adrenaline coursed through his body as he watched, frozen in place, unsure of what to do next.

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Broomstick and Chocolate

 When Halloween traditions defended by real witches

Agatha couldn’t help herself, so she swept the porch with her broom before she used the oversized door knocker. It was a bad reproduction of the head of Bela Lugosi’s Dracula holding a single link of a heavy chain in his fanged mouth.

A short octogenarian woman who could have been Margaret Hamilton’s double answered the door. “About time, Cousin Agatha. It’s almost sunset, and the trick-or-treaters will be starting.”

“Don’t bristle at me. This is a new broom, and I just whisked in from Cincinnati. This isn’t your first Halloween; I suspect you’ve got a handle on things.”

“I do. Come inside, and let’s get ready for the children.”

Agatha leaned her broom against the wall inside the door. “This is a Boeing Stratoduster, right off the assembly line. Free to me because I’m a beta tester. Thought I’d try it for a spell.”

Endora inspected the broomstick. “Boeing? It’s a miracle you didn’t crash on takeoff.”

“Jealous much? You’re still flying that old Curtis Twin Stick, aren’t you?”

“It’s a classic and the most stable broomstick ever manufactured. It belonged to my grandmother. She flew 36 missions during World War Two.”

“She’s my grandmother, too. That’s such a bewitching tale, but my mom said that Grandma spent the war working in a defense plant in upstate New York putting protection spells on aircraft.”

“She was a witch just like us. She told me that the defense plant was just a cover story. The Curtis was the fastest broom on the planet. She’d finish her shift at the Curtis-Wright plant, sweep across the Atlantic, make a bomber escort run, bewitch a V-2, and then shuffle back to Buffalo in time to clock in.”

Agatha petted a large black cat, Ashtoreth, Endora’s familiar. “Ashtoreth looks healthy and happy, cousin, but I came for Halloween, not a history lesson. Are we ready for the children?”

“I was born ready. Ashtoreth loves Halloween. We’ll take turns with the kids. I’ll go first and you take the second group. The children love my house because I don’t do Halloween like everyone else.”

“How does that work? Don’t the children get upset?”

“Not at all. When I answer the door, they don’t say trick-or-treat. I do. They always say trick, and then I do a trick for them. Different tricks for different kids. I sometimes make their flashlights talk or their costumed wings real. I make the jack-o’-lanterns or my Bela Lugosi door knocker talk.”

“That’s real magic, Endora. No one can know that magic is real.”

“Relax, Cousin. The only magic I do for the children are parlor tricks, and they wear off like fairy gold when they leave my yard.  Most of the parents who live around here visited my house when they were young, and the rest wouldn’t believe it anyway. I’m just a harmless old lady. It’s fun, and it makes Halloween a little more special for the children.”

“Clang, clang, clang went Bela Lugosi. Endora opened the door and said, “Trick or treat.”

Three princesses shouted, “Trick.”

Ashtoreth slipped out the door, brushed against the girls’ legs, and then slunk back into the house. Endora thought for a moment and then touched the girl’s tiaras one at a time. The plastic headpieces glowed brighter than sparklers on the Fourth of July.

The princesses laughed and danced. Ashtoreth danced with them. Like real sparklers, the tiaras soon went out, and the three girls walked quickly to their mothers waiting on the sidewalk. One woman cupped her hands and yelled, “Thanks, Endora. You’ve still got it, girl.”

Two boys ran onto the front porch. Endora smiled at them. “Wow, I love your costumes. Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Speed Racer, and Greg is Astro Boy. Manga comic characters. Japanese.”

“Can’t say as I’ve ever been to Japan. Trick or treat, boys.? Trick or treat?”

“Trick.”

“Agatha, help me with this one. These boys want a trick.”

Agatha waved her little finger, and Speed Racer’s helmet lit up like a futuristic computer screen. Data flashed inside the faceplate, visible only to the wearer, and scrolled rapidly in several colors, using several languages, known and unknown. The young man was mesmerized.

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Fall Market

 Hiding from a haunting past

Then one sunny fall day she is seen

Elenore parked her car and gathered her basket and hat. The breeze coming off the ocean was cool, with just enough lift for a few colorful kites. The sun sparkled on the gentle surf making her smile as she took a deep breath and set off with determination to take her time and enjoy this fall day. It had been a month since she had moved to this small coastal town. Was this a place she could stay, or was it time to pack up again?

She strolled through the farmer’s market with her basket dangling from her arm. For such a small community, there was quite a variety of fruits and veggies. A few booths sported homemade baking products, and a few others were selling the things needed to “put things up” for future consumption. The local artisans displayed an array of goods in multiple mediums.

With cautious optimism, she decided to look for some piece of art that might cheer up her small cabin and maybe provide inspiration. A vase in the stall of a potter caught her eye. The vase was a beautiful hand-thrown piece with an hourglass shape, open enough at the neck for a nice-sized bouquet. Encircling the wide base was a collection of stylized cages with birds flying free or preening in the open cage doors. The whimsical style made her feel light. She smiled as she picked up the piece to check the price. Not bad for a hand-crafted work of art.

She was startled by a voice behind her. “The vase seems to make you happy. May I wrap it for you so you can get it home safely?”

Elenore turned to see an elderly, slightly bent woman smiling up at her. “Yes, I do love the vase. It makes me feel…optimistic.”

The old woman nodded. “Then you must also have the companion wall hanging. Calligraphy on ivory parchment. I mix my own ink and press the parchment myself. Here, would you like to read it?”

Elenore set the vase back on the shelf and reached for the rolled-up paper. Unfurling it she read the words of “Caged Bird” by someone named Maya Angelou. “A free bird leaps on the back of the wind…” Finishing the poem, she realized she was nearly breathless, the last line making her heart race. “…for the caged bird sings of freedom.” The words echoed in her mind. Free. What did free look like feel like? Was it a prize she would ever claim?

The shopkeeper spoke in that low voice that only your best friend uses when they are there to support you but maybe not provide a million solutions, none of which seem possible. “So, do you like it? You may have it to go with the vase. Both, for the price of the vase.”

Elenore looked up from the vase and caught the old woman's gaze. Unable to speak, she simply nodded.

Several minutes later, she was back in the bustling crowds, feeling disoriented and exposed. Her heart still raced in her chest, and her vision blurred with the sudden glare. To calm her nerves, she visited the veggie stalls to collect interesting candidates for the coming week’s meals. She spent considerable time choosing selections at the spice and herb stall. When her heart and hands had steadied, she began to wander through the fair, not sure of what she was looking for. Her back straightened as she searched the stalls nearby. Flowers would be nice, a bouquet for the new vase.

Her curiosity led her to a new vendor. At least she couldn’t remember seeing this one before. But then, she couldn’t recall the old woman from previous trips, either. Elenore looked back at the way she had come and shook her head when she couldn’t locate the stall. Well, it was crowded, and maybe the old woman only worked half a day. She turned and continued toward the flower merchant.

The aroma of several fresh blooms reached her before she reached the booth. Stepping out of the glare of the early afternoon sun, she adjusted her floppy hat to better see the offerings in the shady booth. There was a cool breeze blowing, and her well-developed radar began to ping. There was something unsettling about the small and crowded space. Oh, for goodness sake, I’m just unnerved by that old woman looking at me with her knowing smile. I’ll be fine. I just want to find some flowers for the vase.

Browsing through the offerings with intent, she jumped when a male voice behind her asked if he could help.

“I—I’m not sure. I just purchased a vase in another booth, and I’d like to find something to build an arrangement. Are these flowers freshly picked? I’d like something native to the area that might last a few days.”

The man smiled as his eyes grew more intense. “I live some distance away, but I pick my stock early in the morning and keep it cool during the drive. You might feel the fan I set up to keep the flowers cool under the shade. These are all plants that are native to our area. Are you looking to create a specific mood or stay with a particular color pallet?”

He seemed sincere, but his look didn’t put her at ease. At least she knew why there was a chilly breeze. He was still watching her.

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He Watches

 Can their love survive Halloween's heartbreak?

He crouched in the shadows, a creature of the night—a purveyor of passion and a despoiler of dreams. He was young—or young for what he was—ancient in human terms. After a century of watching over three mortal generations, he was well acquainted with waiting ...but he finally found her. She was born, became a woman, and his time was at hand. Their time! His tongue slid over darkened lips. A dribble of saliva, stained red from his evening meal, framed his smile. As patient as any alpha predator, he watched and waited.

***

Evelyn Barrow sighed as she gazed at the old, framed image in her lap. It was an old black-and-white photo, faded by time and handling. Her father passed it down to her through his father, who first received it from his mother—Eve’s great-grandmother, one of the figures in the picture. Alexandra Perkins had been the only female in her family line for generations—until Evelyn was born.

Her father said the picture was from the World War II era. The man in the picture, dressed in an old-style Army uniform, lent credence to his story. Evelyn’s research identified the outfit as a paratrooper’s garb. Her family’s oral tradition said the man was killed in action in the liberation of the Dachau prison camp. After surviving the horrors of the war, he was killed when his parachute failed to open.

The photo’s edges were dogeared, and several creases marred its surface. The blurred focus was the product of an amateur photographer, but somehow, the feelings of the two people were evident. They were in love.

A bent-backed elderly lady in a red plaid apron entered the sitting room with a feather duster in her hand.

“Do you need for anything, Miss Perkins…I mean, Mrs. Barrow?” she asked.

“Iris, after all the years you’ve been with our family, couldn’t you please call me Evelyn or Eve?”

“Yes. Misses…umm, I mean—Evelyn.”

“Please, put that down and sit with me for a moment.”

Iris sat on the sofa beside her, keeping a respectful distance.

“What do you know about this picture, Iris? And the man in it with my great-grandmother?”

“Surely, you’ve heard the stories, child? I was told he was in love with your great-grandmother and died in the war.”

“Were they? In love, I mean? What do you remember?”

“How old do you think I am, Miss?”

“I meant no offense, Iris. They look so happy...” Evelyn dropped her face into her hands and sobbed. Iris put an arm around her, stiffly at first, then tenderly—as if she were her child.

“There, there, Evelyn. Don’t carry on so. Married life takes some adjustment. You love Mister Barrow, and he loves you. Love conquers all, as my mother used to say.”

“I’m not so sure.” Evelyn sniffed and turned her head onto the older woman’s shoulder, wetting her dress with tears.

“I’ll tell you a secret about that picture if it will cheer you up, child, but first, you must dry your tears.”

Nodding her head, Evelyn swabbed at her eyes with the tissue Itris held. “I’m sorry, Iris. I am acting like a child. Forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Evelyn.” Iris stood and picked up her feather duster.

“Wait, Iris. I still want to hear that story you promised,” she patted the cushion beside her.

 “Are you sure?” Iris asked, and Evelyn nodded. “Do you believe in ghosts, Evelyn?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen one, but Daddy swore he did once. He was convinced it was the spirit of his grandfather.”

“Well, your father didn’t know this story. His father kept it from him. He was a grand old southern gentleman, your grandfather, but he didn’t truck in ghosts and things that go bump in the night. He said there were enough worrisome things in this life without borrowing trouble.”

“I don’t remember my grandfather very well, but that sounds right.”

“I believe the man who died at Dachau concerned him, though. He said such great evil festers, spreads, and draws in even darker things, wicked things born of ancient evil. Evelyn, that man—the one in the picture? Your grandfather said his mother saw that man several times—years after he died, mind you. He said she thought good things happened to her and your family whenever she saw him.  She called him her guardian angel because she’d see him, especially when times were hard, and they’d get better.”

“What kinds of things?”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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Master Brahm's Studio

 A master seeks to teach his students valuable lessons

The students, carefully selected from multiple kingdoms, fiefs, and villages, stood dutifully at their stations, clutching paintbrushes. Their eyes focused on the empty canvas on an easel before them; they waited for the master to speak.

“What do you see before you?” The master, a wizened man of advanced years, asked, “What do you see?”

An overly eager lad from the isle of Winsey raised his free hand, and the master raised an eyebrow and motioned for him to speak.

“A blank space, waiting,”

The master grunted, then sneered, “Poetic, but incorrect.” He looked around at the silent group and grunted again. “Waiting, yes, but what you see, ahh...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes narrowed. “What you see before you cannot be put into simple words; it is what you feel, what comes from within if you listen. It is what you allow if you permit yourself.”

The master glared at the wilting student from Winsey, “Not all of you will do that; not all of you are capable.” He whirled, turning his back on the nervous student, and the boy visibly sagged in relief.

Master Brahm hummed to himself as he chose a paintbrush from the collection on his desk. There were many, all different sizes, ranging from a large flat brush to the most delicate of all, a brush that sported only one long hair. His choice was made, and the master asked, “What is this?” He held a medium-sized brush in front of him like a sword.

Not a single student dared raise a hand.

“What? Not a one?” the master scoffed. “No one brave enough to venture a guess? I will give you a clue,” he chuckled. “What is a tool when it isn’t a tool?”

The room remained silent, but one girl fidgeted, and the master’s eyes were on her like a hawk. “You girl, you have a thought? A musing? A slight glimmer of understanding?”

The girl, a waif found in a small village from beyond the Blue Mountains, straightened her shoulders and fixed her pale, blue eyes on the master.

“What I should say, I will not, for I think we are here to learn what it is you want us to learn,” she said, then boldly added, “I think whatever I would say, you would find fault.”

The master stared, then guffawed, slapping his knee with one hand, the other still clutching his paintbrush.

“Quite right, quite right. You are an egg, barely pecking at your shell; you know nothing, struggling to free yourself,” he laughed. “Peck, peck, peck! But” he rasped,” Miss Thisbe from nowhere, you will share with me your thoughts, or you shall leave my studio!” He thrust the paintbrush into her face. “What is this?”

Thisbe didn’t flinch, and most of the room looked at her with admiration as she answered, “Sacrifice.”

“So,” Master Brahm whispered.

The master stared into Thisbe’s eyes, and she stared back without fear. Master Brahm held her gaze a moment, then turned to face the rest of the class.

“I could just tell you, yes? I am the teacher, yes?”

There was a great nodding of heads and whispers of consent, and the master shouted, “It is, yes, ‘Master Brahm! No Master Brahm.’ Do they not teach you manners from wherever you were found?”

The students mutedly replied, “Yes, Master Brahm.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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Organs for Sale

 The Witch's One Stop Shop is selling organs

The air was crisp and cool, signaling the arrival of autumn. The leaves had begun to turn to shades of fiery red and golden yellow, a beautiful backdrop for the second weekend of October in the early nineteen eighties. It was one of the last opportunities to sit around a campfire before winter’s chill set in. Jack’s father had recently built a firepit in the backyard, and a group of nine-year-old kids eagerly huddled around it, their faces lit up by the dancing flames. They roasted marshmallows on sticks and traded scary Halloween stories, trying to outdo each other with tales of ghosts and ghouls. Jack, a lanky boy with unruly jet-black hair, couldn’t resist sharing his classic story about the ghost that haunted the spooky house in the woods.

However, Steve, his short blond friend, quickly protested, declaring that they had all heard it countless times before. “Come on, Jack! You told this story a gazillion times already.”

But Jack persisted, determined to give them all goosebumps with his eerie storytelling skills. His face flushed with anger, and he was on the verge of snapping at Steve, but Claire, a tomboy who hated girly clothes and was known as the diplomat of their friend circle, stepped in. “Enough, you two!” she scolded the boys, shaking her head. “Steve, if you find Jack’s story boring, why don’t you tell a new story?”

“You tell a story, smarty-pants!” Steve retorted with a sneer. Despite his tendency to criticize others, he rarely had any original thoughts of his own to contribute. His sharp tongue was often used to deflect attention from his lack of creativity.

Claire’s voice quivered as she spoke, “Okay. I’m going to tell you what I saw yesterday.” She paused to take a deep breath before continuing, her eyes wide with fear of the memory. “Grandma and I went to the Witch’s One Stop Shop, you know, in that spooky house that used to be empty. And Marie’s mom, who works nearby, saw a ghost there when she was walking home late one night.” The words hung in the air, thick with tension.

“Come on, Claire, you didn’t see a ghost, did you?” Steve cackled.

Claire replied with a nervous tremor in her voice, “Of course not! It was in the middle of the afternoon. But I’ve seen something that scared the daylights out of me.”

“What did you see?” Jack asked, his interest peaking.

“When we went into the store, there was a sign that said used organs for sale. And when the woman came out of the back door, I could swear she was a real witch. She wore black clothes, her hair in a messy bun, and she wore a black eyepatch over her right eye.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s a witch!” Charlie looked at Claire wide-eyed.

“No?” Claire snapped. “She had bloody gloves on, and she just took them off and threw them in the garbage.”

“Um…bloody gloves?” Jack shivered. “You mean…if, as you said, she’s selling organs…”

“What?” Steve whispered. “Like kidneys and livers and hearts kinda organs? Naw, it can’t be true!”

“I guess so...and what I saw made me think because I saw Marie’s mom leaving the store with a small package in her hand that was smeared with blood,” Claire said, wringing his fingers and taking a deep breath. “You guys know that Marie is very sick and waiting for the right organ donor who can give her a kidney, right?”

“Jack let out a heavy, sympathetic sigh. “Yes, poor Marie,” he muttered.

“I went to visit her the other day,” Claire continued. “Marie was asleep, but her mom insisted I wait for her to wake up. So, I sat in the living room and started reading the book I got for Marie. But I couldn’t help overhearing Marie’s parents talking in the kitchen. Her mom cried and said that there was still no match for Marie and asked Marie’s dad what they were going to do. But then her father got angry and shouted that if they couldn’t find a match soon, he’d have to buy a kidney on the black market. He said there are plenty of organs for sale; they just needed to find the right seller.”

Continue reading the story in the anthology:

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