Everyone at the party looked ordinary, almost. I asked a woman in a boxy business suit what she was supposed to be.

“An upwardly mobile managerial corporate feminist from the late seventies,” she replied with the right amount of nasty attitude.

Next I saw a friend wearing a corduroy sport coat with patches on the sleeves and a knit tie.

"So, what are you?"

“A university teaching assistant from 1962.”

I left quietly so I could change out my vampire ninja outfit. I figured I’d come back wearing a short-sleeve white shirt, and black slacks, with a fully loaded pocket protector. 

Hubble, bubble…

Flippin’ heck. I just can’t summon up the necessary gravitas for this. Uttering drivel whilst hovering over a cauldron makes me want to laugh.

And I’m far too rational to believe in ghosts, so this Hallowe’en lark is not for me.

Guising* holds some appeal, though. My cousin Ally dressed up as a Monster High girl last year and knocked on the doors of bachelor homes.

The gents were so intrigued by her Ghoulish beauty they failed to notice her niftily pocketing their worldly goods and she came home with a Rolex, an iPhone and more than £500.

*Old Scottish term for trick or treating (without the trick bit). 

Joe and Andy stared into their neighbor’s barn. It was divided into four bins—the first just inside the door where they stood and the last at the door at the barn’s other end. Each bin was bursting with pigs in quarters so tight they could barely move. The neighbor was fattening them up, and as they grew he graduated them from bin to bin and then finally out the door and on to market. There must have been fifty or sixty pigs in there altogether.

“Man, they’re really packed in there,” Joe said.
“America’s gotta eat, Joe,” Andy replied. 

Tragedy aside, I thought it was all rather romantic. I'd visit his grave daily and lay fresh flowers at the base of the polished headstone. Daisies - his favourite. I can't decide whether or not it's ironic that he pushes them up now. 

When I left the house on the third morning after the incident, it was as though his presence followed. As I lent down to place a fresh bunch, I swear his voice came to me, an ethereal blessing:

"Fuck off pretending I'm dead, Louise."

It was almost like he was really with me.

The new school library was modern with windows that let in a grey light. Behind the donut desk was a librarian whose presence was friendly, calming. ‘Hi there,’ were the first words I heard from the American. A misfit, I took whatever friendship I could get – we read gothic fiction, supernatural stories.

At the end of the year, I was told she was leaving. Things wouldn’t be the same.

Now whenever I read a new book, I feel a warm presence and hear the sweet tang of a Californian accent.

I learned that my librarian had died over the holidays.

“Man, we’ve had an awesome run in the F.F.F. discussion on LinkedIn, haven’t we?” One story smiled.

“No doubt,” another replied. “But the thread has almost become a black hole. Tough to keep up with all the stories, isn’t it?”

“You’re telling me,” said the first. “Hey--wouldn’t it be great to have our own separate group in LinkedIn, along with the discussion?”

Story 2 grinned. “One step ahead of you. Our founder Emma has just set up a brand-new group. Imagine the possibilities.”

“Writing, commenting, reflecting, discussing ... the list goes on. This group looks pretty awesome for all!”

“And, what is your answer? Will it be door #1, door #2, or door #3?”

The crowd roared its suggestions. Numbers came from every direction, as Bob looked from door to door.

He clenched his teeth. “OK. Door #3.”

“And behind #3 we find . . .”

A fluffy goat made its BAHHHH noise as it walked on a leash towards the contestant. Bob’s shoulders slumped, as the crowd roared with laughter.

“But, guess what? That’s only the gag gift. You’ve actually won a ten-day trip to Oahu. Pack your bags!”

Bob’s eyes popped out.

He never saw it coming.

Carlos returned from his trip, eager to collect his puppy Chiquita. Beulah, his friend and dog-sitter, met him outdoors.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said. “No, don’t worry. Chiquita is OK. But. . .”
They walked indoors, and he gaped at the shambles – the food-strewn carpet, the shattered lamps.
“Did someone break in?” he asked.
“It was That Cat, followed by Chiquita, and chased by my own Flora. I’m afraid Chi is a bad influence on her.”
Two days later, Beulah gazed in satisfaction. The carpet was professionally cleaned, the lamps were replaced.
And Carlos had paid.

She found entertainment in being unpleasant: to neighbours, to friends, to her few remaining relatives. Her grown-up children tolerated her out of duty. Above all she hated men.

Though she claimed to be a Christian, her actions and attitudes said otherwise. She thought her lectures and advice amusing and informed; acquaintances found her tiresome.

Eventually she launched a lawsuit over some trivial affair that she insisted on pursuing right to the Supreme Court. She won, but had to use all her savings and sell her home to pay costs.

When she left the neighbourhood, everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

“Must we do it like this, Jeremy?” Wendy asked.

Tonight though, Jeremy was going to have his way; Wendy just needed gentle coaxing.

"It'll be all right. Just relax."

"We've never done it this way before. It feels so unnatural."

"Trust me."

"It's a bit tight," Wendy said. Ignoring her, Jeremy eased her into position and slipped gently in.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I suppose not."

"You'll allow me to reverse you into the garage in future?"

"I suppose so," she sighed, adding, "Is this how you speak to all your cars?"

"Only the ones that speak back."

Gerald put his arm around Alice's shoulders as they left the theater after watching a horror movie. They strolled through the Halloween night as Trick-or-Treaters scampered about in their costumes.

Suddenly a black cat dashed across their path.

"Oh, Gerald," said Alice. "That's bad luck for us!"

"Nonsense, dear. That's pure superstition." He stopped and scraped his foot on the sidewalk as though to wipe away the cat's passing.

Immediately there came a thunderous growl as the black cat returned--having grown ten times its former size with fangs to match--to claim the two lovers for a Halloween snack.

I: Haunted Houses

Griswell put his hand on Wells' shoulder as they stopped for a red light in the seedier part of town.

"Look at that row of old houses. They're all boarded up and empty."

"Yeah," said Wells. "Those are some of my properties. Can't keep 'em rented, so I'm losing money hand over fist."

"Why don't you fix 'em up a bit, decorate 'em, then advertise this place as Wells' Happy Halloween Playland. I bet you'd make a fortune."

"You're probably right! And I wouldn't have to do much decorating--they already look like haunted houses!"



II: The Returning

There was a clunky knock on the front door.

"He's finally come back," grandma said. "I'll let him in."

The door swung open and the light from the oil lamp fell upon the creature crouching in the opening.

"It's your pa," grandpa said, from the shadows. "You look just like him, boy.

And suddenly I knew why there were no mirrors in the house, and why they kept all the rooms in near-darkness, and why I had never been allowed to go outdoors.


III: Beware The Trick Or Treaters

Dusk is fallin'; it's twilight on Halloween. Night's comin'--and here THEY come--again.

The Children of the Night, The Kids from Hell. You guessed it--the Trick or Treaters, howling and scampering like a pack of wild dogs across the lawns.

I wouldn't give 'em any candy, and they're really upset.

What's that rumblin' sound?! My God!--they've undermined my front yard. It's a gigantic sinkhole--and the front of the house is slidin' down into it.

Help! I'm bein' buried alive . . . !!!


IV: Bats

"Hey Mom, it's Halloween and we're missing a cool decoration."

"Like what, Tim? We've got a scarecrow, a witch, a wolfman and all that fake spider web strung about."

"Yeah, but we need bats. We gotta have bats for Halloween! Let's get some of the ones hanging in the garage, put 'em in a cage, and display 'em in the window."

"I don't know, Tim. The sun is almost set. Your unDeadDad will be up soon--and you know how touchy he is about his bats!"


V: Bad Luck

Gerald put his arm around Alice's shoulders as they left the theater after watching a horror movie. They strolled through the Halloween night as Trick-or-Treaters scampered about in their costumes.

Suddenly a black cat dashed across their path.

"Oh, Gerald," said Alice. "That's bad luck for us!"

"Nonsense, dear. That's pure superstition." He stopped and scraped his foot on the sidewalk as though to wipe away the cat's passing.

Immediately there came a thunderous growl as the black cat returned--having grown ten times its former size with fangs to match--to claim the two lovers for a Halloween snack.

Fred Hitch delivered the cage to the Cinchville Zoo and handed the paperwork to Zoo Manager Bob Kringle for signature.

"What's that!" said Bob.

"Ostrich," replied Fred. "I was told to deliver it. Just sign like always and I'll unload the thing."

"But--but--it's got five heads! and it's bright blue. It just can't be. This is impossible!"

"Mr. Kringle, if you want the bird, just sign here. If you don't, I'll take it back. It's your call."

Her brother had gone for a soldier, having decided that farming offered him no opportunity for adventure or riches.

Choices for girls in the late 18th century were scarcer. Annie wasn’t a natural cook, but it was the cook’s day off and she had left instructions to cook a pudding for the masters.

Annie wasn’t sure how to cook puddings. Or what went into them. She took ingredients from the larder, mixed them together and hoped for the best.

7 July 1791, Richard Sturdy, John Cartman and Rich’d Sturdy: “poisoned by neglect of a servant girl in making a pudding”.

“Ugh--the brain just hurts.” He grimaced.

“Aww ... the poor wittle brain can’t take so much stwess.” She smiled, looking on.

“Ah, put a sock in it. Not like YOU’VE never been busy enough to fry some brain cells.”

“Been there, done that. And I don’t have many to spare, either.”

“Well, what are we gonna do? Take deep breaths?”

She shook her head.

“Focus on positive, less stressful times that are bound to occur in the future?”

Another head shake.

“Buy an elephant and move to Tahiti?”

She just looked at him.

“I’m out of ideas.”

“My recommendation? Let one person put the new group together. Own it as it were. Otherwise, it becomes a clusterf***, a veritable ‘Clean up on Aisle Five.’ Maybe we could leave the existing thread intact or perhaps incorporate it in the new site—I’m sure an arrangement could be made. Then again, maybe there’s nothing salvageable here. If it turns out well, if it satisfies most participants, then 'Damn, I thought of it first.' Alternatively, if the center does not hold, I’ll say ‘what a stupid way to live.’” 

Has she saved herself? Dan was so cruel with her. What could I do? I know. I should’ve done more to protect her. But she’d never listen – school dropout, unemployed, lazy. Now she’s married – to Ali, the Moslem boy. She’s escaped, blissfully trading one hell for another. She’s obedient, totally brainwashed, wearing the Hijab, loving it. Even got her cooking and cleaning for him. Unbelievable!

Such passionate letters – describe the hand amputations, the beatings and hangings in the street –praising Allah. She longs for a child to devote as martyr for the cause. My daughter, the fundamentalist, has disowned us.

I am the City, the Sick City. I’m feeling far from well. That’s why they call me sick.

My cemeteries have suddenly emptied, and no one’s told me where they’re going.

I think my sewers may have turned inside out.

The river tastes bitter, the fish float belly up, the rats smirk.

The people spend all day, all night, cheating each other into copulation.

One of my skyscrapers has scraped the sky. And now the sky is scraping back. Clouds are lounging at every street corner.

I am the City, the Sick City. Put me down.

The dogs jumped out of the car in anticipation of a quick leap off the dock into the sparkling cold water of the reservoir. They leaped in unison but hit the loamy soil instead and did a forward roll. Confused but unhurt, they took off running . It was a cruel joke, something like yelling “Fetch” but not throwing the stick.

Pets, expected so little from their humans. So, Jack and Berk jumped off the dock in good faith. How do you explain drought and water rights?

“Call the pups back. I think there’s still water in the swimming pool.” 

“Owwwwwwww!””

“That was Carl Thompson. They’re threatening to call the cops if we don’t shut up the howling dog.”

“We don’t have a dog – wait. Did you tell them we don’t HAVE a dog? All I’m trying to do is breast feed and I have MASTITIS!”

“See—right there. How would the average person know what ‘mastitis’ is. Why don’t you just say breast infection. Why big words when a normal word is so much more –“

“ - Pedantic?”

“Bingo.”

“Where are you going?”

“The Thompsons. Our Top Dog has a feeding problem and they need to cut her a break.” 

Morgan shot Flynn so he could claim their invention as his own. Unfortunately someone heard the shot and called the authorities.

Fleeing, Morgan rushed back to the laboratory, set the control on their time machine to the 16th Century, and threw the switch. He vanished into the past just as the door burst open and the police came into the chamber.

Morgan stood in the early morning mist of 16th Century England. He had escaped! Then he realized he had defeated himself--for he had forgotten to program the machine to return him to his own time!