Earthquakes and Zombies

Undead Flesh is my newest novel set in my home state of Oklahoma and takes place after a massive earthquake causes the dead to rise from their graves. At the time of its writing, I had lived in Oklahoma for fifty-five years and never experienced or heard of an earthquake. I only chose one as the catalyst for my zombie apocalypse because it fit with the supernatural theme of the novel. I knew early on I wanted to write a scene where the actual dead crawled out of the ground. Diseased and plague zombies had been done to death (pardon the obvious pun). I had to have the real walking dead in all their maggoty gruesomeness. Originally, Undead Flesh was born out of a Nanowrimo which stands for for National Novel Writing Month. It is a challenge every year for writers to produce a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. I took the challenge, along with my good friend and fellow writer, Tim Baker, and dived right in to start whipping out this tale of Jack Garret fighting to keep his family alive in a zombie-filled apocalyptic world. I had already written two books and it seemed easy enough task to write this one. With only a basic image of how the tale began, and very little else, I plowed into the story letting the words fly off my fingertips as fast as I could write them. One morning, while writing about the earthquake happening to my characters, a real quake struck Oklahoma. It started near Norman and rattled up the state to Tulsa. Where I sat in my writing room, it felt like a large truck had rumbled past the house. I checked on Facebook and saw dozens of posts about the event that just happened. Granted it was not the huge quake described in my book, (thank God) but it gave me the incentive to continue on with the novel. That was over two years ago and Oklahoma has had several earthquakes since then. I didn't complete the Nanowrimo challenge of 50,000 words (I fell 6,000 words short) but the story of Jack Garrett kept dragging me back to the keyboard. It wasn't as easy to write as I thought. It was the story of a man who would walk through a zombie-infested hell to protect his family. It challenged all my skill as a writer and it reached deep into my heart. Now it is done and in just a few short weeks will be available on Amazon for readers to enjoy my little tale of earthquakes and zombies.

Underground Monster Carnival 2

The first Saturday of every March something wicked this way comes to Oklahoma City. It's the Underground Monster Carnival! This great event is an informal gathering of horror vendors, entertainers, and fans put on yearly by Art Sunday and his wife Stephanie. Housed in a building on the state fair grounds, this is a vendor friendly event with lots of space for each person to show their merchandise. As you walk along the multiple exhibit rooms, you'll see an assortment of handmade art, masks, clothing, and books; much of it locally produced. The great Count Gregore serenaded the crowd and there was actually a real carnival sideshow put on by Carnival Epsilon. This daylong event was a great way for me to connect with several fans of my books and to meet new ones. I was also able to promote my upcoming zombie novel Undead Flesh and show off the cover done by Gary Berger at DBG/graphix. This was a very fun day for all. My only complaint was that this event only happens once a year and I have to wait until March for another. 

Why is Killer Bunny smiling?

The lovely Anjanette Clewis

Cool costumes!

Always happy to meet a new fan.

Stopping to visit a foggy graveyard

An Italian movie zombie wanders by

Dennis on Writing

Okay, let me first tell you I'm an independent author, but consider myself a writer first and foremost. The author aspect is secondary. I've been a writer since the age of thirteen, but didn't finish anything substantial until about four years ago with my first collection of short stories titled 13 Nightmares. I've also written a werewolf novel titled Ebon Moon and have just finished two more books ready to be published.This blog post is about how I write and what I've learned about the craft up to this point.This is advice only. Use them as you will. The art of writing is exactly that: an art form. It is subject to the creative imagination of those who express themselves. Everyday I learn something about the craft. Below are my seven tips on writing.

1. Write, write, write, and then write some more: Okay, I know you've heard this a thousand times but I'm going to say it again. You can't be a writer unless you write. Period. Put your butt in a chair and do it. Try to set a time each day to write and stick to it. Write in a room by yourself  free of interruptions. Forget Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, blogs, Netflix, etc. Those things rob you of your writing time. If you're like me, you can only do good work about two to four hours a day anyway. Get your writing out of the way and then spend time doing other things. If you do it everyday, you'll have a 80,000 word manuscript before you know it.

2. Write something your passionate about:  I couldn't be hired to write a story or submission to an anthology unless its something I am passionate about. Don't go through the motions of writing. Do it with passion. Your emotions transfers to the reader. Writer and reader live in a symbiotic state. You want them to feel what you do while writing a piece of fiction. If you feel love, laughter, fear, and excitement while your writing the piece, so will the reader if you do it right. Show no fear. If it's in your heart then set it free in your story.A strong passion for the subject will also drive you to finish your piece of writing.

3. Keep it simple, stupid: Okay so you got a bachelor degree in English and have been through hundreds of creative writing classes and writing courses. Your vocabulary knowledge is incredible and you prove it in your use of long flowery poetic writing. You can write phrases like: 

         Jack shot a quick look out the opaque window to the boulevard below where townspeople scurried along a broken sidewalk trying to find shelter under the halogen glow of a dozen streetlights. Above their heads, thunderous clouds threatened to let loose a powerful downpour over the sleepy municipality of Rockford. Jack turned away from the windowpane and faced the only other occupant in the room. 
         “It’s going to start storming any minute, Sully,” he spoke anxiously."

Though the writing above is functional it can be simplified using the KISS (Keep it simple, stupid) method: 

         Jack glanced out the window. On the broken sidewalk below, people ran for shelter under the glow of halogen streetlights. Thunder crashed over their heads in the dark skies above the town of Rockford. He turned to the room’s other occupant. 
       “It’s going to storm, Sully,” he said.

Okay, this may not be the best example, but I hope you get the idea. Keep your sentences simple and direct. Easy reading is hard writing. Your reaching out to readers who have a thousand other things to occupy their time and you're asking them to put aside their lives to read your book. Streamline your large word count. Wow people with your story, and not your vocabulary. 

4. Passive writing equals passive story telling: Passive writing is a cancer that slips into your prose if your not diligent. It happens to me especially when writing the first draft. To me passive writing turns your reader into a passive participant to your story. It's makes them take one step back from your tale. Give your story an Active Voice. Passive example: 

The zombie was shot in the head by Jack.

Active example:  
 
Jack shot the zombie in the head.

I'm no English expert, but the use of the word "was" above is a sure identifier to me that the sentence is in passive voice. I search through my manuscripts for the word "was" in every sentence and see if I can say it in a more direct way. Other things that are a sure tip off of passive writing using the words "could" a lot in your manuscript. I do this a lot in my rough manuscript:

Example:

Jack could hear a car engine start.

Should be changed to:

Jack heard a car engine start.

Change it out and tighten up your sentence structure.

5. Avoid adverbs like the zombie plague: Drop words ending in -ly. Cut the words quietly, carefully, sadly, loudly, quickly, etc. from your descriptions whenever possible. Replace them with a good adjective. 
Example:

        Jack stealthily walked up to the door and slowly turned the knob. Carefully, he entered the room beyond and heard someone snoring loudly.

This plays into the KISS method listed above. Drop the adverb and write it in a more direct manner.

       Jack eased his way to the door and turned the knob slow to the right. Careful not to make a sound, he entered the room beyond and heard someone's loud snoring."

There you have it. Another note: Use the term "suddenly" very seldom in your manuscript. I tend to use it at certain times, but do so with trepidation..

6. Said is often good enough: In dialogue "said" is often the only term you need to use to describe someone talking. Drop the usage of replied, stated, cried, shouted, answered, etc. if at all possible. A good speech tag can help you identify the person speaking as well. Once you establish the people speaking you can move the conversation between two people with out using any identifiers.Example:

                 “It’s going to storm, Sully,” Jack said.

                “The weatherman reported rain.” Sully frowned. “We’ll just have to work with it.”

                “The storm could hide the fact that we’ve cut the power to the building.”

                “Then it could be to our advantage. Once the power is cut we enter the bank unseen.”

                “Let’s hope.” Jack turned back to staring out the window.

7. Feel the flow, baby: This maybe a little hard to explain but I'm going to give a shot at it. There's a certain flow to your prose. A rhythm that keeps the reader engaged as they go from one sentence to the next. If the flow is proper the reader's eye moves along your story without effort. A bad sentence can break this flow like rocks sticking up in a running river. The best way to check the flow of your story is to read it aloud to yourself. If your tongue snags on a sentence and it doesn't feel write alter the wording to match the flow.  Here is an example from my book Ebon Moon: 

Reaching the pole he erected the day before, Jasper stopped to catch his breath. The sun beat warm upon his brow, and he wiped sweat away with the sleeve of his grimy work shirt. He took a moment to look back over the farm he worked for the last fifty years. The clouds broke the sunlight to cast shifting shadows over the rusting tractor, the overgrown fields, and the peeling paint of the house and barn. When Emma was alive, golden wheat fields surrounded the property. The farm died when Satan murdered his beloved wife. Its only crop now was the signs he made.

I hope you found my tips on writing useful. Now get out there and write. You can check out more about my writing and books at dennismcdonaldauthor.com

Black Friday

 This little tale of shopping horror was originally printed in Dark Moon Presents Zombies horror story anthology. This is an excellent collection of zombie horror stories put together by Stan Swanson and the people at Dark Moon books. You can pick up the collection here: http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Moon-presents-Jason-Shayer/dp/0983433534/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1353685323&sr=1-1&keywords=dark+moon+presents+zombies.  My little edition to the anthology is listed below for your enjoyment. But beware. Shopping on Black Friday can be brutal.

BLACK FRIDAY

“Cam, check this out,” Scott Norris said above the continuous Christmas music being piped in through the overhead speakers of the ValMart Superstore.

“What?” Cameron Miller asked. “Why aren’t you back in Hardware?”

“You’ve got to see what’s on TV. Where’s the remote?”

“By the register.”

Cameron stood from kneeling in front of a shelf of laptops. He had spent a long and tiring night preparing the display of new electronics. The last thing he needed now was to be caught talking to Scott, especially when the assistant night manager, Mr. Dolton, hovered around looking for any reason to write someone up.

“I just got a text from Linda.” Scott grabbed the television remote from the checkout stand located in the center of the electronics display floor.

“You’re not supposed to carry your cell phone at work.”

“Something’s on the news.”

“What?”

“I’ll show you.”

He clicked the remote at the wall of HD flat-screens and the televisions switched to the news channel. The same broadcast filled all the multiple flat-screens at once. Overhead images shot from a helicopter showed a massive train derailment and flames rising in to the sky.

“-two hours ago outside of Timber Heights,” the female newscaster said in her unemotional tone. “This is the scene confronting firefighters and emergency responders. A massive chemical spill and fire due to the derailment of an Army -”

“That’s less than five miles from here,” Cameron said.

“I know,” Scott replied, and added, “I drive that way home.”

“– a toxic chemical cloud spreading out from the crash scene. Reports of multiple fatalities are unconfirmed at this moment. The governor has-”

“What are you doing?” A stern voice asked from behind.

Cameron and Scott turned around. Mr. Dolton stood in the aisle behind them between digital cameras and PC printers. He adjusted his thick black-framed glasses and crossed his arms in disgust.

“You need to see what’s on the news.” Cameron nodded toward the wall of flat screens displaying the horrific scenes of the train wreck.

“No.” Mr. Dolton shook his head. “What I need is for you to get back to work.”
“The news said there was a train wreck -”

“So what?” He took the remote out of Cameron’s hand and clicked the televisions back to the endless loop of Disney promos. “There are hundreds of shoppers waiting outside in the cold for us to open in twenty minutes and you two slackers are standing around doing nothing.”

“But there’s been a terrible disaster - ” Scott said.

“There will be another one if we don’t have this store ready,” Mr. Dolton interjected. “You two have never worked a Black Friday. I have. It’s insane. Last year there were two old ladies fist fighting in the aisles for a Tickle Me, Elmo doll. I had to call the police.” He nodded toward the front of the store. “All hell is about to break loose when we open.”

Scott’s cell phone buzzed in his front shirt pocket. He jumped at the sound and tried to cover it with his hand.

“What’s that noise?” Mr. Dolton asked.

The buzzing continued.

“What noise?” Scott replied trying to ignore the irritating sound.

“It’s coming from your front pocket.” A stern look crossed Mr. Dolton’s face. “Is that your cell phone?"

Scott’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I forgot to leave it in my locker.”

Mr. Dolton held out his palm. “Give it to me.”

He removed the phone, flipped it open, and tried to read the text.

“Now.” Mr. Dolton snatched it from his hand. “This is a serious breach of employee conduct. I hate to do this to you boys but I want you both in my office now.”

“What did I do?” Cameron asked.

“You were standing around talking.”

He turned and started across the store. Scott followed Mr. Dolton. Cameron resigned to take the rear of the procession. Disappointment and frustration settled upon him like a dismal rain. He had already missed most of Thanksgiving with his family because he had to work stocking the shelves throughout the night. What was his reward? Another disciplinary report by that fat imbecile Mr. Dolton. He couldn’t think of anything more pathetic. ValMart had a three strikes and you’re out policy. This would be his second.

They wound their way through the various departments while the other employees witnessed their walk of shame. Cameron caught the eye of Julie, the cute auburn haired girl working at one of the front registers. She attempted a weak smile before looking away. His ears reddened with embarrassment. He must have looked like a complete loser. There would be no way she would ever go out with him now.

The sad march continued until it reached a flight of stairs leading to the Manager’s Office. Mr. Dolton took the lead and ascended to the door. He opened it, and motioned for them to enter.
The office beyond was a small room with a desk taking most of the space. Framed pictures of current and past ValMart managers covered the crappy wood paneling. One wall-sized window provided a bird’s eye view of the sales floor. Cameron thought of it as Mr. Dolton’s perch where he watched his employees like a fat vulture. The other wall housed a bank of security television screens showing surveillance of the interior of the store and the parking lot outside. One television mounted in the corner was set on the Weather Channel with its volume down.

“You boys take a seat,” Mr. Dolton said.

Cameron settled into a chair in front of the desk and felt his heart sink while his butt sank deeper into the cheap upholstery. This disciplinary action was the last thing he needed on an already shitty holiday. Scott took the chair beside him.

Once Mr. Dolton squeezed behind the desk, he peered at them both with disdain through his thick glasses.

“You know why I get to wear this shirt and tie, and you don’t?” he finally asked. Neither one of them provided an answer. Mr. Dolton cleared his throat and continued, “Because I didn’t slack off and stand around watching television. I dug in and got the job done. That’s why after seven years with the store, I was promoted to assistant night manager. This tie is my badge of honor for all the hard work I’ve done.”

“There’s a mustard stain on your badge of honor,” Scott said.

“That’s not important. If you want to be more than just a sales clerk and night stock boy, you need to change your attitude and get to work. Then one day you’ll get to wear a tie like me. The Christmas shopping season officially starts this morning and I need employees who can pull their workload. That’s why I’m writing you both up.” He opened a drawer on his desk and searched inside. “I won’t tolerate any breach of conduct on my watch.”

While Mr. Dolton was occupied searching through his desk, Cameron felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Scott pointing toward the bank of security monitors. One screen provided an overhead view of the area outside the front door. A mob of customers milled around waiting in the frigid cold. Cameron guessed their number to be at least three or four hundred.

Mr. Dolton closed a desk drawer and Cameron turned his gaze back to him.

“I don’t seem to have any more disciplinary forms left.” He stood and straightened his mustard-stained tie. “I’m going to run down to the HR office to grab some. You two are to stay here until I get back, and no talking while I’m gone.”

After Mr. Dolton closed the office door behind him, Scott turned to Cameron.

“Dude,” he said.

“Don’t talk to me, man. You got my ass in trouble.”

“Cam, listen to me.”

“What?”

Scott pointed to the screen showing the mob of shoppers waiting outside. “You don’t see it?”
“I see a bunch of people freezing their asses off.”

“I know.” Scott gestured toward a second security monitor. This one was fed by the exterior camera sweeping the parking lot. The shifting surveillance showed a parking lot void of vehicles. “So where are all the cars?”

Cameron wrinkled his brow in concentration. He tried hard to think of how a crowd of people arrived at the store without driving their cars.

“Maybe they came by bus,” he decided. “Or they took taxis.”

“I think they walked here.”

“That’s ridiculous. Hundreds of people didn’t walk through the cold in the dead of night to stand outside our door. Unless they are all homeless, I just don’t see that happening. Even if it is Black Friday.”

“Listen, man, the last text by Linda that got us in trouble … I only got to read a little bit of the message before Mr. Lardass snatched it from me.”

“What did you read?”

“I saw the words ‘dead people’ in the text.”

“So what?”

“It’s just weird, and all.”

Scott stood and crossed to the television screen displaying the Weather Channel.

“What are you doing?” Cameron asked.

“Turning it to the news.” He changed the channel.

“You’re going to get us in more trouble with Mr. Dolton.”

“Don’t be such a puss,” Scott stepped back so they could both see the screen.

More shocking images of the train derailment shot from an overhead news copter flashed on the television. The scene shifted to uniformed men in black gas masks and scenes of a raging fire with a white cloud rising into the night sky. Next, the story cut to an impressive looking military officer in full dress uniform giving some sort of statement at a news conference. There was no sound so Cameron couldn’t make out the gist of the statement but could tell by the dour look on the man’s face something serious had happened.

“We need to hear this.” Scott increased the volume. The man’s voice filled the little office.

“- aren’t ruling out the possibility that this was a terrorist attack, either. Right now we are handling it like an accident. I will let you know when more information is revealed to us.”

“General,” a reporter said raising her hand. “What exactly was the train carrying?”

“It’s classified. All I can say is that the cargo was bound for incineration in Colorado. That’s all I’m willing to divulge at the moment for national security reasons.”

“That’s the shits,” Scott said. “This train wreck happened just five miles away and it’s all over the news.”

In one of the security monitors, Cameron spotted Mr. Dolton crossing the sales room floor toward his office.

“Change it back,” he said. “Lard-ass is on his way.”

Scott switched the television back to the Weather Channel and quickly took his seat. Soon after, the door opened and Mr. Dolton entered the room. He sat heavily in his chair behind the desk and crossed his arms. Cameron noticed he didn’t have any disciplinary forms with him.

“Well the HR office was locked,” Mr. Dolton said. “I wish they would leave me a key during the night shift. Anyway, I’ll make a deal with one of you. If you will help me with something, I’ll skip the write up.”

“What something?” Scott asked.

“One of you two boys needs to unlock the front doors to let the customers in.” His gaze shifted back and forth between them.

“Isn’t that your job?” Cameron asked.

“Normally, I would, but a couple of years ago, one of the store managers got trampled to death on Black Friday by a crowd in Rochester, New York. It was during our promotion of 50% off all big screen TVs for the first fifty shoppers.”

“So you want one of us to take the risk,” Scott replied.

“You boys are younger and faster than me. You can get out of the way of the crowd better than I can.” Cameron sensed fear in Mr. Dolton’s gaze. He had probably agonized all night about opening the doors to the mob waiting outside. “So who’s going to do it?”

“I will,” Cameron answered.

“Dude, you’re ass is going to get trampled,” Scott said.

“No it’s not. I’m Captain of the track team. There’s no way a bunch of fat old ladies are going to catch me. Besides, I need this job and can’t get into any more trouble.”

“Good.” Mr. Dolton let out a sigh of relief. He peered down at his watch. “Three minutes to open. We better get moving.”

They exited the office with Mr. Dolton leading the way. Descending the stairs, Scott said in a low voice behind him, “Cam, you saw the news story. The air outside may be poisoned by the train wreck.”

“The crowd has stood out there for an hour and haven’t gotten sick or died,” Cameron replied. “The air has got to be okay.”

They reached the sales room floor. Mr. Dolton crossed to Julie’s register and grabbed the microphone to the store’s PA system. The slim auburn haired beauty stood silently behind her register and caught Cameron’s gaze. She smiled and his heart quickened. God, he wished she would go out with him.
After a second of screeching feedback, Mr. Dolton’s voice boomed throughout the store’s PA system. “Listen fellow ValMart sales representatives. We are about to open for Black Friday. I want everyone in their places and ready to assist the crowd. Look sharp and show them the true ValMart spirit.”

Mr. Dolton put down the microphone. “It’s time.” He reached for the store keys in his slacks pocket, singled out one large silver key, and handed it to Cameron. “This opens the front door. Turn it to the left.”

Cameron took the offered key.

“You’re going to open the store?” Surprise showed on Julie’s face.

“I guess so,” Cameron replied and started stretching his legs.

“Now what are you doing?” Julie chuckled.

“I always like to stretch before a sprint,” he answered, hoping it didn’t make him look like a dork.

“Enough chit-chat,” Mr. Dolton said. “Cameron, go unlock the doors. Scott I want you back to assist in electronics. The shoppers are going to head that way because of the Black Friday special we’re running on laptops.”

“Dude,” Scott said before he left. “I hope you run fast.”

“I do.” He smiled at Julie. She returned the favor.

With Mr. Dolton by his side, Cameron headed for the entrance. Together they walked past the bay housing all the shopping carts waiting for eager shoppers. Mr. Dolton stopped twenty-five feet from the front doors, which were fogged due to the cold. The crowd beyond appeared like dark forms through the misty glass.

“Okay, son,” Mr. Dolton said stepping off to the side. “Let them in.”

Holding the silver key, Cameron approached the front door. When the crowd spotted him, they started to pound against the glass.

“Unlock the door,” they shouted in chorus.

“Step back away,” Cameron demanded while slipping the key in the lock. “I’m not going to open until you step back.”

Cameron was about to turn the key when a man’s face pressed against the fogged glass. He resembled something out of a nightmare. Burned flesh scarred the man’s features and fresh blood streamed out of his dead eye sockets and down his blistered cheeks.

“Let me in,” he croaked in a hoarse voice.

A jolt of shock passed through Cameron’s body. He staggered back while more blistered faces with blood pouring from their white eye sockets pressed against the glass.

“Open the door,” they demanded in an inhuman chorus.

Panicked, Cameron turned and fled. Behind him the shouts grew louder and more intense.

“Why didn’t you open the door?” Mr. Dolton stepped out and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“They’re not human,” Cameron sputtered.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Dolton asked above the pounding against the glass. “They’re just customers.”

The doors shattered in an explosion of battered glass. The horrific mob poured into the store in a seething mass of blistered bodies and the stench of something reminiscent of chlorine and sulfur. Mr. Dolton screamed and tried to escape the onslaught, but was too slow. A multitude of burn-scarred hands grabbed him and forced him to the floor. The mob ripped into his flesh while he laid screaming in terror and flailing madly in his own blood. In seconds, they had devoured his body.

Cameron ran to Julie. She stood frozen in fear beside her register. Behind him, the blood-thirsty cannibalistic mob flooded in to the store. Other clerks were dragged down and devoured to the tune of the inane Christmas music piping in above their screams.

“What’s happening?” Julie shouted.

Cameron grabbed her hand. “Come with me!”

She followed while he raced to the back of the store. In the aisles on either side, the inhuman cannibals swarmed the employees. The ValMart Superstore had become a scene of incredible carnage.

He reached the electronics department.

“Camer -” Julie’s shrill voice screamed behind him.

He turned and saw he still held her hand but it had been severed at the wrist. He looked back down the aisle. Julie was being engulfed by the vicious mob. Her terror-filled eyes met his one last time before the pack of cannibals ripped into her flesh. In the next instant, she was lost in the devouring mass of people.

“Oh God!” He threw aside her soft hand. “Julie!!”

Cameron retreated until his back bumped against the wall of flat-screen televisions. To the side, he watched the mob feed on Scott behind the register. His bloody legs kicked and flailed while they ripped him apart with their bare hands. Before he became a victim, Scott must have clicked the televisions to the news story of the train wreck because the wall of screens was filled with the same image of a female newscaster.

“… the Army isn’t saying if the disaster is the result of a deliberate act of terrorism.” Her calm voice reported above the feeding of the crowd. “Nor are they saying what cargo the train was carrying. Homeland security has declared Timber Heights, Colorado, under martial law and a news blackout is in place as a matter of national security. Reports of multiple casualties due to the disaster are reaching the station. We will keep you informed when details become known to us.” 
    
Cameron watched in terror. The mob drew nearer with blistered faces and dead white eyes now focused upon him. The mass of cannibals licked their bloody mouths and their stench of chemical gas choked his lungs. He pushed further back harder against the flat-screen.

“On a much lighter note,” the female reporter’s voice said at his back. “Today is Black Friday and stores across the nation are preparing for the hordes of consumers-”

Cameron screamed before the mob fell upon him.

The Last Trick or Treater

This story is from my compilation 13 Nightmares and won the Halloween story competition on Fan-Story in 2007.It is set for its second incarnation on film in the upcoming movie For Nightmares. I hope you enjoy The Last Trick or Treater.


Happy Halloween!












 “Would you like me to tell you a ghost story?” Mr. Morley asked.

            “Sure. After all, it’s Halloween. ” Charlene Carson smiled and leaned forward toward the crippled man scrunched down in the wheelchair. He peered at her with a rheumy glazed look. In the dim yellow light cast by lamps in the musty living room, the old man appeared frail and twisted, his gray wispy hair quickly disappearing due to the chemo. Charlene knew from his medical charts provided by the hospice agency that he was only fifty-eight, but the ravages of terminal cancer had aged him beyond his years. She tucked the blanket tighter over his lap. “First, are you warm enough, Mr. Morley?”

            “Yes, yes,” he replied as he waved her away with his hand.” Do you have any children, Nurse Carson?”

            “I’m not married.”

            “I never married either.” A thin smile pushed through the loose skin of the old man’s face. “You’re a very pretty nurse. Not like the other broads with rough hands and a rude bedside manner to match. To them, I’m just a living corpse. Someone whose butt they have to wipe. You’re different and would make a good wife.”

            “You’re too kind, Mr. Morley.” she said as she pushed a lock of blonde hair from her face. The only men in my life now are dying ones, she thought. I work too many hours as a nurse to even think of a boyfriend, let alone a husband. “Why did you ask if I had children?”

            “Because Halloween is a wonderful night to be a child. When I was growing up, it was one of the biggest holidays of the year. I was raised very poor. My brothers and I looked forward to the night with great anticipation. We would trick-or-treat until our feet were raw and our bags were full. When we were done, we would go home and dump our candy out onto the bed and stay up late, eating and trading sweets.” He looked down at his gnarled hands. “Those were the good days of Halloween.”

            “I love the children dressing up and going door to door to get candy.”

            “Of all my childhood memories, Halloween is my best,” Mr. Morley said.

            “Really? I wouldn’t have thought so. You told me to turn off the porch light so we wouldn’t have any trick-or-treaters. Why didn’t you ask me to buy any candy? We could have handed out treats to the children who came to the door. I figured you didn’t believe in Halloween for some religious reason.”

            “Quite the opposite. In fact it is tonight, on Halloween, that I’m going to die.”

            “Mr. Morley, we both know you have terminal cancer but the doctor says you have another six months. You’re going to live to see Christmas and Valentine’s Day.”

            Mr. Morley shook his head. “Tonight I’ll die and you’ll be here to witness.”

            “I’ve been at the bedside of dozens of terminal patients. I can tell you only God chooses when you die.” Charlene stood from the couch and adjusted the old man’s pillow behind his head. “If you want me to assist with your suicide, I won’t do it.”

            One of his gnarled hands grasped her by the wrist as he looked up to her. “Do you believe in life after death?”

            Charlene paused for a moment. Death was part of her job. She thought of the patients who had expired with her by their bedside, the shriveled husks of old men and women taking their last breaths, some surrounded by family members, some alone and holding her hand. She liked to believe they went to a better place after death, but she really wasn’t sure. “I have faith in the idea there is a place we go after we die,” she answered.

            “Your faith is not misplaced, for there is life after death.” Mr. Morley released her wrist. “Oh, don’t get me wrong; it’s not like your Sunday school fairytales where an omnipotent white-haired old man sits upon a throne in the sky above a city with streets of gold. The spirit passes into a lifeless gray realm that is a shadow of our own world. Here, the souls of the departed shuffle aimlessly until passing through the envelope to the next world.”

            “It sounds very bleak.”

            “It is what it is. Sometimes a given spirit still has ties to this world because of the unfair or violent nature of its passing. These souls cross over into our realm from time to time.”

            “Ghosts,” Charlene said. 

            “Precisely. Which brings me to my ghost story.” Mr. Morley leaned back in the chair and crossed his hands in his lap. “The story of Scabby Bobby.”

            “Scabby Bobby? Why on Earth would anyone have a name like that?”

            “On the mantle you will find a photo album. Please, bring it to me.”

            She checked her watch. Just after seven in the evening; three more boring hours to go until she finished her shift and went home to a lonely five-room apartment. At least if she kept Mr. Morley talking the time might pass more quickly. Charlene stood and crossed the living room carpet. Waiting on the mantle of the unused stone fireplace sat a leather-bound photo album. She picked it up and prepared to return to Mr. Morley’s side when she heard the laughter of children from somewhere outside the house. Sliding aside the edge of a curtain, she glanced out a picture window to the street. Beneath the streetlight on the corner, a group of trick-or-treaters passed along the sidewalk in a parade of goblins, witches, and other Halloween costumes. They walked on down the dark street without paying any attention to Mr. Morley’s old house.

            “What did you see out the window?” Mr. Morley asked as she handed him the photo album.

            “Children trick-or-treating,” Charlene said as she settled back onto the couch. “None came to the door.”

            “Eventually, one will.” Mr. Morley opened the leather cover of the album. “But, I’m getting ahead of myself.” One of his yellowed fingernails tapped a black-and-white photograph on the album page. “That’s us in 1960. The Rowdy Rangers were what we called ourselves then, just a rag-tag bunch of boys growing up on the poor side of town. We spent our days playing sandlot baseball, riding bikes, and getting into mischief.” He slid the album over for her to get a better look at the photograph. In the faded black-and-white picture she saw four boys, about thirteen years old, standing together wearing T-shirts and ball caps, and holding baseball bats. A fifth overweight boy, who reminded Charlene of a fat Beaver Cleaver, stood apart from the motley group. 

            Mr. Morley tapped each boy’s face in the photo with a fingernail. “That’s Alex, Paul, Tanner, and me.”

            “Who’s the heavyset kid?” Charlene asked.

            “Bobby Riser,” he said and let out a long breath, “or Scabby Bobby as we so cruelly named him. Back then, childhood obesity wasn’t so common or accepted as it is today. Poor Bobby took the brunt of all our teasing and name calling. He was a disgusting kid, too. He would pick and eat his scabs and, thus, he earned the nickname. He always smelled like sour milk and spoke with a speech impediment and could not say words ending with a T without severe stuttering. He wanted so badly to be a part of the Rowdy Rangers, but we never let him join. We only tolerated his presence so we could push him around and call him names. We made him do terrible things, too. One biology class, Tanner told him to eat some dead flies lying on the window sill and he did, right in front of the class. I guess he just wanted desperately to fit in and be a part of us.”

            “Children can be so heartless.” Charlene slid the photos back to Mr. Morley.

            “I’m not proud of our actions back then,” he said and closed the album. He placed his wrinkled hands on top of the cover and gazed back at her. “Three years after that picture, we were sixteen years old and still called the Rowdy Rangers. Our activities had matured as well. Now, we were committing acts of juvenile delinquency such as breaking windows, picking fights, shoplifting cigarettes, etc. It was Halloween night in 1963, and we were going up and down the neighborhood, scaring little kids and egging houses. Finally, it got so late that all the kids were in bed. That’s when we ran across Scabby Bobby out trick-or-treating. He came down the sidewalk, dressed in a stupid hobo costume, and carrying a bag full of candy.”

            “What happened?” 

            “It was like hitting a gold mine for us Rowdy Rangers when we found Scabby Bobby in a lame hobo mask and too old to be trick-or-treating. We laughed and pushed him around, calling him all kinds of terrible names, until he cried and pleaded for us to leave him alone. Tanner then grabbed his bag of candy and we took off running across a road. Bawling like a baby, Bobby followed, and because of the puny eyeholes in that stupid hobo mask, he couldn’t see the truck. I remember hearing the squeal of brakes and looking back as his body flew up onto the hood and then back onto the pavement with a sick thud. I can still see Bobby, lying on the pavement with his head turned sideways and his mask halfway off his shattered face, a pool of red blood spreading outward from his body. We ran off into the night and sat and ate Bobby’s candy together in a railroad yard.”

            “That’s awful, Mr. Morley.”

            “The next morning at school, we heard the news that Bobby Riser was dead. We didn’t think twice about it. We never felt bad about Bobby and soon forgot all about him. Our lives continued and eventually the Rowdy Rangers grew up and broke apart. Tanner died in ’Nam in ’68. The rest of us former Rangers remained here in this town. One Halloween night I got a call from Alex. He was frantic and screaming over the phone saying Scabby Bobby was standing on his front porch. I thought he was drunk or crazy and hung up. I wanted to forget our past. The next day I read in the paper Alex died of a heart attack. The following Halloween, Paul falls down a flight of stairs and breaks his neck. The police report said he was running from someone in a hobo costume. I knew it was Scabby Bobby and I was going to be next.”

            “This can’t be a true story,” Charlene said.

            “You said you wanted to hear a ghost story. Here it is,” Mr. Morley said, and added, “the next Halloween I waited for Scabby Bobby in the living room of my house. I knew what I had to do. The doorbell rang and there he was in his hobo outfit, his torn mask hanging from his dead face. I handed him a bag of trick-or-treat candy and he disappeared. Bobby had come back from the spirit world to get his stolen candy. That’s how I know there is life after death.” Mr. Morley’s rheumy eyes looked toward the foyer and the front door of the house. “It’s been the same every Halloween since. Scabby Bobby comes to the door, I give him his bag of candy and he goes away.”

            “This is a gag, right? You’re setting me up for a joke or something,” Charlene looked around the living room. “I don’t see any bag of candy to give Scabby Bobby when he shows up.”

            “I told you on this night I was going to die,” Mr. Morley replied. “Tonight it ends.”

            “You’re scaring me, Mr. Morley. I know it’s Halloween, but that gives you no right to frighten me. I don’t think it’s funny.”

            “An old debt must be paid.” Mr. Morley shrugged. “You’ll see firsthand evidence of life after death tonight.”

            “Mr. Morley, I must thank you for creeping me out this―”

            The doorbell rang. Charlene gasped in shock.

            “It’s time,” Mr. Morley said. “Go see who is at the door.”

            She stood as the doorbell chimed again. Entering the foyer, Charlene did not turn on any lights but placed her eye against the peephole in the front door to see who was on the porch. In the absence of a porch light, she could only make out the shape of a short, stocky person wearing a clown or hobo mask; she could not be sure. The doorbell rang again. 

            This is ridiculous, Charlene told herself. Get a grip on yourself. It’s just some kid out trick-or-treating. After all, it’s Halloween, for God’s sake. 

            The doorbell rang once more.

            “It’s Scabby Bobby,” Mr. Morley’s voice called out from the front room. “Let him in.”

            Charlene unlocked the door but left the chain latched. She opened the door the one-inch space the chain allowed. In the dim light of the foyer, a hobo mask filled the gap of the open door; a painted rubber eye with a pencil-sized hole where the pupil should be, stared back at her.

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t,” a distorted childlike voice spoke from inside the mask. For a second, Charlene thought she smelled something sour or rotten wafting out from the figure.

            “I’m sorry, kid,” Charlene said. “We’re not celebrating Halloween. Try another house if you want candy.”

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.”

            Charlene shut the door and locked it.

            The doorbell rang again. Twice. Three times and then silence. Pressing her ear against the door, she heard the sounds of slow shuffling feet stepping down the steps from the front porch. Letting out a long sigh, she returned to the living room.

            “He’s gone, Mr. Morley,” she said.

            “No,” the old man shook his head. “He won’t stop until he gets his candy or me.”

            Charlene sat back on the couch. “I have to say this is a great Halloween trick. First you tell me this ghost story about Scabby Bobby and then you have someone come to the door dressed in a hobo costume to scare me. Who was it? A nephew or the child of someone you knew? Of all the tricks to pull on someone tonight, this has to be one of the best. Am I on television? Is there a hidden camera somewhere?”

            “It’s no trick.” Mr. Morley’s eyes looked at her with sadness. “I wish it was, but it’s not.” 

            A shadow appeared against the shade hanging in a living room window. The silhouette reminded her of Emmett Kelley, the famous hobo clown from the Barnum and Bailey circus of the fifties. A light tapping shook the glass.

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.”

            “Screw this, I’m calling 911!”  Charlene said, fishing her cell phone out of her purse. She dialed the number. It rang three times.

            “Emergency operator,” a woman’s voice buzzed in her ear. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

            “I’m at a house on 1312 Rockton Street and we have a prowler outside trying to get in. I’m the caregiver of a terminally ill patient who is being terrorized by whoever it is. Can you send someone to check it out?”

            “You’re aware this is Halloween night? Are you sure it is not some kids out trick-or-treating?"

            “He is pounding on a window right now!” Charlene held the phone up so the operator could hear. The tapping at the window had grown to a hard rattling knock threatening to break out the glass.

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.”

            Charlene returned the phone to her ear. “Does that sound like little kids to you?”

            “I’m sending a squad car over to your address. Keep all your doors and windows locked and don’t let anyone in the house until they get there.”

            Charlene hung up the phone. The rattling against the glass grew louder.

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.”

            Putting her hands over her ears, she shouted, “Go away!”

            The silhouette stepped away from the window. Silence followed.

            She knelt beside Mr. Morley in his wheelchair, still clinging to the photo album in his lap.
            “Bobby’s not going to stop,” he said.

            “Police are on their way.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You said he would leave if he got candy. Is there any in the house? Something we can give Bobby to make him go away?”

            “I might have a bag of old candy left over from last year in a cabinet in the kitchen.” His aged hand reached out and touched hers and unrelenting terror shone in his tired eyes. “Charlene, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to die now. Not like this.”

            “You’re under my care and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

            She crossed the dark dining room and into the kitchen where a lone light bulb lit the faded linoleum floor and the dingy yellowed curtains. Charlene swung open cabinet doors, knocking aside dishes and cups as she searched for the bag of candy. Her heart pounded as she pulled out drawers, spilling their contents onto the floor. A movement beyond the drawn curtains of the dark kitchen window caught her eye. Someone or something shambled through the bushes outside the house.

            Where is it? Her mind screamed. Where is the bag of candy? 

            She flung open a drawer and threw aside cooking utensils. Her heart jumped at the sight of a plastic bag of Halloween candy corn sitting in the bottom of the drawer. She snatched up the bag and the contents spilled out all over the linoleum of the floor. Cursing to herself, she checked the bag and found the plastic had been eaten through by mice. She threw aside the empty bag and fell to her knees and scooped up the orange candy.

            In another room, a door creaked open.

            “Tell me, Mr. Morley, is the back door locked?” She yelled.

            “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

            With shaking hands, Charlene reached into an open drawer and lifted out a large butcher knife. A floorboard creaked as a shadow of someone walking in the adjoining dining room passed across the kitchen walls. The sliding scrape of dragging footsteps across a wooden floor resounded in the next room. Someone had entered the house! The smell of something sour and stale wafted in the air.

            Where are the police? They should be here by now. 

            “Charlene!” Mr. Morley screamed from the front room, “Scabby Bobby’s here!” 

            Butcher knife clutched in her hand, she charged across the dining room to the door of the living room. At the entrance, she froze. A dark form occupied the center of the room. Scabby Bobby stood a little over five feet in height and wore a shabby jacket on top of a muddied clown suit. His round stomach gave his overweight body a pear shape. A cheap rubber hobo mask covered his head. The combination made him look both comical and gruesome. He ambled slowly toward Mr. Morley, his head moving from side to side as if it wasn’t connected to his neck.

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.”

            “Bobby, I’m sorry,” Mr. Morley cried out to the misshapen form. “I can’t imagine how much anger and hate it took to bring you back from death. I ask forgiveness for the way we treated you. We were young and stupid.”

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.”

            “Hey!” Charlene shouted and threw some pieces of candy corn against the back of the figure. Slowly, Scabby Bobby turned around to face her. His head hung to one side on top of an obviously broken neck. The torn rubber hobo mask only covered half of the boy’s face; on the other, bones showed through gray, rotting flesh. Broken teeth in a slack mouth formed a grimace of hate.

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.”

            “Mr. Morley, get out of here!” 

            Old man Morley turned in his wheelchair and rolled toward the front door as fast as his diminished strength would allow.

            Scabby Bobby shambled toward her.

            “Trick or treat-t-t-t. Smell my feet-t-t-t. Give me something good to eat-t-t-t.” His horrid mouth worked the words as the stench of something sour hung in the room.

            “You want something sweet?” Charlene shouted. “Here it is.”

            She threw more candy corn pieces onto the floor as she heard the front door slam shut. Mr. Morley has made it outside, she told herself. At least he’s safe. In horror and fascination, she watched as Scabby Bobby knelt slowly to the floor and picked up a piece of candy corn with decayed fingers. Slowly, he put the candy in his mouth and chewed it with his broken teeth.

            “Sweet-t-t-t.” 

            The next second, the lights of a police cruiser lit up the window shades of the living room. Charlene turned and ran out of the back door of the house and into the flashing lights painting the patio in alternating shades of red and blue.

            “Drop the knife now!” A strong voice shouted as a bright light hit her face.

            “Help!” She let the butcher knife fall out of her hand and onto the patio stones. “Someone broke into the house!”

            The light left her eyes and a police officer stepped up to her. A black pistol filled his hands. “Are you hurt or wounded?” 

            “No.” Charlene shook her head. “Check on Mr. Morley. He’s in a wheelchair and escaped out the front door. I’m his nurse.”

            “Who’s inside?”

            “Someone in a hobo outfit. He came in the back door and was in the living room when I left him!”

            “You stay out here,” the police officer said and turned to his partner. “Frank, you go around front and I’ll take the back.”

            Tears formed in her eyes as the two officers entered the house, awash in the glow of the blinking red-and-blue lights. The night air carried a cold crispness of late October and she wrapped her arms around herself to keep warm. She watched the windows of the home as the officers searched through the interior turning on the lights in the process. There were no gunshots or shouting, just an eerie silence filled with the flashing of the squad car lights and the crackling of the police radio. She sensed people watching and turned to look at the street. Groups of children and adults stared at the police car and the house, the shifting lights flashing across the various costumes they wore.

            “Miss,” the young police officer said from the back door of the house. She turned her attention away from the onlookers. “What is your name?”

            “Charlene Carson.”

            “I’m Officer Daniels. Will you follow me please, Mrs. Carson.”

            “It’s Miss Carson,” she corrected as she stepped forward and his hand guided her back in the house. “Is Mr. Morley all right?”

            “You were his nurse?”

            “I’m his hospice nurse. Mr. Morley has terminal cancer.” Her eyes darted around the rooms of the house now lit by the interior lights. “Did you find the intruder?”

            “We found no one.”

            “But he was right here.” She stood in the middle of the living room floor covered with the scattered pieces of candy corn.

            “There is no sign of any intruder. We searched the whole house.”

            “Mr. Morley can verify my story.”

            “When you fled out the back door, where was Mr. Morley?” Officer Daniels looked at her inquisitively with his dark brown eyes.

            “He went out the front door with his wheelchair,” she said and glanced through the foyer at the open front door. Flashlight beams shone through the space and men’s voices were talking outside on the porch.

            “Was he aware there was no ramp for the wheelchair?”

            “He just became crippled in the last six weeks as his health deteriorated. He didn’t have enough money to put in a ramp for the chair.” She began walking toward the front door. “What happened?”

            Officer Daniels put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think you want go out there.”

            She pulled away from his hold and ran toward the door. “Mr. Morley!” 

            The scene waiting for her outside caught her breath so hard she couldn’t even scream. The wheelchair lay on its side on the porch, one wheel badly bent. Like a broken mannequin, Mr. Morley lay sprawled at the bottom of the porch steps. The beams of a police flashlight highlighted his face twisted unnaturally over his back due to a broken neck. His mouth hung open and his white eyes stared up at her.

            She found her scream then. 

*          *          *          *

            Charlene sat on the couch drinking hot coffee from a police thermos while Mr. Morley’s body was loaded into a waiting ambulance. Officer Daniels sat with her and quietly asked her questions. She liked his brown eyes and the way he tended to her needs.

            “Do you believe me that some big kid broke into the house?” Charlene asked as she sipped the steaming cup.

            “We found foot prints around the yard along with trampled bushes,” he said. “Mud was tracked in from outside. Someone was here.”

            “Who do you think it was?” Charlene didn’t tell the police the story of Scabby Bobby. She knew they would never believe her. She barely believed it herself.

            “Who knows?” Officer Daniels shrugged. “Some retarded kid or some crackhead in a clown mask. There’s a full moon tonight and it’s Halloween.”

            “Halloween,” she repeated softly.

            “Whoever broke into the house, they are long gone now. We canvassed the neighborhood and found no one walking around dressed as a hobo.”

            “Am I free to go?” She handed him the empty cup.

            “If I have any more questions I can call you tomorrow,” he said and smiled. “Or maybe I can call you even if I don’t have questions.”

            “I’d like that.”

            “Are you good enough to drive home or do you want a black-and-white to take you?”

            “I’ll be all right.” She picked up her purse.

            “It was nice meeting you, Charlene.”

            “And you, Officer Daniels.”

            “Call me Mark.”

            Charlene walked out of the late Mr. Morley’s house and into the crisp October night air. The world no longer seemed real to her after the events of the evening. Her Saturn was parked under the streetlight. Climbing behind the wheel, she took one last look at poor Mr. Morley’s run-down old house before pulling away.

            Tonight, Mr. Morley’s debt was paid in full. 

            She drove through the dark middle-class neighborhoods leading back to her lonely little apartment as her mind began to rationalize the things she’d experienced. Officer Daniels could be right. Maybe it wasn’t Scabby Bobby after all. Just some handicapped kid breaking into the house for candy. Mr. Morley’s story made me believe the intruder was Scabby Bobby. I know it seems like an incredible coincidence, but it makes more sense than believing an avenging ghost came back from the grave. 

            Turning a corner, her headlights caught the dark figure of someone walking across the street. She slowed and cruised past the person now on the sidewalk. It was a kid trick-or-treating. Dressed in a hobo outfit and mask, he waddled down the street under the halogen lights. In one hand, he held a bag heavy with candy. Charlene glanced down at the digital clock in the car’s dash: 10:36. Way too late to be out going door to door, she thought to herself. This has got to be the last kid out tonight. 

            Looking in her rear view mirror, she imagined this must be the way Bobby Riser looked before the Rowdy Rangers stole his candy and he died by being hit by a truck. The way he looked on a forgotten Halloween night in 1963.

            “You will see firsthand evidence of life after death tonight.” The words of Mr. Morley echoed in her mind. 

            She had to find out the truth. Pulling the car over to the curb, she parked and got out. A dark sidewalk covered with dead leaves stretched before her. Ahead in the shadows, she heard the footsteps of the kid walking briskly away. She followed with her heart pounding in both fear and excitement. To know the truth of life after death, she told herself. To know as I sit by each patient in the last moments of their lives, it will not end there. There is a place beyond death. 

            She quickened her pace and began to overtake the slower moving figure. A few feet ahead, the back of the ridiculous hobo mask bobbed before her.

            “Bobby,” she called out to him.

            “Go away,” he pleaded. “Don’t-t-t hurt-t-t me!”

            “I’m not going to hurt you,” she said. “I just want to talk to you.” 

            So close she could almost reach out and grab him. She wanted to turn him around and see if he was a ghost or just another kid out late on Halloween night.

            So close to the truth. 

            “Don’t-t-t!” he cried out and took off running and bolted into the street.

            “Bobby, wait!” she shouted and saw headlights of the approaching truck barreling down the street.

            The screeching of brakes echoed across the neighborhood as the pickup truck slid to a stop. Charlene ran out to the front of the truck as the driver jumped out of the cab.

            “Jesus!” he said. “The kid came out of nowhere. I didn’t see him. What was he doing out in the street?”

            Charlene knelt down in the bright glow of the headlights expecting to see Bobby sprawled out on the street, but he was not there. The only thing lying in the road was a bag of Halloween candy scattered across the pavement. Scabby Bobby was gone.

            “Where’s the kid?” the driver asked as he bent down and looked under his truck. “Where’s the kid in the hobo mask that ran in front of my truck? I swore I hit him!”

            “There’s no kid here,” Charlene said.

            The man ran his hands through his thick hair in relief. “Oh, thank God. I thought I ran over some poor trick-or-treater. I swear I saw this kid in a hobo mask run in front of my truck. What the hell just happened?”

            “You know what night this is?”

            “Halloween,” the man said climbing back into his truck. “I guess that explains it. Strange things happen on this night.”

            The truck pulled away leaving her standing alone. She stared down at the candy scattered across the pavement. A light breeze began to stir the dead leaves and several rolled across her feet, as overhead, a full moon peeked around the clouds. Somewhere an owl hooted. She stood silently in the street where a boy had died, not on this night, but on a forgotten night many years before she was born. Tears came to her eyes, for now she knew the truth of death.

            “Halloween,” Charlene repeated to herself before she walked back to her car.

the end