Tag Archives: scary

Beware the Weredog by J J Dare

Along with countless others, I love a good scare and this time of the year is perfect for terror and thrills. Halloween is right around the corner. Ghosts, goblins and zombies reign over the land. Witches, warlocks and evil fairies lurk around sharp corners. That bump-in-the-night sound makes your heart beat faster. The skittering across the floor in a dark room gets the blood pumping. What is that shadow outside flitting across the top of the window?

Why do we love to be scared? It’s a rhetorical question because the answer for one person is probably different for another. For myself, I like the rush of the initial terror followed by a reasonable explanation for the scare. That bump-in-the-night was a cat jumping on a chair that lightly hit the wall. The skittering noise was the dog’s nails clicking on the tile floow when she trotted down the hallway. The shadow was a low-flying owl, circling the window as the two animals took turns taunting him from their inside safety.

It’s a full moon every night for Weredog

Blame the inside animals. That’s what I did the other night. While I like the scares while I’m awake, I’m not so crazy about being abruptly ripped from a deep sleep by noises at night. I don’t like lying in bed for minutes that seem like hours, waiting for that thing under my bed to slowly crawl out and grab me. I don’t dare step onto the floor else I’ll be pulled into the under-the-bed void of my childhood.

As sanity and focus slowly descend, we can laugh at ourselves for our fright. A carryover from childhood, I occasionally have a dream of the purple monster rising in my bedroom window. The fright it gave me at six years old is remarkably the same at my current older age. As it slowly rises up, the malevolence it emanated decades ago is just as strong today. In my nightmares, I know it’s no good but I’m as powerless to stop it now as I was in my single-digit years.

The stories I create in my mind from the scary things happening at night become the roux for some of my written works. While I don’t always keep the story line tight with the dream, I can trace a few of my stories and books to their chilly beginnings from the bumps-in-the-night I experience.

I like to be scared. I love scary movies, thrillers, zombies, flying monkeys, and the like. Shadowy things at night give me delicious chills. The supernatural is delightful – as long as I can explain it away, rationally, in the light of day.

Have a chilly, scary, rationally-explained Halloween!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

J J Dare is the author of two published books, several short stories and triple digit works-in-progress.

Current enthusiasm is sharpening intangible knives and co-authoring at Rubicon Ranch

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Stories to Scare the Young by Claire Collins

Claire Collins is the author of Fate and Destiny and Images of Betrayal.

His ears strained to pick up any strange noises in the surrounding forest. An owl called out asking who he was, but he didn’t respond. Each step brought him closer to the sounds he heard a few moments ago.

His father saw one when he was young, and enjoyed reliving the story as the young ones grew older. He believed his father, but he also wanted to learn about the legend himself. Part of him believed it was just a tale to scare the young, but part of him thought the lore might be true.

He crept forward, cautious not to disturb anything in the woods by his movement. If they were out there, he didn’t want to alert them to his presence. Dad said if they see him, they would eat him. He thought that if he saw them, the fright would scare him so bad that if they wanted to eat him, he wouldn’t be able to put up a fight anyway.

A flickering campfire, circled in by rocks glittered through the trees ahead of him. The air smelled strange, a bitter and musky scent wafted through the air from the fire. He crouched behind a tree, waiting. Watching.

A shriek of laughter split the air and he wanted to turn and flee, but his feet wouldn’t move. Two creatures ran up the hill towards the fire, their grotesque features displayed by the flickers of the flames.

Afraid, he spread his wings and took flight, anxious to get away as fast as possible. His father wasn’t just telling stories. He could barely breathe as his heart threatened to break free as he made his escape, flying into the air over the heads of the creatures,

It was true. Humans were real.

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Trick

I love Halloween. Trick-or-Treat is my favorite time of the year.

 

I have gone all out: decorations, tons of candy, fun costumes – I love it. I started early in October, decorating and setting everything up, and by the time Halloween is here, the inside of my house is the Martha Stewart of spook.

 

Treats are the best part of Halloween. Candy, candy, candy, and only the good stuff. That is the main reason I love Halloween is for the candy.

 

This afternoon, on the cusp of Trick-or-Treat, I fill a huge drum full of chocolate bars, peanut butter kisses, mints, bubble gum, caramels, and much, much more. It is beautiful. The shiny wrappers and the sugary smell send me into a candy high.

 

Five o’clock and only an hour to go until the official start of the candy mongering. I make sure all of my fun Halloween is in order.

 

Six o’clock. It’s still light outside when the first trick-or-treater rings the doorbell. Ring, ring, ring. Six-o-two, and the kid gets the message and goes away . . . empty-handed.

 

As the sun sets around six thirty, my porch light stays off. You would think the neighborhood would get it, especially when I don’t open my door – I’m not doing trick-or-treaters this year. At least, I’m not giving them candy.

 

But, no – they keep coming. They don’t get the hint. Greedy slackers.

 

Year after year, I am inundated with children, teenagers, and, sometimes, adults looking for a free handout of sugary heaven. Year after year, I have given away too much candy.

 

Moochers, all of them. What was I thinking, handing out all that candy for all those years? After all, I spend my money to buy it. It burns me that these Halloween beggars think all they have to do is knock on my door to get a handful of candy. For free.

 

This year I’m handing out a Trick instead of a Treat. I have something special planned later for the Halloween thugs who come to my door. You know the ones: those teenagers and young adults who are much too old to be out begging for candy.

 

They usually surface after seven o’clock. Over the last few years, they have become more aggressive in their search and destroy mission for Halloween candy. Just last year, I had to replace an uprooted shrub and a broken window after I told a teenage punk and his punk friends I would not give them candy.

 

The doorbell rings again. It has rung forty-two times in the past thirty minutes and forty-two times they have gone away disappointed. Aww. Too bad. I’m crying on the inside as I eat a chocolate-covered caramel.

 

A quarter until seven and it is almost time. The crowds have petered off as parents take their young children home to see what Halloween booty they have scored this year.

 

I look in the mirror. I am wearing all black from my shoes to the ski mask on my head. I blend perfectly with the night as I slip outside.

 

I hear them before I see them. They are laughing as they talk about the weeping child they had just stolen candy from. I’m glad they’re coming to my house.

 

 

As they approach the front yard, I wait until they are in position. Almost. Almost.

 

There. They are standing in the middle of my yard, trying to decide if someone is home as I turn on the sprinkler system. Some start to curse and other laugh, but the permanent industrial dye I’ve put in the water will make them think twice about coming to my house next year. I silently laugh as I imagine how the thugs will try to explain later why they are forest green from head to toe.

 

I have enough water and dye to last all night. After the first group of thugs, a second and third come by and I give them the same Trick. None come after the last group, so word must have gotten around. I wait twenty more minutes just to be sure.

 

Oh, well, my bag of Tricks is short this night. I walk back into the house and settle down for a quiet evening of candy gluttony.

 

Munching on my stash, at first I mistake the sound for a tree branch scraping the side of my house. As the sound gets louder and starts coming from all directions, I realize it’s not a tree.

 

I am rooted to my chair. Just as fast as the blood drains to my feet, it rises up again to the top of my head. My anger is rising, too.

 

Thugs. Horrible thugs. Whatever they’re dragging around the side of my house is going to scrap all the paint off the siding. I grab one of my registered guns (just to scare them, of course) and run out the front door.

 

A strong hand grabs me by the throat the instant I am outside and lifts me off the ground. I can’t see who has me and my brain struggles for oxygen. The grip loosens slightly and the blood rushing to my head clarifies my vision. The gun in my nerveless hand drops to the ground.

 

Still nothing. I cannot see the grasping hand, but it is there, all the same. As my feet touch the ground, a gravelly voice whispers in my ear.

 

“One night a year, my son can mingle with humans. One night a year, he doesn’t stand out,” it says as it turns me to face a miniature horror in forest green.

 

The little freak would stand out at any other time, even without the forest green hue on its skin. Its face is a mash of gruesome sinews, twisted in spirals like licorice. The thing’s arms hang down to its ankles and something protrudes from its belly like a misshapen parasitic twin.

 

Its one eye looks at me from under a hooded forest green lid. The pig-like snout is quivering as it spews forest green snot. Little gravelly whimpers come from a mouth hidden beneath flaps of dangling forest green skin.

 

“I would kill you and eat your heart, but that would be too easy,” the monster’s father says. “You owe my boy Trick-or-Treat,” he tells me as he motions his progeny inside my house.

 

A minute later, the little freak emerges with my barrel of candy slung on its back. The little monter’s father tightens his grip around my throat as he propels me forward.

 

I’m slammed into a large puddle of forest green water. An appendage, I can’t tell if it’s arm, leg, or something else, rolls me like a baker rolling dough. The little freak giggles as his father covers me from head to toe in dye. I can’t hold my terrified sobs back any longer.

 

“This is nothing, human,” monster-daddy says. “Do you have any idea what his mother is going to do to me?”

 

J J Dare is the author of “False Positive,” the first novel in the Joe Daniels’ trilogy.

Have a Scary Halloween!

 

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Stories to Scare the Young

Claire Collins is the author of Fate and Destiny and Images of Betrayal.

 

His ears strained to pick up any strange noises in the surrounding forest. An owl called out asking who he was, but he didn’t respond. Each step brought him closer to the sounds he heard a few moments ago.

His father saw one when he was young, and enjoyed reliving the story as the young ones grew older. He believed his father, but he also wanted to learn about the legend himself. Part of him believed it was just a tale to scare the young, but part of him thought the lore might be true.

He crept forward, cautious not to disturb anything in the woods by his movement. If they were out there, he didn’t want to alert them to his presence. Dad said if they see him, they would eat him. He thought that if he saw them, the fright would scare him so bad that if they wanted to eat him, he wouldn’t be able to put up a fight anyway.

A flickering campfire, circled in by rocks glittered through the trees ahead of him. The air smelled strange, a bitter and musky scent wafted through the air from the fire. He crouched behind a tree, waiting. Watching.

A shriek of laughter split the air and he wanted to turn and flee, but his feet wouldn’t move. Two creatures ran up the hill towards the fire, their grotesque features displayed by the flickers of the flames.

Afraid, he spread his wings and took flight, anxious to get away as fast as possible. His father wasn’t just telling stories. He could barely breathe as his heart threatened to break free as he made his escape, flying into the air over the heads of the creatures,

It was true. Humans were real.

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Phobia

 

Kelly hated haunted houses. There were at the top of her phobic list. One unpleasant experience in a haunted house at Halloween when she was a child had scarred her for life. This was nothing new; all of her phobias started with just one unpleasant experience.

 

Her list of things she tried to avoid was longer than Santa’s good/bad list. It included, but was not limited to, baseball games, bumper cars, rabbits, canned biscuits, tomatoes, hairspray, printer ink, garbage cans, and thousands more.

 

She had tried explaining to her therapist why she had so many stationary phobias. The only rational treatment, her doctor counseled, was for her to confront her fears in order to live a life outside of her phobic box.

 

That Halloween night, she decided to face her fear. At the entrance to the haunted house, the usual ghoulish figures stood around making wicked gestures toward the nervous crowds. Screams could be heard coming from the inside.

 

Kelly watched as couples and groups emerged from the side exit. She smiled when she saw Dracula on break, smoking a cigarette.

 

Inside, Kelly and her friends walked, unguided, along the dimly lit trail. To the right, a headless corpse raised up from the coffin and to the left, a witch cast a spell on them. When Kelly looked back, the corpse was scratching under its arm and the witch was eating a candy bar.

 

Turning the first corner, Dracula accosted them with bloody fangs and cigarette breath. Turning the second corner, a werewolf grabbed for them and lost a bit of fake fur when Kelly’s friend grabbed back.

 

Kelly saw it when they turned the third corner. She had suspected it would be in the haunted house; there was no avoiding it. After all these years, her fear was still haunting the haunted houses.

 

Her friends screamed and then giggled when they saw it. As they cautiously stepped around the thing in the middle of the trail, it ignored their yelps and laughter. Instead, it fixated on its old friend Kelly and started easing toward her.

 

She had known this would happen, as all of her fears gravitated toward her. She could see them in a way others could not – some of her fears became solid and fleshy, while others talked to her, or, in the case of baseballs, screamed in agony. Sometimes others heard and saw them; sometimes, they did not. Some fears were just nuisances, like the babbling bunnies, while others were threatening.

 

The fear in the middle of the haunted house was mean. Kelly sensed its intent as its spiky arms reached out toward her. It thrashed its sinewy body in anticipation and let out a throaty squeal. Her friends thought this was all part of the act until Kelly took out the small gun she always carried and shot her fear point blank.

 

The screams became real. As her friends ran from her, Kelly continued to shoot her fear. When she ran out of bullets, she calmly walked through the deserted haunted house, out the side exit, and back toward town.

 

When the police arrived, they did not find anyone, shot or wounded, nor did they find anything the next day in full sunlight. A lone policeman stayed behind to write his report.

 

As he took photos of the six bullet holes in the wooden floor of the haunted house, he noticed something shining through one of the holes. Putting the camera on the floor, he bent down to get a closer look.

 

Taking out his pen, he poked at the shining thing, thinking it may have been a bullet casing. As he bent closer and closer to the hole in the floor, he thought he heard a rattling purr. He placed his eye almost level with the floor as he shined his flashlight down.

 

A sinewy arm rose behind him. As his face was pushed into the floor, his screams became muffled, and when the thing rose through the wooden floor, he came face to face with his own special fear.

 

J J Dare is the author of “False Positive,” the first novel in the Joe Daniels’ trilogy.

Have a Scary Halloween!

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The Garden

Author Claire Collins- Books available from Second Wind Publishing- “Fate and Destiny” and “Images of Betrayal”

The house was perfect. The stately Victorian sat on a hill, the long driveway curving up through the tree, exposing the house only after the last turn. The Virginia countryside surrounded the house, slowly giving way to the growing town only a mile or so from the ten acres where the beautiful building dwelled.

If all of that wasn’t enough, the yard in front was a lush green lawn and stands of trees, but the back of the house contained a fall of patios, bringing the path from the house down the hill and each patio contained deep thick gardens. Upon seeing the layers of bright flowers and vines, Sandy Martinez knew this was the home for her. Her green thumb twitched in anticipation as she placed her offer with the realtor, and the urge to tend the gardens and plant new ones. The urge grew more insistent when the old couple that owned the house accepted her ridiculously low first offer.

On moving day, Sandy stood in the driveway while the moving company began unloading her belongings and dropping them throughout various rooms of the house. Her twelve-year-old son Freddy and his dog Muzzy ran circles in the yard, happy to be free from the car after the long drive from Wilmington. Sandy soaked in every inch of the façade of the house. The pale peach shutters locked tight against the soft gray siding, the deep copper of the multi-tiered roof tiles, and the bright flowers planted in deep boxes along the front of the house.

The front room would be perfect to display the flower arrangements Sandy planned to sell as part of relocating her party decorating business. The tiny town was only about an hour from Richmond, and Sandy already made some good contacts with party planners to get her foot in the door. Life was good.

A year later, Sandy’s business was thriving, mostly due to the beautiful flowers grown in her gardens that adorned the arrangements she created. There was only one spot three feet wide and about five feet long in the third tier down that refused to sprout anything. The ground remained barren despite the specialized fertilizers and tender care she lavished. Among all of the bright colors and greenery, the one lone spot looked out of place and lacking.

One day, she tended the flowers in the front boxes when her neighbor, Mrs. Bixley came to visit. The old widow was a pest, constantly nagging about Muzzy barking or Freddy’s baseball landing on her lawn. Sandy saw her coming out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t bother to stop digging with her trowel until Mrs. Bixley stalked right up to her and blocked the sun.

“Good Morning, Mrs. Bixley,” Sandy faked cheer at seeing her neighbor. “How are you today?”

 “Working on your flowers again I see. That’s all the last man who lived here did. His wife sat in the house all day while he was out here digging in the dirt. I must say though, before he moved in, nothing would grow out here. At least you aren’t letting the property values decline by letting it go to seed.”

Sandy smiled as she looked up to see her neighbor. Maybe this visit would let them be friends. “Well, I’m glad you like the flowers. I will cut some and bring them over to you.”

“Hmph. Flowers are a silly waste of time. You should just put in plastic ones like I did.” The old lady eyed Sandy up and down before gesturing down the driveway with her cane. “Anyway, I didn’t come over here to socialize. That boy of yours and that hoodlum across the lane were taking apples from the tree in my yard this morning. I’m calling that school and telling them to move the bus stop from in front of my house.”

Sandy stood and stretched, using the back of her gardening glove to wipe the perspiration from her brow. 

“I do apologize for the boys’ behavior, Mrs. Bixley. I will talk to Freddy and tell him not to touch the apples or come into your yard. I will talk to Jeff’s mom too.”

The old lady didn’t seem pleased by her answer. “Like that will do any good. I’ve had to come over here with my bad knee aching too many times now. If you can’t control that little terror of yours, then I will call the police and have him arrested for trespassing!”

Sandy smiled through her gritted teeth. “That really won’t be necessary Mrs. Bixley.”

“I’ll decide what’s necessary. You just keep that boy under control.”

With one last shake of her cane, Mrs. Bixley toddled back across the lawn and through the shrubs to her adjoining property.

Sandy finished in the front box, but her anger didn’t subside. She decided to work through it and returned to the empty spot in the third tier. With relish, she dug along the edge of the patch, only realizing she dug too deep when she saw the roots of the flowers.

“Damn,” she muttered. “I hope I didn’t hurt those roots.” She put her hand down to feel how deep the roots went and how damaged they might be. Her fingers brushed something hard under the tips of the roots. The confrontation with Mrs. Bixley shoved to the back of her mind, Sandy dug around a little deeper and pulled on the object. It didn’t readily come free from the hold of the earth. She used the trowel to dig around and under the rounded mass in the dirt under the flowers. Enough dirt was finally scraped away for the mystery in the ground to begin to wiggle. Sandy used her hands and moved the soft soil from under it until it came loose. With a satisfied smile, she pulled it free from the ground and looked at her discovery.

It looked back.

Eye sockets with meat still clinging to it stared at her, the teeth giving a ghoulish eternal grin. The skull slipped from her shaking hands as she shot to her feet. She scanned the tiers of gardens and her eyes came back to rest on the bare patch under her feet. She had dug deeply in this spot many times trying to get things to grow. Ignoring the skull, she took her shovel to the hole under the roots where she made her discovery and she started digging. She dug all along the edge and then around each tier. After she had carefully dug under the roots of her wonderful flowers in the backyard, she moved around to the boxes in the front.

Like every layer of the back tiers, the front flower boxes contained bodies. The ones in the front were nothing more than skeletons. They seemed to be the oldest. The first tier in the back contained the next round of bodies and the bottom tier leading into the woods held the most recent bodies. Many of those flower beds contained forms that looked remarkably like people. Exhausted, Sandy returned to the bare patch, her shovel in one hand and her sun hat in the other. She smoothed loose strands of hair back from her face and surveyed the garden. It was so beautiful, the source of her success. She needed to call the police. She cringed when she thought of all of those people trampling through her gardens.

She brought the back of her gloved hand to her mouth to stifle her sob as she realized they would have to dig all of them up. Her entire garden would be ruined along with her income. She would lose not only the gardens, but her home. She sunk to her knees, the original skull she uncovered glared at her accusingly.

She rolled it back into the hole from where it came. The thought occurred to her that the bodies acted as a natural fertilizer to get the flowers to grow. There was no body under the section where she sat. That’s why nothing would grow there. She had about three hours before Freddy came home from school. There was plenty of time.

Sandy set to work covering all of the exposed bodies, glad that Muzzy stayed clear of the garden. Within an hour, all of the bodies were safely covered, the remains continuing to feed the thriving flowers. Satisfied that her business would not be forced to close, Sandy leaned on her shovel and looked around the garden. It was beautiful again. The momentary pang of guilt passed quickly, after all, the people were already dead, and she didn’t kill them. She could pretend she never knew they were there.

Back where she started in the barren plot, she shifted the dirt with the toe of her sneaker. Nothing would grow there. The rest of the gardens fed off the natural fertilizer provided by the prior owner of the property. The old man was the murderer, not her. Nothing would grow there.

Another thought occurred to her. Maybe something would grow if it had the right nutrients.

She hefted the shovel onto her shoulder and walked around to the front of the house and across the yard between the shrubs to the neighboring property.

 

            A year later, Sandy was still successful. Her business was booming and the demand for her flowers was at maximum capacity for what she could produce. Her gardens were lush and full with no bare spots. She planned to clear a patch at the bottom of the tiers and add more gardens. All she needed was the right fertilizer.

 

 

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Outside the Box

 

She cannot escape.

 

Her prison is about two feet wide by a foot high by six feet long. The air feels heavy and the darkness is complete. If she did not know any better, she would swear she was in a coffin.

 

However, she does know better. She has been in the “box” before. Each time she has acted out, her doctor treats her to a session within a sensory depravation chamber of his own design.

 

He swears this helps to stabilize extremely disturbed patients. Her doctor says that the “box” simulates the womb and when a patient is released from the box, it symbolizes a rebirth.

 

Time becomes timeless as hours or days or weeks pass. Without light as a reference point, she cannot tell if it is night, day, or in-between. She can hear nothing except the sound of her own thoughts.

 

The claustrophobic feeling she usually has in the box is missing. She does not feel terrorized by her prison; she simply feels trapped.

 

An era of her life seems to pass by as she waits for her release. At some point, she does not know when, she hears a noise that grows steadily louder and shakes the box with each pounding tremor.

 

At last, she begins to see light coming in through the edges of her prison. This is different, she is thinking, as the sound and shaking grow more intense.

 

Suddenly, all is quiet. She begins to pound on the box and demands to be released. Someone must hear her, for the door to her box is opened and the sun shines down upon her.

 

The sun shines down upon her. To what trickery has her doctor exposed her? What new treatment has he imposed? She should be able to walk out of his damned box; instead, she has to climb and try to hoist herself up to escape the pit in which the box was placed.

 

Where are the attendants who usually offer her a beverage and a cool towel after releasing her? The only people she can see are looking down into the pit and ignoring her requests for help. She will report them to the doctor and tell him to relieve them of their sorry duties.

 

Finally, a hand reaches down to help her out of the pit. As she turns around, she gasps in horror at the site of a thousand graves. Her doctor had buried her as part of his malicious treatment of her disorder; she will see that he is arrested upon her return.

 

“These are different people,” the man with the helping hand tells her. “You will get used to them, and, eventually, bored by them.”

 

“Who are you, sir?” she asks.

 

“Adrian Masterson, at your service,” he says with a bow and a flourish. “Now, a quick education, madam. You are no longer imprisoned and may freely roam wherever your heart desires.”

 

“The doctor has released me?” she excitedly asks. “I am truly free to leave?”

 

“Oh, most assuredly. You do not have to go back to whatever hospital you came from.”

 

She looks at Mr. Masterson suspiciously. He does not even know where she had been a patient.

 

“Who are you, sir?” she again asks.

 

With a sigh, the man answers, “I am whoever I wish to be, as are you. I can go anywhere I wish to go, as can you. I am free to do whatever I wish, as are you.

 

“You are no longer bound by any ties to this world. Come,” he says as he puts a hand on her shoulder, “I’ll show you.”

 

As he turns her around to face the pit from which she has but recently escaped, she sees the dusty skeletal remains inside. If this was the new type of treatment her doctor recommended – being placed inside the “box” with a corpse – then, she would definitely have his license.

 

She looks closer. The skeleton is wearing her dress! The same dress she is wearing at this very moment. How dare the doctor use her own clothing on . . .

 

A sickening feeling of disbelief is replaced by an equally sickening feeling of belief.

 

“I am dead,” she declares. “I am dead, but why am I not in heaven?”

 

Adrian Masterson looks at her with pity and says, “The gates of heaven closed long ago. Now, we are wandering souls who simply . . . wander. Some go back to their homes, some explore the world or the ocean or space. We can go anywhere we want.

 

“But, we are not temporal. You will never eat again, nor touch any of the living. If you do, your spirit, the only essence left of you, will weaken with each touch. Eventually, you will simply disappear.”

 

A crowd gathers above the open grave as they prepare to move the coffin and remains to another resting spot. The cemetery had become overcrowded, the older graves exhumed, and the remains buried in a mass plot in order to make way for new deaths.

 

She is overcome with emotion. She would rather disappear than to spend eternity wandering the universe as a restless spirit.

 

The man tries to stop her as she heads to the crowd of workers. She shakes him off and begins touching the living men, one by one. With each touch, her essence becomes fainter and fainter.

 

Adrian sighs. More than half of the newly awakened souls go that way. They cannot abide the thought of spending eternity in their new ethereal state.

 

As the woman grows so faint he can barely see her outline, the last expression on her face as she disappears is one of terror.

 

Shrugging, he turns away. She made her choice, but he feels slightly bad as she had not given him time to explain that, although heaven’s gates are closed . . .

 

Hell’s are not.

 

J J Dare is the author of “False Positive,” the first novel in the Joe Daniels’ trilogy.

 

Have a Scary Halloween!

 

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Happy Halloween from Second Wind Publishing

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