Oneshots

Halloween Special

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL

The cold, biting fingers of wind clawed at my exposed skin as the four of us shuffled down Main Street, clutching plastic pots in the shape of pumpkins, filled with sweets and chocolate. It was pitch black by now, the only light was from the glowing orange streetlamps, and the clouds covering the sky obscured the stars and the crescent moon I’d seen before.

I felt kind of ridiculous actually; dressed in a cheap vampire outfit I got from the supermarket yesterday, with horrible, plastic, fluorescent green fangs and dried tomato sauce on my face, with the stupid pumpkin pot which cost about fifty pence and just about everyone had.

Most of the kids had gone home now; it was late, maybe around 10:30pm. Now it was just the older ones left, but even they were going home, finding that no one welcomed trick-or-treaters this late. But still we trudged on, the other three snickering and laughing, while I remained quiet, clutching the pot.

I was not one to get scared easily. The paper bats and plastic skeletons, rubber spiders and fake green stuff everyone had scattered on their front gardens and doors were not spooky at all, even silhouetted, the shadows in eerie shapes. When we went to Thorpe Park and into the Saw Maze last year, I didn’t really get scared; it was a ‘haunted house’, these things were to be expected.

But now, I was heading towards a real haunted house.

Call me crazy, but it wasn’t my idea. It was some stupid bet that my friends made up; the one to get scared the most while playing creepy games had to sleep in the haunted house. I was sure Tommy had to be stifling his gasps and jumps. But I was not one to back down, no matter how scared I’d be, and would do it. After all, things that go bump in the night don’t really exist. It’s just the fear of the unknown; the shadows hiding everything.

I’d be perfectly fine.

That’s what I told myself as we came off Main Street and down the dirt track lined with tall pine trees. Now there weren’t even street lights; all I could see was the path, curving to the left up ahead, and behind the pines, I knew there’d be the house.

Sure enough, we went round the corner and about a hundred metres ahead stood the house. Even the daredevil teenagers didn’t approach this house; tall and menacing, it stood three storeys high with huge arched windows, cracked and broken, crumbling bricks and twisted, stumped chimneys, guarded by tall, wrought iron gates.

People that sometimes walked nearby claimed to hear ghastly laughter and sinister voices from inside, or crashes and thuds. Others said they’d seen two winged figures, human shaped and sized, go into the house. Usually I didn’t believe these things, but as we approached, I could have sworn I heard a rattle from up ahead.

It was probably just the wind, I assured myself as we walked up to the gates. Huge, wrought iron gates with twisted pentagrams and figures that could have been tortured bodies, and a huge man with thick horns standing above them all. A shiver ran down my spine and I shuddered, the plastic of the trick-or-treat tub now digging into my hand.

“What’s the matter, Diddy Dante, big scary house getting to you?”