A Long Winter’s Fright:
13 FREE Holiday Poems & Stories
By Rusty Fischer, author of Zombies Don’t Cry
Copyright © 2011 by Rusty Fischer
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously. (You know, except for the parts about the zombies, vampires and werewolves – they’re totally true!)
Cover credit: © zzzdim – Fotolia.com
Author’s Note
The following is a collection of 13 FREE undead short stories.
Any errors, typos, grammar or spelling issues are completely the fault of the zombies, with a little help from the vampires this year. (And don’t even get me started on how the werewolves feel about the whole editorial process, either!)
Anyway, I hope you can overlook any minor errors you may find; enjoy!
Table of Contents
Introduction
Zombies Don’t Trick or Treat: A Living Dead Halloween Poem
The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume: A Werewolf Halloween Story
Who Vampires Eat for Thanksgiving: A Vampire Thanksgiving Story
Zombies Don’t Gobble: A Living Dead Thanksgiving Poem
The Werewolf On Thanksgiving: A Werewolf Thanksgiving Poem
Oh Tannenbrain: A Living Dead Christmas Poem
Zombies Don’t Carve: A Living Dead Christmas Story
Pin the Nose on the Werewolf: A Werewolf Christmas Story
A Very Vampire Holiday: A Vampire Christmas Story
Zombies Don’t Jingle: A Living Dead Christmas Poem
The Vampire’s Night Before Christmas: A Vampire Christmas Poem
Zombies Don’t Pop: A Living Dead New Year’s Eve Poem
The Vampire’s Valentine: A Vampire’s Valentine’s Day Story
About the Author: Rusty Fischer
Introduction
I’ve always enjoyed a good scare over the holidays.
How about you?
I hope so, because A Long Winter’s Fright contains thirteen of my most popular, most FREE poems and stories about zombies, vampires and, now, with a little extra werewolf thrown in for good measure. (Okay, a LOT of extra werewolf thrown in for good measure!)
So curl up by the fire, grab a little blood wine or a brain smoothie, and enjoy these not-so-sweet holiday treats!
Zombies Don’t Trick or Treat:
A Living Dead Halloween Poem
The zombies were out
For a fun, festive night;
There were goblins and ghouls
And witches in sight.
Over there was a demon
His legs warm as toast;
Down that street’s a pumpkin
Down that one’s a ghost.
No, it wasn’t Armageddon
Or a monster’s pot luck;
It was the one mortal night
That didn’t quite… suck!
That’s right, little ghosties
It was… Halloween;
The creepiest, crawliest
Living dead scene!
Poor Chester was frightened
He was new to this town;
And ever since dying
Poor Chester’d been down.
He wasn’t quite used
To being undead;
If he had his way
He’d be living… instead.
His friends liked being zombies
They found it quite cool;
But all Chester felt
Was like one giant fool!
He hated his hairdo
He hated his skin;
He hated the fact
That he could no longer grin.
His legs they were stiff
His arms were quite chilly;
And stumbling around
Just made Chester feel… silly.
Tonight might be different
Poor Chester agreed;
As he watched other kids
Look as foolish as he.
For each one looked goofy
For each one looked grim;
For each one looked not
Quite much better than… him!
“But where are they going?”
He asked of a bud;
Who looked at him like
He had the IQ of a spud.
“They’re all trick or treating,”
Was the answer he gave;
“Or have you forgotten,
Since you rose from the grave?”
“I seem to recall,”
Little Chester did say;
“Of begging for candy
On Halloween day.”
“Let’s give it a try,”
His buddy made it sound like a synch;
“Chocolate’s not as good as brains
But it’ll do in a pinch.”
Chester shrugged
And followed his friend;
As they shuffled and groaned
Up the long driveway’s end.
The lawn was festooned
With orange and black;
The setting quite ripe
For a zombie attack!
The young man who stood
At his cozy front door;
Thought the zombies on his porch
Wore costumes; nothing more.
He smiled,
They shuffled;
He sniffed
And he snuffled.
“I quite love your costumes,”
He said with a smile.
“But your breath I smelled coming
For more than a mile!”
When the man tried to offer
A bowl full of candy;
All Chester could smell
Was his brain oh-so-dandy.
He reached for the bowl
But dropped it instead;
And as the man bent to catch it
Clamped onto his head.
“But why?” asked the man
Squealing in pain;
“Why bother with candy,” Chester said
“When my treat is… your brain!”
The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume:
A FREE Halloween Short Story by Rusty Fischer
“I’m just gonna put this out there now,” I murmur as I pull away from his curb, Topher riding shotgun in his standard crisp black jeans and matching v-neck t-shirt, “but… I am so not impressed with your costume this year.”
Forget Halloween, dude wears the same damn thing every single day and must do six loads of laundry every week because they always look brand spanking new.
Topher smiles his cheesy, knowing grin and says, “Trust me, Rain, you’re not ready for my Halloween costume.”
I make that annoying scary movie “ooooohhhhh” sound, waving my fingers above the steering wheel dramatically as I roll down Mott Street.
“Why, are you going as a male stripper and have to do a pole dance at every door because, seriously, that’s about the only thing would impress me at this point.”
He smirks but I turn away slightly to hide the sudden blush that’s blossomed from my throat to my forehead.
(Whoa, where did that come from?)
He shakes his head, unruly black curls doing their unruly black curly thing. “Hey, at least I don’t cop out completely and wear one of those cheesy ‘This IS My Costume’ T-shirts like you know Braxton’s going to.”
I shake my head, limp chestnut hair not doing much but staying in place as I cruise over to the wrong-ish side of town to pick up Braxton. “Yeah, well, at least the dude’s trying. This is… just… pitiful.”
I make a kind of half-hearted gesture with my free hand toward the passenger seat where Topher is reclining, smiling, fiddling with the simple crystal pendant he always wears, the one tied loosely around his graceful neck with a cheap leather thong.
As if remembering he’s not driving himself, Topher finally looks over and chuckles.
“I’m pitiful?” he barks, leaning back against the passenger seat door to get a better look. “I’m pitiful? What do you call… that?”
The way he’s eyeing me up and down, from toenails to earlobes, I’m assuming “that” is my costume.
You know, what there is of it.
“I’m supposed to be a French maid,” I say, sliding my little feather duster out from the cup holder in the door panel and waving it, wand-like, in the air for emphasis.
“Since when did the French start hiring hookers to clean their houses?”
He laughs at his own joke, but won’t stop looking just the same.
Part of me hates him right now; part of me really, really wants him to keep looking.
My face goes pink again and he says, softer this time, “I’m sorry, Rain, it’s just… I’ve never seen so… much… of you before.”
The pumpkin beer I’d snatched from Dad’s cooler before I left the house just now has me feeling slightly frisky so I purr, “What… are you complaining?”
“Actually,” he says, sounding vaguely shocked. “No. I kind of like it.”
“Yeah, well,” I snort, focusing on my driving since I’ve been kind of distracted for the last few minutes, “let’s just hope the judges like it.”
“What judges?” he asks lazily, like he does everything else.
“Seriously, Topher? The judges at the costume party we’re going to tonight. For Halloween, remember? We’ve only talked about this for, like, the last sixteen lunch periods straight.”
He looks a little miffed, whether at me or just at himself I’m not quite sure.
“Well, why didn’t you remind me?” he whines a little, shaking those short little curls. “I would’ve actually, you know, worn something!”
“It’s too late now,” I grunt, pulling into Braxton’s grody apartment building, dodging kids playing football in the parking lot and dumpsters still left out from trash day. “Hopefully Braxton will pull out all the stops and… nope… there he is, and he’s—”
“Wearing the same ‘This IS My Halloween Costume’ T-shirt as last year,” Topher smiles, getting out and climbing in back to give Braxton and his 260-pounds the shotgun seat, as usual.
“Nice costume,” Braxton wheezes as he hoists himself in.
“What’s it to you?” Topher bluffs from behind our seats as I help Braxton buckle himself in.
Braxton and I share a look before he turns around and says, “We were going to try and win that prize money and split it, remember?”
“No,” Topher says quietly, our eyes meeting in the rearview mirror as I wait for traffic to die down so I can get back on the road. “I honestly don’t.”
Braxton shakes his head, long blond hair coming down to the shoulders of his size XXL Halloween shirt. “A hundred bucks each would really help out right about now, you know Topher?”
“The grand prize for the Costume Contest is $300 this year?” Topher asks, and I swear it’s like he’s hearing this for the very first time.
Braxton and I share another glance, but say nothing.
“Come on,” Topher suddenly urges as we come out the other side of the Cedar Cove Arms apartment complex. “Let’s swing by the drug store and see if they have anything good left. We can totally still win that money.”
“What do you care?” I harrumph, turning in the opposite direction toward the community center on Maple Street.
His brown eyes are pleading in the rearview mirror as I meet them again. “Honestly, guys, I totally forgot all about the grand prize. Come on, let’s—”
“It’s too late anyway,” says Braxton, chewing on a breath mint from his pocket. “The Rotary Club won’t let you in after 7, costume or no, so…”
As if on cue, we all look at the digital clock above my busted dashboard radio: we don’t even have ten minutes to spare, and the drug store is in the totally opposite direction.
Topher goes silent as the community center suddenly rolls into view.
“I don’t know why you’re suddenly freaking out now,” says Braxton, chewing on mint number four. “You had all week to get ready.”
“You too,” Topher shoots back.
Braxton rolls his eyes. “You know how hard it is to find a costume in my size? Besides, I spent all week helping Rain with her hooker costume.”
“French maid,” I remind the two of them as Topher finally cracks a smile from the backseat.
As I cruise around the crowded parking lot, hoping to find a spot somewhere within the same time zone, Braxton turns to Topher and asks, “What’s got you so distracted this year, anyway?”
I slow down and sneak a peek at non-costume boy just as Topher shrugs and replies, “Halloween’s falling on a full moon this year.”
“Doesn’t it always?” Braxton huffs, turning back around and pointing to a free space clear at the edge of the parking lot.
“Have you ever tried hiking three miles in four-inch heels?” I bark, turning around for another pass. “There will be one closer.”
“Only in movies,” Topher insists. “This is the first time there’s been a full moon on Halloween since, well…”
But I’m too busy trying to find a good space to hear the distress in Topher’s voice, and Braxton’s chewing so loud on the last of his breath mints – please, let it be the last of his breath mints – that I can barely hear him anyway.
I finally find a spot – not really, but what are they gonna do, tow a 12-year-old Datsun on Halloween? – on a slim patch of grass by the grease trap behind the Community Center.
We climb out of the tiny car and stretch our backs at the same time.
Around us stream much cooler kids with tons better costumes, and suddenly all chances of cashing in on that 300 buck prize go right out the window.
Sure, Topher looks statuesque in his daily black getup and matching curls, but it’s not a hot body contest, you know?
And me?
I feel suddenly ridiculous in my skimpy French maid costume, particularly considering the chill in the air and how it’s washing across my mostly bare derriere.
Yes, there’s a frilly black skirt covering my butt cheeks and, of course, the obligatory fish net stockings up and down my long legs but for a girl who’s used to about 22 more “layers” on a regular school day, I might as well be skinny dipping (minus the pool).
As they have before school, and during school, and after school ever since we started hanging out together freshman year, the boys flank me; Topher on my right, Baxter on my left.
“I’m sorry I forgot,” Topher whispers as a walking shower curtain passes by, a shoo-in for the Most Creative Prize. “I just… I’ve had a lot on my mind this month.”
“It’s okay,” I say as we wait for Baxter to grab a pumpkin spice cocoa from a booth by the ticket window. “It’s not for me so much I’m trying to win, but… I know Bax is trying to fix his laptop and he’s having a hard time getting that last hundred bucks together, you know?”
Topher nods, gravely, a pained look on his face.
“No worries,” I chuckle, nudging him. “A few more weeks without being online 24-7 won’t kill the guy. Heck, it might even do him some good.”
“No,” he sighs, fingering his crystal necklace nervously. “I know how much that computer means to him. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have been so selfish.”
I lean into him then, the black fabric of my frilly short skirt rustling against the stiff denim of his jeans. “I’d hardly call flaking on your Halloween costume selfish, dude. We’re just kidding with you.”
“I’m not,” Baxter winks, handing us each a hot chocolate. “I was really counting on that dough. If we don’t win, Topher, I’m going to start crashing with you and using your computer.”
Topher and I groan as I pay our way in.
The Community Center is decked out gaily with black and orange streamers and blinking orange lights in every available nook and cranny.
There are plastic skeletons hanging from the rafters and black rats stuck on every beam and a wisp of fog from a machine humming near the kitchen wafts across everyone’s feet.
Kids from school cluster in groups along the (fake) cobweb-covered walls, as if we’re all sitting back in the cafeteria at Cedar Cove High.
But it’s not a school function so there are grownups mingling as well, most of them decked out in standard costumes plucked straight from the racks of the nearest Mart: there’s a husband and wife decked out like mustard and ketchup squeezers, a guy wearing a giant whoopee cushion and, of course, a dozen or more Jasons, Michaels and Ghostfaces from Scream.
“You might have a shot after all, Rain,” Topher says, breath sweet like cocoa and nutmeg and warm as he leans in a little closely.
“Yeah,” Baxter groans, pointing across the room at a cluster of clingy, leggy chicks from school. “You and the three other French Maids here tonight.”
Sure enough, Molly Simmons, Caroline Gecko and Tracy Pollack all chose to wear matching French Maid getups, each one looking hotter than the last – and way hotter than me.
I turn around and head straight for the snack table, Topher and Braxton racing to catch up.
We feast on walnut peanut butter cookies and frozen apple ciders as spooky, scary songs mixed to a syntho-beat turn the covered basketball court into a frantic dance floor where giant ketchup containers dance with whoopee cushions and sexy Snow Whites.
“Careful,” Braxton warns around a mouth full of peanut butter bars, “you have to be able to fit in that costume at least until the contest’s over.”
“Who knows?” I say back, mouth full of candy corn. “My only chance of winning might be as a naked French maid?!?!”
Braxton’s laughing so hard I’m afraid he’s going to choke, so I look left and right for Topher, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Where’s Mr. No Costume?” I ask when we’ve both swallowed.
“He had to take a leak,” Braxton says subtly.
“But he’ll miss the Costume Contest,” I whine, watching from across the room as the Mayor of Cedar Cove, North Carolina takes to the stage and starts fiddling with the microphone stand.
“What’s he gonna miss?” Braxton asks, turning to join me as we face the stage. “Worst Costume of the Last Century?”
We chuckle but I gaze nervously toward the restrooms as the crowd kind of surges us helplessly along toward the stage.
I try to hold back, waiting for Topher, but it’s either move forward or be trampled and how will I ever seduce Topher from inside an iron lung, so… onward I go.
I watch anxiously as Mayor Murphy makes a big speech about how “proud” he is of the night’s huge attendance, or everyone’s “holiday spirit” and “creative energy.”
We all kind of gold clap each time he pauses because he seems to expect it, but really we all just want to know: who won?
As I secretly cross my fingers behind my frilly lace skirt, the Mayor starts calling folks up to the stage.
My fingers cross tighter and tighter as one by one ketchup bottles and whoopee cushions and gladiators and sexy Snow Whites slink to the stage, not a single French maid asked to join them, least of all me.
At last, five contestants stand nervously behind the Mayor as he announces, “And now, back by popular demand, I’m going to open the floor up to one final contestant who you get to vote on collectively, gang. So look around, folks, is there anyone you see standing next to you, perhaps, or even across the room who deserves to win this contest more than these brave folks already standing on stage?”
As if on cue, a giant roar rips through the Community Center.
Chicks, children and Baxter scream as the crowd parts to make room for the thundering presence that has suddenly announced itself.
The roaring grows louder and louder as I spot giant, hairy shoulders and a growling, sneering, gnashing head rotates from side to side.
“Dang,” wheezes Baxter, impressed enough to pull the giant orange lollipop he’s been sucking on away from his face for a better look. “That is one convincing werewolf costume.”
“Werewolf?” I blurt, adrenaline pumping. “I thought it was a black bear on steroids!”
“No,” Baxter argues, as if I was really serious. “Check out the teeth and is that… dang, dude even sprung for the lifelike drool hanging off his fangs. That had to set him back at least two bills, Rain!”
The howling grows more ferocious as, without asking, the werewolf grinds and gnashes and claws and paws and generally menaces his way to the stage.
His giant, massive, muscular fingers grip the two metal rails on either side of the rough wooden steps as he clomps and chomps his way up to the stage.
Mr. Ketchup bottle faints.
Mrs. Mustard bottle swoons.
Whoopee Cushion guy, no lie, messes himself (I think).
And sexy Snow White literally stage dives into the crowd, the only problem being… no more crowd.
She lands on the suddenly empty dance floor with a sickening thud, something maybe, possibly snaps but then she groans and begins crawling out of the way so at least we know she’s okay.
You know; sort of.
That leaves only Mayor Murphy and Werewolf Guy still on stage, expensive – according to Baxter – fake drool drizzling down his fake fangs, although I have to say they look pretty darn real to me.
In fact, the whole dang costume looks pretty much Grade-A, A-list Hollywood Movie Monster Makeup good.
We’re talking muscles moving in his feet, kneecaps bulging and about as big as most bowling balls, shoulders as broad and hairy as Viking defensive lineman – the actual race of Nordic warriors, not the football team (not that those dudes are too shabby, but… seriously, dude is cut).
And that hair.
It is some kind of authentic.
“Where would you get hair like that?” I ask Baxter, who’s busy cramming his mouth with popcorn balls as if he’s front and center at a double creature feature.
Where is Topher?
I cannot believe a monster movie fan of his proportions is missing all this!
“It’s gotta be real,” Baxter says clinically, admiring the seven foot tall creature’s glistening black hair, which covers his bulging muscles and most of his wicked looking face.
Wolfie’s eyes glow a fierce, brownish yellow to match his giant, six-inch fangs.
His snout is gleaming and leathery, the dark brown color of my Dad’s favorite deck shoes.
His chest heaves in and out with the effort of breathing and growling and snorting; it’s amazing Mayor Murphy hasn’t bolted with the rest of the contestants.
“Well,” he chuckles nervously, signaling to someone off stage. “I guess that just about seals it. Due to the fainting, fleeing and jumping offstage of the rest of the contestants, this year’s winner of the grand prize of $300 is, well, The Wolfman!”
Suddenly a timid bank clerk-ish type woman, complete with a mint green business suit and crooked bifocals trembles her way onstage, bearing the biggest check I’ve ever seen.
Mayor Murphy grabs it, poses for a few photos with some clown from the local newspaper, waving the Wolfman over as he hands off the check.
The Wolfman’s paws are so authentic, so real, they actually kind of pierce the check where he grabs it in the top two corners.
“Uh oh,” says the Mayor, noticing. “I hope the bank takes that. You know, damaged check and all.”
He’s chuckling but the Wolfman growls, silencing the Mayor and piercing the crowd – the timid, cringing, half-empty-now crowd – with those blazing yellow eyes.
The drool drips, the teeth gleam beneath snarling lips as that massive werewolf head scans the crowd, slowly, slowly until it stops to find Baxter and I literally clinging to each other.
There is a deafening howl, then a snort and a sniff, as the werewolf keens and bounds offstage, four paws tearing up the steps as he holds the check by one corner in his drooling, giant teeth, the way a dog will drag an empty food bowl to his master.
With that, silence reins, except for the occasional snort and snuffle as the werewolf beats a hasty retreat toward the Fire Exit down the hall offstage left.
“Dang,” admires Baxter, finally unclenching his giant, massive mitt from my bare forearm. “I could have sworn he was howling at you, Rain!”
“Me?” I blurt, inching toward the stage. “You were right there with me.”
“Yeah, but he was looking at you.”
I turn, only to find Baxter back to grazing through the now empty buffet line.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Nervous eating,” he explains, mouth already full. “Besides, half the town left when the Wolfman showed up. Now’s my chance for some of Mrs. Sherman’s famous candy corn bark!”
I ignore him, food the last thing on my mind now as I inch closer to the stage.
Snow White is gone, Mr. Ketchup Bottle is finally coming to but there’s something shiny and glistening at the foot of the stage that I want to check out before things get back to normal.
It looks so familiar, I can’t take my eyes off it.
Then, a few steps closer, I realize why; it’s Topher’s necklace, snapped in the back.
No, not snapped; more like torn off, totally.
I pocket it, knowing he’s never without it and will want it back, ASAP, once he finds out it’s gone.
The thing is… where’d it come from?
I can’t remember seeing it before the Wolfman showed up, but… if Topher’s been in the bathroom this whole time then… who dropped it?
And why?
Suddenly, I hear his familiar voice saying, “Hey, where’d everybody go?”
“What?” I blurt, seeing his handsome face smirking as he emerges, at last, from the restroom, still zipping his black jeans up, his hair a little messy and his face flushed. “Are you kidding me, dude? You totally missed THE most authentic werewolf costume you’re ever going to see in your ENTIRE lifetime. I swear, you and your disappearing acts. I’m really starting to wonder about you—”
“What’s that?” he asks, reaching out to gently clasp my hand.
I open my fingers to reveal his necklace.
“You must have dropped it in your haste to use the little boy’s room,” I joke, handing it back.
“Thanks,” he says, looking me in the eyes.
For just a moment there, a flash of yellow merges with the brown.
But by the time I blink twice to make sure I’m not seeing things, it’s gone.
It’s gone and so are we.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask as he drags me back toward the restrooms.
“It’s the weirdest thing,” he says, pulling me close so Baxter won’t hear. Although, good luck; dude’s on Round 3 – or is it 4 – at the buffet line. “But, as I was coming out of the bathroom, this dude in a werewolf costume handed me… this.”
As we round the corner there, leaning against the vending machine in the back of the Community Hall, is the giant check for $300!
“Well, where’d the dude go?” I ask, standing next to the check. It basically comes up to my shoulders, it’s so big.
“I dunno,” Topher shrugs, looking at me funny. “Last I looked, he was heading out the emergency exit toward Old Man Grossman’s farm. Before he left, he told me to keep it. When I asked him why, he just growled ‘Happy Halloween’ and bolted out the back door. Weird, huh?”
His face is slightly flushed, a sure sign he’s lying; or high, or nervous, or sad, or scared or any of the 101 emotions that passes across Topher’s face twelve times a day.
I can never read the dude. It must be one of the 101 reasons I’m crushing on him so hard lately.
“Should… should we really keep it?” I ask.
“Why not?” he huffs, grabbing it and sticking his hand right in the puddle of werewolf drool at the top corner. “Gross!”
“Look at those bite marks,” I crow, marveling at the two inch-wide holes in the opposite corner of the check.
“I guess you were right,” he chuckles, carrying the check out to Baxter. “That was one authentic costume.”
Folks along the way – the dozen or two who didn’t flee for the main exit the minute the Wolfman showed up, that is – pat Topher on the back, assuming it was him beneath the scary werewolf suit all along.
He tries to explain but everybody’s happy or buzzed or has their mouth full and aren’t buying it anyway.
Finally he shrugs as I grab Baxter away from the food line.
With a candy apple in one hand and a complimentary barf bag in the other, he follows dutifully.
Only when we’re outside, trying to fit the giant check into my pint-size Datsun, does a questioning glance cross his face.
But the first question out of his mouth is the last one I’d expect.
“What happened to your necklace, dude?” Baxter asks as Topher holds it in his hand instead of wearing it around his neck.
My heart pounds as he explains, “These cheap thongs, you know, they’re always breaking.”
Baxter shrugs and says, “Yeah, well, now that you’ve got an extra hundred bucks, you can buy all the cheap crystal necklaces you want!”
“Naw,” Topher blushes, handing over the giant check. “The werewolf dude said you should have it. All of it.”
He looks at me with those questioning brown eyes, as if to ask if it’s okay.
I make that crumpled “of course” face and roll my eyes, as if he ever had to ask in the first place.
“What?” Baxter asks, sweat suddenly popping out on his broad, red forehead. “What for? Why? How did werewolf guy know… me?”
Topher looks at Baxter admiring the check, then looks over at me and winks.
“You got me,” he groans, voice suddenly hoarse and all kinds of sexy. “Maybe he works at that computer repair shop you’ve been hounding for the last three weeks!”
“Yeah, right,” Baxter chuckles, wedging into the backseat with the check resting happily on his lap.
He looks so contented and cheerful, you’d think it was Christmas morning and not Halloween night.
After we drop him off a few minutes later, Topher and I ride in silence for a mile or two.
As we near downtown, or what passes for it in tiny Cedar Cove, anyway, Topher clears his throat and says, “You hungry, Rain?”
I think of all those candy corns I’d downed at the buffet table but it’s not every day Mr. Strong and Silent opens the door for a dinner date.
Before he can think twice and back out I blurt, “Starved!”
“Me too,” he says, patting his slim, empty belly. “I know I gave away all the prize money but… what if I treat you to a nice, rare steak at Delmonico’s anyway?”
“Delmonico’s?” I ask, picturing the ritzy four-star restaurant on the nice side of town.
“Have you seen how I’m dressed?”
“You look beautiful,” he says, with that low voice of his and those brown eyes stuck on where the short skirt stalls at my upper thigh. “I’d be proud to take you anywhere, Rain.”
I see the twinkling lights in the trees and the fancy restaurant’s parking lot looming into view.
“Screw it,” I say, yanking the car into the half-empty parking lot. “Maybe they’ll give me half off for showing some Halloween spirit.”
As I park the car and prepare to get out, he stands slowly.
“You all right?” I ask as he unfolds himself from the car like my grandpa on visiting day at the nursing home.
“Sure, why?”
“Nothing,” I smirk, winking at him.
He seems in no hurry to race inside, so after I lock the car I kind of lean my arms on the roof and stare over at him.
He does the same, his arms so long our fingers almost touch.
“How come you asked me out to dinner all of a sudden?” I ask.
“I… I… kind of have something to tell you,” he croaks, giving me the shivers with that sexy new voice of his.
I wink and walk around to his side of the car, grabbing him by the hand.
“Topher, if you wanted to tell me you were a werewolf, Burger Barn would’ve done just fine.”
“W-w-what?” he asks, incredulous. “H-h-how did you know?”
I stand next to my car, looking up at him.
“The necklace, for one thing,” I remind him, soft Italian music wafting from inside as a couple walks through the front door and hurries to their car. The only time it could have fallen off was when you were doing your little act on the stage.”
He shakes his head, looking almost… relieved.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” he bluffs.
“Okay, well, how about this…?”
I pull him slightly down, so that he’s facing the passenger side mirror.
There he sees his right ear, still giant sized and hairy; just like it was on stage that whole time.
Just like it’s been ever since he ran out of the men’s room, shoving his black V-neck T-shirt back into his snug black jeans.
“Oh my God!” he blurts, standing back up and covering his mouth. (Come to think of it, his knuckles are still pretty hairy as well. Or, wait… are they always like that?)
“D-d-do you think Baxter saw?”
“I think once he saw that check, dude, that was all he saw. Come on, let’s eat.”
“B-b-but, my ear,” he says, feeling it gingerly; yup, it’s still there.
“Who cares?” I huff, yanking him toward the doorway of Delmonico’s. “If anybody says anything, we’ll say it’s part of your costume!”
Who Vampires Eat for Thanksgiving:
A Vampire Thanksgiving Story
She appears out of nowhere.
Just, one minute I’m driving, trying to find something – anything – other than Christmas music on the radio and, the next, POOF… she’s there.
I swerve to avoid her but, then I think, “She’s sitting there. Right there. How do I avoid that?”
“Eyes on the road,” she says in a deep voice.
Not masculine, exactly, but not quite seductive either.
“W-w-where did you come from?” I blather, ridiculously, sounding like the dumbest coed in the dumbest slasher movie ever made.
“I’ve been here all along,” she explains, hands resting gently in her lap. “We can do a lot of things, Hector, but… we’re not ghosts. We can’t just slip through glass windows and rusty truck doors when you’re not looking.”
“H-h-how did you know my name?”
She snickers and with one pale, cold finger points to my chest. “It’s on your nametag, silly.”
I look down and, sure enough, there it is.
The road is mostly deserted this time of day, but even if it wasn’t this time of day, it would still be deserted on this particular day.
The bends of Route 1 sag and stretch along the hilly countryside of Patchwork, West Virginia.
The countryside is brittle and yellow with the afternoon’s early frost.
I can still feel it in my fingers after the long hours spent hosing down the factory floor, my joints creaky and cold despite the gloves already mildewing in my employee locker.
“So you’re not a ghost,” I find the stones to say just as we pass the Patchwork Funeral Home, its parking lot empty. “And yet, you pop up out of thin air. So… what are you?”
“I already told you, I didn’t ‘pop’ out of anywhere. I’ve been sitting here the entire time. Don’t you listen?”
Her voice is impatient, tired, almost bordering on a sneer.
I like it even less than her raven hair and grave marker pale skin.
“Sorry, it’s a little hard to focus when I’m freaking out, you know?”
She smirks, black lipstick curling into half a smile.
“And you still haven’t answered my question.”
The truck sails along, heavy under my hand. With last week’s paycheck in the bank, I finally have a full tank of gas. Plenty to race up to speed and sail through the fence on old Man Potter’s farm, sailing just over the property line to crash, passenger side first, into his biggest pecan tree.
Take that, snarky Goth suddenly appearing girl!
“I’ve been sitting here your entire shift,” she explains as I gradually begin to accelerate. “I knew you wouldn’t start the truck, let alone pull out of the parking lot, if you’d seen me so I waited until you were halfway down the road before allowing you to see me.”
“You can… do that?”
“Of course we can,” she snaps. “But, that’s not what you really want to know, is it Hector?”
Her voice is cold; colder than the November countryside, colder than my still-thawing fingers after eight hours on the factory floor.
I hate it.
I hate her.
I don’t care who she is, or what she is, or where she came from.
“Slow down,” she says through barely parted lips.
I glance at the speedometer and see I’ve sped up to nearly 60 miles per hour.
Not bad for an LA freeway but, here in Bum Stuck, West Virginia, I might as well be daring a cop to pull me over.
Even if it is Thanksgiving.
“Sorry,” I grumble, stepping slightly off the gas.
Then I think: “Why should I be the one to apologize? I mean, it’s my car.”
She settles back, thin as a rail and sharply angry in her black jeans and matching hoodie.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she oozes in that cold, unlikable voice. “Speed up, aim the car at the nearest tree, hope the crash is less painful than what I have in store for you.”
“What, you’re a ghost and a mind reader?”
“Slow. Down. Hector.”
Her voice is like steel; cold steel.
I do as I’m told.
I mean, what if she can read my mind?
“I can’t, you know,” she says, a smooth smile oozing across her frosty face. “Read minds. It’s just, you’re speeding up, you haven’t taken your eyes off that row of trees up in the distance, so… a girl can put two and two together, you know?”
I nod, biting my lower lip.
I do that when I’m nervous.
Or, you know, about to face certain death by unidentified stranger.
“So what can you do?” I ask, throat dry, eyes still on that row of trees up in the distance.
I wish the factory wasn’t so far from town.
There’s nothing out here but pecan trees and rusty barbed wire and hills and dales and miles and miles of open, empty road.
“Well, I can see myself in your rearview mirror, for one. I can become invisible, for another. And I can tear your windpipe out with my fangs if you keep giving me the attitude, how’s that for starters?”
“So… you’re a vampire?”
She nods, quietly, then hisses around two wicked, yellow, curved fangs.
Kind of like vampire show and tell.
I shake my head, grit my teeth and drive.
“So what now?”
“Well, I thought you’d be more impressed, Hector. I mean, it’s not every day a vampire shows up riding shotgun.”
“I am impressed. I’m just… more shocked… is all.”
“Shock would be the appropriate response, Hector.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it’s not every day a vampire shows up riding shotgun. Sheesh, I thought we just covered this…”
“I mean, why are you here?” I ask. “Why are you sitting here? Today?”
“I’m glad you asked,” she smiles, almost… purring.
With no other traffic in sight and the road clear for miles, I risk a second look her way.
She looks young, maybe 17 or 18?
My age, at least.
But there is an air of wisdom about her.
Or maybe just superiority.
She is thin but I can tell, even from the veins in her wrist and the set of her jaw that she’s wiry, strong… powerful.
“Today is a very special day for vampires, Hector.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Absolutely. It’s the one day of the year we can feel guilt-free about dining on humans. Well, certain humans, anyway.”
“What, like you feel guilt?”
I hear the hard edge to my voice and see my knuckles, white on the wheel.
She turns her head and cuts me an icy glare. “Just because I’m undead doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings, Hector.”
“Okay,” I snap, a little too quickly. “You’re going to tell me you’re one of those beatnik vampires who feasts on rats and cows and not people?”
“Actually, 364 days a year, yes… I don’t eat people. But you’re lucky; today’s my one exception.”
After a long, deliberate pause she adds icily, “You’re my one exception.”
I speed up again.
Screw her.
I gun it!
She sighs, and doesn’t move a muscle.
“Go ahead, Hector. Crash your car into the nearest tree. Who do you think it’s going to hurt? Me? Who’s been alive for the last 200 years? Or you?”
“If I’m going to die, I’d rather die on my own terms.”
“No you wouldn’t, Hector. And besides, who said anything about dying?”
“You did, lady. You just said you were going to eat me.”
“No I didn’t. And I’m no lady, Hector. My name is Isabelle. My friends call me ‘Izzy.’”
“Huh, how about your victims? What do they call you?”
“Gurgle, Gurgle Scream?” she jokes. “No, but… seriously. You can call me Izzy, too.”
“Okay, Izzy, well… you just said I was going to be your one human victim of the year. So if you’re not going to eat me, what are you going to do?”
“Give you a choice, that’s what.”
“A choice?”
“Yes, Hector. You can live or die.”
“Live! I choose to live. See ya!”
“You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously, Hector.”
“Oh, I am. It’s just, like you said, not every day a vampire pops up riding shotgun for no reason.”
Her head snaps around. “You think I’m here for no reason, Hector? You think I showed up in that parking lot back there, in your truck, for no reason? Think again, friend.”
“Then what reason, huh? What could I have possibly done to clock out of work and find a vampire sitting in my truck?”
“You just answered yourself, Hector; you clocked out.”
I shoot her a glance as I zip past another pecan tree and she adds, “What do you do for a living, Hector?”
“Go to school. I’m a senior at Patchwork High.”
“For work, Hector?” she asks, unimpressed. “What do you do for work?”
“What, back there? That’s… that’s my winter job. I took it to help out the family for the holidays. Dad’s on disability since the accident, Mom works nights at the mall but they cut her hours to make way for all the seasonal part-timers, so… I took the job at the factory, why?”
“You consider the slaughter of innocents a job?”
I look at her, then smirk.
“Innocents? You mean, the frickin’ turkeys?”
“Yeah, the turkeys. Did you ever think of them before?”
“No, Izzy. Wanna know why? ‘Cause they’re turkeys – ouch! What the hell?”
I look down to find her hand resting on my thigh, and not in a frisky-cheerleader-after-the-football-game way, either.
From the tips of her fingers stretch long, black claws; sharp, and one of them has blood dripping it off of them onto my torn work pants.
Then she moves her hand and I feel the blood trickle down my leg; slowly, at first, then thicker, faster, like grape jelly oozing over the crust of a double-decker PB & J.
I look down and see the perfect slice across my inner thigh; clean and neat, the torn work pants revealing a glistening, oozing flesh wound.
“Turkeys have feelings too, you know?”
“No, I don’t Izzy. Know why? Because I don’t work with the turkeys, you witch!”
“What? What do you mean? You work at the plant, do you not?”
“Yeah, in custodial! I clean up turkey crap and feathers all day, hose the bloody walls and belts on the line. I’m 17 years old, you freak! You think they’re gonna let me slaughter turkeys at my age? Jesus, you really cut me!”
“Well, I mean…” she’s blathering now, stammering, looking uncertain for the first time since she appeared out of thin air. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I was trying to when you practically sliced my leg in half.”
“Pull over!”
“No way! I’m going to a hospital to get this—”
She reaches over and, with one hand, lifts my leg off the gas pedal and, with the other, yanks the wheel hard to the right.
We hit the ditch, go up and over and land, embedded, in a long swatch of barbed wire surrounding Mr. Butterson’s squash farm.
Steam rises from the punctured radiator and hisses green, brackish water all over the shattered windshield.
“What was that for?” I ask, tasting blood on my tongue.
“Your choice,” she gasps, inching over. “I promised you a choice; you have to make it. Now, before it’s too late!”
“What choice?”
“Live or die, Hector? Now or never!”
“How about none of the above?”
“Your thigh, Hector; look at it. I’ve severed your femoral artery, stupid. You have about two minutes before you pass out and never wake up again.”
“Well, what’d you do that for?”
“Hector! Because, I thought you spent all day getting your jollies slaughtering Thanksgiving turkeys.”
“What?
I could… I’d never… I don’t even eat
turkeys, Izzy! I’m a vegetarian.”
“That’s it,” she
grunts, leaning over. “I’m choosing for you!”
Suddenly, she pierces my throat with those grody yellow fangs.
They slide in, not quite like butter, but smoothly, no doubt.
There is a warm sensation, kind of like the tickle you get between your toes when you feel that annual rash of athlete’s foot halfway through every football season; then… nice.
Just… nice.
“I’m sorry,” she is saying, over and over, as she pulls back from me, wiping blood – wiping my blood – off her thick, black painted lips and onto her thin black sleeve. “I thought you were one of those turkey killers! Oh dear. Well, at least you won’t die now.”
“I won’t?” I ask, my voice sounding far away.
“No, Hector; never. Not anymore.”
“Okay,” I sigh, blinking at her.
Her face grows blurry, then comes back into focus.
Before it goes blurry again she says, “Rest, Hector, and when you wake back up, we’ll be somewhere far, far away from here.”
“But I like it here,” I sigh, the barren West Virginia landscape yellow and frosty beyond my shattered windshield. “Wait, no; not really. I hate it here. But… my folks. The money; they’ll need it after I’m gone.”
“You’ll send them money, Hector; we both will. Just, rest for now…”
I look down at my shirt, see the blood gush down my throat and across my nametag.
The nametag that reads “Hector.”
Just below the name of the company I work for: Patchwork Poultry Factory.
Where I used to work, hosing down the turkey pens and shoveling turkey crap.
I feel the energy draining from me now, the life – my old life – bleeding out.
I blink my eyes open to find Izzy, smiling; smiling.
She looks almost pretty when she smiles.
You know, aside from my blood still drying on her fangs…
Zombies Don’t Gobble:
A Living Dead Thanksgiving Poem
The table was set
The candles aglow;
When at the front door
Three zombies did show.
“Who could that be knocking?”
Poor Mother did pout.
“Probably Mindy’s boyfriend,”
My Father did shout.
“I’ll see who it is,”
I said to them all.
As I skittered and shimmied
To see who did call.
The door it did open
My heart it did shudder;
My legs felt just like
A bowl of whipped butter.
“Brains!” said one zombie
“Your Brains!” said another;
“It’s turkey or nothing,”
Blared my big, nosy mother.
I held my breath tight
As they studied my skull;
Then each rolled an eye
To find it… quite dull.
I felt almost rejected
As they brushed me aside;
And toward our Thanksgiving table
Each zombie did stride.
The zombies they shuffled
Straight up to the bird;
They left quite a smell
Like a three-week old turd!
They reached out their hands
To tear off a leg;
Mom said, “Sit down you three;
And don’t make me beg!”
I figured they’d tear her
One limb from another;
But those zombies seemed –
Quite scared of… my mother!
In no time they listened
In no time they sat;
And wore napkins in their collars
In two seconds flat!
My family sat watching
The zombies devour;
A 20-pound turkey
In less than an hour.
They gnawed on the wishbone
And guzzled down gravy;
Their behavior was almost
Well… downright… behave-y!
Mom smiled and cheered
As they refilled each plate;
It didn’t seem to bother her
That none of us ate.
And when there was nothing
To swallow or chew;
The zombies looked happy
Or at least far less… eeeewwwww!
My family sat frozen
Quite glued to our seats;
Until Zombie One burped
And sputtered, “Good eats!”
They rose without speaking
As we covered our brains;
They turned and shuffled out
Leaving only grease stains.
I stood at the door
To see where they’d gone;
And watched three stuffed zombies
Shuffle down our front lawn.
“It sure looks to me,”
I said with a tweet.
“Like they’re going away;
Like they’re crossing the street!”
“Now that they’re gone,”
Mom said with a grin.
“Our real Thanksgiving dinner
Can finally begin!”
Dad helped clear the table
Sis set it again;
As I asked Mom about
Her backup turkey plan.
“Why everyone knows,”
She grinned from ear to ear;
“To cook a second Thanksgiving dinner
When zombies are near!”
The Werewolf on Thanksgiving:
A FREE Thanksgiving Poem by Rusty Fischer
I sit at the table
Tapping my feet.
As chomping and slurping
My family, they eat.
They are clueless, you see
That a wolf might be here.
As I try to sit still
And smile, ear to ear.
For if the wolf thinks I know
That he’s in our midst;
He’s bound to get angry
And huffy… and pissed!
So I play it all cool
On this Thanksgiving Day
And hope that the werewolf
Will just… go away.
I know that he’s here
Only in human form.
‘Cause the vibe at this table
Is well past the norm.
I can smell him, all ugly
And snarly and gross.
As my brother burps loudly
And grunts, “Pass the toast.”
I cannot; I will not.
For to move is a crime.
I know if I do
He’ll be on me in no time.
Or it could be a she.
I’m clueless, I know.
But I can’t spot who’s Wolfie
‘Til his fangs start to grow.
It could be my mother
(Who’s quite quick to anger.)
Or maybe my Dad.
(Whose toenails spell danger.)
It might be Aunt Fannie.
(Who smells rather… odd.)
Or poor Uncle Chuck.
Or my big brother, Todd.
My sister’s been angry
Ever since Halloween.
(And has the hairiest mole
That I’ve ever seen!)
But wait, what’s that snarling
And huffing and puffing?
Oh wait, it’s just Todd
Who’s wolfing down stuffing.
The mood it grows tense,
As the temperature drops.
The snorting, it’s starting
And then it just… stops.
But why are they looking
At my dinner plate?
Could it be ‘cause the size of
The helping I ate?
Or is it my fingers
As they split right in two?
Or the veins in my neck,
All bulging and… blue?
Is it ‘cause my nose is turning
Into a snout?
And what used to be in
Is now bulging out?
Could it be that the hair
Is starting to grow?
No, not on my head
But where hair shouldn’t grow?
Like out of my ear holes
And out of my nose;
And under my fingers
And over my toes!
At last, that old Wolfie
Has shown his true face.
As my family, it scatters
All over the place.
It isn’t my nephew,
My sis or my aunt.
I can’t face the truth;
Oh no, I just can’t.
The werewolf is neither
A he or a she.
The werewolf on Thanksgiving
Is little old… me!
Oh, Tannenbrain:
A Living Dead Christmas Poem
The zombies were ready
For the first reindeer hoof
As it padded and pawed
On the house’s pitched roof.
They grumbled and groused
And gurgled and drooled;
They’d waited so long
They wouldn’t be fooled!
They weren’t mad at Santa,
Not hardly, no way.
In fact he’d be President,
If the zombies had their way.
No, the zombies were hungry
For stuff other than brains;
They wanted to play
With stuffed dolls and toy trains!
Though their hearts were quite empty
And their souls long past dead;
They still got excited
For the green and the red!
Their lives were so boring
Their mealtimes mundane.
They looked forward to playtime
After another serving of… brain.
It got boring gnawing on
The neighbor’s fat head;
When they’d rather be playing
With Big Wheels instead!
They’d hatched their plan
While watching the Grinch!
“We’ll capture Santa,” one burped.
“It’ll be a cinch!”
And now the fireplace rumbled
As soot fell to the floor
And boots did appear
Where there were none before!
The zombies were hiding
Behind the Christmas tree
Their rotted teeth smiling
Green faces covered in glee.
When the fat man stepped out
The zombies did roar.
Oh, what a playtime
They all had in store!
But Santa grew frightened
As mortals they will
And ran to throw open
The nearest windowsill.
The zombies they trampled
The zombies they ran
And quickly surrounded
The jolly fat man.
They did try to reason
With good Old St. Nick.
But nothing they grunted
Did quite do the trick.
The window it opened
And before he could run
The zombies dragged Santa
Back for more fun.
He tasted quite fleshy
That jolly old man;
The zombies just quite
Couldn’t stick to their plan.
It wasn’t that Santa
They wanted to frag;
It was really quite simple:
They wanted his bag!
And now they sit scattered
All over the floor
The toys and the dolls
And oh so much more.
For it’s Christmas morning
And the zombies all smile
As they play with their toys
In the best zombie style.
And no zombie is smiling
More than Santa himself
Who is having a ball
As a living dead elf!
Zombies Don’t Carve:
A Living Dead Christmas Story
Echo sits in the car, pale fingers clutching the seatbelt still clicked firmly into place.
The engine idles, exhaust pluming in the rearview mirror as we sit, parked in front of my house.
“Babe,” I murmur, caressing his cold skin with my warm hands. (Ooohh, I hope I never tire of that sensation.) “Seriously, it’s going to be fine. They’re not bad people, trust me.”
“I know they’re not ‘bad’ people,” he says, voice a little on the gravelly side. (Just the way I like it!) “They don’t have to be ‘bad’ people to hate zombies. Haven’t you heard? Apparently, it’s America’s last acceptable prejudice!”
He fumes, staring down at his slick brown shoes.
They’re new; I helped him pick them out after the last day of school before Christmas break.
From the looks of it, he’s been polishing them ever since.
I don’t have an answer to that, so I just kind of sit there for a few seconds, willing myself not to look at my watch; we’re already six minutes late.
Not a stretch for most families; for mine, well, we might as well bring Twisted Sister’s Christmas album for the evening’s listening pleasure.
Speaking of, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” oozes from the radio, some old lady from a long time ago really belting it out; he gives me an ironic smiley face, so I turn it down; then off.
He turns it back on, quietly, and explains, “I was hoping there’d be some news on the latest outbreak before we go in.”
“Last
I heard,” I tell him, ignoring the knot in my stomach from the live
newscasts I’ve been hearing all morning, “the checkpoints from
Thanksgiving were still holding and the governor has doubled the
reservists at each hot spot.”
“That’s good,” he says by
rote, knowing as I do that what they say in news accounts and what’s
really happening on the ground don’t always mesh.
“10 minutes, Echo,” I plead. “Just give them 10 minutes and if you’re not digging it, if they’re even the least bit rude – aside from my little brother Zack, he can’t help it – then we’re out of there, promise.”
“You say that,” he says, sighing and reaching for his seatbelt. “But you don’t really mean it.”
He’s right, of course.
We step out of the car, feet crunching on the mushy snow sliding down the street toward the gutter halfway down the slight hill we live on.
He reaches in back, like the gentleman that he is, and grabs the gaily-colored presents we’d spent hours fighting over in the mall just the other day.
Despite the pasty pallor, he looks downright gorgeous in his thick turtleneck – it hides the bite marks from his run-in with a true zombie on Halloween – and starched wheat-colored chords that hug every curve he’s got, and some even I’ve forgotten he had.
He smells of some musky, spicy cologne he must have bought when I wasn’t around (which could be any day ever since they kicked him out of school for catching “the Z disease”), and as I reach for the gourmet food bag behind my seat, I nuzzle his neck as he stands beside me.
“Stop,” he giggles, breaking his stern mask for the first time all night. “It tickles.”
“Tickles?” I gush, excited by the temperature of his freezing cold skin. “I thought you zombies couldn’t feel anything?”
“Well, I can feel that,” he growls suggestively, forcing me to step away before we start something in the backseat we can’t finish before dinner.
I blush slightly at the ridiculously expensive front lawn display Echo has never seen before, but I’ve been embarrassed about ever since it went up the first week of December.
Mom went all out (again) this year, adding Santa hats and candy canes to last year’s imported-all-the-way-from-Spain life-size nativity set.
“Wow,” says Echo un-ironically. “That is… major.”
I still can’t tell if it’s a compliment, or a diss.
I guess at this point it doesn’t really matter; meeting my parents for the first time, he’s entitled to a few sour grapes.
“So this is where you live, huh?” he asks, unable to hide the slight sense of resentment in his tone.
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