A Warm October Night

Ron Koppelberger

A Warm October Night

It was October 31^st and the streets were dimly lit with the lanterns and glow sticks of little boys and girls in Halloween dress. The air echoed with the faint sing-song lilt of Trick or Treat, Trick or Treat and the demon rejoiced, for it was that time, that special time where he could roam free and do as he willed. He was a dark silhouette against the side of the shed as the children passed by, unseen except for the littlest ones who cried at the darkness behind the shed. He stared after them and relished the sound of their tears as he crept forward in shadow and darkness.
There were groans and wild maniacal laughter coming from the Freemont’s house, they had violet lights and bright orange jack-o-laterns lining their drive. A host of clothing stuffed bodies lay draped across their yard and roof. The children oooohhhed and ahhhhhaaaad, they might get potato chips there or maybe even candy bars, full sized ones. Alan Freemont loved to go all out for Halloween and he was dressed to the hilt like a zombie except for the name tag that read “HI I’M ALAN“. On the front porch he had a black cardboard coffin filled with candy. Alan opened and shut the lid as each child came forward. “Cooooommmeee seeee what I have for you little onessssss!” he groaned as he lifted the lid and moaned. The crowd of children giggled and some yelled in surprise at the severed arm that Alan pulled from the coffin. “Here you gooooooo little ghouls and boysssssss!” he moaned again as the children held their pillowcases forward for the treat.
The Demon watched from across the street, wondering what Alan might taste like. He thought about his appearance for a brief instant before he began edging toward Alan’s house. Alan saw the stooped figure moving slowly across the street and a jolt of fear, real fear coursed through him in chill waves of warning. The figure moved closer revealing it’s visage to Alan in shades of black light.
Alan stood there for a moment shocked at what he was looking at. Great costume, only thing was it didn’t really look like a costume. It’s head was misshapen and pumpkin shaped and it’s eyes, those damn eyes he thought; they were dark and glowing black if that’s possible Alan thought. It’s hands were outstretched and wonting, three fingers with blood red claws and bits of loose flesh hanging from the wrists. It moved closer and opened it’s mouth greedily. What came out sounded like, “WHHHHHAAAATTTTT YOUUUUU GOOTSSSSSS FERRRR MINEEEEEEEE!” in garbled hissing spurts. Alan crossed himself and backed toward the front door of the house. “FERRRRRRRRR MMMMEEEEEEE!” it screamed as a great gout of blood sprayed from its jagged mouth. It was shoeless and it’s long scaled feet were visible, it’s toes were like water balloons, soft and flattening out with each step closer. “FEEEERRRRRRR MEEEEE!” it screamed again.
In an odd sense of De Ja Vu Alan saw the creature double and again as if it had been before. The night was warm and dark and he remembered that, the creature, leaking blood and viscera and he sensed the events that would come. It would kill him and eat him for it’s Halloween treat. He had to stop it, he had to change fate. The demon stood before him, saliva dampening its fleshy lips. It grabbed Alan’s arm and bit down hard on his wrist. Alan screamed and jerked his hand away, blood spraying from his injured wrist. “I’ve got to stop it he thought as he grabbed hold of the demon and bit down hard. “AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHH!” the demon screamed in anguish as Alan continued to bite it even eating pieces of it’s flesh.
In the end the demon lost, Alan’s determination saw him through as he devoured the creature, every last morsel. The next year Halloween arrived warm and whispering it’s secrets. The demon stood beside the shed in utter darkness, the only clue to his identity a nametag that said “HI I’M ALAN”!

The Light in Snake Fuss by Ron Koppelberger, horror, short fiction available at Amazon.com

Zombie Fades to Dust

Ron Koppelberger

Zombie Fades to Dust

The fathers of substance and the alchemy of growing toward the silhouette of the moon he thought in anticipation of the kill. “Fire Damn!” he said in a whisper to the rose bushes and the plastic pink Flamingos. He was waiting in the side yard for the symbol of his wont, the want to take and dissect and destroy the vestiges of human acclaim.
H3e had killed so many times that the repetition became a kind of De Ja Veu, he felt it in his bones, to the core of his demeanor and soul. The last had been disappointing he had screamed and died of heart failure. He had stood there poised with the knife and ball of yarn. The bag of rock salt in his pocket had seemed heavy. “Zombies, all zombies!” he said aloud to himself. He had killed and killed and still they were, as the day and the night sure and unbidden by his anger. They were all zombies, mindless constructions of flesh. He had his rock salt though, he would palace it under the man’s tongue and sew his mouth shut. To quell the pass of evil he thought. He would then sew his eyes shut for the sake of his eyes, he wouldn’t see to rob him of his soul, no he wouldn’t.
He was filled with the confident mirth of his promise the promise to quell the surging tide of zombies, of hateful devil’s breath. He stood from the depth of the hedgerow and whispered, “Come on, come on out Mr. Monster!”
In the distance a rare summer thunder and dry lightening filled the air with a strobe light glow his face illuminated and pale, crazy, desiring the kill, the intense rush of madmen and shadow. He knew the power of his will and he possessed sleep, the sweet realm of sleep and quiet demise. He would give them sacred havens of sleep, the drama of heaven’s bosom.
The front door on the cottage opened and a man in a three piece suit stepped out. The front porch light shone for an instant illuminating a stout woman in her thirties, she was handing the suit something, a briefcase. She kissed the man on the cheek and he said, “I’ll see you later sweetheart.”
“Have a good day honey.” she replied.
Zombies, both of them zombies, he patted the bag of rock salt in his pocket as he found the inspiration to attack.
In the end he managed nearly half the neighborhood of Suburban Keep. He would live on as the darkness in their lives and until the end of their lives. The end was simple for him and complete. He had stopped in the middle of sewing a zombies mouth shut when a cascade of darkness overwhelmed him and his eyes clouded. The will he thought, the will. He had closed his eyes and groaned as the heart of a greater will overwhelmed him.
When they found him he was assumed to have been a victim of the monster. His eyes were sewn shut as well as his mouth, a chunk of rock salt beneath his tongue. The police wondered about but never questioned the needle and yarn in his own hand.