Ripped From the Crypt: Vol. 1

To celebrate the Halloween season, I’m digging through the vaults and resurrecting some of my old flash fiction—stories most of you have either never read or may have long forgotten since they were first published 15 years ago.

LOST CREEK'S VERY OWN ALL HALLOWS' EVE

Lost Creek, Texas. October 31st, 1978.

Ghosts, goblins, witches – creatures of the night come in all shapes and sizes. Tonight, they've descended on the usually sleepy town of Lost Creek, Texas, where Halloween and all of the holiday's strangest traditions are taken very seriously.

6:32 PM

A jack-o'-lantern sits on the steps of Old Man Stinson's house—triangles for eyes, a grin carved with surgical precision. Candlelight oozes between the jagged teeth and fills the pumpkin's eyes with fire.

Four children approach the steps, giggling under their latex masks and homemade costumes. Kitty Jacobs is a wicked old witch, caked in green makeup with a crooked nose that covers her own. Johnny Thompson is a rather pathetic-looking mummy, wrapped in strips of sackcloth held together by safety pins. Bobby Rickson knocks on the door with his hook hand. He's a pirate, complete with a rather elaborate costume that includes a wooden sword, a black eye patch, and a fake parrot on his shoulder.

The door cracks open ever so slightly, and light from the kitchen spills out onto their colorful costumes. Susan Stranger, who all the kids at school called "Suzie the Strangest," is the first to yell, "Trick 'r Treat!" out from under the plain white sheet draped over her head. Susan tugs at the sheet to adjust the eyeholes so she can see her candy bag better.

The door opens a little more, and a metal walker is pushed into view. Tennis balls have been slit and slid over the back two legs. The result is an odd screech, followed by a dull thumping noise – like dragging a dead body over a hardwood floor.

Old Man Stinson greets the children with a warm smile and reaches into the big black cauldron of candy beside the door. Unlike most elderly folks on the block, Earl Stinson is a staunch proponent of trick-or-treating. You'll never leave his doorstep disappointed.

No toothbrushes, raisins, or Necco wafers are given to the kids on his watch. Earl's giving out the name-brand stuff, and not any of that fun-size junk either. We're talking King Size Reese's Cups, here. We're talking pumpkin-shaped chocolate pops, giant Pixie Sticks, and marshmallow ghosts; a young child's sugar-laden fantasyland.

The kids are quick to lift their treat bags and receive Earl Stinson's holy communion of All Hallows' Eve. The old man compliments each ghoul and goblin on their costumes and drops a gracious fistful of candy into their bags. The children bubble with excitement and hop down the steps toward the next well-lit, overly decorated house on Ford Street.

4:13 PM, earlier that day.

On Earl Stinson's kitchen table sits an amateur chemistry set. It's made of cheap plastic and glass, the kind of kit you might see on the back page of an Archie comic book and send away for.

A metal tin labeled "Potassium Cyanide" is visible on the kitchen counter. The table is covered in glass vials and dropper bottles of colorless liquids. Earl Stinson's hands work with the composed meticulousness of a watchmaker.

Using an Xacto Knife, he makes a small incision in the candy wrapper. Next, he carefully removes the Milky Way bar from its plastic prison and cuts down the length of the chocolate as if he were performing a Cesarean section.

Old Man Stinson slowly inserts a razor blade into the delicious mixture of chocolate, caramel, and nougat using a pair of tweezers. Before you know it, he has successfully implanted the cold metal and sealed the chocolate bar back into the wrapper, as if it had never been touched.

Next, he uses a syringe to inject a marshmallow ghost with heroin, a guaranteed surprise for the little tyke unfortunate enough to bite into this haunted treat. Earl's favorite concoction, however, is the introduction of crystallized Potassium Cyanide into Pixie Stix. He marvels at how similar it is to sugar – completely unrecognizable unless chemically tested.

Earl looks at the clock on his kitchen wall, a black cat with a swinging tail, and realizes it will be dark soon. He rushes to finish preparing his goodies for tonight's festivities and works diligently with a smile on his old, cracked face.

THAT OLD BITCH OF MINE

Garland Harris
4101 Cherry Lake Rd.
Winchester, KY 40391

Dear Garland,

I'm writing this here letter because I've got a mighty big favor to ask of you. Consider it my dying wish if you like. You're the only one I can trust to take care of my wife when I'm gone. And believe you me, I'm just about gone.

Now, I ain't never told this to no one but, being as I'm on my last leg anyway, I ain't got much to lose now, do I? What are they going to do? Snatch me up from this hospital bed and toss me in the clink? Why, Hell no.

Maybe the fine state of South Carolina would prefer sending me on an all-expenses-paid trip to the Loomis Sanitarium? That sounds mighty fine compared to shittin' in this goddamn bedpan every day, having some ol' boy come in here and turn me every couple of hours on account of the bedsores...

It was nineteen and sixty-five the first time I buried that old bitch alive. Damn near broke my back digging that grave, I'm telling you. And for once, I wasn't digging my own. No, this plot was meant for a bitch that just wouldn't stay down. And you know what they say, old buddy, "You just can't keep a good bitch down." And that's the truth, yessir, it is.

I met Sally Elizabeth Hipple in the summer of sixty-two. She was seventeen and pretty as can be, Garland. She was the kind of girl we used to talk about back when we were bunkmates in the service. A real firecracker if there ever was one. After six of the best months of my life, Sally and me shacked up and got hitched.

Things were great for a while until Sally got sick. I took her to every doctor in the Carolinas – even made a trip up to Virginia to see a specialist – but they couldn't find out what was wrong with her. She got mean, Garland. The sweetness inside her went cold. She'd just as soon spit on you as smile, and she stopped bathing altogether.

Her skin, once healthy and glowing, had turned as pale and pallid as a goddamn Nosferatu, I shit you not. She'd have these fits where those pretty hazel eyes of hers would roll up in the back of her head and this awful grin would stretch out across her face, exposing pitch-black gums and a row of yellow teeth so brittle that they'd fall right out of her head if you looked at one the wrong way.

On November 9, nineteen sixty-four, Sally went to see the Lord. She died in her sleep, alone. We had stopped sharing a bed a few months prior. I didn't feel safe around her anymore, to tell you the truth. We buried her at Oak Branch Cemetery a few days later. It was a nice service – as nice as a funeral for your wife can be, I suppose.

Times was tough trying to live without Sally. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved, though. In some ways, a huge burden had been lifted from my shoulders. No more doctors or specialists, no more strapping her down to the bed – she would lash terribly during the night, you understand.

But on November 9, nineteen sixty-five, the damnedest thing happened. Sally came back. I can't explain it, but right there she was, twigs and sticks stuck in her matted red hair - clay and topsoil under her fingernails. I was afraid I'm telling you – afraid for my life. Her jaw barely hanging on by a few pieces of flesh and muscle, her arms outstretched, ready to embrace me.

At first, I thought I was dreaming. Then I thought to myself, "You been drinking too damn much, Leland." Then I realized it wasn't any dream or hallucination brought on by whiskey. No, Sally was standing there, and she meant to take me back to the grave with her.

It was self-defense, Garland, I swear. Survival, you understand. Besides, you can't murder someone who's already dead! The girl I married with the flowers in her hair, Sally Hipple, was long gone. All that was left was a cold-hearted bitch occupying her bones. So I did what any loving husband would do – I put that bitch back down.

I found an old spade and gave her a good crack to the temple. Tufts of hair and bits of skin slid off her skull as she crumpled to the ground. I realized I'd never get her back to Oak Branch, so I took her out to the thicket of brush behind the house. I dragged that old bitch's body through the woods on one of those blue polyethylene tarps you get at the Lowe's. It slides smooth over the dead leaves – and it cleans off easy with the help of a proper hose and some decent water pressure, I'm telling you.

I started shoveling just as fast as I could. Shirt soaked with sweat, I was slinging that Carolina red clay over my shoulders until I had made a crude resting place for her, just about six feet deep. I lifted my side of the tarp and rolled her into the hole, thinking that would be the end of it. I was wrong. Nothing lasts forever, Garland, not even death.

Every November, Sally comes back. I wish I could say I'm pulling your leg, but I'm not. And ever since sixty-five, I've put that old bitch down a many a time, yessir, I have. You just can't keep a good bitch down, can you, old buddy?

Times have been hard, and the years have not been kind to poor old Sally. Rotten flesh and sour bones, a few strands of wiry hair – that's all that's left. And each time she comes back, I dig that grave a little deeper. I pack that clay and topsoil as tight as I can, but I'll be damned if she don't find her way back to me.

For forty-five goddamn years, she's been clawing her way through that Carolina clay, just trying to get those crooked fingers around my neck again. But I've got a feeling I won't be around this November. Yessir, I do believe I've spent my last year laying Sally's old bones to rest. That's where that mighty big favor I have to ask of you comes in, Garland.

A couple months ago, I was diagnosed with bowel cancer. The doctor says I only got a few months left to live. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I take comfort in knowing that the pain is almost over. Yessir, it is. Now when I'm gone, I need you to look after her, Garland. I know it's a lot to ask, but you're the only man up to the task. I've enclosed with this letter a series of instructions that will explain the process step by step. Bring a good pair of boots and something strong to drink — you're going to need it.

I spent my younger years living my life with one foot in the grave — little did I know I'd spend the rest of it putting that bitch in hers. Fate's got a way of being a real fickle asshole, don't it, old buddy?

Sincerely,
Leland Kellar

PS: I'm getting cremated.