THE DIN

Genre: Horror

THE DIN

By Randy Romero 

            Phil Atkins awoke to an unsettling din.

            Faint scratching sounds that emanated from the crawlspace.

           Phil listened for a moment, then dismissed it. But the noise persisted, making it impossible for him to drift back to sleep.

           Rats, he thought, literally. The crawlspace must be infested. Garfield, you lazy bastard. You’re certainly living up to your name. You couldn’t scare away a mouse, let alone a pack of rats. He made a mental note to call the exterminator in the morning.

He rolled to his side and folded the pillow around his head to block out the noise. The din faded, but was quickly replaced by a similar racket that loomed overhead.

Now it was coming from the attic.

Their ranch-style home was cozy and modest, and it fit their budget when Phil and Laurie were newlyweds, but the house was one-story, excluding the attic. So certain noises had a way of traveling throughout the house.

Rats! It’s gotta be rats! For Christ’s sake! This whole damn house is infested!

He could picture them scurrying around up there; big, ugly, hairy, filthy-looking things. Their big tails dragging around, thumping against the floorboards. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Careful not to disturb Laurie, Phil slipped out of bed and threw his bathrobe on, cinching the belt around his waist.

Half asleep, he stumbled out into the hallway and saw that Todd’s bedroom door was ajar. He could see the glare of the nightlight. Phil shook his head. Ten years old and still afraid of the dark, Phil thought.

He was about to take a peak in the attic when Todd came sauntering out of his room, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“Mom, dad, what’s that noise?”

“Shhh,” Phil whispered. “Your mother’s still asleep. I think there are rats in the attic, maybe in the crawlspace too. Don’t worry about it. Go back to bed, Todd. I’ll call an exterminator in the morning.”

“I don’t think its rats up there,” Todd whispered back.

“What else could it be?”

Todd’s eyes widened. And Phil caught a quiver in his voice when he spoke. “The boogeyman.”

Phil sighed. “Todd, we’ve been over this before. There’s no such thing as the boogeyman. It’s made up. Make believe. It’s just something they came up with to scare children.”

“Well it’s working,” Todd said. He was quite sharp and witty for his age.

“Go to bed,” Phil said, patting him on the back. They both returned to their rooms. He curled up next to Laurie and shut his eyes, tried to mentally block out the noise. But the din never ceased.

Laurie was sleeping like a rock. In fact, she was snoring. Todd heard it, he heard it, but Laurie didn’t hear a thing. Phil chuckled. That woman could snooze through an earthquake, Phil thought.

Sleep evaded Phil that night. And in the morning, he was brewing a full pot of coffee and flipping through the phone book. He tried three different numbers before he could find someone available on short notice.

But the exterminator found no evidence of any infestation. No droppings, no scratch marks, no nests or footprints. And not a single rat in sight.

“Impossible,” Phil exclaimed. “I heard sounds all night long.”

The exterminator assumed Phil would be ecstatic with the news. He was a husky man with a ruddy complexion, and Phil could read the expression on his face. The man was silently questioning Phil’s sanity, though he wouldn’t dare say it aloud.

The exterminator decided to do him a favor and not charge him for the visit, seeing as how he didn’t find a thing. Phil wondered if he should call another exterminator for a second opinion. But he decided to wait it out and see if he heard the noise again that night.

A well-rested Laurie cooked breakfast while Phil sat at the Formica kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping his coffee. Garfield was splayed out on the kitchen floor, licking his paws. Of course he bared no resemblance to the cartoon cat, but Todd had named him when he was five. Todd was parked in front of the TV, watching Saturday morning cartoons. He only joined them at the table when his pancakes were ready.

Todd piled on the butter and smothered his pancakes in syrup. He didn’t cover his lap with a napkin or tuck one into his shirt as his mom often requested. His mom was lucky he even used a fork. If Todd had it his way, he would’ve used his hands for everything.

            “Would you like some sausage?” Laurie offered.

            “No thanks,” Todd declined. “I don’t eat pork anymore. Processed sausage and bacon can give you cancer.”

            “Is that what they teach you in school?” Laurie asked.

            “No, they teach us how to pass the standardized tests so the school gets more funding.”

            Laurie rolled her eyes. That boy’s tongue is either going to make him a fortune one day or it’s going to get him beat up, she thought.

“What’d the exterminator say, dad?” Todd inquired. Kids were curious by nature. And Todd was no different.

“He didn’t find any rats. But he didn’t find any boogeymen either.”

“It’s so strange,” Laurie said. “I wonder what it could’ve been.”

“This house is pretty old,” Phil pointed out, searching for any reason that would explain what he heard. “Old houses are notorious for their strange noises. Could’ve just been the pipes rattling.”

Todd looked unconvinced. Phil took a sip of coffee and said, “I’ll tell you what. If you’re so sure there was a monster or a demon in our attic last night, let’s check it out after breakfast.”

Todd froze in his seat, his fork in midair, syrup dripping onto the Formica table, and Phil could almost see his son going pale.

“Come on,” Phil egged him on. “You’ll be safe with me. And if you’re right, you’ll get to say ‘I told you so.’ What do you say?”

Todd was apprehensive, but he saw this as a chance to prove that he had some guts. Though his father concealed his disappointment, Todd knew how he felt. Fathers always want their sons to be just like them. Why would his father be any different? His father played sports when he was younger. He wasn’t afraid of the dark. And he certainly didn’t believe in monsters. Todd couldn’t say the same for himself.

After breakfast, they ventured upstairs. Phil reached up and pulled down the folding attic stairs and made sure they were secure. “After you,” Phil said.

“Uh, no that’s okay. You go first.”

“If you insist.”

He ascended the attic steps with Todd trailing not too far behind him. The floorboards were coated in dust and they squealed with every step they took.

“Well, take a gander,” Phil said. “Nothing but cobwebs and dust and some old boxes. The only scary thing in this attic are your mom’s photo albums. You ever seen your Aunt Cynthia’s chin whiskers? Believe me, it was nothing compared to her hairy legs.” He shuddered at the thought.

“Hey, what’s this?” Todd said, wandering off to examine something scribbled along the wall. He couldn’t read it aloud. The words had stolen his breath for a moment. Phil drew closer and soon the words came into focus.

Roses are wilted. Violets are dead.

The boogeyman is real. He’s under your bed.

            “Very funny,” Phil groaned. “I really hope you didn’t use permanent ink.”

            “Dad, I didn’t write that,” Todd finally breathed. “I swear. It wasn’t me.”

            “Then who was it, Todd? Your mother? How stupid do you think I am? Give me a little credit, will ya?”

            “Dad, I’m telling you the truth. It really wasn’t me.”

            Phil sighed and scratched the top of his head. He studied Todd’s expression. If Phil wanted to know when his son was fibbing, all he had to do was watch the eyes. Todd could never look him directly in the eyes when he was lying. But Todd never broke eye contact, not this time.

            “Just go downstairs and play with your dolls or something.”

“They’re called action figures, dad.”

“Whatever. Just go to your room for now. I need time alone to think about this.”

****

            “What do you make of all this?” Phil asked Laurie over a stiff cocktail. After the morning he’d had, he required something stronger than coffee.

“I don’t know. But Todd did it, right? I mean, who else?” She paused for a moment, giving Phil the chance to confess.

“It wasn’t me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t mess with our son like that.”

“So it had to be Todd. Christ, our son is convinced there’s a monster in our house.”

“Todd just has an overactive imagination. There’s no boogeyman. There are no monsters in his closet or hiding under his bed. He’ll realize that eventually.”

“Eventually? And what do we do until then?”

“I guess we continue to let him sleep with his nightlight and listen to his boogeyman stories until he grows out of it.”

“What if it’s not a phase? What if he needs professional help?”

“I think I’m going to need professional help after this crap.”

Phil’s cell phone pinged. He assumed it was work related.

One new text message from an anonymous number.

Roses are wilted. Violets are dead. The boogeyman is real. He’s under your bed.

He threw the phone down and started seeing red. Before Laurie could even ask what was going on, Phil was marching to Todd’s room.

“How did you do it?” Phil screamed as he barged in. “You don’t have a cell phone, so what did you do? Did you use your computer? Or did you have one of your friends’ text me?”

“What are you talking about?” Todd asked, bemused.

“I just got a very interesting text message. And I think you know all about it.”

“Well, I don’t. What’s going on?” Again, Todd did not break eye contact. But that didn’t mean he was telling the truth. It just meant he was getting better at lying as far as Phil was concerned.

“If I find out it was you, you’re grounded for a month.” Phil left his son with that threat still lingering in the air.

****

Phil tried to sleep, but that twisted rhyme kept playing inside his head. Roses are wilted. Violets are dead. The boogeyman is real. He’s under your bed.

It was just after midnight when the scratching and thumping sounds returned. He quietly got up to investigate.

“Dad!” Todd cried from his bedroom. “I heard something moving around inside my closet!”

“Keep your voice down,” he whispered harshly.

            The noise ceased as Phil left the master bedroom. The glow of Todd’s nightlight was all he had to guide himself through the hall. He stared up at the attic, waiting for the din to return.

Todd heard something shifting around inside his closet again. He sat up in bed.

“He-hello,” he whispered. “Is anybody there?”

The closet door creaked open, and five serrated claws tapped against the side of the door.

“DAD!” Todd shrieked.

Phil came rushing into Todd’s bedroom. “What is it, boy?”

“In-in-in the closet,” Todd stammered, pointing one trembling finger towards the open door. Phil stormed over and thrust the closet door open.

Empty, just as he suspected. He sighed, a long, exasperated sigh. “Todd, this is getting old. And speaking of old, aren’t you getting a little too old for this boogeyman crap? There’s nothing here, kiddo. Nothing in the closet, nothing under your bed. Nothing crawling on top of the ceiling. You’re not possessed like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. This needs to stop.”

“But it was there dad, I’m telling you. The boogeyman was there. He had these sharp claws and he was scratching against the door.”

Phil bit his lower lip to stifle the parade of obscenities that wanted to escape his mouth. “We’ll talk more about this in the morning,” he said, grinding his teeth. “Goodnight, Todd.”

As Phil walked out and slammed the door behind him, Todd’s nightlight flickered and the bulb burned out, plunging Todd into a world of darkness and obscurity. And that’s when the scratching resumed. Only it wasn’t inside his closet. The sound was coming from under his bed…

****

            A grumpy, bleary-eyed Phil was on his third cup of coffee. He hadn’t slept a wink. Not with all that clawing and thumping and scratching. And neither had Todd. He sat up with the lights on all night, drinking soda from the fridge until his tummy was bloated and the sugar was coursing through his veins.

            “Gotta be rats,” Phil mumbled to himself, sounding like a crazy person. “I’ll get some glue traps and some rat poison. Problem solved.”

“Millie McBride is at the door,” Laurie said. “She wants to talk to you about Todd.”

“Phil,” Millie said. She was known throughout the neighborhood for being a laconic woman, brief and to the point.

“Millie,” Phil said, returning her greeting.

“Your boy is acting out again. He left a little something on the side of my house. Wanna come take a look?”

Phil followed her down the porch and across the front lawn. Carved into the blue vinyl siding of Millie’s house was a phrase Phil Atkins had become very acquainted with.

Roses are wilted. Violets are dead. The boogeyman is real. He’s under your bed.

“I’ll handle Todd,” Phil said, his fists clenched.

He walked back to the house and slammed the front door so hard that Laurie flinched. “Where is that little son of a bitch?” he snarled.

“Todd? He rode his bike to the market to get milk.”

“I’m going to kill him,” he shouted, pacing back and forth through the kitchen, unable to cool off.

“What on earth did he do?”

“He defaced Millie’s property. The same crap he wrote up in the attic, he carved into the side of her house. Now we’re gonna have to pay for the damages. Why can’t that boy ever just be normal?”

Garfield strolled into the kitchen, stretching himself out. He splayed on his back and Laurie reached down to rub his belly. The cat purred with satisfaction.

“Are you even listening to me?” Phil shouted.

“Don’t snap at me! I’ve had enough of this!”

The radio clicked on, and Phil turned his attention to the kitchen counter where the Sony Portable was perched. The volume steadily increased as the radio jumped from station to station, finally settling on 102.3, WBAB. A familiar tune blared through the speakers, one that was hard for Phil not to recognize.

“I’m your boogie man, I’m your boogie man. Turn me on. I’m your boogie man. I’m your boogie man. Do what you want.” Phil yanked the cord out of the wall and the music died.

“Well, you can’t blame Todd for that one.”

“How did it turn itself on?”

“How should I know? Maybe Todd’s right. Maybe we do have a ghost or a boogeyman in the house.” She was clearly joking, but Phil was in no mood.

            Todd made it home just before it started to pour. But if he had known what he was walking into, he would’ve stayed out in the rain…

****

Thunder clapped in the distance. Drops of rain tapped against the windows and flooded the gutters.

There had been no mention of a storm on the weather channel. But Phil’s mind wasn’t on the thunder or the lightning. It was focused on Todd and Todd alone, who stood defensively in the living room with his arms crossed, mirroring his father’s stance.

“It wasn’t me, dad. I swear. It was the boogeyman.”

“THERE IS NO BOOGEYMAN!”

Todd recoiled at the sheer volume of his dad’s voice. For a brief second, he wasn’t afraid of the boogeyman anymore. He was afraid of his old man.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” Phil said, quick to apologize. “But this needs to stop. I’m putting an end to it once and for all. I’m going to prove to you there’s no such thing as–”

The lights flickered and faded. The entire house went dark and the only electricity was that in the sky.

“Dad, I’m scared,” Todd said, his teeth chattering.

“Relax. It’s just a blackout. The whole neighborhood is probably out.”

“Phil?” Laurie called out. “What happened?”

“Just a blackout, dear. I’ll grab some candles and we’ll wait for the power to come back.”

The floor rumbled beneath his feet.

“Phil, do you feel–” Laurie’s words ended abruptly as the house shook violently from its eaves to its foundation, throwing them all off their balance.

Laurie crawled towards the sofa and used it to pull herself up. She stumbled around in the dark, calling out to Phil. Todd found his mother in the darkness and clung to her side. The rumble ceased and the Sony Portable could be heard from the kitchen.

“Children, have you ever met the boogeyman before? No, of course you haven’t for you’re much too good, I’m sure… Hush, hush, hush. Here comes the boogeyman. Don’t let him come too close to you. He’ll catch you if he can…”

The radio clicked off and the lights returned.

Then nothing.

Silence. Terrifying, gut-wrenching silence.

Laurie looked around the living room.

“Where’s your father?” she croaked.

Todd glanced down the hall, where his nightlight had come back to life. He could see the glare of the light from where he stood. He took his mother’s hand and led her down the hall.

“Dad?” Todd called out as they walked hesitantly towards the bedroom. They stood in the threshold of the door, bewildered.

“Dad, what are you doing under there?” Todd asked. His father was under his bed, his legs sticking out, the only part of him that was visible.

“Dad? Dad…”

Blood seeped out from under the bed, forming a pool around his legs.

The closet door sprung open and Todd’s tiny heart skipped several beats. It lurched forward, its skin as black as tar and rough as shoe leather. Its serrated claws and ravenous incisors were more than Todd could bear seeing. Yellow eyes stared back at Todd, glowing like rays of moonlight.

Its lips–dripping with blood–parted, but no voice escaped. Instead, the voice Todd Atkins heard was the one inside his head. The voice that was telling him to run like hell.  

HALLOWEEN: THE WRATH OF MICHAEL MYERS (Part One)

Disclaimer: This is simply a work of fan fiction, nothing more or less. I do not make any profit from this blog, nor do I expect or anticipate to make any profit off of this series. I do not own the rights to any of these characters and if I am asked to remove this, I will comply. I also do not own any of these photos and will also remove them if asked.

Having said all that, the events of this story take place after the events of Halloween 4. I was never a huge fan of the fifth film or the direction they went in, and wanted to create my own version of the story. This side project has been an idea of mine for a while now and I finally decided to bring it to life. Check back for weekly updates leading up to Halloween.

HALLOWEEN: THE WRATH OF MICHAEL MYERS

By Randy Romero 

Part One: The Night He Came Home…Again

FROM THE FILES OF DR. SAMUEL LOOMIS:

            I am many things. I’m a psychiatrist. A writer. An avid moviegoer. A man who appreciates a cold beer from time to time. But first and foremost, I am a survivor.

            I survived that horrific explosion at Haddonfield Memorial.

            Unfortunately, so did he.

         A few days in one of the best burn wards in the country, and I was right as rain. Of course, there were a few exceptions. A few lingering scars they could not erase. Nor would I wish for them to be erased. The scars–as hideous or off-putting as they may be–prove that I am indeed a survivor.

            Every encounter with Michael leaves a physical scar. It scars the psyche, as well. It leaves a mental scar that cannot be expunged.

Judith Myers was where it all began. When Michael was six-years-old, he stabbed his teenage sister in cold blood. His parents found him standing in the driveway when they got home that evening, still grasping a bloody kitchen knife in one hand.

That was the first time I met Michael. I met this six-year-old boy with this blank, pale, emotionless face. And the blackest eyes…the devil’s eyes. You don’t know what death is until you’ve stared deep into those eyes.

I tried to reach him, tried to break through to him. But he was like the hull of a ship; virtually impenetrable. He remained silent for fifteen years while I tried to bring him back to some semblance of reality. When I realized my efforts were in vain, I spent the remaining years fighting to keep Michael locked up. The night he escaped from Smith’s Grove, he killed twelve people in an attempt to slaughter his younger sister, Laurie Strode.

But Laurie was like me. Laurie was a survivor. She survived that terrifying ordeal in Haddonfield. She moved away, got married, and gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl. I lost touch with her for a while. I was shocked when a colleague informed me that Laurie and her husband had died in a tragic automobile accident.

Laurie’s daughter was given up for adoption and taken in by Darlene and Richard Carruthers, and their biological daughter, Rachel. I attended Laurie’s funeral. A somber, closed casket affair. Though her death did raise a few eyebrows. Some believed that Laurie and her husband faked their deaths and started a new life under new names to ensure Michael would never come after them or their child. And I’m inclined to believe the same, though I could never prove my suspicions.

Michael remained in a coma for ten long years after the explosion. Or was he just playing possum? Or did he lure us all into a false sense of security? Was he waiting for the perfect moment to leave his mark?

Whatever the case may be, Michael waited ten long years to make his return to Haddonfield. And what ensued was a bloody rampage, with Michael leaving another trail of bodies in his wake; all innocent victims in Michael’s deranged quest to murder his niece, Jamie Lloyd…

* * *

October 31, 1988.

            Halloween.

            The night he came home…again.

            Sheriff Meeker, the state police, and Dr. Loomis had put an end to Michael’s reign of terror. But for how long? Loomis pondered. How long would Michael play dead this time?

            More sirens wailed in the distance. A bloodied and battered Rachel cradled Jamie in her arms. The poor child was sobbing, trembling, on the verge of catatonia. Loomis observed Rachel, who was trembling quite a bit herself. She glanced at Loomis, her eyes pleading for some kind of reassurance. Though Loomis could offer her none. He’d witnessed Michael’s resurrection too many times to be certain of his demise.

The cops escorted Rachel and Jamie back to their home. Darlene and Richard were alerted by the authorities and returned home to console a traumatized Jamie and comfort Rachel. The shock was starting to wear off and Jamie cried out for Darlene. Darlene hugged Jamie and squeezed her tight.

“It’s going to be all right, sweetie,” Darlene whispered. “You’re safe now.”

            Meeker, Loomis, and a few of the officers stayed behind just as a precaution. Loomis wasn’t going anywhere until the clock struck midnight and Halloween was officially over.

            Darlene took Jamie upstairs to change her blood-stained Halloween costume and give her a bath. Rachael sat on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, specks of dried blood on her face. Her father looked to Meeker for help.

            “She’s had one hell of a night,” Meeker informed him. “Best to leave her be for now.”

            “Do you believe the night is truly over?” Loomis asked.

            “You saw him fall down that shaft, you saw the explosion from the dynamite.”

            “I’ve seen him survive explosions before. I have the goddamn scars to prove it.”

            “So what are you saying? That he’s not human?”

            “Not human is one way to phrase it. Sheriff, Michael Myers is pure evil. And pure evil never dies. It disappears for a while. It lies dormant. But it never really goes away.”

            A blood-chilling scream emanated from the upstairs bathroom. Loomis was the first to the steps. He rushed up the first set of stairs, but stopped at the landing. He held his gun out in front of him, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. The gun trembled in his hand.

            It wasn’t Michael standing at the top of the stairs. It was Jamie, wearing a costume that was nearly identical to the one Michael was wearing the night he killed Judith. Jamie clutched a pair of scissors in one hand, the tip dripping with blood.

            “No!” Loomis cried. “NO, NO, NO!”

            He raised his gun. By that point, Meeker and the other officers had reached the landing and were wrestling the gun from his hands. They held Loomis at bay as they stood in shock and awe.

            Rachael had to see it for herself. She looked up and saw Jamie standing there, frozen at the top of the stairs. She was stiff, rigid, emotionless. She was a completely different person. Even her eyes had changed.

She had the blackest eyes Rachel had ever seen. The devil’s eyes.

* * *

            October 27, 1989.

Loomis was up early on that grey Friday morning and put in a call to Ben Meeker. He owed the sheriff that much.

            “Hello?” Ben said, clearing his throat. He was startled, half-asleep. Loomis could hear it in his voice.

            “Ben, it’s Sam Loomis.”

            “Sam…you know what time it is?”

            “It’s six-thirty.”

            “It was a rhetorical question, but yes, that’s correct. What in God’s name is this about?”

            “You know what this is about.”

            “Not this Michael Myers bull crap again. Loomis, you were there. You saw them pump thirty, forty rounds into his body. You saw him collapse down that abandoned mineshaft. You saw them drop sticks of dynamite down that mineshaft and blow his ass back to hell. That might not be good enough for you, but it’s damn sure good enough for me.”

            “Have it your way, sheriff. I just figured I owed you the courtesy of a warning. Michael will return, sheriff. And when he does, I’ll be ready for him. I have to go see Jamie now. And then, I’m having lunch with an old friend. I believe you know the man. You took his job when he retired.”

* * *

            The cold, sterile environment of Smith’s Grove Sanitarium was enough to give Rachel the chills. Luckily, she had Tina Williams at her side. Tina was a perky, hyper teenage girl with dark hair and seductive eyes that Tina often bragged was her best quality when it came to reeling the boys in. Rachel had watched many boys get lost in those eyes. Tina had that influence, and she didn’t mind using it to her advantage.

            She was always pushing Rachel to get out there and find somebody. But the very thought made Rachel think of the worst night of her life. Her last boyfriend, Brady, ended up in the arms of another woman last Halloween. And then he ended up on the wrong end of a shotgun, courtesy of Michael Myers.

            One the nurses led the girls to Jamie’s room. She sat on her bed with her back resting against several pillows, her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them.

            “Jamie!” Rachel said, feigning excitement as she forced a smile for Jamie to see.

            Jamie looked up at her without a hint of recognition and then turned away.

            “I’m sorry I didn’t bring any ice cream, but you didn’t eat it last time. If you want, I can run out and get you some.”

            Jamie did not reply.

            “Tina came to see you,” Rachel added.

            “Hey kiddo!” Tina said and ran over to give Jamie a big, wet kiss. Jamie wiped the side of her cheek and glanced at the door, awaiting the impending arrival of Dr. Loomis. They were due for another session. Not that their sessions had yielded any results, because they had not. But Jamie felt this strange, indescribable connection to Loomis.

            Rachel was expecting him, too. She asked Tina to wait with Jamie while she went outside to wait for Loomis so she could speak privately. Rachel was gone less than a minute before she heard the screams.

            The door to Jamie’s room opened and Tina rushed out, clutching at her forearm.

            “What happened?!” Rachel screamed, her eyes wide and glassy.

            “She bit me!” Tina wailed.

            Dr. Loomis turned the corner and saw Tina holding her arm. “What happened here?”

            “Take a look,” Tina said, showing him the imprint of Jamie’s teeth in her flesh.

            “I should cancel our session for today. As soon as they find out she attacked a visitor, they’ll sedate her and she’ll barely be able to speak.”

            “Speak? She never speaks. Not since that night. Dr. Loomis, we need to discuss what’s going on with my sister. She hasn’t been the same since that night. She’s becoming…like him.”

            “You’re wrong about that. With Michael, there wasn’t a chance. His soul was impure from the start. Jamie still has a chance. I can save her. I can see the real Jamie trapped inside there. I just need to find a way to break through. I’m working on something as we speak. I can’t really go into detail, but if my plan works, Jamie will be her old self in no time.”

            “What are you talking about?” Rachel asked, twirling a strand of her blonde hair with one finger.

            “Just be patient,” Loomis said. Then added, “And Rachel, please be careful. You know what month it is.”

            “I’m well aware,” Rachel nodded. “I have the scars to prove it.”

            “So do I.”

* * *

            “I don’t know,” the man said tentatively, peeking into the bag. “How do I know it’s authentic? Someone could easily make a replica and pass it off as the real thing.”

            The young man groaned, exasperated. Bill Tramer was known to be antsy, impatient. But with Halloween approaching, he seemed more irritated than usual. “It’s the real deal,” Bill said.

           “It certainly looks real. Then again, I’ve only seen pictures in the paper. How did you end up with it?”

            “You don’t want to know,” Bill said gravely.

            As the man reconsidered, Bill lit a cigarette and waited for his response.

            “Will I get arrested for this?”

            Bill exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and shook his head; his long, unkempt hair swinging at the sides. “You’ll be fine. Nobody is looking for this.”

            “Seems risky,” the man said. “I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

            “This is starting to be a waste of my time,” Bill said through gritted teeth. “Look, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. This is the ultimate collector’s item. A one-of-a-kind piece of memorabilia.”

            “I won’t argue with you. But I will argue with you about the price.”

            “The price seems fair to me,” Bill said.

          “Ten thousand dollars for a mask? That’s a bit steep, don’t you think?”

            “So take a hike,” Bill said, finally letting his frustration get the better of him. “Plenty of other people are willing to pay that price.”

            “Doesn’t it even bother you that you’re trying to make a profit off the suffering of others, off the deaths of innocent people?”

            “Hey, everybody’s gotta die someday.” Bill spoke with such apathy it made the man twitch. Bill let the bag hang open at his side, revealing a mask with a plain white face and tousled brown hair.

            “I’m not interested,” the man said. “But I know someone who might be.”

            “And who might that be?” Bill wondered.

* * *

            “Doyle residence,” Lindsey said, answering the phone. “I’m sorry, Tommy isn’t home right now. Can I take a message?”

            The young man didn’t give her much information. Just a name and an address and the vague mention of a white mask, which she jotted down on some stationary before the man ended the call.

            A white mask? Lindsey wondered. No, it couldn’t be…

            And that’s when the man’s name struck a chord with Lindsey Doyle.

            Bill Tramer. Ben Tramer’s younger brother.

To Be Continued

HOWL (Revised Version)

Genre: Horror

HOWL

By Randy Romero

            As serious as a heart attack.

           That was the first thought that popped into Brian Howell’s mind as the pain shot up and down his left arm. It had started as a slight tingle in his fingertips that spread to the palm of his hand. The prickly sensation quickly turned to sharp, debilitating pain that traveled up his arm, all the way up to his shoulder, and back down to his fingers in ruthless fashion.

            Soon, the discomfort spread throughout his body like an infection, and his extremities throbbed and burned. Every muscle ached. His face was taut and constricted, like the man on the verge of a heart attack.

            Brian’s knees buckled and he doubled over in pain, clutching at his chest. He immediately ruled out the possibility of heart burn. As a forty-year-old male, Brian was more than familiar with the unpleasantness of heart burn and indigestion. He tried to steer his mind away from the idea of a heart attack. He breathed steadily and put his mind at ease, told himself it was just a bad case of cramps. The worst case of cramps anyone had ever experienced.

            Ever since the accident, Brian was prone to cramps and muscle spasms. But it was never this excruciating, this intense. He tried his best to remain calm. If it was a heart attack, it wouldn't do him any good to freak out. And he didn't want to think about the worst possible scenario. As far as he knew, this was just an intense bout of muscle cramps. The sharp pangs could even be from pinched or damaged nerves that the doctors might have missed.

            Brian had been on the road a month earlier. He’d swerved to avoid hitting a deer. It was dark that night and he hadn’t even seen the buck crossing the road until it was too late. He cut the wheel and his Jeep veered off the road, sailing into a ditch.

            It took Brian a moment to realize he was hanging upside down. He was stuck in that position, the blood rushing to his head. None of his bones were broken, which was a genuine miracle. But he’d been banged up something awful in the accident, and his arms and legs were killing him, not to mention his back. He tried to reach up and undo the seat belt, but his arms were too weak to stretch that far.

He weaved in and out of consciousness until a fellow traveler of the night saw his headlights from the ditch and called 911. The paramedics arrived and freed Brian from the wreckage, took him to the hospital where he was kept overnight for observation.

The doctors were amazed he was still alive. They marveled at his condition. Bumps and bruises aside, Brian was perfectly healthy. No broken bones, no permanent neck or spinal damage, not even a concussion. Brian's case was a medical anomaly. The doctors had no explanation for it. They wrote it off as an extreme case of good luck and sent him home the next day with a hefty bill.

It was the strangest thing though. Brian couldn’t remember much after swerving off the road. But he could swear as he was hanging upside down and rendered defenseless, something lurking in the night had run up and attacked him. The attack was brief and he could only recall it in pieces. But the scratches on his arm were a telltale sign of a struggle. However, the doctors wrote it off as cuts caused by broken windshield glass.

Brian wasn’t buying it though. Even in his semiconscious state, he had felt something in his presence that night. Something that was more animal than man.

Brian’s thought was interrupted and he snapped back to reality when he felt his ankles pop. His knees buckled again and he dropped to the floor. A harsh, burning sensation filled his body. It felt as if every muscle was writhing and twisting beneath the skin.

He raised his head to try and call out for help, and caught a glimpse of the full moon through his bedroom window. By then, his eyes were glowing as bright as the moon itself.

Pain exploded through his body as he could feel his muscles and tendons tearing and reforming, bones shifting and grinding like tectonic plates. His body increased in mass, his legs swelled until they were as thick as tree trunks. His chest pumped out and the flesh could no longer endure. The skin ripped down the center of his chest, revealing a vest of blood-matted fur.

A hairy, wet, hideous snout forced its way out of his mouth, tearing the corners of his mouth and peeling back the skin of his face.

As he reached the final stages of his transformation, a voice called out from the hallway. A voice that terrified even Brian Howell.

The voice of his daughter.

Brian wondered how long he’d be able to control himself in this condition. He wondered if he’d have any self-control at all, or if his new body would take the helm and steer him on a course of destruction and devastation.

“Daddy?” Penny, his daughter, beckoned. She was standing in the threshold of the door, clutching her doll in one hand and rubbing her sleepy eyes with the other. “What’s going on? I heard a funny noise.”

But Brian was incapable of responding to his daughter. Not with words.

All he could do was howl. And he was howling at the top of his lungs

.

Howling at the bright, piercing, sinister moon above.