October Frights Blog Hop 2021

*** This is the beginning of a time travel/ghost story that I hope to have time to finish someday soon***

A Gettysburg Goth in the Civil War

“Hey, look! Wednesday Addams is out the door!”

“Does that mean tomorrow is Thursday Addams?”

Xavier St. Cross shouldered her backpack and did her best to ignore the hecklers as she left Gettysburg Middle School. When will they get sick of the same tired jokes? she thought, biting back a sharp retort. She’d been dressing Goth since the fourth marking period of the previous school year; everyone should be used to her appearance by now.

Outside in the warm, late-October sunshine, she lowered the dark lenses of her flip-shades and started down Lefevre Street. At Baltimore Street, she decided it was too nice a day to head straight home, so she hung a left.

The pre-Halloween tourist crowd was thick on Baltimore Street, and Xavier kept her head down and tried to ignore the curious stares of the people she passed. One elderly woman commented to her husband, “Will you look at that, Ernie? Disgraceful!”

Xavier couldn’t help herself; she turned and removed her sunglasses to narrow her black-and-red-painted eyes at the couple, who drew back as though afraid she’d bite the head off a bat in front of them. For as many people that come here for ghost tours, she thought to herself, you’d think they wouldn’t be creeped out over someone dressed all in black.

She tossed her head to get her straight, ebony hair out of her eyes and continued past the T-shirt and souvenir shops. She briefly considered stopping by the Crystal Wand; retail therapy and a chat with Iris always lifted her spirits. With a sigh, she decided to pass.

Just past the tourist district, as Xavier called it, she turned onto Evergreen Cemetery Road. Giving a nod to the park ranger standing near the entrance, she made her way around the walkway towards the less-traveled part of the cemetery. Sometimes she liked to walk among the graves, read the names, and wonder about the lives of the people buried there.

Today, however, she didn’t want to walk. She just wanted to find a place to sit and read the book she’d just gotten out of the library. Near the center of the graveyard, she found the perfect spot beneath a maple tree with flaming yellow-orange foliage.

Tossing her backpack on the ground, she shrugged out of the heavy black leather trench coat that was much too warm for the summerlike afternoon. After spreading the trench coat on the ground, she sat down cross-legged and took a book from her backpack. She smiled as she read the title aloud. “A Beautiful, Glittering Lie.”

Xavier leaned back against the tree and sighed. Even though the book was fictional, its theme and the experiences of the characters fit right in with the Civil War unit her history class was studying. She longer to share with her teacher and her classmates all the things she’d learned from the books she’d read, but she knew she’d skip out on this oral report just as she had all the others. Stupid bullies, she thought bitterly, thinking of the years of harassment that had led to her diagnosis of anxiety and eventually to her becoming a self-proclaimed outcast.

Shaking her head to rid herself of the unpleasant thoughts, she opened her book and began reading. Soon, she became lost in the drama of the characters in the story, and she forgot about bullies, oral reports, and nosy tourists.

The afternoon was warm and unusually humid, and the steady hum of traffic going past on Baltimore Street soothed her and made her groggy. She knew she should probably be getting home soon, but a heavy lethargy had settled over her. Laying her book aside, she stared unseeingly at her ripped skull-print leggings and thick-soled Army boots until her eyelids began to droop. I’ll just close my eyes for a minute and then head home.

A loud BOOM! jarred her awake. She looked around, dazed. The sky had grown dark, and Xavier thought a thunderstorm had popped up, that is until she smelled the acrid odor of smoke. From somewhere in the distance came the unmistakable sound of a riot or some other disturbance—shouts, explosions, and…horses?

Had there been a car accident? She leapt to her feet abruptly and started toward Baltimore Street, but then immediately stopped. Her breath caught as she looked around, bewildered—there was no car wreck; in fact, there was no Baltimore Street. There was no Evergreen Cemetery, no friendly park ranger. There were far fewer buildings than there had been when she’d arrived, and there were no cars, no parking lots, no tourist shops.

There were, however, more trees than she recalled being in this part of Gettysburg. The tree under which she’d sat reading her book was there, but much smaller than it had been when she’d spread her trench coat beneath it a little while ago. Even more confusing, the leaves on the trees were no longer the fiery hues of autumn, but were now the vibrant green of midsummer.

Reaching up to grab fistfuls of hair, she screeched, “What’s going on? Where is everything? What am I—“

Her frantic questions were cut short by the sound of footsteps running up behind her. Hoping it was the park ranger, or even a tourist, who could tell her what was happening, she whirled around and stepped out from behind the tree…

“Gah! What in tarnation?” One of the Union Army re-enactors who looked to be about Xavier’s age dropped to his knees in front of her and covered his eyes. “Don’t look on me, Death Angel! It ain’t my time yet!”

Xavier’s head whipped this way and that, trying to see what had frightened the boy so badly. When she realized he was reacting to her appearance, she burst out laughing, despite her fear and confusion. “Boy, you re-enactors sure take your parts seriously, don’t you? You act like you’ve never seen a Goth before.”

The soldier lowered his hands just enough to peer fearfully at Xavier and responded, “What’s a re…enactor? And what’s a Goth? Is that kinda like a demon?”

Xavier bristled at the comment, but soon realized his question was serious. Not sure what to think of the strange situation she found herself in, she said uncertainly, “Look, I’m not a Death Angel, and I’m not a demon. I’m just wearing makeup, face paint. Watch.” To prove her point, she took the sleeve of her T-shirt and wiped off the black lipstick and as much of the eye shadow as she could. “See?”

The soldier’s eyes grew wide as saucers at her transformation. Staring in disbelief, he said, “Well, I’ll be…Ma’d tan my hide for sure if I’d ever painted my face, let alone painted myself like some kinda demon…not meanin’ to be rude.”

Xavier’s brows came together as the soldier’s words registered. She wasn’t an expert on life in the 1860s, but one thing she knew for certain was…”Wait a minute! Boys didn’t wear makeup during the Civil War. You’re not a soldier at all; you’re a girl!”

If the soldier had looked afraid when he…she had believed Xavier to be a demon, he…she now looked positively terrified, as well as indignant. “I most certainly am a soldier. I fight just as good as any of those farm boys! Just…just please don’t tell anyone I’m a girl. They’ll send me back home for sure.” 

…To Be Continued

While you’re here, check out these other Blog Hop Participants:

Nickronomicon

GirlZombieAuthors

An Angell’s Life

Always Another Chapter

Angela Yuriko Smith

carmillavoiez.com

Frighten Me

James P. McDonald

Blood Red Shadows

The Unicorn Herd

Creative Quill

Curiosities

Welcome to Avalon

And check out the Blog Hop Panel:

Panel Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AhmMj50CfG8

And finally, check out the October Blog Hop Giveaway and Book Fair!

October Frights Giveaway: https://storyoriginapp.com/to/Ac7PxRJ

Book Fair: https://afstewart.ca/october-frights-book-fair

Mom’s Christmas Sweater

I’m generally not a neat and tidy person, and I’m almost always surrounded by some level of clutter. Usually it doesn’t bother me, but at times it does get to be a bit much, and I feel the need to get rid of stuff.

I’ve been in one of those moods lately.

Whether it’s the onset of what my cousin called “Swedish death cleaning” or just a desire to not trip over junk every time I enter a room, I’m just clearing out things I don’t use anymore. I’ve set aside bags of clothes that the kids have outgrown or that I haven’t worn for months or years; toys, dishes, or small appliances that haven’t seen the light of day for ages; and of course the various pieces and broken things that someone says they’ll fix or find a use for. For the most part, the decision to toss something is easy, and I know there won’t be any regrets.

And then there’s this sweater.

It was my mom’s, part of a set that my dad bought her one Christmas. The black velvet pants have long since been discarded; they were not well made at all. But I still have this sweater that I seldom wear. Why not, you may ask. It is lovely, and very warm, and the colors fit into my preferred palettes.

Well, as is the case with a lot of my clothes of late, it doesn’t fit and honestly hasn’t for a long time. It’s very snug, so much so that I’m always afraid I’ll stretch it out or tear it trying to put it on or take it off. You see, my mother was smaller than I in both stature and girth. In fact, I was already taller and bigger than her by the time I was twelve, so even as a teenager, I was reluctant to borrow it.

So why have I kept it all these years? Why is it still in my closet? The obvious response would be sentimentality. I want to keep it to remember my mother.

But let’s be honest. I did not have a good relationship with my mother. More often than not, we were at odds, and she always managed to say something scathing that left me with hurt feelings. Even now, sixteen years after her death, I still read social media posts from friends extolling the rich relationships they have with their mothers, reveling in the friendship and the shared interests they have with their mothers, and I envy and mourn what I never had. I’m not sure I’d have it even if she were still alive.

So why do I keep this sweater if not to keep alive the precious memories I have of her? The answer is, I really don’t know. I suppose in some way it seems wrong to get rid of something that was a token of my father’s love for my mother. But why should it be wrong? They’re both gone, together in their eternal rest, and neither needs the sweater to remind them of their shared love.

Maybe I’ve kept it as my own reminder, not only of my mother, but also of my parents’ marriage, which had lasted fifty-four years before my dad died. They had their share of good times, and more than their share of hard times, but they stayed together and faithful through it all. That Christmas sweater is just one such memento of something I do want to remember.

But I ask myself as I have many times before, do I need this sweater to remember my parents and their love for each other? Or is it just another piece of clutter in my closet? After all, aren’t I building my own family and my own love story, both of which come with their own souvenirs, which I know my boys will have to deal with someday.

So much in life is holding on and letting go, and knowing when to do both.

October Frights Blog Hop 2023

An excerpt from Outrun the Darkness, Outwalk the Light, Book 6 in the Kyrie Carter: Supernatural Sleuth series

“How are you going to remember where we left the car?” Caine asked, stopping and looking around every few steps as if trying to memorize our route.

“If it would make you feel any better, Hansel, I could leave a trail of breadcrumbs,” I quipped, glancing back to make sure he was keeping up. I mentally acknowledged that his concern wasn’t unwarranted; I’d had to park a bit further away than I would have liked, in a random spot along the shoulder where the car wouldn’t be easily visible to anyone who might drive past. Still, this section of forest had become very familiar to me. “This is starting to feel like Groundhog Day,” I mused aloud.

“Feels more like Blair Witch to me,” Caine muttered. “I swear if I see any stick people hanging from the trees, I’m outta here, Swamp Angel or not.”

His comment did nothing to ease my own nerves as we picked our way through the underbrush, and neither did the pieces of branches that hung askew from several storm-damaged trees. The atmosphere grew heavier the closer we got to our destination. Every sound seemed amplified, and in my growing unease, I found myself holding my breath as I listened for any noise that didn’t belong.

At last we reached the clearing where the fallen log lay. It seemed darker here tonight without the brightness of the moon to illuminate the small space. Still, the darkness allowed the foxfire to glow more brightly. Caine gasped and shrank back as he stepped around me and spotted the eerie bluish phosphorescence close to the ground. “Is that…”

“Yes, that’s foxfire,” I replied, my voice trembling. Even though I was now familiar with the fungus and its properties, Caine’s overt nervousness had set me on edge as well. I hesitated, looking around and wondering if Loop Hill Ike would be here in spirit form—or at all.

At last, I approached the log. I broke off a large chunk and carried it back to where Caine stood. “This should be enough. There’s still plenty left for tomorrow night,” I sad, more to myself than to Caine.

“Why do we have to do this two nights in a row? Why can’t we just give her a bunch of those mushrooms and be done with it in one night?”

Why, indeed, I grumbled to myself. “I’m afraid I don’t have an answer for you. It’s just the way it works.” We started down the narrow path through the trees that would lead us to whatever waited at the confluence. “Actually, this had to be done three times; remember, I already did this once last night. After the third time, the Swamp Angel appears.”

“Okay, so why three nights? Why is three the magic number?” He persisted, reminding me of some of my preschoolers.

“I don’t know, Caine. The number three must have some special significance in the spirit realm.” I paused, squinting, as I tried to keep to the path. I thought about turning on the flashlight on my phone, but I didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves in case any nearby residents were outside. “Loop Hill Ike said the Swamp Angel is a spirit, not a ghost, so maybe that has something to do with it.” As an afterthought, I quickly added, “And no, I don’t know what the difference between a spirit and 

a ghost is.”

********

Check out the other blog hop participants, as well as some spooky giveaways!

October Frights Book Fair: https://afstewart.ca/october-frights-book-fair/

October Frights Giveaway: https://storyoriginapp.com/to/fPAZCcZ

Participant List

Hawk’s Happenings

Always Another Chapter

Crymsyn Hart

Be Afraid of the Dark

Camilla Voiez, British Horror Author

Frighten Me

Angela Yuriko Smith: Exercising My Writes

GirlZombieAuthors

James P Nettles

EV Whyte, Author

Silver Hollow Stories

Confluence/Where I’m From

Yesterday, I came home from work exhausted and not feeling the greatest, so I sat down to rest and scroll through social media and my emails. I got one email regarding a poetic memoir challenge for March. I can’t afford to pay to join the challenge right now, but I did some Googling for poetic memoir prompts just to do some playing on my own. I couldn’t find much of what I was looking for out there, but I did find one site that really sparked my creativity.

On this site, I found some examples of Where I’m From poetic memoir forms, and I decided to write my own as a springboard to starting my own poetic memoir. I really like what I have so far, and I can see quite a few poems sprouting from this. The title Confluence comes from a facination with a place I hold dear, the spot in Millersburg where the Wiconisco Creek meets the Susquehanna River–the confluence. I had the idea that much of who I am comes from the confluence of people, experiences, and ideas.

Confluence/Where I’m From

I’m from California to Pennsylvania.

I’m from March Air Force Base to Millersburg.

I’m from the Susquehanna River, the Wiconisco Creek, and Hen Hottenstein’s pond .

I’m from Berry Mountain, the Millersburg Ferry, and The MYO Park.

I’m from haunted old Victorian house to newly-built haunted two-story.

I’m from German farmers and career military men.

I’m from my first dog Fox to my first cat Crickett.

I’m from baby and only girl to elementary school aunt.

I’m from crowd-following Shaun Cassidy fan to closeted Culture Club and Barry Manilow fan.

I’m from solitary cemetery creeper and never-lonely library visitor.

I’m from straight-A student and socially-awkward teen

I’m from shy, soft-spoken people-pleaser to bold-dressing creative independent.

I’m from ghost stories and Halloween to church plays and Sunday school teacher.

I’m from judgmental Pharisee to belief-shamed outcast to doubting deconstructionist.

I’m from unwavering faith to soul-shaking doubt.

I’m from liturgy and hymns to Spirit-led and praise choruses and back again.

I’m from traditional church to pantheistic practitioner to Metaphysical Christian.

I’m from needing love and acceptance to wanting to be free and independent.

I’m from hair dyed red to camouflage dresses.

I’m from Matchbox cars to Barbie dolls.

I’m from dreams that have died to dreams that I’ve lived.

I’m from friends who became family to friends who were family all along.

I’m from damsel in distress waiting for a knight in shining armor to self-sufficient broad who donned the armor and rescued herself.

I’m from dandelions in the front yard to violets on a secluded woodland path.

I’m from lost in my mother role to strong in my family ties.

A Strange Rite of Passage

For some reason this year, I’m having the hardest time getting into the Christmas spirit. It was a struggle putting up the decorations, and I wasn’t overly motivated to do any shopping or gift making. Even now, I should be finishing up my gifts and cards for the ladies at work, but I just don’t feel like it.

And cookies. I’ve usually got my baking done by now, but I’ve been putting it off and putting it off. Today, I finally pulled a few recipes and decided to get to it. Well, I got through one batch of molasses cookies before my spatula snapped in half. I was just done after that.

So as I sat here stewing in my bah humbug, something occurred to me. I’m 53 years old. This is the age my mother was when she declared she would no longer bake Christmas cookies. She just hated doing it, and after doing it for almost thirty years and four kids (at 13, I was the youngest), she was just done.

And so at 13, I took up the spatula and continued the tradition of baking tons of cookies for Christmas. I made my dad’s favorite hermits, cutouts, chocolate chip, peanut blossoms, and others as I found recipes. For a long time, I loved doing it, and of course, I loved eating the fruits of my labor.

It seems like things have come full circle as I’m now just disenchanted with the whole mess. Is it just my age? My life circumstances? I’m not sure. My older son started college this year, and while he’s home on break, it’s obvious that he’s on the verge of spreading his wings and leaving the nest. My younger son will be 16 in a few days, and he’s ready to find a job to start saving for college or whatever he decides to do after high school.

I always vowed not to turn into my mother–something I suppose a lot of others have said at one time or another–but it seems in some ways, I have. I’m looking at the broken spatula as a harbinger of this new stage of life. I know change is inevitable, and is really the only constant in life, but I can’t help feeling a bit sad, as well as a bit apprehensive.

What will this new stage of life bring? What will my kids do with their lives? And who will carry on the tradition of baking Christmas cookies?

A Visit from St. Pickle-as

A Visit from St. Pickle-as(with apologies to CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE)

‘Twas the night before Crispmas, when all through the fridge

The pickles weren’t sleepy, not even a smidge;

The mason jars sat on the counter aware

That St. Pickle-as soon would be stopping by there;

The chow-chow was nestled all snug on the racks,

While sealed bins of pickled beets sat in neat stacks;

Papa Pimento in the crisper, and I on the door,

Sank down in our brine for a night’s nap or more,

When out in the kitchen there arose such a clatter,

I jumped from my jar to see what was the matter.

Away to the top shelf I flew like a flash,

Shoved open the icebox, hit the floor with a crash.

The moon through the window up above the sink,

Shone so brightly it made my pickle eyes blink,

When what to my moon-blinded eyes did appear,

But a brine barrel and eight tiny dill-deer,

And a little old driver with eyes bright as nickels,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Pickle.

More rapid than relish his cornichons came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Vinegar! now, Viney! now Garlic and Dilly!

On, Cukey! on, Cumin! on, Briney and Billy!

To the top of the pantry, and then in through the larder!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away harder!

“As the pickling spices that swirl in the souse,

When they meet with the stirring spoon, and season the krauts;

So into the kitchen they whirled into view

With the sleigh full of fixings, and St. Pickle-as too

—And then, in a twinkling, the countertop clicked

As those cornichons landed so smooth and so quick

.

As I took a step back, and was turning around,

From the sleigh St. Pickle-as jumped with a bound.

He was covered in dill, from his head to his stem,

And the leaves on his vine sparkled bright just like gems;

A sackful of seasoning was slung on his back,

And it was fuller than full, like a baker’s spice rack.

His eyes were so shiny! His green skin was on fleek!

His expression so Kosher! His nose like paprika!

His droll little mouth was drawn up in a moue,

And the beard on his chin was as white as a roux;

The stump of a clove he held tight in his teeth,

And green vines, they encircled his head like a wreath;

He was verdant of face and had a little round belly

Like the olive oil bottles on display at the deli.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old cuke,

And I laughed when I saw him, no fear of rebuke;

A wink of his eye and a flick of his vines

Soon gave me to know everything was just fine;

He spoke not a word, but went to the icebox;

He filled all the jars, and he loaded the crocks,

And then leaping up to the top shelf of the fridge,

He crossed to the counter, without need of a bridge;

He sprang to his sleigh, tossed his team mustard seed,

And away they all flew like the downy green dillweed.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight

—“Happy Crispmas to all, and to all a good night!”

October Frights

All Hallow’s Eve Morning

Outside
Looks like winter.
Slate gray clouds hang
Low,
Just above the ridge tops.
Between cloud base and horizon,
The magenta-orange haze
Portends a chilly dawn.

Out back,
A carpet of frost
Dulls the still-verdant grass.
Twisting paths
Of darker spheres
Tell of predawn visitors
Crossing the yard.
Raven roams,
Adding her own path of prints
As she sniffs the story
Of night-beasts passing through.

I sip coffee and smile.
Thoughts turn to the spooky souls
Who will come knocking
Tonight
Seeking sugary treats
Under cover of masks and darkness
Before flocking to frightful festivities.
Memories rise
Of childhood parties past,
And tales told in dark rooms
With flashlights beneath our chins.

One reminiscence crisscrosses another,
And I soon recall
Superstitions whispered by elder aunts
On dark October nights.
I cackle into my cup;
My logical, modern mind
Doubts and discards
The old beliefs of veils parting
And souls slipping
Between worlds.

Still,
I watch as my breath ascends
Ghostlike
To vanish in the icy air,
And I know
That summer has slipped
Beyond the veil of time,
And winter will soon materialize
In its place,
Amid a hoarfrost veil.

That thought
Makes me shiver
More than the spooks
And skeletons
And super-villains
Who will visit in the night to come.
With a final glance
To the gray sky,
I whistle for the dog
And retreat inside.

While you’re here, check out these other blogs for more spooky Halloween fun!

Always Another Chapter

Be Afraid of the Dark

Carmilla Voiez Dark Reads and Intersectional Feminism

GirlZombieAuthors

Frighten Me

Brain Matter – The Official Blog of JG Faherty

Angela Yuriko Smith

James P. Nettles

 Giveaway link: https://storyoriginapp.com/to/oyHMogF

Book Showcase page: https://afstewart.ca/october-frights-book-fair/

October Frights

Excerpt: Dandelion Souls

When at last I turned out the light and snuggled down beneath the cool sheets, I did so knowing that the Swamp Angel would neither show up in my dreams nor summon me to her. She never came to me two nights in a row.

Except for tonight.

***

My heart raced as I found myself in the same section of woods I’d been in the previous night. I rubbed my arms against the chill and frantically looked around for the shape-shifting owl that had terrorized me as I searched for the Swamp Angel. The trees tonight were devoid of owls, and of anything else I could see, but that was little comfort. Knowing I’d been brought back here for a reason and resigned to the fact that this scene would repeat itself until I discovered what that reason was, I started walking toward the sound of running water.

I had just crested the hill when an unusual sound made me stop in my tracks. I cocked my head, listening and trying to separate the sound from the babbling of the creek. At times I could hear it over the rushing water, and other times the water seemed to drown it out. Over and over again, the sound rose and fell, but always with a familiar cadence that I couldn’t quite place.

All at once I realized it was a voice, a man’s voice. I knew it wasn’t Loop Hill Ike, but who else could it be? Suddenly feeling vulnerable, I pressed myself against a tree and squinted into the darkness, listening hard to figure out which direction the voice was coming from. Though I scanned the creek bed below, I saw nothing, although I was able to determine that the sound came from upstream.

I knew I had to make my way toward the voice so I could figure out who it was and why he was there, but fear kept my feet rooted where I was. Once, twice, a dozen times, I tried to make myself leave the shelter of my tree and move upstream. The sharp sting of a mosquito biting my leg made me jump and then swat it away. Come on, Kyr. You can’t stand here all night; you’ll get eaten alive by bugs…or other things.

 Squashing down my fear for the moment, I began moving as quietly as I could from tree to tree as I made my way downhill toward the creek. I was only a few yards from the water’s edge when I heard the voice again. It spoke in the same rhythmic cadence as before, only this time I was able to make out a few words: “Walk…valley…shadow of death…fear no evil…”

I let out my breath in a whoosh. The 23^rd Psalm. He’s saying the 23^rd Psalm. It seemed unlikely that a serial killer would be quoting the Bible in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, so I took heart. “Hello? Hello, who’s there?” The voice stopped speaking, and I heard a sharp intake of breath close by, so I tried again. “Hello?”

After a moment, there was a timid reply. “H…Hello?”

I started toward the spot I thought the voice was coming from, continuing to speak and hoping for responses. “Hello? Where are you? Help me find you.”

“I’m here.” Apprehension still kept his voice low; he was as wary of me as I was of him. “I’m over here. Please don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.” If I hadn’t been so frightened myself, I might have found it amusing that a man would be afraid that I might hurt him. Just ahead, I saw a figure in light-colored clothes that contrasted sharply with the dark rocks and vegetation. The only reason I hadn’t seen him before was that he was crouched down between a large rock and a double-trunked tree with his hands over his head, obviously hiding. Leaving the safety of my own source of cover, I waved both hands in the air so he would see me. “Here I am. Over here.”

The man lowered his arms and turned his head to look in my direction; then he cried out and leapt to his feet so abruptly I thought he was about to attack. I turned quickly and was about to make a run for it when he called out, “Ms. Carter? Is that you?”

Recognizing his voice, I whirled around to face him. “Caine Michaljuk?”

“What are you doing here?” we both asked at the same time.

Before I could say another word, he took a step back toward his hiding spot. “You…you really are a witch, aren’t you? How…why did you bring me here?”

I fought the urge to pick up a rock and throw it at him. “Caine, for the last time, I am NOT a witch!” No matter what your nutcase grandmother might say.

“Then how did I get here…wherever this is?”

I shot him a scathing look I was sure it was too dark for him to see and replied, “The same way I did. The Swamp Angel.”

“The Swamp Angel?” He looked around wildly. “Then where is she? Why isn’t she here?”

“Because she tends to show up at the creek—“

“The creek is right here,” he exploded, gesturing to the water flowing next to us.

I remembered to count to ten and then amended, “A certain part of the creek.  There’s a confluence upstream a ways. That’s where she usually appears. You’ve read the legend; I’m pretty sure that’s where she…drowned.”

“Well…why wouldn’t she just beam us there?” he asked, pacing between his hiding spot and the edge of the creek. “Why would she drop us here in the middle of the woods?”

I let out a huff. “Caine, your guess is as good as mine. All I know for sure is that when she transports me somewhere, it’s because she has a message for me, or there’s something she wants me to do.” I crossed my arms and gave him a pointed look. “This time, I’m guessing she’s got something for you to do as well.”

Caine continued to stand frozen, doubt clouding his features as he stared at me. “What…what will happen if I don’t do what she wants?”

Although I knew that fear was driving his distrust, my patience was wearing thin. I threw out my hands in frustration. “You know, for someone who up until recently was actively pursuing me for help with his leafy alien problem, and who was hell-bent on talking to the Swamp Angel, you’re being awfully uncooperative now that she wants to talk to you.”

Some of the stubbornness left his expression, but he still made no move to accompany me. “But—“

“Okay, look. The longer you stand there questioning me, the longer it’s going to take to get what we’re here for and get back home. I’m sure you don’t want your Gran checking in on you and finding you gone, do you?” Because Lord knows I don’t.

His eyes widened in terror at the suggestion, and he sprang into action, pushing past me to follow the creek upstream. “Okay, then, let’s go.”

It didn’t take long to reach the confluence. I had to run to catch up to him and stop him before he walked headlong into the swampy ground. “Be careful, Caine. The ground is unstable here. This is the quicksand where Orchid…where the Swamp Angel drowned.”

He froze, and we both looked around. A half moon peeked through the trees, casting just enough light to make the scene before us eerie and surreal. As if being transported across space and time weren’t surreal enough. My eyes were drawn to the shadows in the forest around us. I sensed that we weren’t alone here, and I couldn’t help feeling that whoever or whatever might be watching us wasn’t necessarily friendly.

“So where is she?” Caine asked accusingly, glaring at me as he wrung his hands. “She’s not here. There’s no one here but us.”

“Shh, keep your voice down.” I was as uneasy as he was. The Swamp Angel had never been a no-show. I continued looking around in dismay. Were we too late? Had our brief delay caused us to miss her appearance? “I don’t know, Caine. I’m sure she’ll be here soon. She wouldn’t have—“

The sound of someone—or something—moving through the underbrush off to our right interrupted me. Suddenly apprehensive, I grasped his arm and pulled him back under cover of the trees. “Quick,” I hissed. “Get out of sight.”

Stumbling over each other in our haste, Caine and I barely ducked behind a large tree before two people, a man and a woman, came into the clearing. I recognized the man, but the woman was unknown to me. “Is that the Swamp Angel?” Caine asked, trying to see around me.

I quickly covered his mouth with my hand and whispered, “No. Now be quiet.”

“Mr. Ike,” the woman said, casting a nervous glance around the clearing, “I don’t know that I can do this. What if she doesn’t come to me?”

“Who’s that guy?” Caine asked, pulling away from me and leaning in to see better.

“That’s Loop Hill Ike,” I said, low. “I don’t know the woman. Be quiet and watch; I’ll answer your questions later.” Thankfully, neither seemed to hear our exchange or otherwise be aware of our presence.

“She’ll come. This is the third night.” He motioned toward the quicksand in the point of the triangle. “Throw the foxfire into the quicksand, just like I showed you these past two nights.”

After a bit more back and forth between them, Loop Hill Ike handed the woman a small pouch. Glancing at him uncertainly, she opened the pouch and took something out. She took a few uncertain steps toward the quicksand and turned to look at him. He gave her a curt nod, and she threw the foxfire into the soupy ground, where it sank quickly.

“This…this is what I read about,” Caine said excitedly, parting the bushes in front of him to see better. “This is when that woman summoned the Swamp Angel.”

Having gathered as much, I nodded. It seemed odd to me that neither seemed to hear us—especially Caine—and that Loop Hill Ike hadn’t even so much as acknowledged me. It was as though he didn’t know we were there.

A moment later, the quicksand took on a bluish-green tinge that became brighter as a figure rose from the water and took the form of the Native American woman I knew as Orchid. Even though I’d witnessed this scene several times now, a thrill of wonder still coursed through me, and goosebumps rose on my arms.

Caine obviously didn’t feel the same. “What is that?” he screeched. “What’s happening?”

“It’s the Swamp Angel,” I hissed, not taking my eyes off the scene before me. “Can’t you see her?”

“I see something,” he said, just above a whisper. He retreated behind me.

Just as the Swamp Angel began to speak to the woman, Loop Hill Ike turned toward us and met my eyes with a stern gaze, the first acknowledgement of my presence. He gave me a curt nod, and the scene before me vanished.

For more spooky fun, also visit these blogs, and check out the giveaways!

Always Another Chapter

Be Afraid of the Dark

Carmilla Voiez Dark Reads and Intersectional Feminism

GirlZombieAuthors

Frighten Me

Brain Matter – The Official Blog of JG Faherty

Angela Yuriko Smith

James P. Nettles

Here is the Giveaway link: https://storyoriginapp.com/to/oyHMogF

Book Showcase page: https://afstewart.ca/october-frights-book-fair/

Hallow’s Eve Morning

Outside
Looks like winter.
Slate gray clouds hang
Low,
Just above the ridge tops.
Between cloud base and horizon,
The magenta-orange haze
Portends a chilly dawn.

Out back,
A carpet of frost
Dulls the still-verdant grass.
Twisting paths
Of darker spheres
Tell of predawn visitors
Crossing the yard.
Raven roams,
Adding her own path of prints
As she sniffs the story
Of night-beasts passing through.

I sip coffee and smile.
Thoughts turn to the spooky souls
Who will come knocking
Tonight
Seeking sugary treats
Under cover of masks and darkness
Before flocking to frightful festivities.
Memories rise
Of childhood parties past,
And tales told in dark rooms
With flashlights beneath our chins.

One reminiscence crisscrosses another,
And I soon recall
Superstitions whispered by elder aunt’s
On dark October nights.
I cackle into my cup;
My logical, modern mind
Doubts and discards
The old beliefs of veils parting
And souls slipping
Between worlds.

Still,
I watch as my breath ascends
Ghostlike
To vanish in the icy air,
And I know
That summer has slipped
Beyond the veil of time,
And winter will soon materialize
In its place,
Amid a hoarfrost veil.

That thought
Makes me shiver
More than the spooks
And skeletons
And super-villains
Who will visit in the night to come.
With a final glance
To the gray sky,
I whistle for the dog
And retreat inside.

October Blog Hop–The Scariest Scarecrow, Part 3

This is Part 3 of “The Scariest Scarecrow.” You can check out Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time the three boys finished the new scarecrow. Damon was especially proud of his creation. He had shaped the Modge Podge and gauze around the wig head into a frightening Scream-like silhouette and draped the oversized flannel shirt and jeans over the wood frame so that the scarecrow appeared to be lunging and reaching out to grab something…or someone. The banana clip made surprisingly-convincing teeth, despite its hot pink hue, and the red reflectors beneath the heavy gauze brow seemed almost lifelike as they glinted in the red-orange rays of the setting sun.

“Let’s put him out in the garden now,” Keith exclaimed, leaping up and starting toward the porch steps. “I want Mom and Dad to see it when they get home.”

Damon let out a guffaw that Kevin thought sounded forced. “They’ll be so scared they’ll turn right around and head for the hills. Then you two will be here alone with—“ he lowered his voice to a creepy hiss— “the scarecrow.”

Keith laughed at the mental image of their parents—especially their six-foot-two-inch-tall father—being afraid of the scarecrow, but Kevin just smiled absentmindedly as he stared at the prostrate form on the porch. He shuddered; the iridescent scarlet-hued prisms that were the scarecrow’s eyes seemed to see directly into his soul. Despite the chill in the air, beads of sweat formed on his brow as he tried unsuccessfully to tear his gaze away.

“Come on, Kev.” Damon punched Kevin’s shoulder. “Let’s go terrorize some crows.”

Giving himself a shake, he helped Damon pick up the scarecrow and carry it off the porch. As they followed Keith across the yard toward the garden, the scarecrow’s head shifted to the side and rested on Kevin’s shoulder. A hot, rancid odor filled his nostrils, and he imagined that the scarecrow was breathing in his face. He shrugged his shoulder several times to reposition the scarecrow’s head, but it always found its way back to Kevin’s shoulder.

When they reached the middle of the garden where Sammy had stood just days before, they lifted the new scarecrow and set the post into the hole in the ground. Braxton held it steady as Kevin and Keith filled in the hole with dirt and rocks.

By the time the three boys stepped back to admire their work, the sun was just above the horizon. As Kevin stared at their creation, he shuddered, thinking maybe they’d done too good a job of making it scary. The last rays of the setting sun bathed the scarecrow in a blood red hue, and its eyes seemed to glow with a lifelike glimmer, almost as though it watched them.

As if echoing his brother’s thoughts, Keith whispered, “He looks really creepy. Those crows won’t come near this scarecrow!” For a moment, he stared intently at the scarecrow and then moved closer to Kevin. “I think he can see us.” 

“Yeah. Well, I’m heading out,” Damon said, turning abruptly and sprinting out of the garden. He called over his shoulder, “Enjoy your scarecrow, K-bot.”

“Damon, hold up,” Kevin said, starting after him. “Don’t you want to wait for my parents? I’m sure Mom’s bringing home pizza, and Dad will run you home.”

“No thanks,” Damon shouted back as he jammed his things into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder before mounting his bike. “Can’t wait for your folks. Gotta get home.” 

Kevin stood by the gate watching Damon speed up the driveway and onto the road. It wasn’t like him to turn down a ride home, or more yet an invitation to stay for supper. He couldn’t shake the idea that his friend was acting as though someone or something had frightened him.

A moment later, the wind picked up, and an unsettling rustle ran through the cornfield, sending a shiver down his spine. Suddenly there was a shrill squeal behind him, and something grabbed his hand, making him cry out and whirl around.

“Look, Kevin! He’s dancing! My scarecrow is dancing!” Keith laughed as he pointed at the scarecrow and mimicked its movements.

“Yeah.” Kevin swallowed hard, glad that they’d securely bound the scarecrow’s hands and feet to the pole on which it hung. Indeed, the scarecrow was swaying back and forth in the stiff breeze, but in Kevin’s mind the scarecrow wasn’t dancing; it was trying to break free.

A bright flash of light illuminated the scarecrow for a second, and its eyes suddenly flared red. Just in time, Kevin bit back a cry as he turned to determine the source of the light. Keith, however, had already figured it out. He pushed past his brother and darted out of the garden. “Mom and Dad are home! Wait till they see my new scarecrow!”

Mr. Appleby maneuvered the pickup truck down the narrow driveway and parked in between the house and the old oak tree next to it. Before he had even turned off the ignition, Keith ran up to the driver’s side window, jabbering excitedly as he gestured toward the garden. Kevin remained rooted where he stood until the wind shifted, bringing the stench of death to his nostrils.

“Kevin, what are you standing there for?” Mr. Appleby called. “Get over here and help unload.”

A low, scraping sound made him glance over his shoulder. The scarecrow’s head had fallen forward slightly, making it seem as though the red eyes were directed right at him. His blood ran cold, and he immediately turned and bolted out of the garden. “Coming, Dad.”

 By the time Kevin joined Mr. Appleby by the truck, Keith had already picked up a box of goat’s milk soaps and was following Mrs. Appleby into the house, still chattering away about his new scarecrow. Mr. Appleby handed Kevin a crate and then slid a second one off the tailgate before turning to ask, “Was that Damon we passed just on the other side of Hendershot’s farm?”

“Yeah,” Kevin said, following his father toward the porch steps. “He came over to help Keith build the new scarecrow.”

“Why the devil didn’t he wait till we got home?” Mr. Appleby asked, climbing the steps and going inside the house. “Your mother bought a couple pizzas. He could have stayed to supper, and I would have taken him home so he wouldn’t have to ride his bike home in the dark. It’s not safe riding at night without a headlight.”

Kevin glanced over his shoulder in the direction Damon had gone. Apparently he doesn’t think it’s safe being here with the scarecrow either. “I don’t know what’s up with him,” he said, hurrying down the hallway after Mr. Appleby. “He just said he had to get home, and then he took off like a bat out of hell.”

“Kevin, I wish you’d curb your language in front of your brother.” Mrs. Appleby shot him a warning glance as she got paper plates out of the cupboard. “You know he looks up to you.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Kevin muttered. Keith seemed not to have heard the offending word; he was still trailing after their mother, telling her every detail of his new scarecrow. “And he’s got creepy, bony, skeleton claws and evil red eyes and sharp, scary teeth. His teeth are scary, even though they’re hot pink.”

Mrs. Appleby laughed. “My goodness, it sounds as though Sammy got quite a makeover. How about you go wash your hands for supper?”

“Okay,” Keith said, although he made no move to follow his mother’s directions. “But his name isn’t Sammy anymore. That’s a baby name.”

“Oh?” Mrs. Appleby put a slice of pizza on a plate and set it at Keith’s spot at the table. “What is his new name?”

“Slayer,” he replied, sitting down and reaching for the pizza.

Mr. Appleby stepped in and slid the plate out of reach. “No pizza until you wash your hands like your mother told you to. Now scoot.” When Keith slid from his seat and ran to the sink, Mr. Appleby turned to Kevin. “There should be one more box in the truck, Kevin. Could you bring it in and make sure the truck is locked up?”

“Sure, Dad.” Kevin hurried down the hall and out the front door. He made his way around the side of the house to the truck. After checking the driver’s side door to make sure it was locked, he went around to the back and grabbed the last box. “Of course, you’d leave me the heaviest one,” he muttered, setting it on the ground at his feet so he could shut the tailgate.

As he bent down to pick up the box, he was suddenly engulfed by the odor of death. His head jerked up, and he looked around frantically, wishing he’d thought to turn on the porch light. Starting quickly for the house, he involuntarily glanced toward the garden. An orange moon was just clearing the horizon behind the garden. The scarecrow stood in silhouette against the moonlit sky, and Kevin swore that one of the skeleton hands was waving at him.

He froze in horror as the red reflector lights suddenly began to glow, and the scarecrow seemed to move, straining against the thick twine that held it to the wooden pole. His blood turned to ice as an evil whisper floated to him on the breeze. “Ssssslaaaayerrrrrrr…”

Suddenly, the porch light came on, and the front door opened. “Kevin, what the devil are you doing out here?”

For a moment, Kevin’s mouth moved wordlessly, but at last he found his tongue and stammered, “Dad, the s…s…scarecrow.”

Mr. Appleby stepped out onto the porch and looked toward the garden. He adjusted his glasses and chuckled. “You boys did a fine job on that scarecrow. I don’t know that it will keep crows away, but I think it will make any trespassers think twice. Bring that box inside and come wash your hands. Pizza’s getting cold.”

Kevin glanced at his father and then back to the garden. Slayer just looked like a regular scarecrow again, spooky, but not sinister. He gave his head a shake. “Sure, Dad. Coming.”

******

Kevin’s legs ached, and his lungs burned as he pedaled faster and faster. Just behind him, Damon likewise rode as fast as he could. They were in a race against time; they had to get home before dark. Keith was home alone, and they knew that if they didn’t reach the house before dark, they couldn’t protect him from—

“Kevin, look! The sun!”

Kevin turned toward the horizon. The sun was just a thin line along the mountain, blood red and fiery. They had to hurry.

Turning his attention back to the road, he saw the covered bridge ahead. Home was just around the bend on the other side of the bridge. He called over his shoulder, “There’s the bridge! We can make it! Keep riding! Keep riding!”

Both boys rode harder and faster, their legs pumping with impossible speed. They knew the creature was right on their heels and getting closer, closer.

At last, they reached the bridge and plunged into the darkness. The wooden planks clattered beneath their bike tires as they thundered through. Kevin could see the twilight sky on the opposite side of the bridge, and he kept riding. They were almost there.

Kevin shot out the other side, shouting, “We made it, Damon! We made it!”

There was no answer.

He skidded to a stop and turned to look. Damon wasn’t behind him; in fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Where could he have gone?

All at once, the hairs on Kevin’s neck began to rise. Someone—or something—was watching him. Slowly, he turned his head to the left, and his heart leapt into his throat. In the inky darkness, he could see lining the fields beside him hundreds of scarecrows, all with oversized Styrofoam wig heads, glowing red eyes, and sharp hot pink teeth. He looked to the right. There, too, were hundreds of Styrofoam-headed scarecrows with glowing red eyes and sharp hot pink teeth lining the hillside. As one, they all began moving toward him, hissing, gnashing their teeth, and slashing the air with their skeleton hands.

From somewhere in the dark night, Keith’s small, terrified voice screamed, “Kevin! Help me! He’s here! He’s…KEVIN!!!!!”

As Kevin began pedaling toward home, the advancing scarecrow army spilled onto the road all around him, engulfing him, devouring him.

******

Kevin jumped awake, gasping for breath and struggling against whoever or whatever held him. At last, he recognized his bedroom with the overflowing clothes tree in the corner and the Steelers Terrible Towel pinned to one wall. The hands that held him were nothing more than the sheets that he’d become entangled in as he struggled in his nightmare.

He lay motionless for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. When he’d finally calmed down and assured himself he’d simply had a nightmare, he freed himself from his sheets and got out of bed. For once grateful for the early morning sun streaming through his window, he crossed the room and pushed the curtains aside to flood the room with light.

Closing his eyes against the brightness, he leaned his head against the cold glass and just breathed. At last, he opened his eyes and looked out at the cornfield. The usual flock of crows circled the cornfield, then disappeared among the stalks, only to rise again, fly around, and descend in a different spot. He laughed to himself. The crows were still here despite the new, scarier scarecrow. Speaking of which…Kevin turned his head to look toward the garden, and his eyes widened in horror.

The scarecrow—Slayer—still stood in the garden where they’d placed him, but his head was raised and turned toward the house, and his red reflector eyes stared right into Kevin’s.  

…to be continued.

Check out the other participants in the October Frights Blog Hop!

The Hop List

Night to Dawn Magazine & Books LLC

Hawk’s Happenings

Heidi Angell

Curiosities

James McDonald

Always Another Chapter

Spreading the Writer’s Word

Yours in Storytelling

Carmilla Voiez

Hello Romance

GirlZombieAuthors

Frighten Me

M’habla’s!

Angela Yuriko Smith

Brain Matter

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