Halloween Competition Now Open. Post your entries here!

[ethereal]

Yes, the competition officially open!

The idea is to write a story with Halloween as its theme, include as many weird and wonderful creatures and characters as you wish...and don't forget those twists and turns!
Stories should be a maximum of 2000 words, the first 500 of which should be posted in reply to this post, with the title as the subject line and the entire story submitted to me in the normal way (see the main site if you don't already know how to submit a story).

To make this competition really work for us all the idea will be to let as many people as possible know about it, myspace, facebook, blogs...you know the sort of thing, we need to get folks to sign up with the forum so that they can vote for their favourite story. The stories will be added to the poll as they are posted, so the sooner you get your stories in, the more people will see it and get the chance to vote.

The entry time has been extended until 16th October.
Each member will have one vote and be judging your work on those first 500 words, so give them something to get hooked on...and leave them begging for more...
Voting will take place between 17th October and 24th October.
The overall winner will be decided by me, the editor, on Sunday 25th October and will receive a unique Ethereal Tales prize.
Then the winner and the highest voted for runners up will all appear in the Halloween Special that I am planning to produce for Halloween 2010, with each writer receiving a copy of the special in the normal way.

So what are you waiting for...let the competition begin!

[mpp7278]

The Planting of the Spectre
A Story of the Crow Witch

Mike Phillips

A spectre rose from its hiding place. It was hungry and it craved the souls of the innocent. Testing the wind, it splayed its bony fingers and stretched its gaunt arms, reaching toward the sky. Releasing a long, cruel breath the spectre floated into the air. It breathed in and released, rising until it was higher than the tallest tree, then floated away into the night.
Sitting at an old picnic table, head propped up on her hands, Sally Maloney stared at the pumpkin in front of her, trying to decide what to carve. She was at the Albertson farm for the 4-H Halloween party and she was the only one who hadn’t finished her Jack-O-Lantern.
Everyone else was out in the corn maze, playing hide and seek. Sally heard them out there, laughing, having a good time without her. Only the row of lighted pumpkin shells, carved into curious and hideous faces to ward the spirits of the night, were there to keep her company, glowing and grinning in the darkness.
A cloud passed over the full moon, casting a deep shadow. Sally felt a sudden chill. She had the feeling that something was watching her, something bad, but when she turned around nothing was there. She went back to her work on the pumpkin, still unable to decide what to do with it.
A crow flew down from the sky and came to rest beside her. It was a rather large bird and had the shiniest black feathers Sally had ever seen.
“Crows are a portent of evil,” she told the bird. “At least that’s what books say.”
“And so they do,” the crow replied. “Well spoken. And so this day I am in fact a portent of evil.”
“What evil?” Sally asked, unaffected by the strangeness of the messenger.
“Aren’t you surprised that a bird can talk?” the crow asked. “Most people have difficulties accepting that.”
“I bet most people do and so would I if you were really a crow,” Sally said.
“What do you mean, if I were really a crow?” the bird asked, incredulous.
“You’re Miss Weigenmeister, the librarian. You only look like a crow.”
“And how do you know that?” Miss Weigenmeister asked suspiciously.
“I can see you under all those feathers, and especially behind your eyes. I like your eyes.” She added, “Then there’s your voice. It’s the same too. Oh, don’t worry, I won’t tell your secret, I promise.”
“You can see me as I really am?”
“Well, yeah. Haven’t I proved that by my guess?”
“I suppose you have.”
“Will you teach me how to be a crow some day?”
“Well, now that I know about this talent of yours, perhaps I will,” said Miss Weigenmeister the crow. “But right now we have work to do. Not long ago, I was out in my garden and I felt the passing of an evil and wicked thing in the sky, floating above the trees. I followed and it led me here. Will you help?”

[alan_loewen]

Greengate
by Alan Loewen

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED


Greengate haunts me still in memory and dream, but my memories are always of that time of the year when it is said the boundary between the worlds becomes the thinnest.

It is All Hallowed Eve in the Year of Our Lord, 1976:

I was five years old and I was in the backyard playing as my mother watched me through the window over the sink where she washed dishes. I had been promised that evening that she would take me from house to house where I would be offered treats and my cowboy costume was one I would wear with pride.

Our house was one of the twenty clustered around the crossroads that we shared with a general store and Saint Dyfrig’s, the old stone church. To the north and east sprawled the gentle sloping hills of Pennsylvania; endless orchards of apples and peaches and cherries.

Where the limestone boulders jutted through the green grass like giant broken teeth, cows grazed on the green grass.

To the south and west, the grassy knolls turned into woods of oak and maple that crept up the sides of a chain of large steep hills. The range, stretching as far as the eye could see, was named South Mountain; it's stream-carved valleys, runs, and roads bearing such imaginative names as Dead Woman's Hollow, the Devil's Racecourse, Black Andes and Horsekiller Road.

I was playing under the old oak that ruled our back yard, making my plastic cowboys chase imaginary foes over the roots that broke through the surface.

I looked up and saw the face.

It was a man's face created out of the autumn red leaves and branches of the oak and it looked down at me without any emotion in its unearthly eyes. With it came the overpowering realization that I was not watching it as much as it was watching me.

I blinked my eyes and rubbed them to make the illusion go away. It was, I knew even at that age, simply a trick of sunlight among the branches. I looked up again and the face was still there. I felt a gentle breeze at my back and the eyes blinked as the autumn-seared leaves gently swayed.

I don't remember being scared, just puzzled. I turned to look at the house where my mother's head stood framed in the window as she bent over her dishes. I looked back at the face and it was gone. Once again, I was looking up at nothing but leaves, branches, and bright sunlight where nothing looked back.

It is one of my clearest memories of my childhood in Greengate.

Another memory from an All Hallowed Eve just four years later.

Peter Mackey and I sat on a limestone boulder near the base of South Mountain sharing penny candy we had bought at Echon's General Store. Peter and I were ten and we talked about ten-year old topics such as baseball, our fourth grade teacher who had paddled Keith Bream in front of the whole class, and the new cartoon shows on television.

[Captain_M]

FRED THE GNOME'S MOST HAUNTED
A Spooky Tale By Captain M


Fred the gnome has been dabbling in the occult and has unwittingly unleashed “bloomin’ dark forces”. Or so he tells me. I, on the other hand, have a more down-to-earth explanation, as you’ll see if you bear with me.

“It all started with that bloomin’ book of spells I borrowed off Witch Yoni,” Fred told me over tea and cakes in the living room of his toadstool house one grey and windy day last week. “I was only trying out an itsy bitsy charm for making the cucumbers in me back garden grow bigger, then all hell breaks bloomin’ loose.” According to Fred, all manner of weird things have been happening in and around his house. “Bumps, moans, groans, bangs, clanks, creaks, footsteps, the sensation of a strange presence on the stairs: you name it,” said Fred, tugging on his beard thoughtfully. “It’s most peculiar, I’m telling you!” When I subtly suggested to Fred that the peculiar noises might in fact be due to the October gales currently blowing through the woods, making the fibrous frames of his house creak and crack, he was having none of it. “It’s supernatural in origin, I tell you! And it’s all my doing. I’m getting someone in to bloomin’ well exorcise this place!”

That “someone” turned out to be Peter the Psychic Pixie, Dusky Dell Woods’ equivalent of the camp medium with the Liverpudlian accent from “Britain’s Most Haunted Houses” on the TV. And what a performance it turned out to be. The ‘psychic’ pixie showed up on Fred’s doorstep the very next day and before you could say “Yvette Fielding” he was stomping around the place and babbling all sorts of balderdash. “Yes, yes. My guide Eric is telling me he can see a troubled spirit… What was that, Eric?... He says someone died in this very room…. It was a long time ago… I get the date one-nine-two-three: that’s 1923! Now I’m getting a name:. What is it, Eric? Eric’s saying Walter, William, Wilbur, Wilfred or something like that” And at that very moment a particularly fearsome gust of wind blew the front door open and came howling through the house.

“Well I bloomin’ never!” exclaimed Fred. “That would be my great uncle Wilf. He caught a chill after going on a fishing trip in the bloomin’ freezing rain. The silly old beggar! Passed away in this very house. Even gnomes don’t all live forever, you know.”

“I can send him back to the other side,” declared Peter the Psychic Pixie, with a theatrical skyward wave of his arms. “Provided you pay me with two crates of your best ale.”

Needless to say, Fred wasn’t too happy to be parted from his supply of ‘Finest Old Toad ‘ and ‘Old Rumblebum’ Ale. But after much humming and harring he acceded to Peter’s request. There then followed much histrionic wailing and chanting from the exorcist pixie, who repeated his performance in every room of the house. On and on the histrionics went, until finally and mercifully the awful racket subsided. “There, it’s all over now. Wilf’s been sent on his way. He won’t be back to haunt you again. Just as long as you don’t go dabbling with the darkside again. No good will ever come of it. You mark my words!” And with that, Peter was off on his way, weighed down with several crates of Fred’s precious ale.

I was tempted to say to Fred: “A fool and his ale are easily parted”. But I didn’t want to upset my best friend. Anyway, sure enough, the ‘haunting’ seems to have ceased for now at least. I’ve got my own theory for the reasons for that, though. You see, on the very same afternoon of the ‘exorcism’, Fred had another visitor: Gus the Goblin, Dusky Dell Woods’ ever-helpful handycreature. Gus had been passing by when he suddenly remembered that Fred had asked him to do a couple of little maintenance jobs around the toadstool. “My oh my,” said Gus, shaking his head. “What’s been going on here? This whole lot’s going to come tumbling down if it 'aint fixed soon. “I’ll have it all done in a jiffy,” he promised. Sure enough, after some hammering down of loose floorboards and oilings of squeaky hinges and repairs to door and window frames, the job was done and dusted. Furthermore, Gus asked for nothing more in payment than a cup of tea and a slice of Fred’s best homemade marzipan window cake.

Fred is still convinced that it was Peter the Psychic Pixie’s visit that put a stop to the bout of odd phenomena. However, I beg to disagree with my gnome friend. I’m somewhat dubious about these haunted-this-and-haunted-that TV shows that seem all the rage these days. For some reason, there are lots of them on the Gnome Channel. I reckon Fred’s been watching too many of them for his own good. There’s nearly always a rational explanation for these so called ‘hauntings’. But then again…

What do you think, dear readers?

[Raven]

Thanks for your stories chaps!
Hopefully we will have a few more turning up to join you, there is time yet.

[jmaxon]

Note from the author: I reference existing characters, however I do not write them as they are in their original form/setting. I think of this as similar to using elves or dwarves (characters someone else created, but are often reused.) Please forgive me if you consider this too close to Fan art.

An Unexpected Invitation
by James D. Maxon
1,200 words

It was a dark and stormy night. No wait, it wasn’t dark or stormy at all. In fact, Nathaniel just had a knack for the dramatic. He was lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling, considering several options for his newest fantasy story.

A crumpled blanket underneath him displayed characters from the "old school" Star Wars movie. Even though he was only 8 years old, he didn't let that stop him from loving the classics.

A nearby wookie—or rather the wookie—held a crossbow in his hand and brandished an open mouth, frozen in a silent howl. The figure stood on Nathaniel's bedside table as light from a nearby lamp projected a large shadow on the far wall. Nathaniel often pretended that the shadow was a full size version of Chewbacca, visiting him from another planet just to share in his adventures, but right now the boy was too consumed with putting together his own story to give it any consideration.

Dwarfs, thought Nathaniel. I need dwarfs, dark and light ones that ride on the backs of creatures that look like cats. There also needs to be characters from another world, and a batlike creature to oversee everything. Oh, and there has to be an Asian who can fight, can't forget about that.

“Nathaniel.” A menacing voice came from the other side of his bedroom door.

Agents from Double L discovered his secret hideout and were about to infiltrate his room. Drat! They found me! He quickly rolled out of bed and yelled, “You'll never take me alive!”

The door swung open as a flash of light came in from the hallway. Nathaniel dashed for a nearby gun, grabbed it with both hands, and then aimed it at the entrance. A figure appeared with jutting elbows and hands resting on hips.

Bang! A bullet shot out of the gun and bounced off the stomach of the intruder, but nothing happened. No dead body hit the ground. No screams of pain.

“Very funny, Nathaniel,” said the standing figure. “Now how about you turn off your light and go to bed.”

“Yes Mom,” Nathaniel said as if accepting defeat. She never allowed him to have any fun. It was like trying to get a statue to smile.

She closed the door behind her and Nathaniel jumped back into bed. He reached over and clicked off his lamp—the image of Chewbacca vanished from the wall. He closed his eyes and sighed. After pondering several more story ideas, he drifted to sleep.

Nathaniel sat up in bed. What woke him? Was it a nightmare? The room was dark; the only light came from the moon that was glowing through the tree branches outside his window. There was something creepy and exciting about the scene, but it would have to wait. He wanted to be fully rested. After all Halloween was tomorrow, and being tired while trick-or-treating wasn't an appealing idea.

With a sigh he lay back down and closed his eyes.

The bed shook. Nathaniel's eyes popped open again . . .

------------------

James D. Maxon

Author of, "The Cat That Made Nothing Something Again"
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1440485275

Manga and speculative fiction reviewer:
http://booksforyouth.com/

[bodgei]

“This sucks,” Jordan said. I glanced over at my husband. He was lying on his back in bed pinching his nose.

“What sucks, baby?” I asked.

“Traveling this close to the full moon,” he said without moving.

You see my husband, Jordan, had become a Werewolf a month after we were married. He was attacked while we were driving home from dinner. In the rain. All and all the situation was a little cheesy. And, I came to find out, totally illegal. Werewolves don’t turn people and they never ever turn anyone recognizable. My husband was a TV actor.

The Werewolf community decided to use my husband’s affliction. Jordan’s show was about a Werewolf who’s a doctor. The show employs only supernatural beings, mostly Werewolves and other Shapeshifters. Jordan was the only one who was forcibly changed, so his co workers were insanely protective of him.

The show did well. Not just with the supernatural communities, but with normal humans. It’s not a blockbuster but it gets respectable ratings and reviews. It got him invited to be a celebrity guest for a bunch of activities during Haunted Happenings in Salem Massachusetts. The trip had been fun, but the full moon was only three days away and Jordan was getting restless and aggravated. He always got sensitive close to the full moon. He was cranky but in public he had to be his normal outgoing self, to do manage that he was spending all his free time in the hotels twenty-four hour gym.

“Everything will be fine,” I said kissing his cheek.

“What if I lose control?” he asked an edge of panic in his voice.

“I’ll bring a collar and leash,” I said with a shrug, “Whatever happens we’ll get through it.”

The evening’s event was an exclusive dance. It cost a fortune to get tickets, if you could even get them. The tickets had been sold out since the beginning of September. It was costume or formal dress, Jordan had decided on formal. I was fine with that, after all what were we going to dress as, Werewolves?

I should say that Jordan loves his fans. Really loves them. Not like he loves me or anything, but he knew that the lifestyle we led had everything to do with his fans. Without them he wouldn’t have a show and he’d probably work in a bookstore or something. That was why we were at a party two days before the full moon, so far from home.

Driving in the greater Boston area was a contact sport and only locals know the rules, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when someone changed lanes into our driver’s side door at fifty miles an hour. He basically bounced off of us. In a matter of a few seconds three things happened: Air bags went off, I got the car stopped, and Jordan was suddenly all over me.

“You’re OK,” he murmured, running his hands over me to make sure I really was alright. His fingers kept getting stuck in my hair.

[Raven]

Two more great tales...things are hotting up now...

[D. S. Scott]

Death of a Vampire

Immortality wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. After roaming the Earth for centuries DonVittel had grown weary of seeing the human race get on with it’s constant development and the cycle of life and death for mortals was all a part of the process. Vittel was essentially still stuck in his 16th century mind, despite attending most major historical events and experiencing the moments and journalling the changes over the years. Given three score years and ten as was traditional, meant that time was of the essence and positively pushed mortals into ambitious plans and tight deadlines that they thrived on. Vittel on the other hand had been taken into immortality in his teens and along with it, the sense of urgency had drained away as easily as his blood under the tooth of the one who had made him.

So every year on this night, he would return to that place, his will depleted and the once proud strength and fire in his eyes now extinguished, to await the return of The One. His lonely existence punctuated by the annual solitary pilgrimage to Boscastle where in his youth he had first met the wise ones who sold the wind to passing sailors. The legends of the North Cornish coast were still told to this present day, but he had been there, he knew the legends were more than fireside tales told by aging aunts or Copperplate Gothic labels on museum cases. The collections of witches, warlocks and assorted cohorts would gather at the harbour on All Hallows and in a candlelit line make their way past the dragon that guarded the bay, out towards the headland for their Eve of the Dead celebration.

It was one of these that he had stumbled upon quite by accident in 1599, as an adventurous 18 year old from a farming family, it was his want to venture out at night and amuse himself along the cliff tops, daring to jump the crags that opened out to the wild all consuming ocean below. But this one night, he had seen in the distance, lights where there was no dwellinghouse and his curiosity had got the better of him. Silently making his way along the rocky coastline he had begun to hear the chanting, then as he came up over the rise in the headland had seen the circle. Lit by a bonfire, a collection of variously dressed and undressed people danced a ring.

“May the circle be open and never broken” the chant repeated and the smoke from the fire joined the dance, swirling around the heads of the crowd. Vittel was transfixed to the scene, never before had he seen anything like it, every bone and blood vessel in his body told him to leave, but for whatever reason he was routed to the spot. The ceremony went on for a couple of hours at least and by this time his fingers were turning numb with the biting cold wind that blew over the water from America. His ears had turned blue and his joints had gone stiff when he felt something grab him from behind. The noise from the group around the fire covered his screams as the dark figure picked him clean off the ground and carried him faster than a fox with a chicken, away from the gathering.

[K.J.]

Enjoing the contributions. Hope you all feel this is up to snuff:

Trick or Treat Him Well

By

Kevin Joseph

If you’ve ever handed out candy on Halloween, you’ve met him. You might not remember, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Undoubtedly, you were surprised by his deep voice bellowing “Trick or Treat” as you opened the door.

You probably looked around the heavy man, searching for children, but there were none to be found. Just an old coot in a red suit holding out a sack. For the next few seconds, you stood awkwardly, wondering what to do. He grinned a sheepish grin and gently shook his bag of candy.

Not wanting to be rude, you reached into your bowl and fished out some goodies. You dumped them in his bag and wished him a Happy Halloween and complimented him on his Santa outfit.

He smiled, nodded and quickly headed off to your neighbors. He didn’t have a moment to spare; he had to visit every house in the world that night.

As you started to close the door you wondered what an old man was doing out begging for candy on a children’s holiday. By the time the door clicked shut, he’d slipped from your mind - another of the old man’s many magiks.

Little does the world know, October 31st is Kris Kringle’s second busiest day of the year.

It started hundreds of years ago, and like most of Santa’s good ideas, it first came from Mrs. Claus...