Cemetery Lane: Halloween Flash Fiction

 

“Trick or treat, trick or treat.” Hidden from view behind shrouds and masks they walked the street, collecting candy and leaving behind something more than they took.

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This is a bit of fun, and a chance encounter from a fine blogger…

Halloween Writing Contest hosted by Steph.

The paragraphs in italics represent the prompt and under 1000 words, the target. I am not good at flash fiction. Know this before starting. I find there is, for me, insufficient space to really get my mental images out. Nevertheless it’s Halloween so what the heck!

 

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It was one of those nights, on Cemetery Lane, that made you feel electric with energy and somber with thought, all at the same time. The air was crisp. Dead leaves scattered as they ran underfoot and glided overhead, filling the night with noise. The moon was full and luminous, casting an eerie light on the scene below. Halloween was in full swing, the streets were abuzz with hooded figures and lively children enjoying their annual candy hunt.

Hidden from the action, at the end of the long lane of perfectly decorated houses, stood the towering and dark-windowed number 13 Cemetery Lane. Behind it, the forest stood, lightless and desolate, a depressing shadow on a lively scene. It was in this very house at this very moment that…

…an undertaker prepared the final touches before illuminating the exterior into the epitome of All Hallows’ Eve. Once a year the facade radiated a macabre display that, despite the tragedy about to unfold, enthralled children far and wide to walk through the mists covering the dead grounds and knock upon the door.
For one night only his disciples were let loose to mingle and wander the lane. Ghosts disguised as ghosts they passed unnoticed.

“Trick or treat, trick or treat.” Hidden from view behind shrouds and masks they walked the street, collecting candy and leaving behind something more than they took.

The man, shaped as the undertaker, always knew when the chosen were picked. He smiled his smile and waited near the door. Very soon to his house would come some more. Parentless orphans who knew not yet that they were. For what the disciples left behind was an aura so bleak that a streets worth of families forget who they were.

On and on grew the stream, as the children moved house to house, until at the deepest reach of the lane, they arrived at the gate. A pendulous iron thing with hinges that screeched and a crooked sign befitting the night.

Leave your Soul’s at the Door.

An epitaph ignored for this, know the children, is the night when Halloween delights. So up the mist covered path they tread, amazed at the spectacle of spooks, ghouls and all manner of creeps.

“Come in,” said the man, “there are treats here galore.”

And in this he lied not; there were chocolate frogs, candied spiders, bloodied apples, toasted bats on a stick and all manner of foul fare.

***

Outside the mist spread until the witching hour passed by. On the chime of church bell the house fell dark, returned to the shadow awaiting next year. Inside there were screams that slowly dwindled to naught.

Come morning, the street lay empty, the children all gone. The minds of the parents dead and erased. By the end of All Saints Day, Cemetery Lane once more lay barren and bare. Shutters clacking against old cracked windows, or hanging from rusted screws. Gardens overgrown with nature reclaiming what was, for its own. Houses in ruin, mildewed and rotting, the home of carrion, small beasts and the worm.

Outside, on each porch though, sat carved pumpkins. Candles now burned out and tops all caved in. Grinning crooked stares at the abandoned ghost town. This they did every year. For one night only the ghosts came out to play. Ghosts dressing up as ghosts as the man from the house replayed the dead scene.

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Inside number thirteen the undertaker peered through a window and smiled. “Maybe next year I’ll come visit your street…if number thirteen comes up for sale.”

A joke you may think, but ask yourself this. On Halloween night did you send out any tricksters?

If the answer is no, then can you be certain his disciples have not been to your house…while erasing your mind and harvesting their souls. That, in fact, you are inside his growing property portfolio and awaken once a year with infilled memories of a life that is not.

Ushering your children out into the street, smiling as something knocks on your door and then…ushering your children out into the street, smiling as something knocks on your door and then…

 

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Afterthought; 

Bit creepy thinking your waking world is not real and that reality is a concept installed by an external force to lock you inside a horror story. Groundhog Day, except you relive each day entirely unaware. This, as the undertaker would say, keeps the fear very fresh indeed.

 

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And now now the hard sell, if you like this story then please cast your vote for me by emailing Steph at

scaleitsimpleblog@gmail.com

Use “Halloween Writing Contest” in the subject line.

Just state the story name and my blog or cut and paste the following into the email.

Cemetery Lane; Halloween Flash Fiction by Gary at fictionisfood.

Your time is very much appreciated.

The other entries can be found here

 

 

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© G Jefferies and Fictionisfood, 2016. All rights reserved.