Home > Flash Fiction, Horror > That Halloween Time of Year

That Halloween Time of Year

Ah, October is here and for my family it should be the best time of the year.

It isn’t. It should be, but it isn’t.

With people sick and feeling down. Animals that are sick and therefore must be taken care of, things are not as festive as they have been in many previous years.

Here is hoping that is picks up in the middle and ends with a bang. It is the Halloween season after all.

I am working on submissions to multiple anthologies at the moment as well as working on my novel in progress. I broke 40K last week and hope to keep the words flowing.

Of course, if I would just stop writing other things that would be easier. How in the world do other authors write on story of novel length without stopping to write half a dozen others along the way? I just don’t get it.

I have also recently heard a number of stories that were from the older British era of fiction. Think of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for the voice and style. I love the way it sounds, so I am going to play with that a bit today. I hope you like it.

Oh well, time to get writing.

L. E. White

A Review of the Events Leading Up to Last Night

There was something awful about waking up without being able to properly remember the events of the recent past. One would imagine that I had been drinking or perhaps I had taken some narcotic substance with which I had been incapacitated, but I assure you that this is not the case.

Yet, I must confess that I was indeed unsure as to the events of the past few hours. I could of course, clearly remember the events of the past few days. They were far clearer than was usual due to the effort with which I had been expending. I had been far more mentally active these past few days than was my want but desperate times do indeed call for desperate measures.

Over the last few days, I had been pouring over a tome of particularly odd vintage that had come into my possession due to the purchase of a lot from an estate sale. The sealed foot locker had been found in excellent condition and after I had drilled the locks I discovered a menagerie of odd items that all seemed to possess an arcane quality. Had my rational not exerted itself I might well have believed that I had purchased the working tools of a magician.

The old books were in a variety of languages, and not being a scholar of such things I could not make out even the titles. Jars of powder and dried plants along with a mortar and pestle further convinced me of the nature of the contents. It was the journal, written in a neat block print that I began to peruse.

My original intent upon opening the trunk was to sell the books and dispose of the powders, but after reading through the journal I found myself wanting to explore the contents of my new collection in greater detail.

In reading about the practices of those witches and wizards who now came into the public view, I learned that it is common practice to keep a journal of your activities and that was exactly what I had been reading. The writer signed his documents as Frater Mors. I consulted with a college of mine who I knew to have studied Latin in his school days translated this for me as “Brother Death”.

Reading his journal was an amazing flight of fancy. The things he claimed to have done bordered so far into the ridiculous that I dare not tell you of them, but must instead insist that you read them yourself. You will have found the journal on my night stand.

I was so taken by the good brother’s stories of using a talking board that I procured one and tried it myself. While I assumed that there would be no result, I also inquired with the gypsy owner of the establishment where I procured the item as to its proper use. I was informed that they were not to be used alone because only a group provided enough of the psychic power needed to allow a spirit to communicate through the board.

The good brother had not done this, so when I arrived home I endeavored to use the board in the same fashion that he had, while alone. Of course, nothing happened, so I put the board away and wrote it off. But that night, I was overcome with the idea of gathering a group together to attempt to use the board.

Last night, I succeeded in that endeavor. I invited a number of friends over from the pub and we talked and joked until well into the evening. I mentioned the board, and my interest in working with it. One young lady, a lovely girl by the name of Renee insisted that it was a foul pursuit and refused to have any part of it. When the others agreed to give it a go, Renee left our assemblage. That should have happened around Ten O’clock in the evening.

After we had the board out, the remainder of the guests and I, a group of six people, attempted to use the board.

Unfortunately, that is where my memory of the evening ends. The next thing I remember was you and your men removing me from my apartment.

No Officer, I cannot explain the blood in my home or on my clothing. I have no idea where my shoes are if not under the edge of my bed. How bloody footprints were found on the ceilings is a mystery as is the condition of any of my guests.

I do suppose that it wouldn’t be too much trouble or inconvenience to ask that I be able to wash myself in a basin. I am quite sticky from all of this and would greatly appreciate the opportunity. Especially considering the assumption that I will be in your company until this whole misunderstanding is cleared up.

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Categories: Flash Fiction, Horror
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