The Toothbrush House

by Michael Seese

A little something to prepare you for trick-or-treating. This is a story I wrote as part of "Crazy October" and submitted to a (for now) unnamed anthology I found on HorrorTree.

“I dare you. I double dare you.”

“Fine. I’ll do it,” I said coolly, despite the fact that my insides were tumbling like tennis shoes in a clothes dryer.

It was Halloween night, the night every kid dreams of, second only to Christmas. And yet here I was, filled with more dread than even the thought of a lump of coal in my stocking—or worse, a sweater under the tree—could instill.

I, along with my friends, stood before “the haunted house.” Every town has one, as I have learned over the past…nine years and eight moves.

“What are you waiting for?”

Dark, unkempt, and blanketed by a seemingly permanent, localized storm cloud. Of course, it’s never haunted. Just owned by some nice old lady who just can’t keep up with the maintenance since her husband passed.

“Well, are you going to do it?”

“Sure,” I said, anything but sure.

“Watch out for crazy Mrs. Denton. She’s fast!” “Enjoy your toothbrush.”

Something else every town has. The “toothbrush house.” The house with an owner who feels it’s his civic duty to counter the damage inflicted by the rest of the neighborhood’s largess. As if a new toothbrush will override the effects of 20 pounds of sugar consumed in one night. It’s like applying a Band-aid to a severed limb.

I gulped. I wished I hadn’t thought up that analogy, here and now.

After focusing all my energies on stilling the shakes, I placed a hand on the iron gate. It swung open, even though I would have sworn I didn’t actually push it.

I stepped in.

The walkway elongated with an audible whoosh, pushing the dark porch back at least a mile. I began the longest walk of my life. Too soon, I found myself on the porch.

I knocked.

Hearing nothing, I prepared to turn and retreat. Slow and casual. Otherwise, I couldn’t save face. The footsteps within short-circuited my perfect plan of escape. Laborious and slow at first, the pace and volume swiftly increased exponentially.

The door swung open.

She didn’t look like a psycho. But she didn’t look like a regular grandma either. She started at me. My move.

“Trick or treat.”

“Enjoy your toothbrush,” she said, grinning a grin that seemed to feature too many teeth, as she dropped something heavy into my sack.

“Thanks,” I managed. Behind me, I heard my friends’ screams recede into the distance.

What’s the big deal? I wondered.

I reached into the bag, and fished out my prize, a badge of honor which I planned to show off at school tomorrow.

It was a bone. A human bone. (A doctor might have specified, “It’s an ulna.”) Glued to it were teeth of various shapes and sizes. Some still bore the blood of their previous owners.

Not sure of what to say, I looked up at Mrs. Denton. I caught a glimpse of the pliers just before they clamped onto one of my molars and pulled.

What are you hoping to find in your trick-or-treat basket this year?

Flash... The Surgeon

by Michael Seese

To whet your appetite for Halloween, here is a spook tale courtesy of Indies Unlimited. The photo prompt (it's a little hard to see) is a jack-'o-lantern. 

 




















And here is "The Surgeon."

“Shhhh!” I whispered. “Lie still, or he'll hear you.”

No need to say who he was. He was “The Surgeon.” The bogeyman that we as children talked about, and our parents tried to play down, for fear we would find out the truth.

That he is real.

The legends varied, though they contained common threads. Around this time every year, The Surgeon would come, searching for victims to whisk away to his operating theater, where he would…

Footsteps crunched through the leaves. I held my breath, terrified and blind beneath the moonless sky.

Closer...

Closer...

Closer!

“A-ha!” cackled the maniacal voice. “I've found you.”

I didn't feel the blade. But I heard it slice the air.

“Help! Help me!” I screamed as he dragged me away. No one moved.

I must have passed out. When I awoke, bright lights warmed me. I felt good. For a moment. Then...

THUNK!

The knife cut into the top of my head. There was no pain. Just an uncomfortable tug as he began sawing. Up and down, around and around.

Then his hand dove in and began yanking out my insides.

SPLAT!

They landed in a bucket below him.

“Yum! Tasty,” he said.

What kind of sick animal is he? I wondered.

The knife then dug into my face. My eyes. My mouth.

I now had them. It ended when he stuck a lighted candle inside me.

“Kids!” he called out. “All done. Let’s get it on the porch, and then roast some seeds.”

What scares you on Halloween?

And remember, vote HERE tomorrow (Wednesday) between 5:00 - 8:00 p.m. EST.

Happy Halloween!

By Michael Seese

A little something to get you in the mood for trick-or-treating...

As part of my effort to submit something, somewhere each day in October, I came across an open call from Firbolg Publishing called "The Rogues Gallery." As they explain it

A newspaper vendor in the nineteenth century could always ensure sales with the gruesome cry “Murder! ‘Orrible Murder!” Published around 1870, the Victorian tabloid The Illustrated Police News took this business angle to heart. It had the largest circulation of any periodical of that time and fed the public on a weekly diet of real-life horrors calculated to chill the strongest stomach and boost the next issue’s sales.

So our charge was to write 500 - 1,000 words, using one of the photos they provided. You can see the full slate by clicking on the "Rogues Gallery" link above. 

Here is the photo I chose.

And here is my story.

"A New Beginning" 

Abigail reached out deliberately, and found her powder puff. She applied a light dusting to her nose and chin, then replaced it just so. Next, the lipstick, which she always kept to the right of the powder tin. Satisfied that her lips bore a satisfactory shade of red, Abigail put down the tube.

She sighed.

After the year she had had—they had—she wanted this, their third anniversary, to be special.

And unmarred, as was last year’s.

“Nathan?” she called. “Nathan, could you please come here for a moment?”

She strained to pick his footsteps out from the mélange of creaks and groans typical of an older home. Hearing none, she felt a slight, rising sense of panic. Deep within, she knew nothing was wrong. She knew he would come. He always did. But perhaps this time...

“No!” she said firmly. “He would not leave me. Not today.”

Slightly more than one year ago she had remarked—completely innocently—how intriguing she found a new appliance that she had seen on display at Harrods. The gas-fired stove, the placards proclaimed, would “revolutionize the culinary arts.” Abigail did, indeed, love to cook. But she so hated their coal oven, as its messy soot would speckle her frock, frequently white, as white was her preferred color.

Returning from an afternoon stroll the day of their second anniversary, Nathan said playfully, “I have a surprise for you.”

“What is it?” gushed Abigail, who had always loved surprises.

“Come with me,” he said, covering her eyes with his beefy hands.

She could discern that he had led her into the kitchen. Before she had an opportunity to guess, her removed his hands. There, before her, stood a shiny new stove.

“Oh, Nathan!” she said as she threw her arms around his neck, and showered him with kisses.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

She bit her lip and nodded.

“You are going to enjoy a special meal tonight, Mr. Graves,” she vowed.

Unfortunately, the dinner did not go as planned.

Checking on the roast, she found it half cooked, and the oven considerably cooler than she would have expected. She called Nathan, and asked if he could take a look at it.

“Stand back,” he cautioned as he leaned into the oven with a lighted match.

A blue ball of fire erupted from within. The force threw her back. She landed supine several feet removed from her previous position. With great effort, Abigail managed to raise her head. The last thing she remembered seeing was Nathan’s waistcoat afire. The last thing she heard were his screams. Then, a second wall of flame spat out, and headed toward her...

“Damned oven. I never should have asked for,” she said, quietly, as she placed on her right wrist her favorite bracelet, Nathan’s gift of two years ago.

The door creaked open. A skeleton—bones blanched, eye sockets hollow—stood menacingly in the half light.

Abigail stared into the mirror, but did not react to the walking corpse.

It drew nearer.

Nearer.

It stopped just within arm’s reach.

“I apologize for my tardiness, dearest. I was down in the library, and did not hear you at first.”

“Would you help me with my corset?”

“Of course, dearest. And happy anniversary.”

She began to cry. He gently shushed her.

“Now, now. There’s no need. You’re not still blaming yourself for what happened, are you?”

“No,” she lied.

But how could she not? How could she not carry guilt, and regret the burden she had imposed upon Nathan? She certainly felt like less of a wife. They’d not shared their marital bed since that night. He claimed—indeed, avowed—that the pain had, for all intents and purposes, completely subsided. Still, while asleep he oftentimes would fidget, he would say, and feared that he would disturb her rest. She said that she believed him. But late at night, many nights, she would hear him wailing, his moan easily traversing the thin wall between their chambers.

In fact, she had not felt him, touched him, since that awful day. When she awoke, she realized 

that someone had carried her to her bed. Her head ached, and her world was black. She assumed that it was midnight. But the ambient air felt warm. She reached up and felt her face. Her eyes were bandaged. Terrified, she sat upright and called out. “Hello! Nathan! Anyone! Is anyone there?”

She heard labored footsteps enter the room.

“I’m here, dearest,” came Nathan’s voice, somehow different.

“What happened, Nathan?”

“What do you remember?”

She had to pause, and work to recall. As the memory came flooding back, she screamed.

“My god, Nathan! The fire! You were on fire.”

“I’m fine. Do not concern yourself with me. It is you, whom I am worried about. Because of your—”

“My eyes?” she asked hesitantly.

“The doctors say that you...may regain your vision.”

One year removed from the accident, she had not.

“Now, now,” Nathan reassured her. “Abigail, dearest, you can be brave. You are brave. I confess that I admire your strength, your perseverance, in this face of this adversity.”

She muttered a subdued thank you.

“Do you remember what I told you a few days ago?” Nathan continued.

She did. He told her, promised her, that their lives would return to the way it had been. That they would enjoy a normal life once again.

No.

That was not quite what he had said. He said they soon would enjoy a new beginning. Yes, “a new beginning.”

“How is that?” Nathan asked, pulling the laces.

“A little tighter, if you can.”

“I’ll try.”

Sensing him, how close he stood, she hazarded a reach back to touch his hand. She fought herself to refrain from recoiling away from its icy hardness.

“Nathan!” she gasped. “You must eat more. You’re nothing but skin and bones.”

He smiled, his grin grotesquely wide, unfettered by lips. “You’re half right.” He gave the strings one final, supernatural tug. “And soon, dearest, you shall be as well.”

Feel free to share your thoughts about "A New Beginning."