Meg: A Halloween Tail
SAMPLE
(For the full story, visit Horrormasters.com. The link is on the main page)
‘Much thanks to the master of Scottish poetry himself for inspiring this story, the late and great Rabbie Burns.’
The flames grew smaller, dancing and swirling in the clear, frosty night air. Abound were the sounds of drums and string instruments that played merry melodies designed to ward off the evil that was abroad this night, stalking and mischief making. When the torchlight became tiny, fairylike flames on the hill above the brig in the distance, the shadows shifted in the graveyard of the auld Kirk, emerging from behind tombstones and crooked crosses that were testament to over four hundred years of history. Each face was a mask of evil intent, grotesque goblins and witches in black capes and shimmering gowns; monsters from the wildest imagination of which Poe would have been envious.
It was party time.
Electric lights went on and a great whoosh echoed around the ancient churchyard as someone lit the bonfire, burning out the old year and ringing in the new. All around bottle tops were popped and plastic cups shared around those who were too sophisticated to drink from the neck. The faint smell of hashish lingered like the remnants of ghosts forgotten.
“What if they see the flames?” Madonna asked the bride of Frankenstein. Of course, she wasn’t really Madonna, but the conical bra and tight ponytail was successful as one of her incarnations.
The bride eyed her friend up and down and gave a long sigh. “They won’t. They’ll be up there for two hours at least; eating, drinking, and doing exactly the same as we’re doing here. Anyway, Amy, I thought we were all meant be something scary tonight.”
Amy feigned mock surprise and put her hands comically on her tiny hips, flashing her legs which were clad in net stockings. “You don’t call this scary?” she asked, basking in the warmth of the fire even though she was minimally dressed. “What if I sing one of her songs? That’d be enough to frighten away the devil himself.”
They both laughed aloud and took a sip from the cold alcopops as their respective partners joined them by the bonfire. It was warm there, and the October frost had melted in a circle around their feet. But Tracy, warm enough in her flowing gown from a costume shop in Ayr, stamped her feet nonetheless, keeping her distance slightly from her boyfriend in the hockey mask.
The subdued squeal of guitars accompanied by a throaty singer was emanating from a battery operated CD player. The singer claimed to be a personal Jesus, and several of the youngsters at the party were already inebriated enough to be dancing drunkenly.
Amy threw her arms around Alasdair the vampire and kissed him playfully on the cheek.
“What a bonnie lassie Kirkton Jean is the nicht,” he said, slurring his speech from a bout of drinking at Gordon’s house. “Have ye a drouth, bonnie lassie?”
“I could paint you in that costume,” Amy said. “You look sexy.” She pushed herself firmly up against him. “And I’m not Kirkton Jean, you dumb wit. That’s blasphemy in this place. Wasn’t she a whore?”
“Same thing,” he laughed, hugging her tight.
They swayed around and around, making the motions of a dance but keeping in time with none of the rhythms of the music. She felt herself warm up at his touch and the close contact of his body, and she giggled as he wrapped his silken cape around her and nuzzled her neck.
“I don’t think Tracy’s having such a good time,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of her best friend and Gordon who stood with their backs to each other, he chatting with a friend and her with arms folded and defensive.
“She’ll get over it,” Alasdair replied, sweeping her away from the warm light of the fire and into a darkened corner where damp moss was their only companion. They kissed and caressed, her stockings doing their job as Alasdair found it difficult to keep his hands from her legs.
“Hmm,” she whimpered. “The Devil has business on his hands tonight.”
“You bet I do, young lassie.” His hands crept up the tight lacings of her corset and found the firm, underdeveloped fruits of his search. He groped them roughly, caught up in the heady effects of beer and smoke.
“Calm down, Alasdair,” she said, pushing him away with a feeble force that belied her words. “Not here.”
She was about to pull him back towards the bonfire, where others had joined hands and were skipping round and round the heightening flames and some spat strong spirits into it’s heart, when a loud boom echoed around the churchyard and a flash lit up the night sky.
Everyone stopped, and even the night air seemed to be listening intently to some shift in the fabric of its being. As the wind picked up and sent frozen leaves cascading through the ruins, revellers held their capes and hats tightly to stop them from flying away.
“What the hell is that?” a shrill voice cried from within the crowd, and suddenly there was bustling and shrieking as one and all scampered away from the scene before them. They tried to reach the walls, where age and decay had brought down some of the stones making it easy to jump over, but as they fled into the shadows where the lights couldn’t reach, they bounced back again screeching.
There were shadows within those shadows, and the forms linked hands and waited, heads bowed so that none of their features could be seen.
As though on cue, all eyes fell upon the creature that had terrified them so, and a hush descended as though commanded from God himself.
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