Mr. McFinley was a good man.
Before the rumors, and accusing whispers. Before the hushed tones, and pointed fingers.
Mr. and Mrs. McFinley loved Halloween.
She would bake cookies, in the shapes of skulls and bats. Mixing batch, after batch of delicious morsels.
He would sew costumes, becoming ghastly ghouls. Even donning the guise of a bear-skin werewolf.
Together, they would decorate the manor with faux webs, and handmade skeletons dangling from twine.
The children would flock to their porch, drawn by the aroma of chocolate, and the glow of pumpkins.
Then, she died. “An aneurysm,” said the doctor, as if the method mattered.
Mr. McFinley withdrew from the world, robbed of the only joy he knew.
Halloween came: the eager knocks went unanswered, and the children left empty handed.
Pumpkins rotted, uncarved. Bags of flour sat, unused. Cobwebs stretched over the sewing machine.
The once magnificent house lay dark, covered in growing grime.
That’s when the stories started.
“I heard he killed her for insurance money,” said a gossiping soccer mom.
“He found out she was cheating, slit her throat,” claimed the grocery store clerk.
“No, he ate her!” said a big brother to a little sister, “Hides her bones in the attic!”
With that, his reputation was set. He wasn’t a man drained of zest, he was a deranged killer-- obsessed.
But, one year he had enough. The time for mourning had ended, no more self-pity and aimless lazing.
He would rejoin the world, in the best way he knew, on the best day he knew: October 31st.
He carved playful, toothy grins on pumpkins and squash. Breathing life with dancing flames.
He baked, as best he could, his wife’s famous cookies. Using extra chocolate to cover his fumblings.
He dusted off the sewing machine, using glittering gold thread, a tacky purple suit, and a crimson curtain,
Transforming into a fabulously sinister vampire, complete with real animal fangs, glued to false teeth.
And so, he was ready. Ready to be re-born in the joy of that most precious holiday.
So Halloween came-- and went. The door stood silent throughout the night. Cookies sat stale, uneaten.
Mr. McFinley was baffled, re-checking the calendar to ensure he had the correct date.
He emerged onto the porch, and stood in stunned silence at the scene before him.
His time away from the world had taken its toll on the town.
Parents steered their children away from the moss caked path, driven away by rumor and legend.
Teens dared each other to go up, only to settle for chucking eggs at the walls in delinquent rebellion.
Drunk college students smashed the glowing grins with orange-stained, seed-strewn ball bats.
The yard was littered with beer cans and egg shells. Putrid vomit leaked out of the last, unlit lantern.
Mr. McFinley was already a broken man, a psyche cracked with loss, barely held together.
Now, he was a man mangled by a scornful reception, his dashed hopes laid scattered in the yard.
Mr. McFinley sat in his armchair, head in his hands. Robbed of his last shred of potential happiness.
Then he let out a gravelly, bitter laugh at an untold joke. He stood up, knowing what he had to do.
He walked grimly to the shed behind the house. Opening the door to the scent of rust and dried blood.
In his youth, Mr. McFinley was a hunter. A master trapper, armed with teeth and chains: ready to maim.
The walls of the manor were lined with the trophies of his passion. Chests full of pelts, teeth, and bone.
He had left that line of work behind, in order to shield his wife from his history of bloodshed.
But she was gone, so he had nothing to hide, and nothing to lose.
He pulled out the rusted traps: bone-breaking, flesh-locking, and metal-toothed.
They wanted more stories to tell? They wanted a man deranged? They wanted a truly haunted house?
He would become the legend they made, bring truth to their camp-fire stories.
He would replace jack-o’-lantern smiles, with hidden metal-fanged smirks.
He would exchange freshly baked cookies, for freshly greased chains.
He would relight his passion for life through skinning, gutting, and cutting.
He would treat them like the simple game they were, fit only to be trophies.
Mr. McFinley smiled, filled with renewed purpose.
They would have the Halloween they craved, and he had a whole year to prepare it.
Mr. McFinley was a good man... Once.
No comments:
Post a Comment