“Hell, Established 1958”

He felt certain that something bad had happened or was already happening. His eyebrows furrowed. He tried to put the feeling in his gut into words, but it danced far out of reach before he could coax it into something tangible.

Horror just might be the love of my life. I started my career writing, submitting, and publishing it. I used to make my horror anthology The Last Minute Before Midnight available around Halloween every year. This spooky season, I hope you enjoy these tales for free, right here on my website.

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Bruce Dean lost his job on the evening of the annual Halloween party. He could just hear his father: “You’re good for nothing, son. You should have gone to college.” He took the long way home from the old stamp mill and stopped at the town package store. Since he didn’t have to work in the morning, a few drinks at the party wouldn’t hurt. As he paid for the bottle of whiskey, his father’s voice continued: “How are you going to provide for your family, when the time comes? You need an education.”

“Why so glum, son?” Pat, the owner of Cerrito Package, asked as he bagged the whiskey and slid it across the counter. “Say, you’re off pretty early.”

“I’m just on my lunch, sir,” Bruce mumbled. “I’m picking this up for the Weatherby party.” He turned to leave the store.

“Lots of airplanes and ‘copters flying overhead today,” Pat remarked as the buzz of a plane flying overhead drowned out the sound from the television set in the corner. “I heard they’re doing some kind of testing out there.”

Bruce shrugged. “I should get going.” He tipped his cap and left the store, the bells attached to the top of the door jingling behind him.

The sky above him hovered bright and blue, completely absent of clouds—a perfect fall day. When his supervisor had called him into the office, Bruce already knew why. The mill owner had hired too many people during the economic boom after the war, and rumors about layoffs had been circling the mill for months. Most of Cerrito Del Fe’s people worked at the mill or in the mines. Harold, Bruce’s father, forbade him to work in the mines.

“Your best bet,” his father had told him years and years earlier, “is to work in the mill part-time during the summer and go to school full-time. Get out of this dusty old town.”

Bruce climbed into his 1940 Studebaker Champion. Turning the key in the ignition, he pulled the driver’s side door closed behind him. The Studebaker sputtered to life. Even with all of the money he had saved so far, he would never be able to fix the old car or buy one that wasn’t almost twenty years old.

As he got closer to home, he heard another plane flying low overhead, but barely gave it more than a second’s thought. Pat had been right about the number of aircraft flying over Cerrito, but it hardly mattered to Bruce—unless the people flying them wanted to give him a job, he surmised. He pulled into the driveway of his parents’ small home and turned the coughing Studebaker off.

The neighborhood sat, quiet as a cemetery after a funeral. His father wouldn’t be home from the men’s emporium for at least another hour. Harold couldn’t work more than five hours at a time since the mining accident. Bruce’s mother Nancy worked full-time as a secretary, but came home during her lunch hour. He took a deep breath, got out of the Studebaker, and went inside.

“Brucie,” Nancy said, drying a plate with a ragged dish towel. “What are you doing home?” She put the plate down, eyes searching his face.

He sat down and poured himself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table. Even though his mother sat behind a desk and typed memos all day, her ankles were swollen to twice their size. Hot guilt washed over his face. He put the cup of coffee down, hands shaking. “I might as well just tell you,” he said, sighing. “Stan laid me off, Ma. He gave me a good severance, but he laid me off all the same.”

“Oh, Brucie,” his mother said. She rubbed his back and shoulders the way she had done when he was little and had the flu. “Well,” she said, sitting down in the chair next to him, “look at it this way. You can go to school now. I’m sure you can still use that scholarship—”

“I don’t want to go to school, Ma,” Bruce said. “How many times are we going to have this conversation?”

His mother shook her head at him. “Brucie, your father had nothing when he lost his job—”

“I have nothing now, Ma!” Bruce removed his cap and put it back on, adjusting it. “I just can’t see myself sitting behind a desk in some stuffy office every day for the rest of my life. It’s not for me.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his jackaree.

“Oh, Bruce,” Nancy said, wringing her hands. “What are you going to do? Your father’s not going to stand for you sitting around the house.”

“I’ve got some money. I wanted to wait and save up more, but I think I’ll just go tomorrow,” he said.

His mother pressed her lips together and sucked them in a little the way that she did every time she had an opinion but didn’t want to express it. “You know what your father is going to say about that,” she said. She stood. “I have to get back to the office. Your father will be home soon. I think it would be best if you tell him you quit your job so that you can start school in the spring.” She kissed his forehead, stooping a little.

Bruce shook his head. “Are you saying that you want me to lie to him?”

“He only wants what’s best for you, you know,” she said as she gathered her things. She walked out the front door without a single glance back at him.


The phone rang, cutting off Harold mid-sentence. Bruce’s shoulders sagged in relief. He couldn’t stand one more minute of his father lecturing him. He was an adult. He should be able to do whatever he wanted, without having to get his father’s approval.

“Brucie, it’s for you,” his mother said, covering the mouthpiece.

“Who is that?” Harold asked.

Bruce stood from the kitchen table and took the phone from his mother. “Hello?” he said.

“Brucie!” Calvin sang from the other end. “Are you still picking me up for the party, or should I start walking?”

“Aw, Calvin, I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “I completely forgot. I’m on my way right now.” He handed the phone back to his mother and she gently laid it back in its cradle. Bruce grabbed his keys and jackaree.

“Where are you going, boy?” Harold asked. “I’m not done with you.”

Bruce sighed. “I already know what you’re going to say. I’ve heard it a thousand times. Tonight, I’m going to this party, and tomorrow morning, I’m heading to Las Vegas.” He looked his father in the eyes as he spoke, even though he wasn’t sure that he meant it. A moment later, he walked out the front door and started up the Studebaker.


“Did you make it to Pat’s?” Calvin asked as he slid into the Studebaker. Bruce held up the bottle of whiskey and his best friend whooped. Bruce tried to smile, but the corners of his mouth remained stiff. “What’s eating you?” Calvin asked.

Darkness slowly settled over Cerrito like ashes floating in a fireplace. Bruce shivered, despite the double lining that his mother had sewn into the jackaree. He shook his head. “I’m just tired, I guess,” he told his friend.

“I know what will cheer you up,” Calvin said. “Margaret Cox asked me if you were going tonight, and I told her that you would pick her up.”

“Why did you do that?” Bruce asked. His voice sounded flat to his own ears. Guilt writhed through him. If he couldn’t even manage to play the role of embarrassed friend, he wouldn’t be able to fake enjoying the party.

“You don’t like her anymore?” Calvin asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

The Studebaker hit a bump in the row. The tops of their heads slammed into the roof. “Ow,” they said in unison. Grinning at Calvin in the dim light from the street, Bruce felt a little like his younger self. He wondered when he had suddenly gained so many responsibilities and worries. “It’s not that I don’t like her,” he said, trying to explain his bad mood. “I just don’t feel like very good company tonight.”

Calvin clapped him on the shoulder. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t have a cure for you?” He removed the bottle of whiskey from its paper bag and twisted off the cap. Then he passed it to Bruce. “Have a shot. It’s on the house.”

“On the house,” Bruce said. He snorted. “All right, then.” He took the bottle and slugged back a couple of shots. Then he passed it back to Calvin.

“Give it a minute,” Calvin said. He took a shot of his own.

Bruce nodded. He stopped the Studebaker and made a U-turn. Then he headed to Margaret’s.


Bruce stared up the long driveway at the front door. The Studebaker idled in front of the house. Sweat dampened his palms.

“All right, now go ring the bell,” Calvin said, nudging him.

“Me?” Bruce shook his head. The world around him felt warm. Even the incessant droning of helicopters flying back and forth over the town felt soothing, lulling him into relaxation. “You invited her,” he told Calvin. “You go ring the bell.”

“I’m not the one who’s going to sleep with her. Besides, I’ve got my eye on Judy.”

“Judy Weatherby?” Bruce laughed. “She could buy your house right out from underneath you.”

Calvin shrugged. “Are you going to ring Margaret’s bell, or are you going to keep her waiting?”

“You’re right,” Bruce said, opening his door. “I can’t keep her waiting.” He climbed out of the Studebaker, swaying slightly as his feet touched the ground. A smile danced on his lips. More heat thrummed through him. He strode up the driveway to the front door. His footsteps felt light on the concrete. Perhaps, he mused as he climbed the porch steps, he had overdone the shots. As he neared the door, music floated to him on the air through an open window.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce pressed the doorbell button. His fingertips felt slick against it. He swallowed hard. He wondered if he should have waited to start drinking.

The door opened and Margaret’s father stared down at Bruce with raised eyebrows. “Can I help you, son?”

Bruce opened his mouth, but no words came out. Mr. Cox crossed his arms. Bruce’s heart thudded in his chest. He thought about telling Margaret’s father that he had the wrong address. He could just run back to the Studebaker and take off. The engine was still idling.

“Daddy,” Margaret said, peeking from behind Mr. Cox. She winked at Bruce. “He’s my date.”

“Let the boy speak for himself, Margaret. Now,” Mr. Cox said, his eyes boring into Bruce. “Can I help you?”

Bruce cleared his throat. “I’m here to take Margaret to the costume party,” he stammered. Mr. Cox glared down at him. “Sir,” he added. He swallowed hard.
Mr. Cox’s eyes felt like hot fire pokers drilling into him. “You’ll have her back before curfew.”

Margaret put a hand on her father’s arm. “Daddy, I’m almost twenty.”

Mr. Cox never took his gaze off of Bruce. “You’ll have her back before curfew,” he repeated.

“Yes, sir,” Bruce said, trying to speak so that Mr. Cox couldn’t smell his breath. He wished he had never started drinking. Sweat trickled down his back.

“All right, then,” Mr. Cox said. Bruce stood straighter, his jaw dropping open slightly. “Have a good time, kids.” He moved out of the way.

Margaret kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Daddy,” she called over her shoulder to her father.

Still gaping, Bruce felt Margaret’s small, warm hand slip into his. She pulled him away from the house and led him toward the Studebaker.

“Let’s go before he changes his mind,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, sir!” Bruce called. Calvin hopped out of the front seat, diving into the back. He rested his elbows on the front seats. Bruce held the passenger side door open for Margaret.

“Thank you,” she said. She glanced back at the house. Mr. Cox still stood in the doorway. Bruce whistled and got in on the driver’s side. “Hurry,” Margaret said. She giggled.

Bruce pulled away from the curb.

“Do you mind if I turn the radio on?” she asked, reaching for the dial.

Bruce shook his head. She switched it on. A Buddy Holly song filled the Studebaker, temporarily breaking the Halloween music marathon. Bruce loosened his grip on the steering wheel and actually looked at Margaret. She wore her blonde hair in short, loose curls and Victory rolls. Red lipstick painted her luscious, plump lips. She had drawn a fake mole on her cheek.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

Bruce nodded. Heat flushed the back of his neck. He imagined himself kissing her, his hands on her thighs underneath her short dress. “Marilyn Monroe, right?” he stammered. He wished he had put together his own costume.

Margaret nodded. She moved closer to him. “I’d like to say that I’m really glad you invited me,” she said. “I’ve been so busy with exams and I was hoping you would ask me—”

“Turn the radio up,” Calvin interrupted.

Bruce glared at him using the rearview mirror. Static crackled over the announcer’s voice. He wondered when the music had stopped. He turned the volume up.

“Reports… nuclear testing… It’s unclear… Reports of helicopters… military sighted outside of town… repeat, not an attack but… fallout test…” The static rose and completely drowned out the announcer. Then the broadcast went dead.

Heart thudding in his chest, Bruce pulled the Studebaker over onto the shoulder of the road. Several other cars had pulled to the side. Some people stood next to their vehicles, gazing up at the sky, their faces perplexed. Planes buzzed overhead.

Bruce climbed out of the Studebaker and looked up. “Those look even closer than the ones this afternoon,” he said. His voice caught in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried to moisten his dry mouth.

“Awfully close,” Calvin agreed, climbing out behind him. He tapped his fingers on the roof of the Studebaker. “What do you think is going on? Why did the program cut out?”

“Maybe it’s some sort of Halloween prank,” Margaret said from the other side of the Studebaker.

Bruce laughed, but it sounded strained to his own ears. His stomach tightened. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He shivered. He felt certain that something bad had happened or was already happening. His eyebrows furrowed. He tried to put the feeling in his gut into words, but it danced far out of reach before he could coax it into something tangible. His shoulders relaxed slightly. Maybe Margaret was right. “Gee, I never thought of that,” he said to Margaret.

Calvin shook his head. “Look at all of us. I can’t believe we fell for—”

A roaring sound drowned out their laughter. Seconds later, a blast of bright white heat roiled through Cerrito. Houses along the streets exploded. Trees blew over. The blast rocked everything to the north, blowing it hard. Then, as if undecided, everything blew in the opposite direction.

The wind disappeared as abruptly as it came.

Only skeletons of houses remained. Cars sat like silent tombstones. Dust fell to the ground like flakes of snow. The doors to the Studebaker stood open, its windows blown out. Burnt husks lay beside the car, their features unintelligible. The scent of burning flesh filled the air.

A mushroom shaped cloud hung over the town. Thirty minutes later, soldiers dressed in black with gas masks strapped to their faces rushed into what remained of the town.


Bruce woke up to the clanging of his alarm, his body drenched in sweat. He felt as if he had just dreamed something terrible, but already the details were far out of reach. He sat up and turned the alarm off. Then he headed into the bathroom to shower for work. Things at the mill were tense, and the threat of being laid off hung over his head constantly. As the hot water sluiced over his head and down his body, though, he began to relax.

It was, after all, Halloween, and he and his best friend Calvin had a party to go to, no matter what happened.

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash