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“Yes, please. Halloween must be done correctly or else it’s not Halloween.”
Nick’s cheerful, alien voice invited the caller to leave a message. Or maybe the current Nick was the alien version, while that cheerful voice on the recording was the genuine article.
If you’re going to commit murder, I highly recommend it be the premeditated kind. All other types—second degree, felony, manslaughter—are just amateurish in comparison. A rowdy asshole who gets into a barfight and kills another rowdy asshole with a broken bottle: second degree murder, amateurish. A drunk driver who runs over a pedestrian: felony murder, amateurish. A boyfriend who strangles his girlfriend to death in a heat-of-the-moment argument: voluntary manslaughter, amateurish. A nurse who administers a lethal dose of the wrong drug to a patient: involuntary manslaughter, amateurish. In
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This story started off with a bang!
The worst evidence you can leave behind at a crime scene is your fingerprints (actually, the worst evidence would probably be your mobile phone or wallet, but if you’re dumb enough to do something like that, God help you, sir or ma’am, you’re in the wrong business, and all the tips in the world aren’t going help you, I’m sorry to say).
Which is why, folks, I recommend planning your murder for Halloween night.
“You don’t…like Halloween?” Her voice sounded like a small child’s.
“Well, fuck you, lady! And your weird Stepford wives decoration cult!”
Above us, a gaggle of huge, fake plastic skeletons stood like weird trees, blinking in occasional synchronicity at the death and red mess below.
If it had been a normal haunted house, the kind with busted up shutters and a creaky gate, overgrown weeds strangling the entrance and an infamous residential history, then maybe, maybe we would have believed Ronnie’s story from the get-go. But it wasn’t.
I stuck my hand in, but it was a bowl of spiders, all staring at me with their eight bulging eyes.
My worst nightmare!
I’m just going to say for the record that if it’s an evil clown out there, I’ll shit my pants in three different languages.
Who were you earlier? Who were you yesterday, last month, last year, a decade ago? Do you even know? Are you proud enough to claim any of those versions of you?
after running my fingers across the spines of all the books that
make up the library of my life, I am appalled to find myself illiterate.
