by D.L. Snell
(Originally published in Cyber-Pulp's Halloween Anthology 2.0)
"Go on, pussy." Bart's face dripped plastic gore, eyeball dangling and flesh all melted, teeth like rotten gravestones. "I dare you."
"Yeah," Tom piped through a skeletal grin. "Go on, Mikey."
Tom's brother, Sam, giggled.
Mikey glanced up the dark, fractured walkway, his vision tunneled by rubber slits. The house glowed dirty white, ghostly in its shadowed pocket. Pumpkins grinned candlelight along the splintery banister and cast dancing shadows over the lawn. A chill murmured across the oak-leaf grass.
Mikey shivered. "No way."
Bart stepped forward. "Scared, Mikey? Wanna call your mommy?"
The Brothers, Tom and Sam, snickered behind bloody rubber skulls.
Mikey glanced at them, then back at Bart. "Mom said to stay with the crowd." He gestured toward the lights up the street, where the block was adance with ghouls and adults, far away from the shadow land he and his friends had entered. The lamppost across the street shed a little light, but not enough to penetrate the darkness.
"Who cares what the bitch said?"
"Don't call her that."
"What're you gonna do about it?"
Bart burned angry in Mikey's face, all puffed up like a hippo, assaulting him with sweet, meaty breath. The Brothers gasped, thirsting for blood. Mikey gagged and stepped back, into a draft. His spine shivered.
"That's what I thought." Bart deflated. "Trembling like a pussy."
"I'm not a pussy."
"Oh, really? Then go knock on that door, Mikey. Show us how big and brave you are."
"Yeah," Tom nudged Mikey's shoulder. "Go on."
Mikey took another glance toward the house. There were no lights on inside. Or the blinds were drawn so tight the light couldn't escape. And that chill wafting from it, like the chill from a grave, all cold earth and bones.
"C'mon, guys. It's cold down there."
"Make your dick shrivel, Mikey?"
"If he's got a dick."
They all snickered. Except Mikey. He felt kicked in the stomach.
"Knock it off, you guys."
"I'll tell you what," Bart's voice grew serious. "If you go knock on that door, just once, we won't pick on ya ever again. Ain't that right, boys?"
"Yeah," they chorused. "Sure thing."
"You promise?"
"On my grave." Bart crossed his heart. "But, if you chicken out, the boys and me eat your candy."
Mikey peeked down the walkway, clutching his trick-or-treat bag. "Just once?"
"Just once, Mikey. Promise."
"Okay. I'll do it."
He stepped up to the walkway. The draft raised gooseflesh on his spine and arms. Above, oak trees clawed to escape a twilight grave. Mikey stepped across the threshold. He peered back toward his friends. The street was empty, black.
A melting face peeked over some hedges across the street. Lamplight gleamed off its bulging eye.
"Keep going! Don't pussy out on us now!"
Two skulls joined in. "Yeah! And don't wet yourself!"
They snickered and ducked away.
Mikey took another step. Wind moaned around him. He shivered but crept forward. Dead leaves, like scraps of human hide, cycloned about the yard.
Ahead, the house creaked. A loose shutter knocked against its frame.
And what lurked in that house? Murderers wearing mutilated facemasks, dancing with gutted victims? Gremlins with scythe teeth, warty swamp-green skin, all liver spots and slime? Or rows of bodies, hooked and dangling by the ankle, muscles and tendons gleaming bloody in the moonlight?
The wind hushed. The house creaked and fell silent.
"They promised." His teeth chattered. "Just one knock."
>Mikey's breath slicked the inside of his mask. Another step. Shadows danced around him like devils, stabbing him with pitchforks. They slithered into his mask and whispered in his ears. The pumpkins greeted him, orange grins concealing hellfire.
Something black slinked across the porch. Mikey froze. Demon eyes glowed at him.
"Mrrrowwll." The cat darted into darkness.
He sighed and glanced at the road. Oak trees had sealed the entrance. The lamplight was gone.
"Just one knock."
Mikey's foot dipped into a crack in the concrete. He twisted his ankle. He yelped and bent down to massage it, assessing the swelling through his sock. Not too bad, but when he took a step forward, pain drilled through his nerves. He looked back. The entrance seemed miles away. He wanted to run for it. He turned.
Then something rustled in the hedges edging the lawn, and Mikey limped onward, glancing over his shoulder. His candy bag trailed on the concrete behind him, making a strange scuffing sound. Wind shrieked through a gutter, and he whimpered. A leaf grazed his mask. He flinched.
Still limping, Mikey creaked up the stairs onto the porch. Boards sagged and groaned like zombies underfoot. Cobwebs netted his face. A spider walked on his brow. He shuddered, slapped it off. He wiped away the cobwebs and crept to the door. Corpse-cold breath seeped through its cracks.
"Just once."
Mikey raised his fist, ready to pound, his ghostly breath evaporating as he held it.
Once. That's it.
His fist plummeted--and the door screeched open.
A scream froze in his chest.
"Hello, there."
It was an old lady dressed in a crayon-blue robe. Her breath smelled of freshly baked cookies, so warm it melted some of Mikey's fear. She looked him over with brown-sugar eyes. "Are ya lost, sonny?"
"Trick or treat." He held out his bag.
She smiled, her face kind and wrinkled. "Oh, ya want some candy, huh?"
"Sure."
The old lady turned, silver hair shushing.
"Here y'are."
She held out a blood-red apple and five cookies. Mikey reached for them. His knuckle brushed the lady's skin. It was warm and wrinkly like blankets.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, sonny."
He turned to run away.
"Wait a spell. I got something to tell ya."
He turned, fearing the old lady would rip off her face and reveal a grin of steak knives. But it was just the old lady, face as sweet as cookie dough. She hunched close, her eyes squinched and secretive. The ambrosia of fresh cookies sugared Mikey's nostrils.
"Sweets lead to tooth decay," she whispered, "but an apple a day keeps the dentist away." There was a gleam in her eyes. Almost like candlelight.
She stood upright. "Those treats are for your friends." She nodded toward the road.
Mikey glanced back and saw only darkness. "But how did you . . ."
The door was closed when he turned around.
Mikey looked down at the cookies. Little jack o' lantern candies dimpled moist, twinkling dough. For a second, Mikey thought he saw demonic flames dancing in their eyes. Then the wind moaned and chased Mikey back to his friends.
***
"Gimme those." Bart snatched the apple and cookies from Mikey. "Good job, pussy."
"Hey, you promised not to call me that."
"You never knocked, dumb ass. We saw the whole thing. Looked like you 'bout crapped your pants when that old bag sprung the door on ya."
"Yeah," Tom held his nose. "It smells like you crapped them, too."
Sam sniggered.
"Well, Mikey-boy, looks like we get all your candy. Snatch his bag, boys."
Tom ripped it from Mikey's grasp.
"Hey!" Mikey lunged. "That's mine!"
Sam bullied him back while Tom rifled through the bag.
"Sorry, Mikey. A deal's a deal." Bart looked at the fruit and candy. "She gave you an apple? What a scab."
He wound back and chucked the apple into darkness. Mikey heard it smash against something.
Bart sniffed the cookies. "Whoa."
Tom looked up from his steal. "What's up?"
"These are the best damn cookies I ever smelled."
"Lemme have one."
"Hell no." He hid them around his back. "These are mine. You and Sam can have the bag."
"Whatever, man. We don't want the whole bag. We want a cookie. Ain't that right, bro?"
Sam nodded.
"Fine." Bart tossed them a cookie each. "But I get three and all Mikey's caramel."
"Cool." The brothers munched into their cookies.
Tears stung Mikey's eyes. "C'mon, Bart; this isn't fair. I would've knocked, I promise."
"But you didn't. And a deal's a deal."
He unmasked and fed a cookie into his jack o' lantern grin.
"Mmm-mmm-mmm," his troll eyes gleamed puke-green at Mikey. "This is delicious. What do you think, boys?"
"Mm-hmm."
Bart gobbled all three cookies, every last crumb. "Thanks, pussy." He grinned--and his teeth were all rotten black.
Mikey gasped and stumbled back.
"Scared I might bite?"
"Your teeth. They're all black."
"What're you talking about?"
"Your teeth! They're all rotten!"
Bart glanced at Tom. "Slap this bitch upside the head."
Mikey winced, waiting for the slap. Nothing happened. He looked back at the Brothers. They let the bag fall to the walk. Both slipped their skulls off. Mikey couldn't tell the difference their faces were so pale.
"He's right, man. Jesus Christ, he's right!" Tom turned to his brother. "What about me?"
He opened wide and Sam peeked in. He recoiled, opening his own mouth to reveal cavities. Not as bad as Bart's, though. Tom cringed and stumbled back. "Oh, shit, man. Oh shit!"
Bart looked at them as if they were crazy. "You're gonna take sides with this puss-eeeee!" His last insult drew into a painful cry. He clutched his cheek and moaned.
"What the hell was in those cookies, Mikey? Huh?" Tom pushed him. "What the hell was in them!"
"I . . . I dunno. The old lady. She gave them to me!"
Bart stumbled forward. He latched a corpse's hand on Mikey's shoulder.
"He'p, 'ee, 'Ikey! Fuggin' he'p 'ee!" His gums were toothless, bleeding and rotten. And his breath. Like fresh cookies. Mikey cringed, gagged and tried to pull free.
Sam started to cry.
Tom prodded Mikey's shoulder blade. He was massaging his jaw. "Help us, for Christ's sake!"
"How?"
Bart's hand clinched tighter. His mouth was a rotten scream.
"I don't fucking know, man! That old lady! She's gotta know!"
Bart's eyes gleamed hellfire, and a sugary voice wafted from his mouth pit. "An apple a day keeps the dentist away," and Mikey remembered.
"The apple," he screeched. "Find the apple!"
"What're you talking about, man? What apple?"
"The apple!" He glanced back. "He threw it!" He jabbed toward the darkness.
Bart gurgled. Warmth splattered Mikey's chest. Black oil, pulped with rotting stomach, oozed down his shirt.
Behind Mikey, Sam puked up candy bile and tooth fragments. Tom tugged his sleeve. "C'mon, man!" He clutched his mouth, wincing, tears drizzling down his cheeks. "Let's get the hell outta here!"
Sam straightened, wiping green from his lips. He didn't have it so bad. Neither did Tom. Just a few cavities. Something a dentist could fill.
"C'mon!"
The Brothers bolted up the street, holding their mouths, leaving Mikey's bag behind.
Bart whined. His lips began to drip. He opened his mouth to scream, and Mikey saw a black, festering pit. Bart's tongue was a slimy stump. It wriggled and squirmed. There were holes through his lower jaw, through the roof of his mouth. It was all bubbling, bursting, oozing. And that smell of fresh baked cookies, somehow worse than rotting meat.
"Get off me!" Mikey pried at Bart's fingers, afraid that if too much splattered him, he'd rot, too. "Let go!"
He slammed his fist into Bart's chest. Bart let go and stumbled back.
Mikey got one last look at his face. It dripped gore, flesh all melted, mouth a rotten grave. Black ooze dangled from the wound. And it smelled so sweet, like brown sugar and dough.
"Arrghhrll." Tears drizzled from Bart's eyes. They dripped from his cheekbone, because everything below was gone, a black maw.
"I'm sorry." Mikey turned and fled toward the comforting light. He left his bag behind, because sweets led to tooth decay, as Bart was slowly learning.
D.L. Snell smashes pumpkins and sifts through their brain matter for story ideas. Enjoy the delightful crunch of his pumpkin seeds in Paul Fry's Cold Flesh and Mike Philbin's Chimeraworld #3. For more information, such as free articles and free ad space for your own work, visit Snell's website, Exit66.net.
This story may be freely reprinted in any e-zine, newsletter, newspaper, magazine, website, etc. as long as Snell’s byline and bio remain intact; also, the story must not be altered.