Kids in Cemeteries
Best say goodbye to their parents :)
The whiskered old man gets pissed off when groups of kids meet in the local cemetery, bringing their school lunch, leaving their discarded wrappers on graves, whooping and hollering. He knows what he wants to do about it; trust me, he really does. Go over there and give each of them a good cuffing around the ears to send them on their way.
He doesn’t understand why this way isn’t appropriate anymore. He recognizes most of them — knows their parents and observes them most mornings, kissing and hugging their little cherubs, unaware that their eight-year-old child has mischief in their souls. But he knows.
Maybe there’s another way if he cannot give these disrespectful kids a good cuffing around the ear.
Blink…blink… red alert…blink…blink.
What he will do to these kids doesn’t make for your everyday happy reading, so for parents who want to be their child’s best friend, head out now, okay?
Come the evening, the weather was dry, leaves crunched underfoot, and the moon rose blood-red beyond the bare branches of Wildwood Forest.
as sharp as mustard,
owns a cat called Mustard,
was the first to arrive on the corner of the street, outside the school, dressed in a bloody vampire outfit, no imagination, a red-lined cape over his shoulders and his hair fixed in a widow’s peak. His fangs protruding from his lips looked so fake I could have slapped him immediately. Within a few minutes, the rest of the fucking lunchtime marauders began to arrive.
A sweet little child
With a heart meek and mild,
came wearing a witch’s outfit, how intuitive, with a wide-brimmed, high-peaked hat, sat on her purple-haired wig. She carried a gnarly-handled broom she’d told everyone she’d made herself, lying little wretch.
A boy a bit older,
But not much bolder,
arrived dressed as Darth Vader. Why? Because Jack lives in a twilight zone of his own. Just look at him, holding hands with his childhood sweetheart,
Deb,
ready to string T-P,
in night’s shadows, very creepy,
dressed as a Mummy because Jack was too afraid to come out at night. Not too afraid to leave his soggy cucumber lunch sandwiches on a gravestone, though.
And finally, the last four of the wicked bunch,
Who plans to steal candy
keeping his sabre handy,
Oh, for fucks sake, the boy’s pathetic, A pirate! Where the fuck do kids look for imaginative ideas? Who does he think he will scare with his plastic bloody sabre, wearing that stupid felt patch over his eye? Fuck. At least
Laura,
when a teen in a skirt
will be quite a flirt,
has an inkling of an idea: a Werewolf with an oversized head that is more comical than scary and a tail that wags from side to side as she walks, her body draped in a ragged, burlap gown and, on her feet, floppy, oversized claws. Really? They’re claws? You couldn’t scratch a newborn with those.
Look at them; they have no idea about their coming night.
They started out hopping and skipping happily down the tree-lined streets with their paper bags, knocking on doors and hustling candies and assorted goodies like little fucking beggars with an attitude, laughing
when none of the adults recognized them. And went on into the night, ravaging and pillaging like little indiscriminate warriors, whooping and hollering, laughing gleefully, running, shouting out their youthful joy, nicking all the candies left in a bowl for other little ghosts. Oh, how their parents think they are blessed. Onward these little eight-year-old demons went, and then … far too soon, it seemed, the moon had risen to its highest.
The lights on the porches slowly began to fade out one by one. The
streets became empty, echoless corridors as other little ghosts and
goblins went home for the night, back to their warm beds and glowing TV
screens to munch on their ill-gotten gains. But not the lunchtime marauders.
“Let’s go to the cemetery,” yells Whye. The other little demons join in the camaraderie — and off they go to cause mischief.
Oh, yes, I’m waiting. Come to me, you little devils; my name is,
Let’s see who the bravest is when you meet someone outside this world.
A cold breeze rustled the leaves as silvery clouds moved hastily across the sky.
There was the far-off bark of a dog.
“That’s Rover,” Jack murmured, his words followed by the squeal of death, a dog dying under a truck’s wheels. Silence. The lunch marauders looked at each other.
“That sounded like…” Don’t say it, Adrienne. “But, Jack, Rover, I think he’s…”
“No,” said Jack. “Rover wouldn’t be out at this time of night.”
“But you said it was Rover; you recognized his bark,” Adrienne said almost tearfully.
“Do you think we are being punished,” Randy asked sensibly.
“Don’t be a dick, Randy. What are you talking about? Punished, my ass,” Deb said in her mummified voice. “Don’t tell me you believe in Evil Spirits?”
“No, no, I was just kidding,” said Randy, a little tremor sounding in his voice.
“Bollocks, I can hear your knees knocking,” argued Deb, hoping she wouldn’t need a pee before the night was over.
“Maybe it was another werewolf,” laughed Laura. “Yeeeaaaiiiiikkkk,” she screamed, trying to replicate what Rover’s demise sounded like.
“It’s okay; I know Rover is alive,” Jack said. The youthful joy was gone from his voice now. Deb touched Jack’s arm, scaring the beejesseesus out of him. “It’s all right, Jack,” she said, as any conscientious mummy would.
“Better get going,” Adrienne said confidently, unafraid and hefting her bag of candy.
So, the lunchtime marauders trudged toward the cemetery, hesitating at the gate; Whye said, “It doesn’t look the same at night. Which way do we normally go?” Laura shifted nervously at his side as leaves scraped noisily over the cemetery stones.
Come unto me, you wee ones, don’t be afraid, JM is waiting for you… and JM’s laughter whistled through the trees. There would be no such thing as ghosts if not for the haunting.
“Did… did you hear that?” Randy questioned. “It sounded like a whisper — like someone was whispering.”
“Hear what? Deb asked. “Randy, are you trying to scare us? I never heard anything”.
“Me, neither. I never heard anything,” Adrienne confirmed, already with a gob full of candy.
“Maybe the cemetery isn’t the place to come to tonight?” Randy offered.
“Scaredy knickers, Randy. Com’on, let’s keep going. I know a place we can sit and eat our candy.” Whye called encouragingly.
As the lunch marauders make their way, hunched together, not wanting to separate. Randy recalls a rumor his dad told him.
“Dad told me about a man buried here,” he started.
“Oh, shut up, Randy. Your stories are weird. Many people are buried here, and I’m sure some are men,” Deb said.
“No, seriously, Deb. They called him JM. He’d robbed several banks and had money hidden somewhere. He’d done several stints in prison and killed men all the time. They found him in Alaska. I mean, he was seriously bad. They say his ghost is here. If you talked too loud, Dad said he would kill you.”
Yeeeeessssssss
“Oh jeez, what was that?” Adrienne loudly whispered, pushing closer to Randy.
Whye cracked himself up. “It was just me. I was having some fun; we’re supposed to be having fun.”
Nooooooooooo
“That’s not funny, Whye,” Laura said, punching his arm.
“That wasn’t me…” Whye responded, frozen in his tracks.
“You’re such a tease, Whye,” Adrienne chastised, a little mad at him.
“Seriously, guys, I never made that noooo sound.”
“It was probably an owl,” Jack suggested.
Nooooooooooo
“Listen, there it is again,” Laura cries, hanging onto Whye like a clam.
They all heard it this time and came together in a huddle. Randy whispers, “Just stand still; it will pass.”
“Ho..w do yu knor hat it isth.”
“Adrienne, how are we supposed to understand you with your mouth full of Milky Way?” Jack wonders.
“So..orry yack,” Adrienne said.
“There, see, it’s gone,” Deb said, putting her head up, seeing nothing.
“Aagghhh!”
The lunch marauders clamp together.
“Whhaaat is iiit,” asked Laura.
“Ther…there’s somebody dres…sed as Saannta,” Deb whispers.
“Santa!” Whye exclaims a little loudly.
“Shooosh, Whye,” Randy tells him hoarsely, “it might be the guy that doesn’t like noise.”
Slowly, each of the lunch marauders raised their head. Sure enough, there’s a figure standing there with a long white beard.
“Are you, you know, an early Santa?” Randy asks.
“Are you the kids who come into the cemetery, leave your lunch wrappers on headstones, and run between the graves hootin’ and hollerin’?”
The lunch marauders look at each other, and Laura speaks up. “We won’t do it again, sir. Can we go now?”
Nooooooooooo, the whiskered whisperer answered.
“Please, sir, we will never come in again. We have to get home,” Deb explains, “Cross my heart,” fingers crossed her heart.
The trees hung over the cemetery like skeletons. The night had been full
of costumed demons and goblins all over the place, mixing with
superheroes, sports stars, and movie villains. The gang stood together, trembling, all thinking the same thing: that this year would be the last year of trick or treating.
The whiskered man sighed and asked in a terrifying whisper. Did you all say goodbye to your parents this evening?
The lunch marauders heard that and stood as one, shivering, holding each other as if it might be their last hug. None of them had said goodbye to their parents, too eager to trick and treat.
Shame on you, said the whiskered one.
“Can we go home, Mister,” asked Jack, lowly.
The whiskered man was so close to them, bringing a chill.
If you ever come to the cemetery again to have fun, you better say goodbye to your parents. Do I make myself clear? And the whisper is so cold, it pricks at the gang’s ears.
In unison, as if one, “Never coming back, mister.”
Goooooooooooo, whispers the whiskered one.
Not needing to hear another word, the lunch marauders turned and fled.
The whiskered one stood there quietly, laughing to himself.
‘JM…’ a voice calls out. It’s a voice from the Heavens.
“Yes, Lord, I’m here.” JM, the whiskered one, answers.
‘JM, considering you’re an angel, you’re a cruel bastard sometimes.’
‘Just doing the Lord’s work.’ JM replies.
Adrienne Beaumont | Autistic Widower (“AJ”) | Brett Jenae Tomlin | The Sturg | Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles | Trisha Faye | Karen Schwartz | NancyO | Katie Michaelson | Bernie Pullen | Michelle Jimerson Morris | Amy Frances | Julia A. Keirns | Pamela Oglesby | | Tina | Pat Romito LaPointe | Ruby Noir | K. Joseph | Brandon Ellrich | Misty Rae | Karen Hoffman | Deb Palmer | Susie Winfield | Vincent Pisano | Paari | Marlene Samuels | Ray Day | Randy Pulley | Michael Rhodes | Lu Skerdoo | Pluto Wolnosci | Paula Shablo | Bruce Coulter | Ellen Baker | Kelley Murphy | Leigh-Anne Dennison | Jennifer Marla Pike | Carmen Ballesteros | Marlana, MSW| Patricia Timmermans | Keeley Schroder |Jan Sebastian | James Michael Wilkinson | Whye Waite | John Hansen | Trudy Van Buskirk | Joanie Adams |
(If you dislike being tagged for various reasons, no offense will be taken, please let me know, I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
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