Creepy - Day 12 - My Rites of Autumn

Episode Date: October 12, 2020

Memories of Halloween past...***Written by John Ballentine***See your donation rewards podcast at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCQ3SrH_3fsROXFAjomKcUtw***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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The 31 Days of Horror Day 12 My Right of autumn, written by John Ballantine. Grandpa was an artist with a knife, an inspired craftsman, or so my eight-year-old brain surmised. Slicing and peeling as a surgeon into bare flesh, he'd labor until the task was done. Fresh innards shoved aside, ripe guts removed. It was an annual fall ritual. Grandpa would carve carefully, then take a moment to admire the work, and the hollow face would

her back and smile broadly, even as the blade dog ever deeper and deeper. Yes, Grandpa seemed an eccentric man in many ways, and perhaps, that's putting it mildly. But there was little doubt he was a master pumpkin carver. As an adult, I look back on memories with Grandpa, few as they were, and try to sort out that autumn afternoon I spent with him twelve years ago. Try to reassemble the pieces of this haunting puzzle I'm left with. And even following years of therapy, so much remains unclear. There's only a couple days before Halloween when my mom dropped me off after school at Grandpa's house.

The home was nestled in a quiet suburban neighborhood called Pleasant Heights with a sizable backyard. Green grass had begun to fade with the chill of the season setting in. trees bearing their withered crimson leaves raked in piles. The sounds of children frolicing across the street. Plastic witches, goblins, and ghosts hung by fishing line adorning front yards, swaying in the breeze. Mom was in a hurry that day, so she let me out at the curb, planted a quick kiss on my forehead, and watched as I stumbled clumsily up to front steps, look big in hand, and disappeared inside. The house was warm, welcoming.

Smell to candy apples and assorted treats prepped for an eventful onslaught of seasonal custom visitors. And something else. Something my young old factory senses couldn't quite place at first. Just to note, I had never seen my grandpa in person before that day, other than in old photos and videos. We did have phone conversations on occasion. My mother and I had just moved back to her hometown and it was decided that I'd be staying with Grandpa during afternoons after school. He seemed different than I had expected, but charming.

He was friendly and genuinely invested in what I had to say, which was an unusual trait with most adults. We sat and talked for probably ten minutes or more, which was a record for any conversation I'd engaged with anyone over the age of nine at that point. Grandpa was a kindly old dude that made me laugh. He made funny faces and his jokes were absurd but witty and atypical of what I was accustomed to. However, there was one matter he was particularly strict about. The door that led to the basement held a fascination for me.

Basements intrigued me as a kid. It was like a secret room underground, a hidden place. And I was like a cat with an uncontrollable urge to explore, even though I had an all-consuming fear of imaginary creatures that might lurk in the shadows of such a place. An all-consuming fear of monsters. Unfortunately, monsters haunted my nightmares at that age. No matter how much mom assured me that they didn't exist, a creeping feeling in the back of my mind just wouldn't let me rest easy.

So, every dark corner had to be carefully inspected before bad. bed, under the bed, the closet, behind the drapes, you know, all those places that monsters hide. Of course, everything would check out okay. Problem was the monsters didn't hide out in my room. Nah, they were too wily for that. They hid out in my dreams. Not sure how my poor mother ever got any sleep with me waking up screaming at all hours of the night. As a result, mom kept me.

me isolated from scary things like horror movies and even trick-or-treat some years. Gradually I stared to grow out of it, and by that particular autumn day, I was mostly cured. Much of my fear had melted into curiosity by then, and perhaps fascination with those dark things that frightened me so before. I remained skittish at times, but I was frustrated with being left out. I wanted to experience the spooky season with the other kids. go out and collect candy on a chilly fall evening wearing a plastic mask, carved pumpkins and such.

At any rate, I wasn't likely to find monsters down in his basement because Grandpa was intent on not allowing anyone down there. He was emphatic about the subject, and the only time I sensed the steely hardness to his voice was when I gave any indication I might head in that direction and turned the knob that led to a rickety's stepped unknown. curiosity was eating away at me, though.

Speaking of his voice, it reminded me of rugged terrain dipped in honey. Inviting and soothing, yet sandpaper rough. Grandpa projected a charisma and charm, held you in rapture as he told a story, and much of that hypnotic spell, that irresistible pull, was contained in his voice. the tone, the resonance. After a few sentences, you were quickly in his web. Physically, he was a short stocky man, balding with salt and pepper hair and beard, just a few remaining light streaks of black.

Glass is perpetually perched on the tip of his nose as he madly whittled away a pumpkin flesh. He possessed a singular glee in his eyes as he gripped a knife. The passage of time was etched in his face. Bally's and wrinkles and one or two scars. I'd guess he was near 70, give or take a few years. It's difficult to pinpoint for sure. His eyes were hazel orbs that gleamed and twinkled when in good humor, but could ever so quickly on a dime turn cold.

We had set up shop on the front porch taking advantage of the mild weather. The evenings would rapidly turn cold. but for the moment, the sun felt warm on my face. Grandpa had covered the table with old newspaper and sat out a bucket for the golden orange gore we would soon unleash. I had never carved pumpkins before. This would be my first lesson. I'd returned inside the house for a moment to grab a soda from the fridge when the phone rang.

There was a cordless landline attached to the kitchen wall, the kind that virtually every household had back done. I picked it up and answered just as I would have at home. Mom's familiar voice spoke. Of course, she was anxious to know how things were going. All the usual patronizing questions. How's Grandpa? Was I behaving myself?

Was I having fun with Grandpa? I told her we were working on jack-lanterns and preparing for the usual seasonal festivities. Told her I wanted her to pick me up a costume while she was out shopping. Mom's voice changed ever so subtly any time we discussed the subject that dealt with Halloween or spookiness or bumps in the night. An additional layer of softness emerged tinged with concern. I don't have nightmares anymore, Mom, I assured her. It was true, though.

It had been weak since the monster-filled dreams. A lifetime in kid years. Of course I did. It was the same old tired mantra at this point, and I felt like a little, dork repeating it, but I knew this is what Mom expected to hear. We said it almost simultaneously. There's no such thing as monsters. Even though I didn't fully buy into that philosophy, I did feel a little more confident

saying it. In retrospect, maybe there was something in repeating that sentence over and over. Mom said she would pick me up later. We exchanged our rush goodbyes and the phone was back on its hook. My patience was thin on the matter of embarrassing fears, and it was now time for sour worms and soda pop. I grabbed a fresh pack from the table and popped the top on a bubbling, sugary beverage. Out on the front porch, cramp I had carved a face into a pumpkin, and started on another in my absence. I was missing valuable instruction.

Setting down my soda can, I pulled up a chair and observed closely. I guess this was the first time I'd had to take it. detected something askew about the whole experience. The face on the completed pumpkin looked somewhat familiar. Instead of triangles and a jagged-toothy grin, this visage was intricate and detailed in a way that was surprising. In fact, it looked a bit like a photograph of a man on the wall of Grandpa's living room. Maybe a relative that I wasn't acquainted with.

At least that's what it put me in the mind of. I'd witnessed artistry of this degree in photos, but never in person, up close. You know, Kyle, certain skills get passed down from one generation to the next. Traditions. Of course, I'm paraphrasing these quotes. I don't remember his exact words after all these years, but for the sake of this tale, the following conversational puzzle pieces may paint a clear picture of our interaction. I remember when I was a boy, just about your age.

This was a special time a year. But things are different now. More distractions these days. You've got video games and electronic toys, 24-hour TV, and a gazillion channels. Back then, there was just you in the outdoors and imagination. I tried to envision that. No TV or video games?

It hurt my brain. I told Grandpa couldn't have been much fun. Oh, but it was fun, he insisted. It was a golden time. There were corn mazes and fall festivals. Folks dressed up in sheets and silly little outfits, whatever they could throw together. We read stories to each other,

told tales around a crackling fire. Oh, then we used to bob for apples this time of year. Grandpa sighed deeply. Memory's flooding back. He seemed wistful, as if longing for that forgotten time that just seemed alien to me. By this point, Grandpa had sliced around the skull cap of the pumpkin, and carefully pulled it loose by the stem. Stringy tendrils, the slimy yellow inner, it still attached.

It made that satisfying, crunchy, wet sound as it pulled away. He'd assured me earlier that this portion, of the exercise would get messy, which was exactly what an eight-year-old looks forward to. This season, though, well, it still has a certain charm, a certain magic, I guess. Don't you feel it? Magic. I had no idea what he was talking about, and naturally, having no filter or sentiment at that age, I said so. He regarded me with a brief gaze and accepted the challenge of educating me.

Take a deep breath. Grandpa inhaled deeply. I followed suit as you requested and took in the crisp bottom air into my lungs. Felt the sun-kissed chill on my skin, in my pores. It was a certain kind of magic. I understand that now. An indescribable spell conjured by the seasonal change of weather and colors and smells. the encroaching darkness of evening that shrouded the daylight earlier and earlier.

You only wish there were more time to savor these things. Grandpa's voice had faded barely above a whisper at this point. He stared off into space for several moments, lost deep in an ocean of recollection, I suppose. It was like someone who just hit the pause switch on the old man. The silence grew too weird, and my concern mounted. I'd heard of old folks having spells, strokes. I asked him if he was okay. My timid voice seemed to shake him from the trance, and Grandpa smiled warmly,

tossled my hair, and I went back to his chore. Tell me about these dreams you have, the nightmares you were talking about earlier. I had let it slip about my little problem. It wasn't a subject I really wanted to rehash, but Grandpa had a talent for drawing things out of me, forcing me to spill the beans. Clearly, he could sense my reluctance, had to be written all across my face as I gulped down fizzing soda. You know, Kyle, when I was a boy, it always helped me to talk about the nightmares. You had nightmares? The words floated from my lips and opened-mouthed astonishment. Grandpa nodded his head and actually halted the work on

his pumpkin for a moment. Terrible nightmares, he responded. Things that tore me apart on the inside, gave me bad feelings, really bad. But you see, I was one lucky boy. I had a friend to talk to. He helped me work things out. I wasn't going to discuss bedwetting nightmares with any friends of mine, few as they were. No, thanks. I'd just as soon not be. I'd just as soon not be. be laughed at out of the classroom or labeled Nightmare Boy for the remainder of the school year. Larry was his name. He was my best friend, in fact.

Grandpa related. He told me what to do to make it all better. Told me the secret. The secret to making nightmares go away. I pulled closer and listened with rapt attention. You see, I got picked on in school. Kids were mean. We moved around a lot.

I was always a new kid in town, didn't fit in. I was an easy target for those little bastards. Bad word, grandpa, I corrected. It was frankly difficult to imagine this elderly man, built like a former Marine being picked on by anyone. Let me tell you something about my friend Larry, though. No matter what town we moved to, Larry moved as well. No matter how hard my parents tried to separate us, Larry will. would always find me.

How'd he do that? I whispered, intrigued, my mind filling with quiet wonder. Larry was real smart, you see. He knew that I needed purpose. A mission. Grandpa murmured. Larry introduced me to

The work. Work? Like a job? I stated in bewilderment. The old man leaned in like he was going to reveal something momentous. His voice grew quiet, barely above a demons whisper.

Maybe we should just keep this between the two of us. Our little secret. I don't think your mother would understand. I nodded at an anxious affirmation. You see, Kyle, the work is a therapy of sorts, an outlet for all the bad feelings of build up.

All those things inside, that bubble and boil below the surface and threaten to explode out of you. Those bad feelings? That nasty impulses? Larry showed me how pouring those emotions into the work could drive the dreams away. Those nightmares. The night's a restless sleep? It all went away.

Larry was a real person? I asked cautiously, as if navigating a minefield. More real than any friend I've ever known. As real as you or me. But as people tend to do, we grew apart over time. Drifted. Didn't see him much anymore. I suppose he had...

Well, I suppose he had taught me everything I needed to know. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a teen girl approaching on the sidewalk. She gradually made away over the stepping stones to the stoop of the front porch. a stack of orange flyers in hand. Carrie was a lovely girl, with a pleasant smile and shining almond eyes, had a ponytail of dirty blonde hair and freckles. I can't say I paid much attention to her at the time. I hadn't really developed and interest in girls yet.

Although I seem to recall Megan Fox in the Transformer movie leaving me tingly. Most of the memories of Carrie, though, are sadly linked to photos of her posts. in the media shortly after this October day 12 years ago. Photos that would reappear on each anniversary of the unspeakable events that took place. Hi there. Sorry to interrupt. Carrie chirped, vibrant and bubbly.

I'm selling tickets to the Bethel Baptist Carnival coming up tonight. Grandpa pushed his lenses up his nose and appraised Carrie. Let's see your flyers. Grandpa grumbled. Oh, sorry. Taking a few steps onto the porch, Carrie handed Grandpa a flyer.

She bonesed on her heels nervously and shot me a brief timid grin. Grandpa poured over the flyer, mouthing the various carnival events. Carrie continued her sales pitch. They're doing trunk or treat? A costume contest, haunted hayride through whispering metal, she reeled off various attractions from memory, tapping her finger in one hand and staring at the ceilings if answers to a final exam were hidden there.

They're raffling a laptop, iPad, fresh-baked goods, cookies, only $2 per ticket. Grandpa pursed his lips as if impressed. Turned his attention to me. Well, that sounds like a good carnival, doesn't it, Kyle? A good old-fashioned Halloween carnival. We don't use the word Halloween,

because I guess it, like, I don't know, offend some people? The words exit. her lips like questions rather than statements. That's why it just says fall carnival on the flyer. In that short moment, something boiled over in Grandpa and took him in a hard grip. Something barely contained.

Something terrifying. Print Halloween on a flyer. Whoever heard such foolishness? He ranted. I'm not certain if it was at this point that Grandpa decided to do what he did, but it was as if a switch had been flipped, as if someone had released a hibernating bear from its cave, a bear that hadn't been fed for weeks. The old man's gaze returned to carry, predatory-like, sizing her up. Then just as quickly, the bottled up rage passed

and a cordial smile spread across his face. He let out a chuckle. I'll take four tickets. Let me grab my wallet in the house, dear? I'll be right back. Couldn't help but notice Carrie's weirded out expression as Grandpa rose from his chair and stepped into the house. She bounced on the heels of her sneakers again as an awkward silence took hold in the old man's absence. I'd taken a knife at this stage and began to carve into my own pumpkin. Are the neighbors home? Carrie probed. I was mostly immune to awkward silences, but in this case, I may have been so totally engrossed and carving that I simply didn't hear Carrie ask a question. After all, this was a precision craft that required laser-like focus. I'm sure she assumed that I was a rude little brat.

The sun began to drift below the rooftops next door as Carrie took appraisal of the front porch, light traffic passing in the street. There were the usual trappings, a wooden, swing, swing lightly in the breeze, hanging ferns it desperately needed watering. So, is this your grandpa's house? I think I managed to distract it. Uh-huh. To this query. Carrie stepped closer and took a look at my work.

Wow, that one looks scary. Indeed, the pumpkin did look scary, but not due to any special skills I possessed. No, it looks scary because I looked scary because I used. I completely botched it. It looked like a jackal anterin that had melted in the sun. A total Charlie Brown job. It's not that scary. I corrected her.

I mean, it's not like a monster or something. No such thing as monsters, right? That's what Mom says. I repeated the mantra under my breath, as if it would have been bad luck to do otherwise. No such thing as monsters. At that moment, Grandpa appeared out from the screen door, the radio blaring in the background. I didn't catch your name, dear.

Carrie, my folks live over in Brookhaven? Carrie. Such a lovely name. The old man purred with charm. Would you mind stepping into the house, Carrie? I've got something that might be perfect for the carnival this evening. Well, I really got to... to be going. Still have tickets to sell. Of course. I won't keep you. This will only take

a second. I've got your money here on the counter. A moment of indecision played across the teen's face. She'd likely been warned not to enter strangers' homes. Of course. What harm could a kindly old gentleman be? Okay. Yeah. Sure. She seemed uncertain but stepped forward. Grandpa opened the screen. door wide for his care proceeded inside. I didn't notice a subtle latch of the deadbolt as the door closed behind them. The murmur of their voices carried through the walls. But I couldn't make out what was being said.

Suddenly the radio indoors was cranked with deafening volume. You could have heard it from across the street. It was a Halloween countdown program and they were playing a novelty tune like Monster Mash or something corny like that. Then, I heard. what I thought was a scream. A young woman's scream. For a second, I assumed it was part of the song,

but it quickly became clear to me that these cries might very well be coming from Carrie. And most likely, they couldn't possibly be broadcasting the kind of profanity I was hearing. The screams became muted soon after, as if a hand had been clamped tightly around the young woman's mouth.

I could hear objects being knocked over as if there was a violent hustle. A chair, a table, something slammed into a wall. I rose from my spot and tried the door, but I was locked out. The brave mask I had dawn was quickly beginning to fall away.

I called out for Grandpa several times, knocked on the door. The practice inside I gradually began to die down and grow silent until all I could hear was the radio streaming the speakers, vibrating the windows. The door closed and heavy footsteps shook the floorboards. The volume of the radio dropped to a sensible level.

Someone approached the door and began to unlock it. I held my breath, forcing myself not to back away, not to run like a frightened child. The door swung open, and Grandpa's smiling face greeted me. Although he appeared a little flushed. His breasts were ragged as if he just jogged or on the block. darn old doors You know it locks itself sometimes? He explained.

I heard a scream. It was a question more than a statement. Maybe even an accusation. A scream? The old man mocked good-naturedly. Just having a little fun. Couldn't resist, you know. Must be this season we're in.

What had happened in there? I asked my son. I was in. And now was nowhere to be found. Didn't realize that young lady would scare so easily. I hope she'll forgive me. I shuffled into the house and glanced around. Things looked in place.

Nothing askew. What did I heard? Grandpa still winded, attempted to suppress a laugh. You should have seen her face, Kyle. You see, she went to. pick up her money off the table, and as she did, I slipped on this old rubber mask. It was a classic rubber-tore mask that had been laying on the coffee table in the living room. Just the kind of monster mask that would have scared me, too, at one time, I assured myself.

Well, she turned right around, and I guess I must give her one heck of a fright. Grandpa could no longer hold bad infectious fits of laughter. Don't believe she even touched the floor on their way out the back door! He coughed out the words between hearty chuckles and wiped away tears. My suspicions melted away and instantly I felt reassured by his good humor. I felt myself giggling as well at the thought of this scene he had described playing out in my head. I was starting to like Carrie, though. She had a pleasing, cheerful presence for a girl.

It was a shame, I thought. She departed so suddenly. A pity, really. Such a sweet girl. Some folks spooky, Grandpa observed. The old man humbled back to the front porch and stepped outside. At that moment something drew my attention to the basement door,

which was only a few steps away. It could have been a draft. It could have been a creaking floorboard. It could have been any number of things. But in retrospect, I believe what caught my attention was the smell. Something was burning. Hot wax.

My curiosity of the basement now grew by leaps and bounds. I found myself almost unconsciously moving toward the door, involuntarily reaching for the knob. And just like that, it was turning in my grasp, unlocked and creaking open. The empty darkness of the basement lay before me, beckoning. It was a deep, rich darkness broken only by a few flickering candles. And then there was a voice. My first thought was Larry, this friend Grandpa spoke of.

The notion sent it chilled down my spine just as I felt the cool, dusky air of the basement down my face. Was I hearing Larry? But no. This was a female voice. At least so I believed. A very weak voice that spoke barely above a whisper. She pleaded. It was all she could get out.

The voice was raspy, dry, and unfamiliar to me. I waited for a few moments listening. Could there be monsters in this basement, I wondered? Could this person be a victim of one of these creatures that inhabited my nightmares for so long? The kind of monster my mom insisted did not exist? Could this voice itself be a monster scheming to tempt a young boy to his doom? The questions bounced around in my little brain like a pinball. Those thoughts racing through my mind were soon interrupted by another voice.

The voice of Grandpa as he glared at me from the front door, his eyes seemed to be staring daggers right through me. In fact, he was gripping a shining dagger in one hand, with a sliver of fresh orange gore still dripping from it. Kyle? Well, he growled, a quiet threat in his voice. Now you know I've told you to never open that door. The basement is off limits to little boys.

His rebuke stung like a slap to the face. I felt ashamed. I desperately wanted to explain myself but couldn't muster the words. Those stairs are rickety. You might break your neck going down there. but I thought I smelled something burning. I barely stuttered out a response like a frightened mouse.

Grandpa's intimidating glower faded. The hard edge to his voice softened by degrees as he nudged the front door shut. Well, that's just jackal lanterns. Lighted a few earlier while I was hauling up decorations. Now close the door and come have a seat at the table. I quickly obeyed and pushed the basement door closed. Grandpa walked to the kitchen and laid out our unfinished pumpkins,

setting them on the dinner table, turning the radio down further. He then took a seat. I followed suit, climbing into a chair and sitting silently. There was a wariness now to the old man I hadn't noticed before, a paleness to his features under the dimming light a day. Are you okay? The words fell from my lips out a genuine concern. Grandpa regarded me with a sullen look.

The haunted village lights twinkled on the shelf behind him. Above me, cardboard skeletons danced under the spin of a ceiling fan. Truth is, son, this old man... Well, he won't be around much longer. I didn't quite understand what he meant by this at first. Where was he going? Your grandpa's sick, you see. I have a terminal illness.

He elaborated. Do you know what that means? Like Aunt Marsha when she lost her hair? Grandpa put down the knife and nodded a solemn affirmative. Kind of like that, son. I probably won't be here next year. Probably won't see another autumn, another Halloween. My mind searched for a solution.

Maybe... Can't you see a doctor? I offered. Nothing more a doctor can do for me, Kyle. There's a tumor growing inside my brain. I'll get weaker as time passes. Grow sick. Pretty soon I won't be able to get out of bed or even use the damn toilet by myself.

This time, I didn't bother correcting this language. I just sat and listened uneasily. Soon I won't be able to talk. Tell you about important things. Things you need to know. You don't want to see your grandpa like that, Kyle. Stuck in a hospital bed. Smell of piss and shit in the air.

You don't want to see that. So let's just make this a good day. One last good day. He went back to his intricate pumpkin surgery, whittling away fresh orange pulp. That's why this moment is vital. I want to pass on some wisdom to you. My knowledge.

And I've only got this short time to do it. Understand? I nodded vacantly. Anyway, let's talk about something more cheerful. I gazed at my unfinished pumpkin again for the first time in a while. Something looked wrong. It was at that moment that indeed, I needed his instruction.

I'm ready to carve the eyes, I stated. Ah, yes. Take great care at this stage. The eyes will reveal the nature of your creation. Careful, careful, with the blade. Slicing through the skin, I shoved the point of the blade into the soft innerance and carved the customary triangles. Grandpa settled back in his chair and observed. closely. You asked me about Larry earlier. You asked me what happened to him. I told you we don't

talk anymore. It's not entirely true. You see, we talk once a year. We talk before every Halloween. It's our little tradition. Why just Halloween? I wondered aloud, still very much occupied with the task before me, because that's when the nightmares return. The monsters. Larry still makes your monsters go away? That's right. He still does, Kyle. And we talk about the work.

How do you do the work? I questioned. I too desperately wanted my monsters to go away and never return. Grandpa took a breath and searched for words to translate his past deeds into a form I could understand. Sometimes, Kyle. One must do things. Terrible, terrible, terrible things in order to chase away nightmares. The old man stared at me intently.

What terrible things had he done, I wondered. I know it's difficult to understand. You're still young. But one night when the world lies silent around you, silent is a tomb. You'll hear a voice speak. It'll call your name. Now don't be afraid because of it.

This voice is your friend, and it'll tell you what must be done. It'll tell you of the work. And suddenly all will be made clear. I stare back in my grandpa, a lump forming in my throat and nearly caused me to choke on my words. I'm not afraid, Grandpa. I'm not afraid. A twinkle returned to the elder man's eyes, and he smiled as if all was once again right with the world. I felt a grin forming in the corners of my mouth as he patted my shoulder warmly.

We must have chatted for another hour or so as Twilight passed, sitting at that kitchen table, swapping stories and sipping frothy cups of cocoa. We didn't speak any more about Larry or the work, more voices that whisper in the darkest hours of night. We talked about our family and the Halloween season and the joys of candy corn. We discussed the proper method for driving. pumpkin seeds. Fanciful visions of future pumpkin patches danced in my head, growing unfettered in my unexplored backyard. That time with Grandpa passed like an autumn breeze, and soon I could

see the headlights of Mom's car through the bay window. She pulled into the short driveway and within moments was lugging grocery bags towards the front door. I rose from the chair and went to let her in. Sometimes she would bring a surprise and I was anxious to see what kind of costume she'd found. I swung open the door and she stepped in with bags, wearing a look at dismay as she noted the amber pumpkin guts all over my shirt. Mom sat down the bags and closed the door, shutting out the chill of the October evening. Surveying the living room, she seemed a bit put off. Was that one of Grandpa's friends with you at the kitchen table? This befuddled me quite a bit at that moment.

One of Grandpa's friends. Certainly not. She should have been able to view us both clearly through the bay window as she walked to the door. Obviously, it was Grandpa himself sitting with me at the kitchen table. I tried to explain this to Mom, but she was clearly unconvinced. We promptly walked to the kitchen and found it empty. Grandpa was gone. Maybe it was a game, I thought.

Sort of like Hayden's sense. seek. Maybe Grandpa was waiting to jump out and scare Mom, the same way he'd scare Carrie. A quick search of the kitchen and backrooms, however, made it clear that he was nowhere to be found. We even stepped into the back patio and made a quick survey at the yard. Nothing but crickets in the distant parking of a neighborhood dog. The concerns on mom's face grew even more intense. The furrow of her brow deepened. She was clearly rattled. I began to wonder if she was worried about Grandpa's illness. Kyle?

Her voice quivered a bit. Where is your Grandpa? I didn't know the answer. I swallowed hard because I recognized the look on my mother's face. It was the same look when she used to get upset with Dad. The aftermath of all the drunken late-night arguments over endless irresponsible bullshit he pulled before they separated. I tried to explain.

that I'd been with Grandpa all day, that we'd spent the whole time chatting, munching on candy and carving pumpkins. And, in fact, it had been Grandpa, and not his friends seated at the kitchen table with me when she arrived. Mom covered her mouth for a moment and took a deep breath, her anxiety building, her knees buckling. A visible chill ran through her. Kyle?

That wasn't your grandpa. She insisted. It was such dreadful conviction in her voice in this moment that I wondered, how could she be wrong? I had only been face-to-face with this old man I called Grandpa for a few hours. She had known him her entire life. Mom reached for her phone and started to dial a number. Before she could complete the 911 call, she detected an odor.

It was a scent of candle wax. The same scent I noticed earlier. It's the jackal entrance. I offered innocently. I pointed to the basement door, the one area of the house we had failed to search. My mother moved toward the door with some trepidation. Why are their jackal lanterns lit in the basement, Kyle? I had no idea.

The lunacy of Halloween decorations burning unseen down in the dark didn't register with me at the time. As far as I was concerned, whatever adults did was not meant to be questioned. especially an adult with as many years behind him as grandpa. My mother opened the door to the basement and stared down into the darkness. From a few paces away, I could view the flickering glow of golden light downstairs. She reached for a light switch, but apparently the bulb was burnt out. For God's sake, the whole house could have gone up in flames. She uttered as she tested the wood steps at her feet.

Her footfalls creaked as she descended into the shadow. we sell her, slow and cautious steps, making her way down until I could only make out the top of her head. She paused, calling out to her father with mounting dread. I creeped forward. There was no voice this time, only grotesque shadows playing against the unfinished plaster walls from lit jackal lanterns. They look like monsters from my dreams.

Those flame-lit shadows, dancing about with jagged-tooth grins and hollow-wainting. eyes. I was just brave enough to make it to the threshold of the basement. My mother seemed frozen in place below, nearly at the bottom of the steps. She began to tremble. It was at that point that the odor struck me. It wasn't just the smell of candles burning inside the pumpkins. It was something else, something I couldn't put my finger on at the time but would later come to know as rotting meat. Like a free thing. Caesar full of pork loin had gone bad in the cellar. But not only that, it was burning.

A moment what felt like a lightning strike went through my nervous system. A surge of adrenaline jumped started by the piercing scream of my mother. I'd never heard her scream before. I'd never heard anyone scream like that. She bolted up the steps within seconds and shoved me back into the room slamming the basement door behind us. Moments later, we were out the front door and dashing for the car. car. She urged me frantically into the vehicle and locked the doors. I slid into the plush seat and barely had my seatbelt on before we were moving. Fast. We laid rubber out of the driveway

as she punched 911 into her cell phone. Mom peered straight ahead as we sped through the residential neighborhood. She peered ashen, pale. Her breasts were uncontrolled. Tears rolling down her cheeks as the lights of the dashboard reflected into her eyes. I now know she was in shock. her reflexes on autopilot. Were there monsters down there, Mom? There was no response. She only sniffed and wiped flowing tears onto her sleeve. Only when the 911 operator finally answered

did she muster a voice and request police and emergency response to Grandpa's address. The rest of that night is a blur of flashing lights. It thankfully fades with each passing year. It was quite some time before I could fully comprehend. what had transpired in that house. Many years before I could wrap my mind around those events. Even now, it seems unbelievable.

There were seven bodies recovered from the basement to that home in various stages of mutilation, one of which was my real grandpa. A man I would never meet in person, and now only recall from dim memories of friendly long-distance phone conversations. Another body phone was out of young Carrie, would visit at us that evening.

Just a chance encounter as she sold tickets to a fall carnival. An unfortunate encounter that ultimately resulted in her untimely and violent demise. Of course, there had been insufficient time for the old psycho to butcher her as he had with the others. The remaining victims consisted

of a family from next door and a very unlucky delivery man who had likely happened by at the wrong time. It became quite a national sensation, the shocking crimes that occurred in that modest Midwestern town. My mom sheltered me for most of it. She displayed a poison in the midst of that trauma that frankly amazes me even now. And today we rarely speak of the experience, though it still draws attention. Reporters still loom in the bushes on occasion with microphones in hand from various news outlets and cold case shows.

But at the time, there were endless questions from police and the FBI and child psychologists, a parade of incarceration photos of various men who could have been the murderer, but ultimately were not. Speculation continues to this day. I'm sure that house was flipped upside down in an effort to turn up fingerprints and DNA evidence, but nothing ever matched profiles within the government database. It was as if the old man, didn't exist, like you'd vanished into thin air, never to resurface again. It's believed that the All Hallows serial murders began back in 1974, long before I was born.

That year, a few days before Halloween, the bodies of two young women and a young man were discovered decapitated in a park in upstate New York. On the night as the 31st, a group of trick-or-treaters came upon their hollowed-out skulls, perched on the front porch of an innocent couple's residence 20 miles away, candles lit inside their rotting craniums, burning like jackalantrons. They were the first victims of the All-Hallows killer, the first victims of the sadistic practice he referred to as the work. The first of many.

The old man, who was certainly not so old back in 1974, left a trail of headless corpses across the north of. east and Midwest, sparing the world only a handful of bloodless octobers. Maybe the dreams didn't haunt him those ears. Maybe Larry left his tortured soul alone long enough to find happiness for a short period. But even so, as the All-Hollows murders have shown, the old man was more prolific than Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy combined, and much more careful in covering his tracks, remaining free to murder again and again his whole life.

But following that day 12 years ago, no further slings were committed with the same signature, the same MO. Perhaps he really was terminally ill, but by most accounts he is still considered a large, a sleeping monster. I myself am still plagued with nightmares and probably always will be. Certainly the aftermath of my short time with the old man had compounded at the dreams. I'm haunted by the painful guilt of not realizing what he was. Not being able to warn Carrie, she need not step into the house that day that she was walking into a trap. I see her

face. I see her smile. And I recognize that these things will never be again. The guilt is sometimes overwhelming. Sometimes I still see the old man clearly as well. With that elder gentleman's charming smirk, carving away, sharp blade in hand. But in my dreams, he's not carving pumpkins as we did that afternoon. No. He carves into decapitated human heads, peeling away flesh and gray matter with the same skill he exhibited with jackal lanterns, the same demented glee. He could have slipped my throat as easily as taking a breath, as easily as slaughtering the

others. Yet he didn't. And I'm often left wondering, why? I suspect he was grooming me for something, that he saw some familiar sparkle in my eyes that reminded him of another little boy, perhaps myself, that the old man reasoned with his own encroaching mortality that Larry would need a new accomplice to continue their work. And now, On this October night, once again, sleep eludes me. I lay awake in my dorm room, too frightened to sleep, too frightened to move like a child. I feel as if paralyzed by the darkness and I remain silent.

Maybe those demons I fear that lurk unseen in the place between consciousness and dreams. Maybe they can't find me if I just stay still. On evenings like this I listen for, for that voice that the old man mentioned, to one that visits in the quiet of midnight and takes the terrible dreams away. Larry, the slayer of monsters, the one that speaks of the work, the bloody, dreadful work. As the moments stick away, I continue to lie here and wonder as a deeper dread falls over me. I wonder if I hear that voice.

What will I do? Whatever will I do? Will I answer? Will I, unlike the old man, have the courage to refuse a foste and bargain with this monster slayer? No such thing as monsters. My mom always proclaimed, but she was dead wrong. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast,

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