Happy Halloween!

It's that time of year again--a time of mystery and excitement, of candy and costumes and monster movies. It's that time where, for one night a year, the rest of the world comes around to my way of thinking, enjoying my favorite genre ;)

As with every year, I've seen my fair share of posts and articles written by some of my Christian brothers and sisters denouncing the holiday and listing all of its pagan origins. Like every year, I've resisted writing my own massive write-up defending Halloween up until this point, because I get exhausted just thinking about it. Yet, I'm going to give it a try, not by discussing where Halloween came from (and it's a LOT of different customs and certainly not all of them pagan), but what it means today. What it's always meant to me.

First and foremost, Christ was (most likely) NOT born Christmas morn. Christmas has just as much--if not more--pagan origins as Halloween, and yet the Church has "redeemed" that holiday. So why not Halloween?

I think the bottom line is that people fear Halloween for the same reasons they fear the terror genre: Because it deals with monsters, ghosts, and goblins. All ghastly, unpleasant things that are spoken AGAINST in the Bible. This year, I received a pamphlet from a local church telling me that, if I were participating in Halloween, I was breaking the commandment not to summon and speak to the dead. If I were holding a seance on October 31st, I would agree with them. But, in the Mitchell home, no ghosts, spirits, or devils are being prayed to, conjured, or otherwise contacted.

The monsters of Halloween and the monsters of my favorite films are just not real. It's fantasy. More than that, perhaps, it's an artform. Haven't you been watching Face Off on the Syfy Channel? Watch as these artists craft the most terrifying and ghoulish makeups. It's fascinating! But, more importantly, it's all fake. No real monsters, here, guys. Just the images of them. Powerful images that, I believe, serve a purpose. But more on that in a minute.

I also read an article this year that assured me that a coven of witches gathered at all the candy factories and pronounced curses over every--yes, every!--bag of "Halloween candy" (how can you tell the difference between a Reese's given in honor of the occasion and an old bag leftover from September?) to administer to unsuspecting boys and girls to bring demons into their lives. Of course, I've also heard of preachers in the past revealing to their congregations that rock bands such as KISS prayed to Satan over every single CD before it went to stores--yes, every single CD! That must have taken a long time!!

Look, I don't want to belittle another believer's convictions, but guys this is just silly. Most importantly, it's superstitious. Wasn't it in 1 Timothy 4:7 where we're instructed to "Have nothing to do with myths and old wives' tales; rather, train yourselves to be godly"? I hear this verse quoted to warn AGAINST Halloween and yarn-spinnin', but I rather see it as a means of calming down the hysteric masses that believe there is some type of demonic conspiracy by candy factories to break down the Christian home.

I've heard testimonies of believers who were once caught up in the occult and this year is a painful reminder of their old bonds. As I've said in the past regarding the horror genre--if that is your experience, then by all means avoid it. I wouldn't encourage a recovering alcoholic to work in a bar. But, in keeping with that metaphor, the Bible doesn't say that it's wrong for Christians to drink--only wrong for them to get drunk. I feel the same can be said of Halloween night and the world of scary stories. Enjoy it, but don't over indulge. Dress up like ghouls, but don't actually start seeking to contact them. Draw that line between fantasy and reality and adhere to the real. 

So what are Christians to do about Halloween? In my experience, people get so caught up in the trappings of the holiday, or horror as a genre, and they see this frightening outer covering, but they never take the time to look underneath the mask to discover the REAL reason people are attracted to these things. I won't deny that Halloween is a macabre occasion. No other holiday is celebrated by televised marathons of endless movies of young virgins being chased by guys in hockey masks or bloodthirsty vampires. I turn it on Sirius satellite radio this time every year for the awesome old songs like The Monster Mash, but I also have to contend with the monotonous and sometimes annoying sound effect tracks of screams and moans and weeping. Not very celebratory! We're essentially celebrating death, right?

But where the detractors get it wrong, I believe, is that we're not worshiping death and darkness (well, I'm sure someone is, but most of us aren't). No, for one night a year, we face it, with eyes open. We talk about death, we share ghost stories, we dress like the things that frighten us. We adorn our houses in images of the grave and fright. This isn't a night to be afraid, though, this is a night to confront those things that terrify us the other 364 days of the year. For one glorious night, we look those monsters square in the eye--and then we exchange candy! We laugh, we run, we shout, we crow. In a word, friends, we live. We live on this night! In spite of the ghosts and ghouls prowling the streets, we live! We go to the spookiest houses, and the door creaks open, but only to reveal the kind, smiling faces of neighbors we may never talk to other than this night. We connect with our communities; we're sharing a collective experience, connecting to a communal memory of Halloweens past. This is a night of friendship, of family, of hearth and home.

My conclusion is simple: I say open your door to your neighbors tonight. There are children behind those costumes that need love--yes, the love of Christ. This is THEIR night, after all, just as it was yours when you were young and innocent to all the very real terrors of the world. Halloween is a marvelous night when all children are the same. The social or economic lines that divide us are gone for this one night. All they want is a kind smile, an encouraging word, and a handful of candy. I know from my own kids' Halloween experiences that these little ones are out there and some of them are terrified by the creatures they see roaming the darkened streets, but they're out there all the same. They've donned their masks of empowerment and are braving the night, facing death, fighting against their own fears. Reward them with an open heart and a chocolate, for goodness sake. Let them know that there are kind people in this world and that they don't have to be scared. Be there for them.

After all, it's Halloween. :)

Have a safe and happy night!

Interview with Sam Whittaker: Writer of "A Ghost of Fire"

Continuing our month-long celebration of all things spooky (though, around here, is that any different from the rest of the year? :p), we sit down with Sam Whittaker, author of A Ghost of Fire. While the rest of the horror world, it seems, is still ate up with zombie or vampire fever, Sam's going old school, telling a classic ghost story with a modern twist.

Greg Mitchell: Thanks for stopping by, Sam. Tell us a bit about yourself.

Sam Whittaker: I feel like I wear a lot of hats these days. Part of that is due to the fact that I’m a bi-vocational church planting pastor on a pastoral team of two in Port Orchard, WA, so I live in the workaday world as a maintenance assistant at a private school and I try to navigate through the waters of starting up something fresh from the ground up. So there’s administrative things I do, operations stuff, dreaming and shaping the vision, teaching/preaching, small group leading, etc. Our new church is called “The Bridge” and you can find out more about that at www.thebridgepo.org. We’re getting ready to launch weekly gatherings on October 23rd. We’re exceptionally excited.

Then there’s the family side of things. I’m married and we have (so far) three energetic little hobbits that run around and make life VERY interesting.

And, as if that all weren’t enough, I love to write. I’ve got three books under my belt now with plans for more. Aside from that I’ve just started writing articles for an online magazine called “Surrender,” which is completely free, and based locally here in western Washington state and I also write a blog from time to time on writing and creativity issues.

GM: Busy indeed! Your debut novel A Ghost of Fire was just released. What’s the book about?


SW: Basically we meet Steve Nicholas--by the way, the whole story is told directly from his perspective--who’s pretty much your “everyman” who struggles to get by because he’s been unemployed for six months. As fate would have it, he lands a position as a janitor and that’s when things start to get interesting. He starts to smell smoke when there’s no fire. He also starts to hear echoes of childlike laughter and strange messages get left on his answering machine…and then some more sinister stuff starts happening and he realizes he’s being haunted. So he has to come to terms with that and figure out why so he can make it all stop. The story basically grows and builds in intensity and mystery from there.

GM: This is the first in a series, correct?

SW: Yes, this book is 1 of 4. The reason for that is this: The series is called the “Ghostly Elements.” In classical thinking, the Greeks believed the cosmos was made of 4 elements--Fire, Water, Wind, & Earth (And possibly something else called “Aether” which was intangible and sort of spiritual). So, each of the books will focus on one of these 4 elements as a sort of backdrop to the story. I wanted each book to be more or less self-contained, but I also wanted a way to have an over-arching theme to the series.

Steve is the primary protagonist in all four, though he’s joined by a few others, some of which you will meet in A Ghost of Fire, and some others will join along the way. Aside from the ghosts themselves (not all of which are bad, by the way) Steve is going to have to overcome some other personal challenges in each of the books. You see, I don’t like reading stuff where the characters are static or perfect so I promised myself I’m not going to write that way either. I think it makes for much better writing overall and it makes the characters themselves easier to relate to, because if we’re honest, that’s how we are too: we’re all in process.

GM: Looking at your site, I see you’ve previously written two non-fiction books. Why the jump to fiction?

SW: Part of it’s the need for a challenge. I’m used to thinking and writing stuff where you essentially have an essay and you’re dealing with themes and concepts and it’s not always easy to make those things concrete. I really wanted to try my hand at a different style and form.

Additionally, I just love a good story. And I think because that’s how we live (in story, not in detached concepts) that we communicate and gain understanding first through narrative. If you’re a Christian, ask yourself, how much of the Bible is an essay? Basically, none of it is. Now, how much of it is narrative, or narrative poetry? Basically, all of it is.

GM: Very true. What was the inspiration behind this book/series?

SW: Part of it was my own fear growing up of just the idea of what a ghost is. I mean, you can always stake a vampire in the heart or shoot a werewolf with a silver bullet. Unless you have a proton pack handy, you’re pretty much screwed with ghosts. They’re not going anywhere any time soon.

I just sat down and asked myself, what’s the scariest “monster” I can think of? The answer for me is ghosts. Hands down.

GM: I’m assuming, given the subject matter, that you’re a fan of the genre. What were some of your favorite scary stories/movies growing up?

SW: You know, one of my favorite movies growing up was Ghostbusters. I liked it because it had a bit of a scary edge to it (if you were five like I was when I first saw it, anyway) but it was also funny. I mean, Bill Murray still makes me laugh in those films. It was well balanced. Then I saw a lot of the A Nightmare on Elm Street movies, probably when I was way too young to see them. It’s a “slasher,” but Freddy is also kind of a ghost too, you know? And those definitely left a mark, which I think the discerning reader might see in A Ghost of Fire.

GM: That's funny that you just named two major influences in my own childhood, ha ha. Product of the '80s, I suppose. Now that you mention it, I suppose Freddy is a traditional ghost--excepting haunting minds rather than houses. So, what authors inspire you? Who do you love to read?

SW: For fiction, I love to read Stephen King, but more because of his writing style than subject matter. I think he’s one of the most readable writers out there today. His Dark Tower series is fantastic and I loved Duma Key. For the aspiring writer his book, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, should be required reading.

GM: Yeah, I think it's a shame that there are so many Stephen King fans out there who have never read (or, in some cases, even heard) of the Dark Tower stuff. I love that series and am pretty excited about the new book he's writing for it.

SW: I’m also a HUGE Star Wars nut so I read a lot of those novels.

GM: Me, too!

SW: My favorite authors in the Star Wars universe are Matthew Woodring Stover and Timothy Zahn.

Non-Fiction is completely different. I love N.T. Wright, Brennan Manning, and Donald Miller, just for starters. Anything written by them is fair game for my library. I’ll occasionally read a biography too. Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up was good. I could go on and on…but I won’t.

GM: I love what you said on your site about metrosexual sparkling vampires aren’t scary to you—so you chose to write ghosts because ghosts scare you the most. I think, in the current trend, ghosts are kind of an underplayed “monster”. Everyone’s all about zombies and vampires and the occasional werewolf. Why ghosts? What is it about ghosts that scare you/interest you? Any real life ghost stories in your sordid past?

SW: I think you’re totally right about Ghosts being underused in the genre at present. I think the thing about ghosts is that there’s always going to be this sense of mystery about them. There’s an undeniable mystique there that’s hard to put into words. In the stories you hear people tell about alleged real experiences they’re ephemeral, intangible, but somehow they can manipulate the physical environment. If you encountered that in some kind of menacing form and you didn’t soil yourself as a result, you’ve either got massive mental problems, or you’re Chuck Norris.

GM: Chuck Norris scares ghosts back to life.

Your non-fiction work is Christian teaching--how much of a role does your faith play in your fiction? Or does it? Would you say your non-fiction and fiction are designed for the same audience?

SW: The faith is a lot more subtle in my fiction. What I want to do with the series is work through basic issues of belief that there is much more to life than what we perceive through our five physical senses. But I want to do that in a way which serves the story and doesn’t interrupt the flow of the narrative. I’m not really hammering out a philosophy in my fiction as would someone like Terry Goodkind. I love Terry’s characters in the beginning of the Sword of Truth series, for example, but by about book 6 in that series the speeches are getting really long, and boring. By book 8 I just found it annoying. Shut up and tell the story.

GM: I'm sure there are many readers who will agree with you! Now, A Ghost of Fire is self-published. I know those waters all too well from my earlier experiences! What made you decide to go the do-it-yourself route? Are you still interested in being traditionally published?

SW: Right now I’m a little intimidated by the huge machine that is traditional publishing. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind getting picked up by a respectable traditional publisher, but I worry sometimes about how much the commercialism can overtake the art. I understand the grammar has to work, and I’m cool with that, but at the same time I don’t want some study or focus group somewhere to determine how I’m going to have to rewrite a scene or section.

GM: Well, that's understandable, but I think you can rest a little easier on that front. We've all heard the horror stories of editors who want to rewrite an author's story--but I think those have sort of become myth. Talking to other authors, I think that's not usually the case. I've had a great experience with my publisher, and while there are compromises to be made from time to time--so far very very minor--publishers seem way too busy with running the business to get that involved in your story :p Moviemaking on the other hand, is a whole different beast with lots of people sticking their fingers in your paint and smearing things up and that's when focus groups often enter the equation, but with a novel, it's not near as bad. It largely depends on finding the right publisher for your project and developing a good working relationship with them. I wouldn't give up!

How has your self-publishing experience been so far? What are the pros and cons of taking this road that you’ve seen?

SW: Every once in a while I perform a seminar I created called “The Peaks and Pitfalls of Self Publishing” where I go through my experiences and some of the nuts and bolts of what the Self-Pub industry is really like.

The great thing about Self-Publishing is you don’t have to wait weeks and weeks just to get rejection letters from agents or publishers. The path to publication is pretty much already paved for you if you have the patience (or the money to pay someone who has the patience to do it for you). It affords greater freedom and pushes you to think more creatively. You basically have to become the publisher and that makes you do some serious work, but it can be very rewarding work when you hold that first copy of your own book in your hands.

The really hard thing with Self-Publishing right now is that there is such an enormous amount of people out there who are putting material out that it’s super hard to get an audience. The marketing is totally in your hands unless you can pay someone a few thousand dollars to do it for you…which I can’t.

GM: I'll let you in on a little secret: Even in the traditional publishing world--unless you're Stephen King, probably--you've still got to be out there in the mud trying to get an audience and promote your work. And it is tough. A lot of voices in the crowd and you're trying to stand out.

Thanks for talking with us today, Sam. I hope we've done a little to get your voice just a little louder than the others for awhile. Where can people buy your book?

SW: You can go to my website,where it is available in trade paperback and multiple E-book formats (Kindle, NOOK, PDF, etc) through Smashwords. You can also get the paperback and Kindle format directly from Amazon.com.

Thanks again to Sam, and to you guys for participating in today's discussion. Visit Sam's site and check out his book. The ebook is available for less than a $1! However, if you're like me and need a little more convincing on trying out new writers, Sam's provided this handy link where you can read the first five chapters of A Ghost of Fire for free! Take advantage of that--you might just find a new favorite author.

Once again, let me remind you to stay tuned here. On October 30th, I'll be posting the first ever released excerpt from my next fright tale Enemies of the Cross!

"The Coming Evil: The Last Halloween" Part Two of Two

READ PART ONE

And now, the conclusion...



PART TWO

Halloween. Back then.

Their trick-or-treating done, eight-year-old Dras and Rosalyn hopped into the back of the Chevette. Rosalyn’s dad turned the radio to KDZY and tuned in to the special Halloween broadcast that played “Monster Mash” on a nearly endless loop, broken up only occasionally by “Werewolves of London” or “Nightmare on My Street”.

And, as usual, Rosalyn’s dad began to sing along with Bobby “Boris” Picket in his best—though undeniably terrible—Bela Lugosi voice. He gestured with his hands and pretended he had a cape, singing proudly.

“Your dad’s so cool,” Dras whispered in total awe, knowing he’d never see Jack Weldon indulging in such frivolity.

Rosalyn hid her face. “Daaad.”

Her dad leaned into the backseat, tickling Rosalyn’s side. “I vant to dlink your blood!”

She laughed hard and slapped at him playfully. “Stop it! You’re such a big dork!”

#

Fourteen years later, the laughter from that night still rang through her memories.

Rosalyn and Dras drove in silence. Seeing the Chevette again reminded Rosalyn of all the things in Greensboro she sought to escape. Pain. Death. Yes, there were good times, most of them spent with the “Weird Avenger” seated beside her, but…were they enough to keep her here?

Finally Rosalyn ventured, feeling nauseous, “I think I’m ready to go home.”

Dras balked at her, “We were just getting started.”

“Dras,” she said flatly, cutting through his boyhood theatrics. “I…”

He grew dark and the joyous mask that seemed fixed to his face slipped to reveal the man Rosalyn knew he could be if he’d just let it happen. “It’s the Chevette. Isn’t it?” he asked quietly, thoughtfully. “Thinking about your dad?”

Dad…

The word brought so many images to Rosalyn’s mind. Her dad playing guitar on the back porch, practicing for a gig with one of his bands. He frequented bars, fairs, and Main Street Festivals, singing Bob Segar covers and strumming a few originals, as well. By day he was a factory worker, a drone enslaved to the system, but by night Rosalyn saw the magic come alive in his eyes. He told stories and played songs, and on Saturday afternoons he took her and Dras wherever they wanted to go in his sky blue Chevette.

Then one afternoon, ten years ago, he blew his head off with a shotgun. No note. No good-bye. No explanation. It was quite possibly the moment that defined her life the most. Over the years, it had become the chain that kept her tied to Greensboro.

What would her Dad think about her leaving town? Would he be happy for her? Or angry that she was running away from his memory?

“Yeah,” Rosalyn admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s no big deal,” Dras replied, his voice warm and considerate. Suddenly he was a totally different person. “You don’t like Pod People anyway. But, you don’t have to be alone, you know? I mean, you shouldn’t be alone.”

But I am alone, she thought to say, but didn’t. She and Dras had been practically conjoined at the hip since birth, but when her daddy took his life, a wedge came between them, an unconquerable chasm that now grew ever larger. Dras stood on the side where youth and dreams lived, and Rosalyn where burdens and doubts dwelt. Dras believed in the magic of Halloween—of escapism and fantasy. Rosalyn hadn’t believed in much of anything since she was twelve. She thought, on occasion, to probe Dras further regarding God, faith, and the afterlife. After all, his dad was a preacher and Dras went to church all the time, albeit late. But this was Dras. The deepest thought he had was probably who would win in a fight between Darth Vader and Optimus Prime. Once after her father’s death, Rosalyn tried to believe in something beyond death. That same year she took a trip to the North Woods in search of her father’s ghost. She was just a kid, and it was a stupid delusion.

But tonight, seeing her father’s Chevette after all these years made her wonder.

What if Dad really is still out there, somewhere?

#

Rosalyn dropped Dras off at his apartment, and headed home. Sullenly, she parked the car on the curb and walked toward the front doors of her apartment building, jangling her keys, envious of the kids that ran by her, shouting and crowing into the night air.

Was I young like that? Yes, she had the memories to prove it. I wish I could be again.

Behind her, an echo from the past—the sound of bubbling potions—grew steadily louder.

It was the opening of “Monster Mash”.

The deep bass thrummed, echoing in the night, creeping on her back. She heard the familiar roar of an engine as bright light splashed against her, casting an elongated Rosalyn-shaped shadow in front of her. Like a sentry, the shadow stared her down, barring her passage home, commanding that she turn and face what she feared most.

She swiveled reluctantly, fixed to Fate’s design.

Sure enough. The Chevette.

Rosalyn held up a hand to shield the headlights’ beam, struggling to see inside the vehicle. The driver remained anonymous, only a dark shape, his glowing eyes boring straight through her heart.

“Who—who—?”

The engine stopped. The car rumbled to a hungry purr before dying out altogether, but the bright lights held Rosalyn in their sway. Ever so slowly, the sky blue door creaked and groaned open and a tall, lanky shape shambled forth.

Dras’ words shook her: Here we are, on Halloween night—the night when anything is possible…

“Dad?” Rosalyn whispered, her throat catching.

“Rosalyn?” the shape asked, one trembling arthritic hand raised to grab her. To keep her in Greensboro.

No. God, no.

Adrenaline burst through her veins like hot mercury, igniting her instincts. She turned around, breaking free of the headlights and their sticky luminescence and raced for the door to her building. Rosalyn tore through the door, knowing she had no time to lock it. The thing that was not—could not be—her father would be right behind her.

Instead, she clambered up the steps, two at a time, holding in a terrified shriek as she hurriedly unlocked the door to her apartment. With all her weight, she barreled into the dark room and slammed the door shut behind her, catching just a glimpse of the shadowed, lilting figure hobbling for her door.

“No!” she screamed. “Stay away!”

Dumb hands banged against the door and frame, and Rosalyn pressed herself against the wood, near tears. “Please… Just go away…”

“Rosalyn…” the thing on her doorstep moaned. It was the sound of graves opening and dead fathers returning for their daughters.

Here we are, on Halloween night—the night when anything is possible…

No, Daddy! No…I’m sorry for wanting to leave! I’m sorry! Don’t be mad, Daddy!

“Rosalyn Myers,” the voice said more clearly. “Are you Rosalyn Myers?”

Rosalyn’s heart fell into a steady boom-boom-boom as tense seconds passed. “Who are you?”

“I have something for you,” the man on the other side of the door answered. He sounded strong, though elderly. And a bit annoyed. “If you’re not too busy, that is.”

Suddenly feeling very embarrassed, yet still apprehensive, Rosalyn cracked open the door. “Who—?”

An unfamiliar man with insanely bushy eyebrows and a definitive limp barked, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“What do you want?” she pressed.

“Paul Myers your daddy?”

She swallowed, her heart slowing. “Uh…yeah. He is. Was.”

“That car out there—that his?”

“It used to be,” Rosalyn said, her brow furrowing. “I think.”

“Yeah, I met your pop a time or two. He was real good with a guitar.”

Dumbfounded, Rosalyn replied, “Thanks.”

“I just bought that car today. Was digging through the glovebox and came across something. I recognized him. Thought the other’n might be you.” With swollen hands, the man reached out for the crevice in the door. He held a Polaroid.

Carefully, for she was not accustomed to taking things from strange men, Rosalyn took the photo and turned it over.

“Looked you up in the phone book,” the man continued. But Rosalyn could not hear him.

She broke down in tears.

#

“Well, how’d you do tonight, pumpkin?”

Eight-year-old Rosalyn Myers finished watching Dras scurry up to his house, where his mother stood on the front porch, shaking her head with a sort of resigned indignation at his Halloween enjoyment. Rosalyn allowed herself a giggle before turning to her dad seated in the driver’s seat.

“Pretty good, actually.”

“Have fun, then?” her father asked brightly.

“Yeah.”

“I love Halloween,” he said, looking at the show that unfolded before him on the streets. His eyes happily glazed over. “Always a lot of fun. Life should be fun sometimes, too. Not always work.”

He winked at Rosalyn, and she grinned.

“Oh!” he said, reaching for something in the backseat. “I almost forgot!”

“Daaad,” she whined, rolling her eyes, but still unable to remove the grin.

“It’s a tradition. You can’t expect me to abandon tradition, Roz.”

He brought out a Polaroid camera and squeezed close to his daughter. He held the camera at arms length, aiming it back at father and daughter. “Come on, now,” he grinned, “Time to take our picture so we can show Mom all the fun she’s missing. Say ‘cheese’!”

Rosalyn stretched her smile and said “Cheese” through strained teeth. Dad snapped the picture and Rosalyn deflated, putting on her best aggravated look, though its sincerity was questionable.

“There?” she asked. “You happy now?”

Her dad waited for the photo to eject and began to flap it, hoping to coax it into developing faster. “I am,” he said, matter-of-factly, determined not to be brought down by her sourpuss. Then he softened and faced his daughter. “I just wanted to tell you, you’re a great kid. I love coming out here with you. Thanks for letting your old man tag along.”

Rosalyn blushed and could not hide her smile. “No problem.”

“I hope I can always tag along with you.”

“Yeah,” Rosalyn sighed, feigning consideration. “If you promise not to be a skeeve.”

“Skeeve? Where do you pick this stuff up?” her dad laughed, reaching over for a hug. “Come’ere.”

They hugged, he tickled, and she laughed.

She laughed…

#

Rosalyn sat alone in her darkened apartment. Halloween’s moonlight sprinkled through the window, illuminating the photograph in her hand. There she was. Eight years old and dressed like a witch, fake nose with a wart and everything.

There was her Dad.

She cried over the photo for hours. Pained tears at first. Then happy tears.

For so long she had feared leaving Greensboro, feeling as though doing so would betray her father’s memory, but now those shackles were loosened. Somehow she thought her dad would approve. At least, she wanted to believe he did. It seemed he’d sent her a message tonight, a happy memory in the midst of her confusion to let her know he was always here, tagging along with her, wherever she went.

Ten years ago, out in the North Woods, Rosalyn lost her faith. She went looking for her father but she couldn’t find him. But tonight, on Halloween, the night when anything was possible, here he was. Still dead, but never gone.

Maybe it was possible to believe again. If only for one night.

Somewhere, “Monster Mash” played in the night and Rosalyn smiled.

Copyright 2009 Greg Mitchell

"The Coming Evil: The Last Halloween" Part One of Two

Hey, all. Before you ask, yes I'm still working on getting the Expanded Edition of Book One out to you. And, yes, Book Two is actually finished and waiting for Book One to be picked up and re-released. So, yes, it's going to be a little bit longer. I hate it, too, but that's the writing business.

In the meantime, I've written another "The Coming Evil" short story. This one is entitled "The Last Halloween" and serves as a sort of spiritual successor to "Among the Dead". If you haven't read "Among the Dead", you can follow the links to your right or click right here and enjoy the audio production (It's quite nice). "The Last Halloween" is split into two parts. Tune back in tomorrow for the conclusion.

Hope you enjoy.



PART ONE

Historian’s Note: This tale begins the last Halloween before the events depicted in “The Coming Evil, Book One: The Strange Man”


“What are you supposed to be?”

Dras Weldon stared down at his costume—a mismatched ensemble consisting of a cheap cloak, some too-large workman’s gloves, a moth-eaten fedora perched atop his perpetually disheveled sandy blonde mop top, and a pair of very strange copper and leather goggles—and regarded his auburn-haired friend with sharp eyes. “Um…hello? The Weird Avenger?”

“Weird’s right.”

“It’s steampunk,” Dras defended.

“Mhm,” Rosalyn Myers agreed, chuckling at Dras’ expense, as she closed and locked her apartment door behind her. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for trick-or-treating?”

Dras huffed as the two twenty-somethings walked down the apartment building corridor, then downstairs and into the twilight street below. Rosalyn’s question was an all-too-familiar one, and Dras’ answer remained the same. “No,” he said flatly, a bit offended. “You’re never too old to enjoy Halloween.”

Rosalyn grinned absently, stopping on the sidewalk to unlock her car. She hopped into the driver’s seat, and Dras took his rightful place at her side, though had a spot of trouble gathering his costumed self into a bundled heap before he closed the door. His efforts proved unsuccessful, and a corner of his cloak got caught in the door and flapped in the October breeze when Rosalyn pulled away from the curb.

Inside the car, Dras bounced with childlike excitement, admiring the pumpkins and harvest time decorations that populated Greensboro. Cartoonish ghouls and black cats smiled back at him from crudely painted murals on storefront windows.

“Man! Look at that one!” Dras nearly bashed his face into the window when he spotted a colorful werewolf cutout standing behind the drugstore glass. “Coulda used more gore, though.”

Rosalyn sighed wistfully, allowing her best friend his fun, though she really wished that he’d abandon such adolescent pursuits. Halloween was fun—in small doses—but Dras would, no doubt, outdo it by dragging her to a number of costume parties, as well as the obligatory trip to Corner Video Store where he would rent Invasion of the Pod People, again. In vain she began to think of excuses to wiggle out of watching the silly sci-fi movie with him for the umpteenth time, but resigned herself to play along. She felt she owed it to Dras.

After all, this was their last Halloween together.

He didn’t know that, of course. He also didn’t know that she was beginning to fill out college applications with the hopes of finally leaving Greensboro behind and going to school somewhere across the country. A particularly picturesque campus in Vermont called to her these days, and the excitement of broadening her horizons—seeing what the world had to offer her—filled her with a sense of hope she had not felt in a long time.

But what would she tell Dras? When would she tell him?

And perhaps the scarier question: Could she really leave Greensboro and all its ghosts? Would the past really let her go?

Gazing out into the passing night, watching the carefree children in garish costumes that dotted the small town horizon, Rosalyn felt a tinge of sadness pinch her heart. The same sadness she always felt at Halloween time.

Then, as if Fate had conspired to twist the dagger of painful memories just a bit deeper, she saw a Chevette. The Chevette.

The last time she’d seen that 1983 sky blue Chevette…

It’s not the same car, is it?

“Rosalyn?”

Rosalyn gripped the steering wheel tighter, her dark eyed-gaze fixed to her left where the dingy ’83 Chevette sat parked at the used car lot, staring back at her.

Is that the same car?

“Yello? Not ready to die yet.”

A car honk slapped Rosalyn’s senses and she jerked the wheel, pulling the nose of her vehicle back into the proper lane. Dras sat erect in the passenger seat, looking a bit frazzled. “Keep it between the mayonnaise and the mustard, will ya?” When his sarcasm failed to elicit a response, Dras turned to Rosalyn, seeing her pale and stiff. “Hey, it wasn’t that close of a call. I’ve had worse.”

Rosalyn didn’t respond. Now he grew concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought I just saw my dad’s old car.”

#

Halloween. Back then.

Eight-year-old Rosalyn Myers and her best friend Dras Weldon—just her age, to the day—sat in the backseat of her dad’s 1983 sky blue Chevette, peering out at the decorated spectacle that was Greensboro’s Main Street. Everywhere they looked pint-sized goblins and machete-wielding maniacs, werewolves and ghouls met their wide, wonder-filled eyes. As the Chevette slowly crept by, Jack O’Lanterns smiled at them, beckoning the two friends closer to dimly lit porches and a trick or a treat beyond every front door.

As per the rules whenever they went trick-or-treating, Dras and Rosalyn were only allowed to haunt well-traveled, inviting neighborhoods. The Chevette pulled to the curb, the back doors popped open, and Dras and Rosalyn went shrieking out into the night, their cries of unbridled mirth mixing with the din of other excited trick-or-treaters. Rosalyn dressed as a witch that year, all black gown and pointy hat and a fake, warty green nose strapped to her face. Her mother had protested, of course.

Meredith Myers, a girlie girl if ever there was one, pleaded with her daughter to dress as something more ladylike and becoming—like a ballerina, princess, fairy, or cheerleader. Whether she was following her own tastes or doing her best to exasperate her mother, Rosalyn stuck to the witch’s costume all the same and loved every second of it.

“Hey!” her dad called warmly from the Chevette, pointing to something in the front seat beside him. “You forgot your broom!”

Rosalyn skidded to a stop, still clutching her plastic pumpkin basket, and looked back at her father, his ponytail lightly waving in the breeze, and a somewhat goofy smile lighting up his stubbly face. He looked almost as excited as the trick-or-treaters who passed to and fro between them on the sidewalk. Rosalyn hurried back to the car, popped the door open, and grabbed the broom she’d confiscated from her mother.

“Thanks, Dad,” she muttered, slightly embarrassed, but thankful for his good-natured assist.

Her dad winked, “Bring me back some Sugar Babies or something. I’m starving out here.” Rosalyn grinned and rushed back to Dras’ side.

Dras, meanwhile, watched the witch approach with shades of disappointment, and Rosalyn felt momentarily guilty for having such a great costume. That year for Halloween—as every year—Dras was going as an unassuming little boy whose parents wouldn’t buy him a costume. Dras’ father, Jack Weldon, was the most respected pastor in their small town of Greensboro, and there were those in his congregation who avoided Halloween altogether. Jack didn’t mind a little Halloween fun, but Dras’ mother refused to allow her son, who came from “a good Christian household”, to go out parading on “the Devil’s holiday”. So the Weldons compromised, with Jack adopting a strict “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy where Dras’ October 31st endeavors were concerned. Dras was allowed to go out on Halloween, but his mother was not going to buy him a costume or even a decorated bag to catch chocolate treats.

Thankfully, Rosalyn’s dad had procured for Dras a ghost bucket of his very own, for which the little boy was most grateful.

“Ready?” Rosalyn asked, catching up to Dras, their baskets already heavy with candy goodness.

“I get to knock this time,” Dras declared.

Rosalyn rolled her eyes. “You knocked at the last house.”

“Did not!”

A sigh escaped Rosalyn, mature beyond her years. “You’re such a child.”

Dry autumn leaves swirled around their feet as the two friends scurried up porches, joining the ranks of their enthusiastic kin. Dras raced to the nearest two-story house and pounded hard, grinning ear to ear.

A short, heavily-made up platinum blonde woman answered, dressed professionally, as though she’d just come home from the office. “Well, hi there, Dras.”

“Hey, Miss Lidell!” Dras beamed, holding out the ghost bucket. “Trick or treat!”

Miss Lidell, despite the dull, tired shine in her eyes happily obliged, dumping a lion’s share of goodies into Dras’ bucket. Rosalyn immediately stepped in line to receive hers, and could not help but spot the pack of Sugar Babies lying in the heap of Miss Lidell’s Halloween stash. When Miss Lidell instead handed her a couple pieces of taffy, Rosalyn blurted out, “Oh! Can I have one of those, too?”

Rosalyn glanced toward the street, where her father smiled back through the rolled-down window of the Chevette.

“It’s for my dad.”

#

The ’83 Chevette remained in Rosalyn’s mind for the rest of the night. An ever-present intruder, it continued to stare at her from the used car lot in her mind no matter where Dras led her on his latest Halloween extravaganza.

She was only half-conscious of the here-and-now when Dras banged on a familiar door. A tired woman, now older, but still pleasant, emerged, expecting knee-high visitors.

“Hey, Miss Lidell!” Dras beamed, holding up a large sack, just begging to be filled by delicious sweets. “Trick or treat!”

Miss Lidell’s brows met in quizzical conference. “Dras, aren’t you a little old—” she hesitated and shouted over his shoulder to the plainclothes beauty on the sidewalk behind him. “Isn’t he a little old for trick-or-treating?”

Rosalyn shrugged indifferently, still thinking about the Chevette. In a moment Dras joined her at the yard’s edge, somewhat deflated. Rosalyn walked on pensively, Dras in tow, until his grumpiness finally demanded her attention.

“What’d she give you?”

Dras automatically reached into his bag, grabbed the offensive material, and held it before her, presenting his case. “Dental floss.”

Rosalyn perked up. “Ooh.”

Dras halted. “Ooh? Here we are, on Halloween night—the night when anything is possible—surrounded by magic and the very spirit of innocence! But it’s the dental floss that gets you excited?” The young man paused, letting the sad irony set in, then walked on, grumbling, “You’re sick. A sick heathen.”

Rosalyn did not titter or snicker or any of things she usually did when Dras made insane declarations. Instead, she remained broody and silent as they ventured the rest of the way to the video store.

Once inside, Dras yipped with joy, holding high the worn VHS copy of Invasion of the Pod People like King Arthur retrieving Excalibur. “Yes!!” Irritated patrons cut eyes his way, but Dras carried on obliviously, jogging up to where Rosalyn stood by the front window, nervously chewing her lip.

“Hey! I got it! No one checked it out yet!”

“Dras,” she began, barely audible, her mind distracted, “Look.”

Dras looked out the window, scanning the busy night. “Um…what?”

It sat parked across the street, in the grocery store’s parking lot. Facing her.

“That’s my dad’s Chevette.”

Dras lifted his steampunk goggles and squinted against the darkness. “Where?”

“I saw it earlier. Now it’s over there.” She inhaled slowly, cold air burning her lungs, as she spotted a dark shape sitting behind the wheel. Watching her. “I think it’s following me.”

READ PART TWO

Copyright 2009 Greg Mitchell

Irons in the Fire

Wow, been awhile since I've been on here, but don't think that means I haven't been working. Over the Christmas season, the Complete Star Wars Encyclopedia was released...featuring an entry for my very own Dusty Duck creation! That was a great treat, and now I'm immortalized in print for future Star Wars fans. Not bad.

Also, now available as a FREE DOWNLOAD at HalloweenComics.com is my original "Halloween" short story "White Ghost" inspired by the horror masterpiece by John Carpenter. This all-new tale expands on a little known character briefly seen in the first movie and is officially sanctioned by Trancas International, the guys who brought you the original "Halloween". So, in other words, for all you continuity nuts out there like me, yes, this baby's canon. Here's a quick blurb about the story and a sweet cover done up by Thomas Mason who worked on "Freddy vs. Jason vs. Ash" for DC/Wildstorm comics.

Nine years ago, Chris Hastings left Haddonfield behind. He ran away to escape his past, but his future wasn’t any more promising. So tonight, the night before Halloween, 1978, Chris is going back to Haddonfield, and the ghosts of his past aren’t the only thing waiting there for him.



Next up, I am very happy to announce that my zombie love story "Flowers for Shelly" has been picked up for the 2nd "Back From the Dead" Edition of the "Coach's Midnight Diner" anthology. This one is in print, folks, and already available for pre-order. I've kept a lid on this one for awhile. Didn't want to get anyone's hopes up (including my own), but Coach has my grinning mug plastered on his site so I feel it's safe to break the news. I'll keep everyone posted when the anthology is released.

I've also got a few other projects (some REALLY big ones) that I'm not ready to discuss just yet. But I've been very busy and I'm hoping to see many doors opened this year for me and my baby, "The Coming Evil". And, yes, before you worry too much, there's some news to report on that front, as well. Earlier I talked about writing an "Expanded Edition" of "The Coming Evil, Book One: The Strange Man". Well, over the Christmas break, I finished that edition and have been shopping it to different publishers. The book has really taken on new life and, even if you've already read it, it'll be a new experience. I've been careful not to change anything, per se. So that, if you've read the "Xulon Edition" only and jump to Book Two, everything will still make sense, but, believe me, you'll be missing out. Book One has some new dimensions, we meet some new characters, and it's really a blast.

While I'm waiting for God to open a door on that end, I've also been working on a follow-up to "The Coming Evil: Among the Dead". Just another little creepy tale to hold everyone over until we get picked up by a different publisher.

Alright, then, there's my massive update. There will be more to report soon. Stay tuned :)