A collection of horror stories varied like Halloween candy. Reach into the bag for a treat...or maybe a trick.
Werewolves, ghosts, zombies, and other less definable monsters prowl these pages. Like reaching into a stranger's bag for a treat, you may receive a trick...or feel needle teeth bite the soft underside of your questioning fingers.
TRICKS AND TREATS is a collection of horror stories that celebrates the forgotten tradition of horror being fun and entertaining. These tales are not meant to be meaty dinner but quick and sweet dessert treats, like Halloween candy hoarded under your pillow and snuck when the lights are out and the moon is full...
| Zack smiled at himself in the mirror. He was cool, and he knew it. Not as cool as Dad or Rodney, but good enough for this Halloween. His hair was slicked back for the first time by his own hand instead of his mother’s—she usually had to chase him around until the last possible minute on Sunday morning, all the time yelling at him about what the Jones’s might think if her son showed up with his hair out of order. White makeup covered Zack’s face and black smears painted hollows under his eyes. His mouth—though small—held cheap, plastic fangs. A pair of black RayBan sunglasses slipped down Zack’s nose and at that same moment the grease in his hair let go, and a cowlick peeked up as if to ask what was going on. Zack turned around with eleven-year-old enthusiasm to admire his cape. He had spent the better part of an hour in the downtown costume shop, The Costume Closet, picking out just the right one to suit the mighty Count Zack. Its vinyl span twirled restlessly against the air, billowing out like a cheap shower curtain. Zack adjusted his bow tie—first right, then back left—so it stood a micron straighter than it had before he touched it. There were traces of black makeup on his collar and under his fingernails, as well as smeared on his shirt cuff. Zack didn’t notice these things, however. He looked good. Downstairs, Mom called him for breakfast. “I don’t need breakfast. Count Zack needs blood.” He added an evil laugh that was sure to send the giddiest girls running, and smiled at himself. The plastic fangs almost fell out. “Hey, moron, didn’t you hear Mom?” His brother Rodney got one foot inside the door before he caught Zack’s reflection—Dracula makeup and all—in the mirror. A look of anger passed over his face. Zack only had enough time to utter an “uh-oh” before Rodney was on him, working him around into a headlock. ”What are you doing with my RayBans, moron?” Rodney spoke through gritted teeth. Zack’s breath exited his lungs in a great whooping rush. Being younger, and therefore lighter, he soon found his body slicing the air just as his cape had done a few seconds ago. Rodney swung him back and forth demanding why Zack had his sunglasses; why Zack had snuck into his room when he knew it was forbidden? Zack was trying to pull in enough oxygen to tell Rodney that he needed them because Count Zack was going to be forced to walk to school in the sunlight, and he had to protect his eyes or they’d burn out. If that happened, how would he be able to bob for apples or enjoy Mary Beth’s party tonight? Rodney didn’t seem to care. He swung Zack onto the bed and punched him in the stomach, then plucked the sunglasses from his face. Their mother’s flat voice floated up the stairs. “Come down, boys!” Leering, Rodney ran ahead of Zack who wheezed like a steam kettle in his renewed efforts to breath. * * * * “Mom, Rodney messed up my makeup.” |