Halloween's Perfect Storm by LC Cooper
By LC Cooper
Rated 4.25/5 based on 4 reviews
What happens when all elements come together one fateful night to create Halloween's "Perfect Storm?"
Copyright LC Cooper 2002 – 2010
Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.
Rated 4.25/5 based on 4 reviews
What happens when all elements come together one fateful night to create Halloween's "Perfect Storm?"
Copyright LC Cooper 2002 – 2010
Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This free ebook may be copied, distributed, reposted, reprinted and shared, provided it appears in its entirety without alteration, and the reader is not charged to access it.
Factors, such as those conditions that come together to create a “Perfect Storm,” wrapped around us as we entered into the Halloween weekend of 2002. We just completed unpacking from our move into a cozy apartment complex only a few minutes away from my job. The deal we got on the place was, shall I say, peculiar. Three months of free rent and a garage thrown in seemed over the top, but we weren't complaining. Did they know something we didn't?
With everything unpacked, we smiled warmly at each other as we plopped down onto our sofa for a relaxing night of rented movies and Chinese food. We got through the entire series of Nightmare on Elm Street films, but were unwilling to retire to the bedroom. So, there we remained, huddled in each others arms.
Who knows, maybe it was the gas from the food, or maybe the fact that we were scared s**less by our revved-up imaginations, but we awoke a few minutes after midnight to an eerie bluish-white glow coming from a corner of the living room. Only after our voices went hoarse from screaming like little school girls, did we regain our composure. We sheepishly turned off the TV and the glow it emanated vanished. Oh, sure, you sit there mocking us. Well, read on…if you dare, for the truth becomes even more bizarre. As I said before, this was to be Halloween’s “Perfect Storm.”
The place we had rented was in an apartment complex named “The Gables.” The property manager was a kindly, yet dusty old man named “Nate Hawthorne.” The road outside of our apartment was, of course, Elm Street. Our next door neighbor’s name was Jason. I'm not making this up.
On this particular Halloween morning, as we were pulling out of our garage, off to our right, perched atop a nearby chimney, were three vultures. They were facing us, poised as if ready to strike if we took our eyes off of them. Once on Elm Street, we had to swerve sharply to avoid running over a family of black cats that were ambling across the road. Later that evening, after picking up the Chinese food and videos, we came home to a skyline filled with a flock of vultures quietly settling onto our building’s roof. They were eerily back-lit by nothing other than a large full moon.
Then, there was this other matter. You’ve all seen it. Most of us pass by it every day of our lives and have become numb to its presence. And it sees us, no doubt, but not in some Orwellian and or grandiose or malevolent manner. No, it is not aggressive, but neither is it kind. It watches over us. It helps half of us find relief. Yet, it remains silent and unmoved by our presence. It can be moody; sardonically mocking The Frustrated who must race off when unable to gain entrance into its lair.
Two hours after turning off the TV that fateful Halloween night, I groggily fended off the second karate-chop to my chest. “What the…,” I angrily muttered to no one there. My wife had already leapt out of bed and was quickly making her way down the hall toward the source of a soft blue light! “No,” I screamed as I ran to rescue my wife from being drawn into the ethereal Poltergeist knock-off. “Not on my shift,” I, the bad-ass that I am, growled as I psyched myself up for battle.
After sloppily stuffing my glasses onto my face, I stubbed my big toe on the bedpost. I dropped to the floor. Thankfully, my impact was cushioned by my glasses, which had arrived on the carpet beneath me only moments before. Lying there in the fetal position atop my crushed glasses, I massaged my throbbing toe while I yelped like a Chihuahua.
“Shut up, you idiot,” was my wife’s emasculating reply to my piss-poor attempt at chivalry. “Shhh…you’ll scare it away,” she whispered.
Wiping away my girly tears, I hobbled down the hall to find out what was capable of captivating my wife while debilitating me in mere seconds. No, it wasn’t Fabio prancing around on our TV screen this time. It wasn’t the flock of vultures rummaging through our fridge. I stood there, mesmerized by…by…
Well, heck, I couldn’t tell. After all, I’m damned near blind without my contacts, and my glasses were mashed into a fine powder. All that friggin’ build-up and I couldn’t even see what the heck was going on. I tried rubbing my eyes, but the wasabi mustard I had forgotten to wash off my hands after dinner, peeled away layers of my eyeballs.
Anywho, my wife described to me a benevolent apparition. Four-feet tall, it stood before us, but had no visible feet. Its hands were also missing. The head was a perfect circle sitting atop a triangular, yet nondescript, dress. Two arms hung at an angle that gave us the impression its deodorant wasn’t quite yet dry. The two legs remained parallel and unmoving; just like an inflate-a-mate’s does when first filled with air (not that I know anything about that kind of stuff).
This was an all-too-familiar specter, but wracking our brains produced no answers. It remained in our living room for another three hours before it, and its blue-glowing background, slowly faded away.
The next morning came and went without incident. My wife and I met for lunch at a restaurant. Just before dessert, my wife excused herself, but not having a girlfriend to take with her, she dragged me along. As we turned the last corner, my wife let out a blood-curdling scream. The ghoulish fiend was there, waiting to ambush us.
"Guess I don't need to use the restroom after all," my wife whispered through her shock, as she tried to slowly back away.
"The guy who mops the floor later isn't going to be too happy with you, you know," I replied.
Patting the hair back down on my neck proved futile – it stuck straight out like my mother-in-law's mustache. While I distracted the spirit with shrill, childlike begging, my wife rummaged through her small clutch purse for anything that could help save us. Her Mace was useless and the Taser was equally ineffective. Her chain saw wouldn't start, and the .357 Magnum was out of bullets. "Why do women bother to carry such tiny purses," I wondered.
"Move on," we heard the impatient voice say, amazingly, from behind us. A wet thud followed by a groan gave us hope that the monster had slipped and fallen on the urine-splattered tile floor. No such luck. Instead, an old geezer lay there, out cold. Apparently, because our stand-off with the ghost occurred between the restrooms and the emergency-exit door, we unknowingly thwarted the old fart's attempt to skip out on his check.
Floating eye-level on the wall before us, our phantom remained unfazed. Here, although outnumbered and only twelve inches tall, the ghost refused to back down. "Go ahead, run the gauntlet," it seemed to sneer.
"You two look like you've seen a ghost," the busboy said to us, as he approached with a mop and bucket.
"Good, you see it, too!" we exclaimed in unison.
"See what?" was his clever reply.
"Why, the…the ghost!" we yelled as we pointed toward the bathrooms.
"Great," the busboy sighed. "I came into work today for this? It's not bad enough that I have to get this old deadbeat back on his feet and mop up his piss, but I get stuck with the two nutbags afraid of the sign for the Women's restroom?"
Yes, dear readers, it is true. The specter that haunted our home on Halloween night was none other than the figure used to identify the Women’s Restroom. We had been haunted by a toilet marker!
[maniacal, Vincent Price-like laugh]
Happy Halloween!
###
Author's Note:
I hope you enjoyed reading "Halloween's Perfect Storm." This story was factual, with the exception of the confrontation in the restaurant. Of all the things that could have haunted us, we get the House of Horrors discarded restroom prop.
Do you believe in ghosts, or are you curious about the possibility of their existence? One of my future novels will draw on a variety of factual experiences that happened to my family and me in Australia as well as the USA.
Thank you for your interest and your time.
Please visit my author's page within Smashwords.com. There, you can learn more about me and discover other titles, including ebooks, as they are published:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LCCooper
Also by LC Cooper, published at Smashwords and other fine retailers:
Copyright LC Cooper 2002 – 2010
Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords
With everything unpacked, we smiled warmly at each other as we plopped down onto our sofa for a relaxing night of rented movies and Chinese food. We got through the entire series of Nightmare on Elm Street films, but were unwilling to retire to the bedroom. So, there we remained, huddled in each others arms.
Who knows, maybe it was the gas from the food, or maybe the fact that we were scared s**less by our revved-up imaginations, but we awoke a few minutes after midnight to an eerie bluish-white glow coming from a corner of the living room. Only after our voices went hoarse from screaming like little school girls, did we regain our composure. We sheepishly turned off the TV and the glow it emanated vanished. Oh, sure, you sit there mocking us. Well, read on…if you dare, for the truth becomes even more bizarre. As I said before, this was to be Halloween’s “Perfect Storm.”
The place we had rented was in an apartment complex named “The Gables.” The property manager was a kindly, yet dusty old man named “Nate Hawthorne.” The road outside of our apartment was, of course, Elm Street. Our next door neighbor’s name was Jason. I'm not making this up.
On this particular Halloween morning, as we were pulling out of our garage, off to our right, perched atop a nearby chimney, were three vultures. They were facing us, poised as if ready to strike if we took our eyes off of them. Once on Elm Street, we had to swerve sharply to avoid running over a family of black cats that were ambling across the road. Later that evening, after picking up the Chinese food and videos, we came home to a skyline filled with a flock of vultures quietly settling onto our building’s roof. They were eerily back-lit by nothing other than a large full moon.
Then, there was this other matter. You’ve all seen it. Most of us pass by it every day of our lives and have become numb to its presence. And it sees us, no doubt, but not in some Orwellian and or grandiose or malevolent manner. No, it is not aggressive, but neither is it kind. It watches over us. It helps half of us find relief. Yet, it remains silent and unmoved by our presence. It can be moody; sardonically mocking The Frustrated who must race off when unable to gain entrance into its lair.
Two hours after turning off the TV that fateful Halloween night, I groggily fended off the second karate-chop to my chest. “What the…,” I angrily muttered to no one there. My wife had already leapt out of bed and was quickly making her way down the hall toward the source of a soft blue light! “No,” I screamed as I ran to rescue my wife from being drawn into the ethereal Poltergeist knock-off. “Not on my shift,” I, the bad-ass that I am, growled as I psyched myself up for battle.
After sloppily stuffing my glasses onto my face, I stubbed my big toe on the bedpost. I dropped to the floor. Thankfully, my impact was cushioned by my glasses, which had arrived on the carpet beneath me only moments before. Lying there in the fetal position atop my crushed glasses, I massaged my throbbing toe while I yelped like a Chihuahua.
“Shut up, you idiot,” was my wife’s emasculating reply to my piss-poor attempt at chivalry. “Shhh…you’ll scare it away,” she whispered.
Wiping away my girly tears, I hobbled down the hall to find out what was capable of captivating my wife while debilitating me in mere seconds. No, it wasn’t Fabio prancing around on our TV screen this time. It wasn’t the flock of vultures rummaging through our fridge. I stood there, mesmerized by…by…
Well, heck, I couldn’t tell. After all, I’m damned near blind without my contacts, and my glasses were mashed into a fine powder. All that friggin’ build-up and I couldn’t even see what the heck was going on. I tried rubbing my eyes, but the wasabi mustard I had forgotten to wash off my hands after dinner, peeled away layers of my eyeballs.
Anywho, my wife described to me a benevolent apparition. Four-feet tall, it stood before us, but had no visible feet. Its hands were also missing. The head was a perfect circle sitting atop a triangular, yet nondescript, dress. Two arms hung at an angle that gave us the impression its deodorant wasn’t quite yet dry. The two legs remained parallel and unmoving; just like an inflate-a-mate’s does when first filled with air (not that I know anything about that kind of stuff).
This was an all-too-familiar specter, but wracking our brains produced no answers. It remained in our living room for another three hours before it, and its blue-glowing background, slowly faded away.
The next morning came and went without incident. My wife and I met for lunch at a restaurant. Just before dessert, my wife excused herself, but not having a girlfriend to take with her, she dragged me along. As we turned the last corner, my wife let out a blood-curdling scream. The ghoulish fiend was there, waiting to ambush us.
"Guess I don't need to use the restroom after all," my wife whispered through her shock, as she tried to slowly back away.
"The guy who mops the floor later isn't going to be too happy with you, you know," I replied.
Patting the hair back down on my neck proved futile – it stuck straight out like my mother-in-law's mustache. While I distracted the spirit with shrill, childlike begging, my wife rummaged through her small clutch purse for anything that could help save us. Her Mace was useless and the Taser was equally ineffective. Her chain saw wouldn't start, and the .357 Magnum was out of bullets. "Why do women bother to carry such tiny purses," I wondered.
"Move on," we heard the impatient voice say, amazingly, from behind us. A wet thud followed by a groan gave us hope that the monster had slipped and fallen on the urine-splattered tile floor. No such luck. Instead, an old geezer lay there, out cold. Apparently, because our stand-off with the ghost occurred between the restrooms and the emergency-exit door, we unknowingly thwarted the old fart's attempt to skip out on his check.
Floating eye-level on the wall before us, our phantom remained unfazed. Here, although outnumbered and only twelve inches tall, the ghost refused to back down. "Go ahead, run the gauntlet," it seemed to sneer.
"You two look like you've seen a ghost," the busboy said to us, as he approached with a mop and bucket.
"Good, you see it, too!" we exclaimed in unison.
"See what?" was his clever reply.
"Why, the…the ghost!" we yelled as we pointed toward the bathrooms.
"Great," the busboy sighed. "I came into work today for this? It's not bad enough that I have to get this old deadbeat back on his feet and mop up his piss, but I get stuck with the two nutbags afraid of the sign for the Women's restroom?"
Yes, dear readers, it is true. The specter that haunted our home on Halloween night was none other than the figure used to identify the Women’s Restroom. We had been haunted by a toilet marker!
[maniacal, Vincent Price-like laugh]
Happy Halloween!
###
Author's Note:
I hope you enjoyed reading "Halloween's Perfect Storm." This story was factual, with the exception of the confrontation in the restaurant. Of all the things that could have haunted us, we get the House of Horrors discarded restroom prop.
Do you believe in ghosts, or are you curious about the possibility of their existence? One of my future novels will draw on a variety of factual experiences that happened to my family and me in Australia as well as the USA.
Thank you for your interest and your time.
Please visit my author's page within Smashwords.com. There, you can learn more about me and discover other titles, including ebooks, as they are published:
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/LCCooper
Also by LC Cooper, published at Smashwords and other fine retailers:
Copyright LC Cooper 2002 – 2010
Published by LC Cooper at Smashwords