Not Now...Mommy's Screaming: Flash Fiction: Ryan C. Thomas

A Word From Ryan C. Thomas

I get a lot of praise for my novel, The Summer I Died, but one of the first stories I ever sold--in fact it may have been the very first story I sold--was a Halloween story. I’d like to say it was a good story, but few first stories are. It was trite and derivative, but I was still proud of it. Even prouder that it was being included in an anthology benefiting READ, an organization that helps at-risk children.

I had heard about READ before because a couple of my favorite authors, namely Joe Lansdale and Andrew Vacchs, had mentioned them in their books and on their websites. I was, and remain, a massive fan of Joe Lansdale. Vacchs too, but Lansdale more so due to his horror and gonzo novels. Many of you might know him as the man who wrote the novella Bubba Ho Tep, which later became a movie starring Bruce Campbell. His Hap and Leonard novel series is debuting as a TV show on the Sundance Channel in 2016. He also wrote for both Batman: The Animated Series and Superman: The Animated Series. His awards list is too long to even mention here but he is without doubt one of the most prolific writers in history. I swear, the man must write a novel a week. Don’t believe me, go on eBay and look at his catalog. It’s overwhelming. If you’ve never read him, I heartily suggest his novel, The Bottoms. It’s one of my all time favorites. And he’s seriously one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet.

Point is, I was happy to sell the story to the READ anthology, but I nearly crapped myself when I saw Lansdale’s name on the list of contributors. Not only was Lansdale in, but so was Jeff Strand (author of the Andrew Mayhem series) Simon Clark, Herschel Gordon Lewis, and many more. I truly did not belong in this book! How did my lame little story get selected? I must have sent them a bribe in my sleep.

The anthology was called Hallow’s Eve. I don’t think too many people bought it. Sadly, if you google it now, you won’t find much, if anything, about it. It came and went without much fanfare, but I didn’t care. I just stared at the table of contents, seeing my name next to Lansdale’s, Clark’s, Strand’s, so many other notable names, and told myself that if I was going to appear alongside these people, I needed to write some better stuff!

The story I contributed was an homage to my childhood, and to the path across the brook I’d take to my friend’s house. We all lived in a very wooded area of town called Buttonwoods. Our neighborhood ran alongside a massive park. Heck, my grade school was called Park School. And the big rumor, for years, was that a clown lived in the woods and was kidnapping children. The story caused such a stir that one day the principal of our school called all the student to an assembly to tell us there was no clown in the woods.

And then kids started disappearing! They started finding bodies everywhere!

No, I’m kidding. No one disappeared. There was no clown. It was probably made up by someone who read Stephen King’s It. But holy shitballs if it didn’t scare us kids as we cut through the park, and the marshy bogs, and the brooks, to get to the other side of the town to see our friends.

I wrote the “Hallowed Shortcut” in honor of those creepy trips across the woods in which there were supposedly clowns and bogeymen. I wrote it about two friends who liked to give each other a hard time, like my friends and I did. If you’ve read The Summer I Died, you can see the genesis of the characters Tooth and Roger in this story.

But mostly I wrote it because I love Halloween.

The story is still not great, but I am not complaining. It was the first step on my journey and I got to sit at the table with big boys for a minute. It has not seen print since that book came and went in the blink of an eye over a decade ago and I couldn’t think of a better way to finally reprint it than in this guest blog--which I was elated to be asked to write. If nothing else, it’s kind of like getting a small Tootsie Roll in your Halloween candy sack; not the biggest or best candy you could get, but it’s still free candy, and that’s sweeter than no candy at all.

By the way, if you get a chance, swing over to the READ website and check them out. They’re doing good work. http://www.readalliance.org/

Happy Halloween!

Ryan C. Thomas

by Ryan Thomas

Originally published in the Hallowed Eve Anthology

to Benefit READ

Ms. Gullivan’s house. What a target! Every Halloween she gave us the worst candy, and every Halloween we paid her back somehow.

From the street, Derek urged me on. “Mike, c’mon, before the second coming."

I turned to him, again admiring his X-Wing Pilot costume, and gave him a thumbs-up. Then I put my foot through Ms. Gullivan’s jack-o-lantern with as much force as I could find in me. Splootch! Pumpkin exploded into the air, covering the steps, the door, and my hooker costume. My leg got tangled in the damn dress and I almost took a digger into the bushes that lined her house.

"Hell yeah!" Derek shouted. "F Ms. Gullivan in the A! Ugly old bitch."

I rushed back toward the street, trying to shake pumpkin out of my dress; I was already coated in it from the previous house’s pumpkin, which had been painted like a vampire until I'd put my foot through it. Together, Derek and I had destroyed just about every jack-o-lantern in the neighborhood, as was our annual MO on this night.

"This shit is getting sticky," I said, walking beside him down Pepper Drive, noticing how his once white Rebel Alliance helmet was splotched with orange goo. It was nearing ten o’clock and most trick-or-treaters were done for the night. Porch lights were extinguishing around us as the neighborhood went to bed. Only the squealing of tires on a nearby street spoke of any teenage hooligans still up to no good. Aside from us, anyway.

Overhead, the tawny moon was emerging from behind a patch of clouds like a fish eye rolling out to peek at us. All the pumpkin pulp on me was starting to stink. It wasn't so much the wetness that bugged me as the consistency of it. Try as I might to pull it from my costume, I only succeeded in gluing my fingers together.

“Nasty,” I said, whipping some at Derek. “That was a good one, huh?”

“That thing erupted,” he replied. “Yo, you got some in your eyebrows."

I ran my arm across my head and it came away orange. That was enough to make me feel a little queasy. I didn't even like pumpkin pie; this was starting to wig me out.

A muzak version of Green Day's “American Idiot” interrupted our chit-chat. Derek pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open, scowled. "Sonofa...my mom's texting me. She wants me home. She's on some new pill and it blows her anxiety through the roof.”

"She should take something for that."

"She does, another pill, but it gives her gas so only she only takes it when she sleeps. If she's awake she's on my case like a dog on a chick's panties."

"That's cool. I wanna go home and shower anyway. This pumpkin reeks. I smell like this Monday in homeroom and Danielle ain't gonna say two words to me."

"And that's different from any other day how?"

"Man, shut up. You don't know. She talked to me yesterday."

"You mean when she told you to stop kicking her chair?"

"Whatever," I replied, unhappy with this line of conversation. "You wanna cut across the park?"

"Nah, I heard Hutcher and his gang were rolling a keg out there tonight, getting loaded and jumping kids. He's crazy --Hannibal Lector crazy. Let's just cut through that field behind the mortuary. It comes out a street over from my house."

I nodded. We were no strangers to the shortcut. Only reason we didn't take it more often was because a) it was full of thorn bushes, and b) well you know, too many horror movies. But I'd take real life zombies over Hutcher and his primate army of thugs any day.

Throwing our candy-filled pillowcases over our shoulders, we turned onto Howell Street, hoofed it down Union, and took a left on Bishop Drive, which was one of those streets with businesses at one end and homes at the other. The mortuary was the last business before the homes started, flanked on the other side by a card shop. Behind it was a large field that used to have a swing set for the owners' kids. But the kids were in college now and the swing set had been replaced by more thorn bushes. Beyond the field, though, was a thicket of trees through which a small creek ran. And finally, after that, was Derek's street. I lived a few blocks away from him.

We made a couple of jokes about ghosts as we started across the field. My dress immediately got caught on the thorns--it’s not like I knew enough to hike it up or anything--and Derek swore up a storm trying a new, and ultimately idiotic, approach that involved running through them at full speed.

Not a good idea, I assure you.

In the sky above, clouds completely swallowed the moon back into oblivion. And by the time we reached the creek it was so dark I had to use peripheral vision to see where I was going.

“Okay, that was a shit idea,” Derek said, showing me his bloody palms. “Note to self, thorn bushes suck ass.”

“Suck it up, Jedi.”

As the crickets chirped, we tread slowly into the black treeline, holding our hands out to avoid running into branches. The stench of the creek greeted us before we even saw it-- a combination of mud and algae, probably some dead rodents decomposing, far overpowering the sweeter aromas of autumnal leaves on the ground. Taking deep breaths, we leapt across the creek — which was about five feet wide --landing on flat, dry ground on the other side. From there it was up a small incline (and through more thicket) to the backyard of the Felton house.

Missy Felton was a year younger than us, a sophomore now, and but was more popular than we could ever hope to be. And the way I felt about Danielle, that’s how Derek felt about Missy Felton.

“Shit,” Derek said, reaching the chain link fence that lined the Felton property, “that’s Missy right there, on the back porch. What’s she doing?”

“Looks like she’s on the phone.”

Derek ducked down. “Dammit, I can’t go through there.”

“Dude, she won’t know it’s you. Unless she has the Force or something. What’s her midichlorian count?”

“Man, F that midichlorian crap in the A. That crap is so lame.”

“You’re a tool. C’mon, let’s just run.”

“No way, man, I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Then why’d you dress like that?”

“Because Star Wars kicks your ass.”

“I thought you said—”

“Original trilogy, Jackoff. Look, I ain’t stupid, she’ll call me a geek. I’m not going through there.”

“Then what?”

Grabbing my shoulder strap, Derek led me north along the backs of the properties. All of them were fenced off, and a few of them had mongrels sleeping in doghouses that woke at our twig-snapping footsteps. One had a motion sensor that lit up the trees like a spotlight, so we jogged faster, leaving a trail of barking dogs in our wake.

"Here," Derek said, hopping over a small picket fence into someone's backyard.

I followed suit, landing in a large garden, right near a little flagstone path that cut through the center of it. From what we could see by the half-moon, the house was dark and rundown. Plywood covered the upstairs windows. The back porch was overrun with dying plants, snaking weeds, and cobwebs. The paint was peeling off and the shutters where hanging lopsided like they’d given up on life. The whole structure was aged and brittle. We were off track, behind a different street now, and I couldn't place what house it was. As we moved farther into the yard, the moon found a break in the clouds and stared down at us, bathing the garden in a golden hue. And our eyes went wide.

All around us — pumpkins. I mean a shit-load of pumpkins. I could barely see any grass at all. Just pumpkins pumpkins pumpkins. Everywhere.

"That's a big ass pumpkin patch," I said.

"Yeah. Jesus, it's the mother-load."

"Who grows a pumpkin patch like this in their yard? Who lives here?" I stepped a couple feet into the patch and nudged a pumpkin with my shoe.

“Fucked if I know. But they need to call Bob Villa, this place looks like ass."

"Look at 'em all."

"Mike, you thinking what I'm thinking?"

No answer was needed. I drew my foot back and made like a soccer star. There was a wet thud as pulp shot out toward Derek, hitting his jumpsuit. With a spirited curse, he picked up the nearest pumpkin and hurled it at my feet. It shattered and sent seeds and gook into my face.

And the fight was on.

Pumpkins, pulp, seeds, stems, all of it smashing and exploding and covering us in thick gobs. Our silent laughing had us doubled over with good pain, sticky pumpkin raining down everywhere. Within minutes we were drenched in slime. We laughed as quietly as we could until we thought we might pass out, then caught our breath and stood looking at the mess.

“I win!" I declared.

“No way, I nailed you in the face with that last one."

“My face? You should look in a mirror, Luke Skyfarter. I could stick your head in an oven and make a pie.”

“C’mon, Jar Jar," Derek said, all the pumpkins now smashed, “my mom's gonna have my ass." He picked up his pillowcase full of candy and made his way up the path toward the back of the house, pulling seeds from his collar. Shadows drifted over the yard as the moon decided there was nothing more to see. The clouds were twice as thick, the darkness twice as black. The scent of pumpkin hung in the air and once again made me a little queasy.

I noticed a small pumpkin near my foot that had survived. Aha, I thought, here was a chance for one more hurrah. I picked it up and aimed for Derek. In the darkness, he was a mere ink spot. I wound up, concentrated, made sure my grip was good...

...and a large black shape came out of nowhere and stood in front of me.

As human as it was, it was something more. Its legs, torso, and arms were reedy and thin. It was taller than us by a good foot. But the head — the head was huge. I mean way out of proportion. At first I thought it was a costume, maybe a space helmet, but there was something odd about it. It wasn't round enough, more, well, ovoid and misshapen. A strange cowlick stuck up on top.

"Nooo!" it bellowed.

I froze. The small pumpkin, somehow of its own accord, rolled from my hand and split on some flagstone.

"My flock," the shadowy figure growled. The voice was low, gurgling, like someone talking through a mouthful of soup. "What have you done? My little babies." The figure lunged at Derek, grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Look, mister," Derek yelled, his Rebel Alliance helmet momentarily down over his eyes as the shape shook him, "it wasn't us, we just got here."

Stupid lie, I thought. Wouldn't take a detective to know we were the ones who busted up the pumpkins. I mean, we were covered in it. Better come clean I figured, lust apologize and be on our way. But I never got chance. The figure roared, a guttural resonance. Unnatural. Otherworldly. Derek shrieked. My knees buckled like a rickety step ladder. The large shape hurled my friend across the yard like he was a rag doll. I stood in horror as Derek came to rest near the back porch of the house.

Couldn't really see him through the darkness, but I could tell he wasn't moving. He'd hit hard and gone limp. Then the figure fumed and, though I couldn't make out its features, I knew it was staring at me.

When it came toward me, it walked like a stick bug, skinny legs extending outward and bending nearly in half. Its gait was slow but its stride was long. And I thought, Jesus Christ, it’s not human!

The closer it got, the more I couldn't move. "You will pay for this," it gurgled. "Pay dearly."

Large round head, stick-like body, it covered the space between us in seconds. Finding my feet, I dropped my bag of candy and tore back over the fence, into the woods, moving on sheer adrenaline. Behind me I could hear it closing in, could hear branches breaking and twigs snapping as it crashed through anything in its way, could hear the wet voice repeating, "my flock," over and over.

The woods were beyond black, the kind of darkness where you can literally put your hand in front of your face and not see it. Trees came out of nowhere and pounded me, stabbed my legs and raked my face. A sickness filled my gut, but I kept running, praying and hoping I didn't trip and fall. Branches broke behind me like automatic gunfire as the thing chasing me blazed straight through whatever was in its path.

And then I was tumbling. A root caught my foot, spun me around, throwing me to the ground so hard my teeth almost came out the back of my skull. As I landed on damp earth, the creature came out of the darkness and stood above me, a black silhouette. The head, huge and engulfed in the shadows of the woods, bent down toward me. I smelled pumpkin – on me, in the air, everywhere.

Crab-walking backward, I heard myself say, "Please, please leave me alone. I didn't mean to...”

The large creature followed, lording over me. "You are beyond forgiveness. You murdered them."

"I don't' understand —"

"WHY!" The trees rumbled at its voice, as if they were playing jury to its judge. "WHY!"

"Please..." My hands went up over my eyes, like I was a little kid again. Like, if I could not see it, it wouldn't hurt me. And just like a scared kid, I peeked out between my fingers as the large head swam right up against mine. Whether my eyes had adjusted to the dark, or if some faint illumination burned out of its triangular eyes, I couldn't be sure. Whether the zigzag mouth was real or a trick of the shadows in the trees, I couldn’t tell. Whether the sallow skin tone was real or a trick of the emerging moon, I couldn't tell. All I knew for sure was that my crotch became hot and wet, and a dog was barking a few feet away on the other side of a nearby fence.

"Dammit, dog, shut up!"

Who was that? The dog's owner? Maybe a neighbor trying to sleep? I didn't know. And I didn't care. Whoever it was, they were my saving grace. The thing trying to peer through my fingers stood up, looked toward the dog, and crashed back through the woods the way it had come. Blood rushed to my head and before I could scream for help I got dizzy and closed my eyes. I felt myself swimming.

***

When I opened my eyes, it was still dark and damn cold out. My dress clung to me, the pumpkin and urine, dried and crusty, smelled so caustic I dry-heaved for a second. Climbing over another fence into the closest yard was damn near impossible because I couldn't stop my legs from shaking. There was a doghouse there but the dog was gone. Maybe the owner had brought it in for the night.

I ran around the house, onto the street where I got my bearings, and then several blocks over to my own house. On the door, a note from my mom scolded me for coming home late and told me to lock up. I fumbled my key out of my pocket and tried to steady myself enough to unlock the door. Just when I opened it, a hand landed on my shoulder.

"Ah!"

Spinning around, I found Derek behind me. He was covered in dirt, like he'd been slinking through bushes. A gash ran across his forehead.

"Hurry up!" he said. "Hurry up! It's looking for me.”

No, it couldn't be. But Derek's saucer eyes said it was true.

We threw ourselves inside and ran down the hall to my room. The house was dark, the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The clock in my bedroom said 1:24.

“Don’t turn the light on," Derek said. "I don" think it knows we’re here. The last thing you want is for it to know where you live.”

A moment of silence passed between us.

"Where the hell were you?' Derek finally asked. "I've been hiding in bushes forever. What the hell is that thing?"

"Don't know. I can't believe you got away."

"No thanks to you."

"How?"

"I hit my head when it threw me, but I woke up a minute later and booked outta there. You left me, asshole."

He must have escaped when the thing was chasing me.

“We gotta call the police," he said.

"And say what?”

"Say anything. Say you've got a bomb. I don't care, just call them."

"I'm waking up my parents."

Just then there was a tap on my bedroom window. We froze. Our breaths escaped us. Turning slowly, we looked at the window. My house was one story, my bedroom window on the front side looking out toward the street. Only blue curtains separated us from whatever was outside tapping on the window. But the silhouette...the silhouette was plain as day. Large round head, stick-like arm tapping methodically. Tap tap.

Derek put his finger to his mouth, shushing me. As if I could find my voice anyway.

The figure stood still for a moment, then disappeared from the window. We listened as it made its way around to the other side of the house, its footsteps crunching the dead grass in the yard. Opening my bedroom door, we stepped into the hallway. The footsteps sounded near the kitchen windows now. Together, we stepped lightly toward the humming refrigerator, stood there listening.

That's when it passed in front of the window over the sink, the large orange head turning to look in. Its triangle eyes burned bright yellow, its black, crooked mouth tight with hatred. It was a brief glimpse, but long enough for our hearts to lurch out of our chests.

Continuing past the kitchen, it stopped near the family room, tapped on the window. Tap tap. We stood still, crouched down in the shadows near the refrigerator. I realized I was crying. I also realized that Derek's phone was playing American Idiot.

“Turn it off! Hurry!" I whispered.

He fumbled it out of his pocket and tore the battery out. "Please leave," he prayed. "Please leave."

But it didn't leave. It came back, back to the kitchen window, its bulbous orange head leaning forward to spy through the glass. There was no way we could move without it seeing us--we were trapped next to the refrigerator. Had it heard the phone? It must have. Derek was crying now too.

The round head pressed in closer, touching the glass now. From its black triangular nose, it huffed condensation onto the window pane. Long reedy fingers came up and wiped away a circle in the condensation. The fingers scratched on the pane like sticks. Tilting its head, it looked in and scanned my kitchen, blinked a couple of times, and then tapped on the glass.

Why was it tapping? To let us know it found us? To draw us out? Jesus, it wouldn't leave. It knew where we were. As a testament to that fact, its reedy fingers worked their way under the frame of the window and gave it a little yank. The latch was on, though, so the window wouldn't rise, it just rattled a bit.

Looking in once again, scanning the kitchen, it ran its fingers around the outer edge of the window, tapping it every so often. Tap tap. Trying to get in, I realized. Looking for a way to open the window.

Derek said, "Just go away." And the large head, fast as lightning, pasted its triangular eyes to the window pane and locked on Derek's voice...looking toward the shadows near the refrigerator...toward us, knowing exactly where we were.

It’s going to get and kill us, I thought.

Then, from the street, there came a familiar voice. "Let's go to my house, my old man has beer in the fridge." It was Hutcher and his gang. I never felt so happy to hear his voice. They whooped and laughed and made the usual obnoxious noise they always made walking through the neighborhood. The large orange head snapped back from the window, not wanting to risk exposure. Faintly, we heard it walk around to the front yard, cross the street and disappear. It was gone.

• • •

The next morning was full of activity. Both Derek and I told our parents what happened. The police accompanied us and our dads to the dilapidated house to confirm the assault. "This where the pumpkins are?" one of the cops asked me.

"Yeah, right here," Derek said. We all walked around to the backyard. The pumpkins were gone. I mean all of them. Not a trace remained.

"What the..." I stuttered.

The cops went into the abandoned house and came out a few minutes later. "Nothing in there. Just cobwebs and faded wallpaper.”

"I'm telling you," I said, "there was a pumpkin patch right here. Maybe a hundred of them. And that thing came out of the house."

My dad was giving me the evil eye. Fibbing did not go over well in my household. Derek's dad wasn't much happier.

Finally, one of the cops spoke. “Well, busy night last night. It was probably that Hutcher kid. That one's headed for juvie, trust me. Look, I'll go over and talk to him, tell him to leave you alone. You two just stay out of his way if you can."

Derek and I just nodded. They weren't going to believe us. It was pointless to argue. The creature had gone, moved to a new lair. It must have known we'd come back with other people. Thing like that, it hadn't survived on just luck, it knew how to hide.

We walked home, our dads talking to each other about football. I can't remember what Derek and I talked about. I just kept thinking that it knew where I lived. And I wondered how long it would be before I heard the tapping again.

About the Author

Ryan C. Thomas is an award-winning journalist and editor living in San Diego, California. He is the author of 10 novels (including the cult classic, The Summer I Died), numerous novellas and short stories, and can often be found in the bars around Southern California playing rockabilly guitar. When he is not writing or rocking out, he is at home with his wife, son, and two dogs watching really bad B-movies.

He loves getting email from readers, so be sure to drop him a line!

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