A Special Spooky Edition of Thursday Stories

Hello Friends and Neighbors, and welcome to another edition of Thursday Stories. It’s Halloween, Friends and Neighbors, so let’s get spooky! And so, with a skeleton drumroll, I give you this week’s Thursday Story: Billy and Joey Give Up on Halloween.

Billy and Joey Give Up on Halloween first appeared in Evening Street Press, published in 2024.

Billy and Joey Give Up on Halloween

by Marco Etheridge

Joey is the big, brave, stupid kid, and I’m Billy, the smart, loyal sidekick, which goes a long way toward explaining why we’re leapfrogging pumpkins in a sleet storm. Running away from a murdering psycho is an after-dark activity, so a working flashlight, that’s top of your list. Not your dad’s old Boy Scout flashlight that you gotta smack with the heel of your hand because falling over frozen pumpkins sucks. Did I say I was the smart one? I guess mostly smart would be more honest. Okay, so Joey and I messed up. Joey messed up, and I went along with him. Whatever.

It’s not our fault, not completely anyway. I mean, we are ninth graders, right? We’re supposed to get into trouble. Ask any of our junior-high teachers. But when a psycho killer moves into the creepy old farmhouse across the pumpkin patch from your best friend, that takes things to a whole new level.

The first clue that Joey’s new neighbor was a murdering maniac: his name. No honest farmer names their kid Claude. Kids named Claude are tortured in school, and for sure at Taft Middle School. Then those tortured Claude kids grow up to be serial killers, which was obviously true about this new guy. And psycho neighbor Claude was single, as in no wife, no kids to do the chores. No farm tools, not even a tractor. We know that for sure because Joey and I took turns with my binoculars, and we didn’t miss a lick.

So, when Joey grabs the binoculars and asks me what I think, I tick the point off my fingers, which always impresses him.

“A guy named Claude, no wife, no kids, and no tractor, moves into the creepiest old farmhouse in the county. No doubt about it, your new neighbor is a psycho.”

Which explains why I’m running full tilt, dodging huge, slippery pumpkins while beating on my flashlight. Joey’s ahead of me, hurtling pumpkins like a track star, which he is, the big jock. Then he goes down hard like he’s been shot, so I look over my shoulder for Claude the Psycho, which is a mistake when you’re running through a pumpkin patch. Bang! Face-down in the crusty sleet with my legs tangled in pumpkin vines.

When I wipe the cold grit out of my eyes, I see the beam of Joey’s flashlight stabbing up into the falling sleet. I whisper-hiss in his direction.

“Joey!”

“What?”

“Turn off your flashlight.”

“Oh, right.”

The light goes out, and we’re hunkered down in the frozen furrows behind our respective pumpkins.

“Billy, is he following us?”

“Naw, I don’t see him, and the house is dark.”

There was a pause. Joey usually needs a pause to gather up his thoughts.

“Dammit, Billy, that’s just not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“Who the hell installs an alarm system on a hundred-year-old farmhouse?”

“Someone who moves in across from two nosy kids, I guess.”

“You’re a funny guy, Billy. I ever tell you that? Listen, we better crawl on out of here. I don’t wanna get caught, but I don’t want to freeze to death either.”

Joey sets off crawling across the half-froze earth, and I’m right behind him. This is the sort of thing that might be fun if we had a bunch of elementary school kids to scare, but we don’t, so it sucks.

At the far edge of the patch, we’re up on our feet and running, sprinting for Joey’s barn. Normally, the old barn is one of my favorite places on earth. But not tonight.

We’re chilled to the bone, caked in mud, and, yeah, scared. I admit it, okay? I stick that worthless flashlight in my pocket and look down at my muddy overalls. Joey looks just as bad, with cakes of mud on him thick as football pads.

“Jeez, Billy, what am I gonna tell my mom?”

Sure, because it’s always my job to come up with a story.

“A raccoon in the henhouse. Wait, no, a badger. Yeah, a badger. We chased it away, saved the hens, and then we tried to dig the badger out of his den.”

“Wait, why not the raccoon?”

“Joey, Raccoons climb up trees. Badgers dig underground. We’re covered in mud, not tree bark, right?”

“Yeah, whatever, a badger then, smart guy. Man, it’s a good thing you saw that blinking red light.”

Two idiots standing at the cellar door, me and Joey, with Joey poised to yank it open. Just then, I spotted an alarm module mounted on the wall, red light blinking like an evil eye. I grab Joey’s hand, point at the alarm, then we panic and start running across the pumpkin patch.

And something is still bugging me about the alarm system.

“Joey, you think that alarm is hooked up to video?”

“What do you mean, video?”

“Lots of these new systems have a camera. You can monitor your house from your laptop or cellphone. Shit, what if he caught us on video?”

“Naw, don’t worry about it. He’s barely got a pot to piss in. When he was moving in, I didn’t see any computer gear, zilch, not even a tablet.”

“Yeah, maybe. I hope you’re right. C’mon, let’s scrape this mud off and try out our story. I’m freezing out here.”

Ø   Ø   Ø

A few days later, an October ice storm knocks out power across the whole county. Joey appears in the darkness outside my window. I wiggle the window from the inside, and Joey shoves on it from the outside. Finally, the crust of ice cracks, and we push it open. Before I can ask what’s what, Joey’s inside my room, his face all excited.

“Can you get out?”

“Sure, I guess so, but where to? Everything’s turned into a skating rink out there in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I notice everything. That’s part of my plan. No power, right, so no alarm system. Get your crap and let’s go.”

I’m yanking on clothes and doubts at the same time.

“What if he’s home?”

“Nope, I checked. His van is gone, and not a light on in the old house. Because, duh, the power is out.”

I forgot to mention that Claude has a creepy black van instead of a normal pickup truck.

“You sure about the no power, no alarm thing?”

“Of course, genius. No electricity means no blinky red light.”

“I think those systems have backup batteries.”

“You know what your trouble is, Billy? You worry too much. Everything’s coated in ice. Cameras, sensors, everything. Hurry up, already. No Claude, no van, no problem. One quick look inside that weird cellar and we’re back here before you know it.”

Of course, Joey was wrong. He usually is.

Even on the gravel road, I’m slipping around like a hog on ice. The whole world is glazed slick and silver. The farm lights are black, so there’s no need to sneak through the pumpkins, which is fine by me.

We get to psycho Claude’s place with no trouble. Sure enough, it’s dead as a tomb. No sign of his van and not a light anywhere. Before Joey can grab the handle of the cellar door, I get ahold of his wrist. Then I eyeball the wall above the door, but there’s no blinking red light. I can’t even spot the alarm module.

I let go of Joey’s wrist and give him the nod. He yanks open one half of the cellar door, and it flops over with a bang so loud I almost crap my overalls.

“Jeez, Joey, we’re trying to be sneaky, remember?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Then he shines his flashlight down into that black hole. I thump my Boy Scout light with the heel of my hand. That’s when things start going all wrong.

Before I get my stupid flashlight working, Joey starts down the cellar stairs. Typical. He gets two steps down before he goes ass over teakettle and bounces the rest of the way down. Icy boots, I guess.

His flashlight goes with him, only it stays lit. The flashlight bounces and rolls across the dirt floor, shining on bits and pieces of Joey doing the same.

I’m still standing at the cellar door, banging on my piece of crap flashlight. Joey’s flashlight has rolled off into the corner, so all I can see are shadows. Meanwhile, I hear Joey thrashing around in the dark trying to right himself. Then there’s the sound of clanking chains, which is weird for a root cellar.

“You okay, Joey?”

“Yeah, I got ahold of something. Get your light working while I pull myself up.”

One more good thump and my old flashlight flares to life. I shine the light down the stairs into the dark cellar. The beam of my flashlight illuminates a bunch of old chains hanging down from the ceiling beams.

Joey is standing in the middle of the chains, his hand still latched onto the one he used to pull himself from the floor. There are manacles at the ends of the chains, the sort of thing you see in a dungeon. The manacles gape empty and open, all except for one.

Dangling from the chain in Joey’s face is a human arm severed at the elbow. The arm is manacled by its dead wrist, swaying back and forth in front of Joey’s staring eyes. Fresh blood drips onto the dirt floor at his feet.

Joey screams like a banshee. Then someone else is screaming, and I realize that it’s me. I drop my damn flashlight, and the useless thing goes bouncing down the cellar stairs. Thunk—thunk—thunk.

Crazy light flashes all over that black pit. I hate everything I see. Joey still screaming, the severed arm dripping blood, then my flashlight shines into the far corner, and things get worse.

The beam of light falls on a stack of scary-looking implements: scythes, axes, a pitchfork, and a wicked-looking blade with a long wooden handle. The perfect tool for lopping off people’s arms.

Then everything is happening at once. Joey lets go of the chain and starts scrambling after his fallen flashlight.

“Get down here and help me, Billy!”

Loyalty wins out over smarts, and I half climb, half fall down the cellar, the old boards creaking and groaning. Joey’s got his flashlight by now, and mine as well. He’s shining both beams on the pile of torture tools. I grab him by the shoulder to drag him out, but he shakes me off.

“What’s that big knife thing?”

“I think it’s a flensing knife.”

“How the hell would you know that?”

“Moby Dick. Whalers used flensing knives to cut the blubber off the whales.”

“Wait, you actually read that?”

I yank his shoulder, hard.

“Later for that. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I try not to look at the dangling arm as we head for the stairs, but I can’t help myself. Slipping and sliding back home, it’s all I can see.

Ø   Ø   Ø

Never get the adults involved. You’d think I’d learn my lesson because it never works out. But try to understand. Joey and I are freaked out, tumbling into the house yelling about how the new neighbor is a murderer. He’s got body parts hanging up in his cellar!

Pop calls the sheriff even though he only half-believes us. The Sheriff says he’ll check it out. In the meantime, the parental machinery spins into action. Joey’s dad gives him an ass-warming and grounds him. My pop is holding off on smacking me, but only until he hears from the sheriff.

The next morning, Sheriff Jackson calls back. It looks grim for the home team. I only get Pop’s half of it, but that’s enough to know that Joey and I are cooked.

“Thanks for checking, Sheriff. Right, I understand, a haunted house. Sounds like Mister Cutter is just trying to be a good neighbor.”

The new neighbor’s name is Claude Cutter? Are you kidding me? I swear, sometimes adults are dumber than sheep.

“You bet I will, Bob. I’ll be having a real heart-to-heart with the boys, you can count on that. Gonna be a whole lot of extra chores for ‘em, too. Too much time on their hands, and that’s my fault.”

Sure, because farm chores are the answer to everything.

“Right, good idea. I’ll send them over to apologize when Mister Cutter has his little haunted house. A good lesson in neighborliness. Thanks again, Bob. Sorry for the trouble.”

Ø   Ø   Ø

“It’s freaking me out, Joey. He’s been sitting out there on his porch for hours.”

“Try to be cool, Billy. Tell me what he’s doing.”

“He’s sitting on his frozen porch, smoking a cigar. Can’t you see him?”

“Wait a sec, I gotta move to the other window. Shit. Yeah, I see him.”

“I can’t believe our parents are gonna make us go over there.”

“Right? I mean, c’mon, Billy. I want to stop this psycho, but I don’t want to get killed doing it.”

“Me neither, Joey.”

“Crap, I gotta hang up, I hear my mom. Talk to you later.”

Three days can last forever. It’s like being on death row, I guess. The hours fly by fast and not at all, both at the same time.

Slow or fast, the days zip past, and here we are doing the dead man’s walk over to Psycho Claude’s place. Worse yet, Joey and I are wearing stupid Halloween costumes. The parents say it’s all part of being a good neighbor.

There’s a sign mounted on a new post outside the cellar door. The sign is shaped like an arrow. Haunted House is painted on the arrow in drippy blood letters. The sign is tilted so the arrow points down into the open cellar doors.

I stop when Joey stops. He elbows me and I elbow him back. He shrugs his shoulders.

Somehow, we end up standing at the brink of the cellar door, looking down into a weird glow. A voice rolls up out of the cellar, all fake friendly like we don’t know better.

“Welcome to my haunted house. Don’t be scared, kids, come on down.”

The stairs creak under our feet. Two floodlights flash on from somewhere down on the dirt floor, and everything in the cellar is illuminated from the ground up. The floodlights throw creepy shadows onto the low timber ceiling. When our feet hit the dirt floor, the cellar doors slam shut. That’s when I realize this is where we die.

Four sets of chains and manacles swing from the ceiling beams, bloody mannikins hanging from two of them. The other two pairs of chains are empty and ominous, ready for new victims. Psycho Claude is laughing, any trace of fake friendliness long gone.

“You think I don’t recognize you two little nitwits? How many other nosy brats are there out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Another round of evil laughter and I’m about to jump out of whatever skin I’ve got left.

“Well, you won’t be telling any more tales. As you can see, I’ve got two vacancies for you big-mouthed punks.”

Joey is pissed. I can feel his anger pulsing like a red mist.

“You’re not hanging me from any chain, you evil bastard!”

More of that annoying evil laughter.

“Who’s going to stop me?”

Then I feel the heft of that old Boy Scout flashlight in my pocket, and I get an idea.

“Joey, the lights!”

I yank the flashlight out of my pocket and heave it at the nearest floodlight. Bingo, direct hit! Joey snatches an arm off one of the dead mannikins and uses it like a club. Light number two goes dark.

Now there’s just the red glow that doesn’t light anything above knee height. I don’t know where Psycho Claude is, and I can’t see Joey. Then I’m yelling at the top of my lungs.

 “This way, Joey, up the stairs!”

I make a break for it, but I run right into those iron manacles and knock myself silly. I roll over to my hands and knees and feel blood dripping into my eyes. I wipe my face with my sleeve, but that just blurs everything worse.

Psycho Claude is chasing Joey around the cellar. I see Joey’s sneakers flash by in front of my face, followed by big work boots. They do a fast lap in the dark. I try to push myself up. Before I can get my hands under me, Joey leapfrogs over my back, then I get a kick in the ribs as Claude stumbles over me.

Psycho Claude goes windmilling off into the darkness. There is a huge clatter of metal on metal, then a sickening wet thunk. I start to crawl across the floor, and my hand closes on my old Boy Scout flashlight. I give it a whack, and the thing lights up. I spin the beam around and then almost drop it.

“Holy crap, Joey, you killed him!”

In the beam of the flashlight, Psycho Claude is sprawled across the dirt floor with the flensing knife sticking out of his chest.

“I think you mean we killed him. What do we do now, Billy?”

I shake my head to clear it. The adults said there was no psycho killer, just a misunderstood new neighbor. Fine, let the adults and the sheriff figure it out.

“Joey, did you touch anything?”

“Naw, I never.”

“Okay, find your flashlight. Make sure you put it in your pocket.”

“Right, flashlight. Got it.”

 “Now grab that ax and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Joey snatches the ax and scoots back out of range in case dead Psycho Claude comes back to life.

“What about him, Billy?”

“Psycho Claude can go to hell, where he belongs. C’mon, let’s chop our way out of here.”

Ø   Ø   Ø

 Sure, we were in the shit for a while, but only until Sheriff Jackson called in the state cops. Then someone got suspicious and brought in a cadaver dog. They say that mutt went half-crazy down in dead Claude’s cellar. The cops dug up two bodies that were most definitely not mannequins. The cadaver dog sniffed out two more shallow graves under the pumpkins. 

After that, Joey and I were out of the manure pile and into the spotlight. Being a hero is okay, I guess, but it’s not as good in real life as it looks in the movies. Our dads seemed slower to give us a whack, so that’s one good thing. I guess maybe they were sorry about not believing us.

I had some pretty gnarly nightmares for a month or two, but the shrink said they would fade with time, and he was right. One thing for sure though, no more cellars for me, no way, no how.

Joey and I don’t do Halloween anymore. We’re too old for it, for one thing. After all, this is our last year at middle school. Next year we’re starting high school together. Joey plans to go out for football, and I’m hoping to get on with the school newspaper. Who knows, maybe I’ve got a few stories worth telling.

Fini

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That’s it for this week’s edition of Thursday Stories. More stories are coming your way. How will you know when a new story breaks? Glad you asked, Friends. Read On! Drumroll and… Meanwhile, don’t miss any upcoming stories. You can stay tuned for all the latest by following the MEF blog:

https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/whats-new-in-marcos-world-the-blog/

Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, Europe, the UK, and the USA. Marco’s short story “Power Tools” was nominated for Best of the Web for 2023 and is the title of his latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.