My Halloween Ideas

Jacob knew that no one understood him. At just fifteen years old, he was certain that he had life figured out, and knew that his parents had missed every major opportunity that life had to offer. His mother had given up a promising career in advertising and chosen a life of mediocrity in order to raise him, and his father worked double shifts at some blue-collar factory job. They didn’t understand. No one understood. Slowly, Jacob gave in to the darkness that tainted the edges of his thoughts. His musical tastes changed  when he finally found the artists that described how he felt- he started to dress the part; his dyed hair covered his face and he had begun coating his nails and lips with the darkest colors that he could find. His parents worried, of course, but that only served to encourage him. If they didn’t understand it, then he reasoned that he was probably on the right track.

Over time, things only grew worse. They found his journal wedged between his box spring and mattress; his mother said it frightened her. There were poems that he had written, as well as some of the more meaningful song lyrics and crude drawings of death and dismemberment. His mother cried that night- he could hear her through the thin vents, talking about what a sweet young child he had been, asking where she could have gone wrong or how she failed him. He smiled, slightly, at that- he had made his point. He was different from them, and they knew it. He began to realize that they were afraid of him, and his smile grew even wider.
On the days that Jacob decided to go to school, he was withdrawn and secluded, preferring the company of the small group that understood what it was that he was feeling- understood the trials that he faced. To them, he was called ‘Ruwen’, pronounced like ‘ruin’; they swapped stories and clothes and sold or traded drugs amongst themselves like prison currency. If he had felt that he could experience happiness, he knew that in that group would be the closest that he could feel it; at least, he knew what it was like to belong, to have others understand you.

It was, however, a problem that they were merely talk; they would plan, but there was no action. They would discuss within their tight circle what they would do to the school, to the ‘sheeple’ that they encountered every day. They would draw crude maps in the dirt showing the best locations for pipe bombs or shooting vantage points, but nothing would ever come of it. They would always start the next day as though the plans were never made, and start again to complain and plan with a pitiful, impotent rage. Ruwen knew that it was up to him to start the revolution- he was the proverbial Lincoln that would set his people free and change the political landscape of the country. And it would start at home.

Thanksgiving had always been a major holiday in his household. His family had received their home as a familial inheritance, and its central location and decent size made it the perfect place for the extended family to visit. Each year, they would converge on the home to eat, drink and argue- they’d ask the same uncomfortable questions about whether or not he had started dating (he hadn’t) and if he was enjoying school (he wasn’t). Also each year, Ruwen would be drawn into the mad dash to clean the home and prepare the meal  before the guests arrived. It hadn’t happened this year, however- his parents didn’t even ask him to be a part of the preparations. A small, very small, part of him resented the change, but he also knew that it wouldn’t matter for long.

It was only a few days before Thanksgiving, and his father was working another late shift. His mother had fallen asleep on the couch, still clutching his work uniform in one hand and sewing needle in another. In a way, he pitied her- he didn’t need, and didn’t want, her daily presence. He resented the quick handoff of a brownbag lunch each morning- resented it because he was entirely sure that he deserved better than she could offer. Her eyes snapped open with shock as he looped the thin twine around her thick neck and began to pull. She struggled and beat uselessly against her, but wasn’t able to fight off her unknown assailant. Ruwen pulled with all of his strength, feeling the twine sink into the soft flesh. With her failing strength, she pulled her head to the side, facing her attacker with the periphery of her vision.

“Jacob…” She croaked with a mixture of surprise and betrayal.

“I’m not Jacob,” he answered, pulling even tighter as he released his pent-up rage. She said something unintelligible as her eyes started to glaze over. She stopped trying to reach behind her, and instead scratched hopelessly at her throat with a deathly rattle, kicking her legs in a desperate bid for traction. In a moment, she fell still; her tongue slipped from her whitening lips and her eyes remained open, staring at nothing. He kept pulling, to be sure, until he felt confident that she was dead. A smell reached his nostrils and unsettle his stomach- she had voided her bowels in the struggle. Carefully, he pulled her body from the couch and into the garage, leaving her body sprawled on the cold concrete. Either from paranoia or inexperience, he ensured that the large overhead door was locked from the outside, as was the entryway from the inside.

He wasn’t yet halfway done- he had a long night ahead of him, if he wanted to make the impact that was expected of him. He had bragged of this at school the day before, but suspected that his group of friends would dismiss it as mere posturing; when they saw that he had the fortitude to keep his promises, he knew that they would find the strength to do it as well. This thought entertained him as he sat crouched in the dark entryway, waiting for the tell-tale crunch of his father’s truck on the gravel driveway. He clutched the metal t-ball bat tighter when he heard the sound, followed by the heavy rhythmic sound of the thick work boots.

In the moonless, overcast night, the house was nearly pitch dark without the lights. He could hear, and barely see from where he hid, the front door open and close again.

“Honey?” called his father as he flicked on the entryway light switch. After a moment, he did it again to no avail. Ruwen had taken out the bulb. His father stumbled in the dark and cursed as he knocked against the low table against the wall. His eyes here not yet used to the darkness, but Ruwen’s were. Silently, he slipped behind the man and raised the bat high above his head. Taken a breath, he steeled his resolve and brought the heavy metal weapon in a wide ark, connecting perfectly with the back of his father’s skull, bringing him to the ground in a whimpering heap. He didn’t move much, only shaking slightly, but Ruwen knew that he was still conscious.

He bent down to his father’s ear. “Remember when you used to tell me a should go for sports? How’s this for a home run?” he cackled as he stood. He brought down the bat in another perfect swing, feeling the metal sink into the relative soft bone; then his father was still. He was much heavier than his mother was, but shortly he had the body in the garage as well, next to the other which thankfully hadn’t moved.

The next days were busy. The school called, more than once- most likely inquiring about his absences, but he didn’t bother with answering. Those that he knew from school messaged him on the internet, coming from screen names that he knew well, like ‘darkheart22’ and ‘torturedsoul’; they, too, he ignored- they’d find out once his plans were complete. He was far too busy, pulling the corpses apart and preparing the thanksgiving meal. He was never much of a chef- he was barely able to manage macaroni and cheese- but this was a special occasion that required the utmost care in order to work. Over the course of the day, starting the night before, he baked and cooked, prepared and decorated. He would be ready.

The guests, predictably, started to arrive right on time. They were nothing if not punctual, and typically arrived in a noisy mass. By the time they arrived, Ruwen was once again Jacob- dressed in his Thanksgiving’s finest, without lipstick or nail polish, and his freshly trimmed hair neatly styled.

“Please come in!” He smiled as he welcomed in the family. “Unfortunately, Mom and Dad aren’t feeling well. They’re upstairs, and they asked me to make sure everybody ate their fill.” He led them into the dining room where he had carefully prepared their meal. At the center was a large dish of neatly sliced meat; the smell of the food had started everyone’s mouth watering, and no one thought to question the absence of his parents. “Mom hopes that no one minds, we went with ham this year. My parents really put a lot of themselves into it,” he said, grinning at his own pun.

He smiled as they ate; they passed around the side dishes and piled food on one another’s plates. He’d wait until after they were done to tell them. He knew then exactly how it felt when Lincoln signed the emancipation proclamation, and he knew that he, too, would go down in history.

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3. Saint Mary’s School for Troubled Youths
4. The Kidnapper’s Guilt a Ghost Story
5. In Need of a Babysitter a Ghost Story for Halloween