Who’s Scared of A Halloween Hellscape?
A BarWarriors’ Creepy Tale
Nails scraped against the wood. Something squeaked and scrambled within the walls. Patches of plaster fell to the dilapidated floor as the scratching sound scurried away.
“Oh, fuuuuk this,” Daryl said, shaking his light. “I’m out.”
“Nah, dude, chill,” Trey said. “We good.”
“Good? Good?” Daryl said in a panic. He swung his phone’s flashlight wildly, illuminating spiderwebs, a burned-out fireplace, rotting floors, and a hole in the wall. He pointed the light toward a dark corner, where two rats skittered behind overturned furniture, disappearing down the hall. “Oh hell naw,” he said.
“Man, there ain’t no one here,” Trey chastised. “Stop actin like you be some pretty white girl in a horror movie.”
“Why you got to go there, bro? Why? You know I don’t like that shit.” He shuddered. “Great, now you got me thinking all crazy, horror movie shit. Fucking Shining. Fucking creepy ass twins in a haunted ass mansion. You know we in a creepy ass mansion right now.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Fuck you, Jack Nicholson. ”
“Come on, man,” Trey chuckled. “Big said it was a Halloween party. You supposed to be scared.”
Daryl glanced around the abandoned mansion, cursing under his breath. Worn oil paintings and eerie monochrome photos hung on the walls, their eyes blank and vacant. He swore again and kicked a rusted can at a rat with his bedazzled shoes. He loved his bedazzled shoes. If he had his way, he’d bedazzle every article of clothing he owned. Rightly or wrongly, bedazzling brought him boundless joy and a lot of unwanted attention, which usually turned into scorn. Even at FIT, the greatest fashion institute in the world, his professors ridiculed him when he tried to bedazzle everything from his Louis Vuitton slippers to his Prada handbag. It didn’t matter, though; he paid them no mind. Bedazzling made his world shiny and bright, warming his heart and filling his soul. And today, the greatest of all days—Halloween—he could wear his bedazzled tux without fear.
A black cat ran across his path.
“Mother fucker,” he gasped.
Trey laughed, but secretly, he wasn’t too happy either. He sidestepped around a gelatinous pile of goo while wearing his favorite black Ferragamo slippers—his best Italian leather loafers: backless, warm, and fuzzy. He adjusted his red Hermes silk robe and powdered white wig. Dressed to impress, he hoped to appear suave and chill, masculine and strong—someone who could bridge worlds. He had spent hours—no, weeks—debating what to wear. Even Michele, the sales associate at Saks whom he worked out with on Tuesdays, helped him choose the right accessories. Damn, the thought of Saks made him miss Midtown, with its lights and noise, and then he wondered what the hell he was doing in this creepy ass place.
They had left Harlem on the Metro North, traveling an hour north of Manhattan, and found themselves at a janky mansion in the middle of nowhere in Sleepy Hollow. There were no streetlights, no cars, no telephone poles. Shit, there weren’t nothing. But Trey buried his fear, insisting that this was the spot—the address where Big had said to be no later than 11:35 on Halloween night.
Trey trusted Big implicitly. There ain’t no way Big would let him down, especially at the promise of some fine-ass party with folks dressed in their skimpiest outfits. But still, Trey was beginning to have his doubts. Perhaps it was the spooky trees, the rusted gates, or the wet leaves covering the long, isolated path that looked like no one had walked on in years. Yeah, that gave him pause. Nah, he wasn’t scared. But it was pretty damn quiet for a party. And there weren’t no lights neither. How you gonna have a party without lights? That’s just dumb.
“It’s a Halloween party,” he mumbled to himself. “Big said don’t be scared. Jus’ come in and ya’ll find it, that’s all.”
They pushed further into the abandoned mansion. Daryl stepped on a rotted floorboard, which collapsed under his weight, causing his bedazzled shoe to disappear into the sludge beneath. The damp smell of rot made his stomach turn, and the loss of his shoe’s glittery shine was almost too much. “Yo, Trey,” he said, wavering. “You’re sure this is the place.”
“Yeah man, come on. I think he said it was in the back.”
An organ blared, and they spun around. A dark figure wrapped in rags slammed skeletal fingers onto the keys, and the organ roared. Both men took off in a sprint, Daryl screeching as Trey’s silk robe flapped behind him, held together by the fabric tied around his waist. They scrambled into the kitchen, where a huge man, his hairy back facing them, stood hunched over the sink, snarling and munching as he ripped pieces of flesh from whatever he was eating.
“Oh, we dead,” whispered Daryl.
The beastly man’s ear piqued. He dropped the flesh into the grimy sink with a wet thump. And then slowly—ever so slowly—he stood upright.
His massive figure blocked most of the window over the sink. He stood still in the moonlight, opening and closing his massive hands in a psychotic twitch. Trey and Daryl froze, hugging each other in fear, wide-eyed and trembling. Suddenly, the man spun around and screamed, charging at them with his fat, bare chest and grotesque clown face. The boys fell backward, slipping on the slick floor. Trey yelped when he saw that it was blood covering his hand. They scrambled through a door as rats scattered, and they tumbled down.
Tumbling and crashing, spinning over and over, they fell further and further, coming to a halt at the bottom of a slide in a dark dungeon basement. Big stood over them, rubbing his bare gut and laughing as it jiggled. He leaned in close—close enough for them to smell his rancid breath and see his sharp vampire teeth glowing in the black light.
“Heyyyy,” he said with a lisp. “What took you girls so long.”
Lights flipped on and party horns blew. A cannon shot glitter in the air as a disco ball spun. And Big’s Big Gay Halloween party began.
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