How are you all doing this weekend? 🎃 I didn't want to miss the chance to write something spooky, so I tried prompt #36 Graveyard. Do you often visit your loved ones?👻
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Stewart and the Misvous Graveyard
Every book and shelf was polished like diamonds. There was no more precious good for him. Perhaps the grandpa just loved more the quiet of his den. Sometimes he could even be heard singing “my paradise, my sweet paradise.”
But if there is who knows neither rules nor paradises, it is youth.
It was a cleaning night, when grandpa York listened in fright as the door of his den was smashed in a stampede.
“Grandfather, are you here?” asked an agitated little voice.
“Don't you know it's forbidden to enter without my permission? I mean, never!” exclaimed grandpa with a hand on his chest.
“I'm Stewart,” said the young intruder, beginning to hop from desk to desk.
“No idea who you are, but I'll have you out of here soon enough,” warned the old man, who began to chase the little boy around the place.
Once he had him cornered, the grandfather recognized his daughter Clarence's features in Stewart. Because of this and the child's tears, York let his guard down and backed away from him.
“What do you want, little boy...what was your name again?” asked York awkwardly.
“I'm your grandson, Stewart! There's no one at home, and because I'm sick I can't go trick-or-treating,” wailed the ten-year-old still sobbing.
Grandpa York scratched his beard before saying with messiah-like airs.
“I can read you a Halloween story, but don't tell your mother,” he commented making a very serious face.
Stewart's little face lit up out of the blue, and with jovial enthusiasm, he sat cross-legged as he watched his grandfather clean a dusty little book.
Many years ago, in a town called Misvous, there was a peculiar tradition of going to bring candles to the dead in the graveyard.
Since it was an event that honored every October 31st those who helped build the town, everyone was forced to go, even the children. Among them, the most stubborn and obstinate: Howee.
“Mom, dad, what is this horrid place?” the boy questioned as he watched the mist drifting between musty graves.
But he received no answer, only was knuckled by his dad to be quiet.
Howee continued to complain: the puddles, the centipedes coming out of holes, the wax burning him and the terrible smell of decay.
Every once in a while the other kids in the graveyard would turn around in amazement that his parents hadn't grounded him. But the more they looked at him, the more Howee talked—nothing like being the center of attention, and by then his parents, having given up, didn't even care what he did anymore.
The din that stunned everyone in the graveyard suddenly stopped: Howee had stared at many candles set in hollowed-out pumpkins with evil grinning faces.
These sinister candles illuminated a broken grave and the figure of a hunchbacked lady, with a black back and swollen legs, who seemed to go on and on wailing.
Howee was so distracted, that when he wanted to walk back into the subtle mist, he tripped and the candle he was carrying fell, causing a small fire.
The poor boy was a mess of emotions, and he really didn't know how to react. His parents were lost, and all he could think of was to ask the old lady of the pumpkins candles for help.
However, when Howee went to talk to the old woman, he saw with utmost horror how she had turned into a dark copper-colored tarantula that, raised on its hind legs, showed salivating jaws that opened and closed rapidly with the desire to chew on the little boy.
Although chills had taken hold of Howee, and he felt his underwear a bit dirty, his survival instinct drove him to escape as fast as he could.
The slow tap—tap of the old tarantula's footsteps among the graves made Howee scream like crazy.
The rest of the people also began to flee like ants from the rain. Chaos had spread, and every now and then you could hear pottery breaking, and fallen candles lighting the graveyard even more.
“Kid, little coward, you may run, but never hide. Nobody interrupts my peace while I'm here. Now my eight eyes see you closer and closer,” the tarantula uttered hoarsely.
Meanwhile, the boy kept screaming desperately when he felt the monstrous old woman behind him. But out of fear, and also tiredness, Howee stumbled over a stone, and his cry grew stronger when he saw that he had no escape, and that the tarantula would devour him.
“Why do adults force us to go to horrible places? I just wanted to play hide-and-seek,” cried the helpless Howee angrily.
And eureka! Just then, Howee had the most brilliant idea of his life.
His little body, clumsy as it was, fit into the holes in the graveyard. Like a little worm, he slipped through one of them and left the hungry tarantula confused.
It wasn't long after that Howee emerged through another hole, and with all the fear and helplessness he felt, hurled a rock at the monstrous arachnid's head.
The creature seemed to lose control of itself. It wandered erratically from side to side until it fell dead beside Howee who was still weeping and sniffling.
This was soon followed by a pale figure covered in black cloths who, with a sickle, silently carried the body of the hunchback away until it disappeared into the mist and fire.
Howee was jaw-dropped until his parents found him and took him out from the graveyard as quickly as they could among the many fleeing people.
Since then, no one goes to Misvous graveyard anymore, and even less on October 31st. For, it is said that since that day, one can hear the wailing, banging and gloomy laughter of the souls that were left wandering around waiting for an innocent human to scare.
“Grandpa, that was terrifying! Can you tell me another one?” asked Stewart as he reached out to touch the book his grandfather was holding.
“Shoo-Shoo! No one touches it but me, got it?“ I've already read you a Halloween story, you just remember not to tell your mother,” warned Grandpa York before placing the book back on the shelf with noticeable tiredness.
The boy was not satisfied with this, and wanted to catch up with Grandpa, but after a few steps, he heard his mother.
“Stewart, by God Almighty! I've always told you not to come in here. There's so much dust and it can give you allergies, I won't give you the candies,” Clarence said to his sulking son.
“No, mommy, not at all, I just had fun listening to grandpa York read me a Halloween story,” replied Howee, who already in his mother's arms, grabbed the candies as they left the den.
Her mother froze. His dad had died two years ago, but so as not to traumatize the boy, she only whispered, “Happy Halloween, Howee!”
