Posts Tagged ‘halloween’

weekend viewing /horror movies

Just in time for Halloween – B movies! And I mean FREE B movies that you can watch online.

In addition to full length horror and sci-fi movies, they also have Kung-Fu and westerns.

The first thing I noticed was the full length version of Asylum. My mother, who raised me on horror movies, took me to see this film in the theater when I was ten.

A young psychiatrist interviews four inmates in a mental asylum to satisfy a requirement for employment. He hears stories about 1) the revenge of a murdered wife, 2) a tailor who makes a suit with some highly unusual qualities, 3) a woman who questions her sanity when it appears that her brother is conspiring against her, and 4) a man who builds tiny toy robots with lifelike human heads.

I have not seen this movie since 1972, but I can still recall vividly the severed hand crawling up the stairs and the little robots that haunted my dreams for weeks after.

There’s Carnival of Souls, creepy and atmospheric. The original House on Haunted Hill. Nosferatu, Night of the Living Dead and White Zombie. I could spend entire days here, maybe not even watching the whole movies but fast forwarding to the best parts.

Oh, and there’s Bad Taste, Peter Jackson’s cinematic glory about brain harvesting aliens. And you’ve got A Boy and His Dog, Teenagers From Outer Space, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians.….can you tell I’m excited? I haven’t even checked out the Kung Fu yet.

Well, this presents the perfect opportunity for my annual Halloween Horror Movie Poll. This time I’ll ask, what are your favorite BAD horror movies? Anything that can be considered a B Movie, or is listed on badmovies.org counts. All those cheesy Vincent Price films, the slew of 80’s slasher flicks….so many bad horror movies, so little time before Halloween to watch them all.

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taste my mounds

It’s almost Halloween and my thoughts turn to candy. I don’t eat a whole lot of candy, but something about this time of year makes my cravings for chocolately goodness kick in. It’s too bad my kids don’t go trick or treating anymore. I used to steal the good stuff out of their bag. Leave them with the crap like pennies and MaryJanes and McDonald’s coupons. Hey, I’m just trying to save on dental bills!

So what do you look for in the bag? What’s your all time, absolute favorite candy? Mine:

Reeses Peanut Butter Cups


See, I’m not a huge chocolate fan. I like it, but not enough to eat a whole bar of just chocolate. I need to have it mixed with something. It’s like drinking. Rum is ok, but I wouldn’t drink it straight. It needs a mixer. It needs Coke. So I think of peanut butter as chocolate’s mixer.

Damn, I love me some peanut butter. I’ll eat it right out of the jar with a spoon. Sometimes I forego the spoon entirely and just stick my finger in the jar and grab a scoop of peanut butter. Lick it right off my finger. Yes, that’s me in the picture. Good stuff. Now take that peanut butter and wrap it in chocolate and you have a gift from god that should be holier than communion wafers. I believe it’s a gift from god for one reason. It cures PMS. The saltiness of the peanut butter plus the chocolate is better than 40 Midols and an orgasm sometimes. Just biting into one a Reesesm feeling the smoothness of the peanut butter on my tongue, the sweetness of the chocolate in my throat, the tantalizing taste of both of them swirling around my mouth to make the most pleasurable aural experience since my birthday.

On the flipside, there’s always that candy that you come across that makes you want to hold up a cross and a jar of holy water and scream for your priest to come perform an exorcism. Or maybe that’s just me. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure that coconut is born of the devil. It is Satan’s plaything.



Evil sidekick to Almond Joy. Purveyor of all that is evil in the world of candy. Harborer of the dreaded coconut flakes. Now, I should tell you – I can eat a real coconut. Right out of the shell. That’s good stuff. But this flaked garbage? No bueno. I don’t know what happens to it between the shell and the cleaver, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Satan taking a piss on it. Plus, who the hell names their candy Mounds? Because all I can think of is, well…..sex. And I don’t want to confuse sex with coconuts. Although once I wore a coconut bra during a bachelorette party. While singing Sister Christian. But still, that has nothing to do with coconut covered candy.

The anti-christ is coming and he’s chewing on your Mounds.

I probably posted this before, but I’m talking about candy, so why not. My guess the candy collage.

click for bigger.

I’m going to go have some peanut butter cups for dinner.

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fiction: the cat came back

More Halloween themed short fiction that no one will read 🙂

Twice he brought mice. Bloody, ragged stumps of rodent left on the doorstep.

“Good kitty, Bradford,” Oswald said, because he knew that the cat was only offering him a gift. How was a cat to know that humans don’t think half-eaten, blood-caked rats make good presents? It’s something the cat was doing most every day and, although Oswald was sickened by it, he didn’t want to make the cat feel bad, so he never chastised him for it.

Last week, there were several birds, a baby squirrel and a beautiful blue jay torn to shreds by angry claws. Oswald’s front stoop was littered with feathers and smears of jay innards.

The duck was probably the worst. Oswald found the poor thing splayed out on the doormat, bleeding into the flowered letters on the welcome mat, feathers everywhere. It was days before he could get the gut stains out of the W and the E.

Perhaps the worst was the rabbit, its body ripped open, entrails hanging, so fresh that the rabbit was still warm, so mutilated that Oswald threw up right into the gaping hole that was once the bunny’s abdomen.

After the rabbit incident, Oswald tried to tell Bradford that he didn’t want these presents. But Bradford, being a cat, couldn’t understand that. Oswald began to scold him and spray him with water every time the decrepit corpse of an animal was deposited on the doorstep – which was now a daily occurrence, but Bradford would just look at him like “What? What did I do wrong??” and Oswald realized the futility in teaching this cat how not to drag his bloodied prizes home.

The morning when Oswald opened the front door to retrieve the paper and found only the neighbor’s racing pigeon, headless and pried open, he had enough. Tired of cleaning up blood and burying his “gifts,” Oswald took Bradford to the woods and left him there. He consoled his conscience with the fact that his precious kitty must be a wild, feral cat by nature and he would be better off running free through the woods where he could pounce on owls and sparrows and woodchucks to his heart’s delight.

The next morning when Oswald opened his front door to find only the newspaper and no blood or guts or stinking animals with intestines hanging out, he felt better about his decision.

It wasn’t until the following morning, when Oswald cautiously opened the door and found Bradford’s bloody, bodiless head on his doormat, eyes fixated in horror, flies milling around its ears, that he knew he had bigger problems than a killer cat.

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a halloween short story

Some fiction for the holiday.


When the first pumpkins rose up, small and more brown than orange, Mr. Engle ripped them from their vines and handed them out to the neighborhood children. They simply laughed and threw them in the streets, more gestures aimed at ridiculing him. They squished the gifted pumpkins with bicycle tires and baseball bats and skateboards and soon the heavy tires of Explorers and Navigators laden with snotty babies and soccer equipment rode over the remnants of the pumpkins, plastering the seeds and skin into the pavement where they became an All You Can Eat Buffet for seagulls and crows.

He had offered the pumpkins as a Welcome-Wagon gift in reverse, thinking that giving a piece of himself, his garden, his babies, to the neighborhood kids would finally make him welcome. He eyed the mess in the road and realized otherwise.

Mr. Engle stalked back into his house, saying nothing to the ungrateful children who stood around watching the birds peck at the pumpkin guts, muttering rude nicknames for him under their breath.

Soon, the bigger pumpkins arrived, shapely and large and a proper shade of orange. The parents of the ungrateful little slobs walked past the house during their power strides around the block and complimented Mr. Engle on how large, how orange his pumpkins were.

One evening Mrs. Vallone stopped mid gait and gawked at the monstrous pumpkins rising from the garden like fall moons.

“That is quite a lovely pumpkin patch you have there.”
“Mmhmm” Mr. Engle refused to engage in conversation with a woman who could raise such a beast as Stan Vallone.
“They would really make excellent carving pumpkins,” she said, in the form of a request phrased as a nonchalant sentence. Mr. Engle wasn’t stupid. He knew what she was getting at.
“Well, Mrs. Vallone, I already handed out pumpkins and your son saw fit to smash his in the street and ride his skateboard through the innards.”
“Oh come on, now. Mr. Engle. Those weren’t good pumpkins. They were runts.”
“The point is,” he said, ignoring her insult, “they were a gift from me and they smashed them right in front of me.”
“Oh, Jesusmaryjoseph, get over it. A gift.” She rolled her eyes.
Mr. Engle turned to her and said “Your son and his friends are snotty little prigs, Mrs. Vallone. And I can see the rotten apples do not fall far from the tree.”
Mrs. Vallone gasped a bit and as her mouth hung open, waiting for her brain to fire off the correct indignant verbiage, Mr. Engle stalked away into his sunroom, slamming the screen door behind him. The thin walls of the room shuddered and Mrs. Vallone stood by the pumpkin patch a moment before she stuck up her middle finger at the space where Mr. Engle berated her.

“You know what?” she said to nobody in particular. “Fuck him.” She bent down and pulled the largest, smoothest, orangest pumpkin off of its vine. She scanned the street and looked toward Mr. Engle’s sunroom to make sure no one had seen her and then she trotted down Williams Court, balancing the pumpkin on her hip like a weighty laundry basket, smug in her vindictiveness.

She had intended to carve the pumpkin, even gave thought to carving a likeness of Mr. Engle’s face into it, but the thing was so huge, so perfect that Mrs. Vallone, ever the happy homemaker, decided to bake a delicious pumpkin pie. No, no..not even a pumpkin pie. Pumpkin muffins, so all of Stan’s little friends could surreptitiously share in the bounty of Mr. Engle’s gardening skills.

As Mrs. Vallone was happily buzzing around her kitchen in her little checkered apron lining up the baking soda and flour and cinnamon and leveling off the brown sugar, Mr. Engle was standing in his garden in the very spot where a rather large and rather orange pumpkin once lay. He was befuddled, flummoxed and, after doing a sort of math theorem in his head having to do with pumpkins and Mrs. Vallone, enraged.

Mr. Engle was not the sort to let his rage get the better of him. He simmered and stewed and stroked his scraggly gray beard for an inordinate amount of time, standing right there in the garden, the sun slowly sinking, and it was not until the darkest of sunset shadows was cast over the shallow imprint of where his missing pumpkin once was that Mr. Engle did a slow walk back through his yard, into the sunroom and down, down, down the winding, splintered steps into his workshop.

“Best cupcakes EVER, mom!”
“Totally, Mrs. V. I don’t even like pumpkin and these taste amazing.”

Mrs. Vallone beamed a thousand watt smile across her kitchen at the boys.
“What’s your secret, Mrs. V?”
Should she tell them? Oh, how could she not?
“The secret, boys, is Mr. Engle.” She put her hand up nervously to her mouth like a dainty woman about to let loose a forbidden word. “I stole the pumpkin from him!” She nearly giggled.

The boys howled with laughter and lined up to smack a high-five into Mrs. V’s manicured hand.
“Way to go, mom.”
“Yea, way to give it back to that old creep, Mrs.V.”
“Fuck, yea,” said Mrs. V., and the boys nodded approvingly.


Stan Vallone woke at 1am with a need, a desire to see Mr. Engle’s pumpkins. There was no rhyme nor reason to his need, it just was. He rose out of bed, slipped into his sweatshirt and headed down the stairs and out the door. Four minutes later, his mother, struck by the same sudden need, also walked out the door. In the street they met Kevin and Ryan and Brad and a couple of other kids, all with vapid smiles and dazed eyes. Kevin said, “Nice muffins, Mrs. V.,” and the others mumbled the same.

They walked like a troop of sleepwalkers, Mrs. Vallone their yawning, lumbering den mother, until they came to the corner of Williams and Forest, where Mr. Engle’s house and yard filled the expanse of the curve. They each, without knowing why or questioning their own motives, straddled over the wood post fence and tromped across the lawn toward the pumpkin patch. And one by one they filed right into the patch, each boy, and then Mrs. V., digging their heels into a spot in the ground, burrowing their feet in the damp soil.

As the minutes and hours wore on, they became a bizarre garden of flesh and bone, vines trailing up and around their legs, their skin becoming like vinyl, soft and lumpy and orange, their faces contorting until they disappeared completely, just rounded lines forming up and down around their heads. And all the while they could think and breathe and see and hear. They could not move, they could not scream, they could not escape the fate that Mr. Engle had set them on. They could only stand and witness what was happening to each other. They could only glance – while their eyes could still see – and see skin turning orange and legs entwining with leaves and feel the pain of transformation, a pain that Mr. Engle probably could have lessened but chose not to.

Mr. Engle stood silently in the sunroom, watching through the screen door. He waited while the moon moved through thin clouds, shedding odd light and shadows upon the planted humans. He waited while a light rain fell, while the clouds moved, while the moon waned, and he didn’t move from his perched place at the door until the last of Mrs. Vallone’s face was obscured by a thick skin of pumpkin flesh.

He pulled the boys from the patch first, so Mrs. Vallone could watch each boy being ripped from the ground and dragged into the house. He saved Stan for last and for a brief moment held him upright in front of the Mrs. V. pumpkin and then chided himself for gloating, for wasting valuable time. When the boys were all dragged down to the workroom, Mr. Engle came back for Mrs. V., and whispered to her in a sing-song fashion as he slid her across the lawn, into the sunroom and down, down, down the stairs.

“Do you like Halloween, Mrs. Vallone, do you?”
Clunk, her body went on the stairs
“It’s my favorite holiday.”
“I love to decorate.”
“Especially with pumpkins.”
“Lovely, lovely pumpkins.”
“You know what I like? Scarecrows with pumpkin heads! That’s just spooky, don’t you think, Mrs. Vallone?”

Finally, Mrs. V. was heaved onto the pile of pumpkin boys, all the while screaming inside her head, Nononononononononooooooooo, but unheard by anyone but herself.


“Don’t you just love Halloween, Mr. Roberts?” Mr. Engle was standing on his porch, talking to the postman.
“I do, Mr. Engle. I love the weather, the atmosphere. It’s a great time of year.”

He handed Mr. Engle a few bills and the latest copy of People. “And I just love those pumpkin heads on your scarecrows!” He looked over toward Mr. Engle’s garden, where a row of small scarecrows and one larger one hung on makeshift crosses, each with a pumpkin head, each head with a face carved into a frozen grimace of horror and pain. “That ought to scare the bejesus out of the obnoxious boys around here.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Engle. “I’m sure.”

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We narrowed it down to a few; but both the kids are out of town for the weekend and Todd and I can’t decide. So it’s up to you. Vote, vote and vote. We’ll announce the winner tomorrow.

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Halloween fun: guess the horror movie

I have two horror movie collages I made a while ago. Click for bigger image. The first one is definitely harder – more obscure movies and harder to place images. The second one – which I will post when these are guessed, should be easier, especially if you are a fan of 80’s slasher flicks.

I lost the answer keys to these, so I’ll have to go through myself and figure some of these out. I’m really depending on you guys to come through here.

By the way, 42 is sort of a bonus thing. It’s one of my favorite horror movies and if you guess it, you get my undying adoration.

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You know that we have been working hard on our Halloween window display. We keep referring to it as Spookytown, because that’s the product name for all the stuff we have been buying.


We don’t like calling it Spookytown. We want a name of our own. Something that says “Michele and Todd put this together.” Something less cartoony than Spookytown. Something…..good.

That’s where you come in. That’s right, this is a NAME THAT HALLOWEEN DISPLAY contest.

The display can be seen here in all its glory.

There are various angles and shots and whatnot so you can get a real feel for it. There’s also a shaky video of it here.

We do have a glorious prize for whoever comes up with the name we use. If you look at the display, you’ll see our Lake O’ Death. In that Lake O’ Death is a half-drowned school bus with an arm sticking out of the back window. That’s right. You win the school bus fresh from our display. When Halloween’s over, of course. Just imagine. For naming our little creepy village, you get to have a piece of it!! Does it get much better than that?


The entries will be judged by Todd, myself and my kids. Winner will be announced in a couple of days.

Leave your name suggestions here in the comments. You may enter as many times as you want. We’ll leave this open a day or two.

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