It’s Party Time

She pulled the fishnets up her thighs. She strapped the tall high heels around her ankles. She shifted her lacey black panties and pushed up her cleavage. She put on her cat ears and hissed at herself in the mirror.

“Sara!! Get your ass down here!”

Sara looked at herself in the mirror one last time, checking for signs of the whore’s blood lipstick on her pearly whites and fluffing her blondie hair for the thousandth time. “You are going to get fucked tonight,” she winked at herself.

“You don’t look scary,” Trish said, wrinkling her nose at Sara.

“Yeah . . . and you look fucking terrifying. Why?”

“Because I woke up this morning and thought, shit, I need to pour a jug of fake blood on myself, because that fresh look just isn’t cutting it for me anymore!” She glared at Sara, who was still grasping for the joke a little slowly. “Because it’s fucking Halloween Sara! That’s why! You know costume contests, lots of scary bullshit? Mass murders? Satan? The night the spirits of the dead run wild?”

“Gotcha. Well good luck with that, I’m screwing Alan Dennings tonight.”

“Make sure you wear one of those stainless steel condoms then!”


“Hey don’t say I didn’t warn you if you end up with the Clap!'”

They giggled in raucous joy as they slipped out of Sara’s duplex and tromped towards Trish’s Altima. The knife Trish had protruding out of her stomach made slipping into the driver’s side a little difficult, but she managed to keep the prop mostly intact.

“So, where is this thing anyway?” Sara prompted.

“You know James, the guy from my welding class?”

“Oh shit, you mean the guy you were blowing when you almost burnt down the whole iron works garage?!”

“One and the same. Well there’s this bitching piece of property off the main highway, his parents are realtors, and they never go out there. Apparently the thing has been on the market for like 15 years, I don’t know. But! It’s supposed to be a pseudo mansion, all falling apart and shit with a couple acres of land attached. So voila! Haunted house central!”

“That is so fucking cliché and you fucking know it! We’re gonna get like hacked to pieces or some shit!” Sara squealed at her, clearly not deterred.

“That, my skanky friend, is the absolute point.” Trish gave a wolfish grin and unleashed a lead foot on her gas pedal.

They pulled into the field with what looked like about a hundred other cars of various makes and models.  Trish’s horror house wet dream loomed in the distance, lit up with sparkling orange lights and a raging bonfire blazing in the front.  Sara opened her mouth, giving the best blowjob face a girl can have, at the sight of the party.

“Fuck me. The whole student body is totally here,” Sara beamed. “I’m definitely fucking Alan Dennings tonight!”

“Easy, princess,” Trish said while grabbing a bottle from the back seat. “We need to take care of us first!”

“Whatd’ya bring Trishy?”

“Something tasty.”

“You know I don’t drink that flavored vodka anymore, after last spring break!”

“Sara, shut up,” Trish smiled as she poured each of them a flask.  She handed one to Sara and lifted hers in a cheers salute. “To mother fucking Halloween!”

“Wooo!” Sara screamed and drank deeply. “Time to party.”

“In the words of Return of the Living Dead, ‘IT’S PARTY TIME’!!!” The girls set off on their trek across the field to the holy grail of keggers and probably Date Rapes R Us, with an extra spring in their step.

The manor house was an old plantation model, with a big wrap around porch and Ionic columns, the paint was flaking away in sheets of withered white and brown, and the windows were either boarded up or so caked in dirt they were viably useless. Their classmates danced around the glowering fire in the tribal rhythm of a pagan ritual. They looked like possessed seizure victims or Trish didn’t know what, but it looked like fun abandon. Sara was bouncing at her side, hardly standing on her elevated stilts.

“Trishy, everyone is out of their fucking skull already! Do you think someone’s handing out cups with acid in them like that one place?”

“Sara, we’re not in 1969, I doubt anyone is gonna waste good acid by putting it in cups at this party.”

“Psh! You never know, Trish, remember it is Halloween and the nut jobs are on the loose.” Sara looked at her friend knowingly. “I’m asking anyway, so boo to you, bitch.” 

Trish watched Sara bound away on her mission. She couldn’t help but love her, and her determination. She was staring up at the house in awe and dim foreboding, when she felt it grip her wrist. Trish leapt in the air away from the drunk girl who was slithering on the lawn, wearing some kind of scaly costume, looking like a large python. She had reached up and clasped her claw onto Trish’s hand and was trying to pull her down to her level. Trying to pry the fingers off of her, Trish heard the girl start to choke. “Fuck, this bitch is sick, or maybe she’s on acid,” she thought. The girl’s eyes grew wide, looking at nothing but the fire, the flames reflecting in her pupils.

“Don’t do it!” she suddenly wailed, heaving forward at the bonfire, dragging Trish with her.

“Let go, bitch! I don’t know what the fuck you’re on but let my fucking arm go!” Trish pulled herself away from the girl just before she did a swan dive into the heart of the pyre. “Holy fuck,” she whispered to herself, and began looking around for other witnesses to react. She was completely alone on the front lawn, watching the python girl barbeque herself.

“Hello?” Sara said as she turned another corner in the large house. She had followed a group of people towards a back room, then they turned the corner and she had lost them. She’d been running in circles since then trying to locate anyone else. “Great fucking party, Trish,” she muttered, making her way to what she believed was the kitchen. There was a steel tub filled with ice and beer and she helped herself.

“Hello, Sara,” he whispered in her ear. Sara jumped and her beer went flying across the old, stale tile that was curling at the edges.

“Jesus Christ! Alan! You scared the shit out of me!” she said as she turned to look at him. “Well I guess you and Trish really get into the holiday spirit, huh?” she noted, looking at his bloody face, and the oozing slit in his throat.

“You know what I’ve always wanted, Sara?” He moved upon her with his hands reaching under her short black dress.

“Uh . . . um . . . a Hummer?” she stammered as she felt the sticky wetness of Alan’s wounds pressing against her, and the smell of something just not quite right.

“Hehe,” he sniggered. “Funny you should mention hummer, Sara, but no, I’ve always wanted your fucking juicy lips on my hard dick, how ‘bout right now?” Alan grabbed the back of Sara’s hair and started shoving her towards his cock, which he was in the process of pulling out from his hipster jeans.

“Oh, come the fuck on!” Sara shouted. “Get the fuck off of me, Alan!”

“Not until you blow me, bitch.”

“Oh fuck off Alan, your dick is tiny,” Trish said suddenly, bringing a wooden bat down on his already mutilated head.

“What the fuck, Trish!” Sara cried in excitement. They both looked down at the twitching mess that had been Sara’s choice screw for the evening. “What happened to him?” Sara asked, in bewilderment, not without a touch of sadness that she may not be getting laid tonight.

“I don’t know, but we need to get the fuck out of here dude, like on the realz.”

“Trish, zombie Alan just tried to get me to blow him, give me a second.” Sara frowned down at Alan in his blood-soaked yet still trendy clothes, with his nice body and his seriously fucked up face . . .

“Alright,” Trish blurted. “Moment’s up, let’s go, now!”

Trish and Sara made their way out of the kitchen and back towards the front door, the walls seeming to change shades of color before their eyes. No matter what entranceway they took they kept walking in intertwining circles around the bottom level of the house.

“Trish, how the fuck did you get in here? Where is the door?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking that very same question,” Trish snapped back at her.

“And where are all the people? I followed a group of them, but they disappeared,” Sara mused, opening a closet door, hoping it to lead somewhere. The foul odor that emerged was unbearable, like sour milk and rotten eggs, simmering in puke and shit. The stench caused both girls to gag and hit their knees.

“Close it, Sara!” Trish shouted.

“I can’t, it’s stuck . . . oh my god I’m going to vomit!”

James didn’t look quite the same as Trish remembered when he walked out of the closet door. He had always been tall and tan with flecked green eyes and dark brown hair. This James was a little more . . . demonic. His skin had bubbled around the neck and face, leaving burnt-looking skin patches, and his eyes had a lovely black sheen. The fingers on his hands looked like tools Jack the Ripper would save for a special occasion and his usually lovely smile was now a jaw filled with triangular shark-like teeth.

“Holy shit, James,” Sara exclaimed. “You really let yourself go.” James growled with menacing hatred.

“Oh go fuck yourself, James.” Trish stood up from the floor and stared at him. “You know it was a really dick move to pull this shit. I mean yeah, summon Belial and all those assholes but seriously? Did you have to fuck up Halloween? I mean look at how much time Sara spent looking like a skank.”

“Yeah!” Sara piped up. “And did you have to turn Alan Dennings into a zombie? You knew I wanted to hit that!” Sara kicked James in the abdomen, a blade emerging from her hooker heel and plunging into his belly. Trish pulled the knife from her own stomach, revealing the truth behind her costume, and hacked off one of his massive paws. James, taken aback by the sudden attack, was absolutely bewildered, hell beast and all.

“Flask?” Trish hollered at Sara, as she was lifting her own from the back of her jeans pocket.

“Already ahead of you!” Sara responded, having pulled the silver vial from between her breasts. Unscrewing the lids, the girls dowsed down James in the fiery liquid, which caused him to screech unholy sounds and smoke copiously . He was reduced to a puddle of molten sludge before their eyes.

“God, I hate Halloween,” Trish sighed.

“No you don’t, Trishy! You love Halloween, you just hate dickwads like this guy, who try to summon the minions of hell. It’s like duh! We have a handle on you already!”

“Yeah, still can’t believe I didn’t kill him the first time though. I just seriously fucked up the iron works garage.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Thanks, Sara.”

“No prob! Now can we go somewhere that I might be able to get laid, please?!”

“Sure enough, happy Halloween.”

By Emily Smith-Miller