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▇▇ HALLOWEEN WAS A REGULAR DAY. no horrors to fill his day, no people wearing masks to wreak havoc in the streets. there is only the sound of the church bell – everlasting. deathless.
candies from coffins were given out to pink-eyed children from glossy-eyes grandmothers. the children never wore costumes. he believed it was because they were their own kind of monsters children here were never really children at first glance. it will always be the third or fifth glance to realize things are not what they appear to be.
you are not cleansed, johnny, they say, voice ripping through the barriers of his mind, slipping in like rain through a spider's web. you are not cleansed.
he believes it now.
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▇▇ THE PUMPKIN ON HIS PORCH rots in hours. he doesn't know what was wrong with it. the pumpkin does scare away the possible things that could so easily come through his door, so he was safe for another night. he's aware that there are things that do not enter your house through your pipes and your windows. they come through your door, home themselves in to every crook and cranny in the house and then, that is how you will rot. you are not clean.
but why isn't the pumpkin working?
he finds out days after halloween has ended, that his pumpkin was oozing out blood and gore of something black. he didn't know if it had been mold, or if he didn't scoop out all insides of the pumpkin, but he could say that it was neither of those things. it had been neither because it was too black, too dark for it to be the average mold on your average pumpkin. it smelled like nothing, but the mold, whatever it had been, would not wash off his hands under water. he scrubbed his skin raw, until it started to burn, and yet, it never came off. his hands are covered in black.
your willow tree is rotten.
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▇▇ THERE IS A MOLD that appears on the corner of his walls. it is about a foot in length and it was never there the day before he saw. he doesn't want to open them up, replace them with new ones because he does not want to find out what lives between the wood.
but they come out anyway.
they will take their seat right next to the face of death, features smeared because of the eternal summer heat that stings your skin when you let the sun eat you whole. he asks them to leave, as they had prolonged their stay, but they ask for dessert and he has an apple crumble cake waiting to be eaten inside the fridge. he offers them a slice and they spare him another day under their scythe. but they do not leave.
rotten. your willow tree is rotten.
he believes it.
NOTES i wish cld make this into a movie . also thank u sm for 500 reads ):
