Write...Edit...Publish Halloweeen Blogfest - my entry HAUNTING, combined with Francine Howarth's Halloween Blogfest.

Welcome to creepy Halloween! There are many blogfests vying for attention. I am combining the Write...Edit...Publish blogfest with Francine Howarth's Trick or Treat Blogfest where you either give or receive free books. (In comments, say if you want your name to go into a hat to win a free book - say TREAT!)

Those who participate in the WEP blogfest will be competing for a $10 Amazon Gift card from yours truly (for the entry that catches my , and Francine is donating a free e-book to a participant.

Here is my creepy story...(sorry, I've been re-reading The Book Thief for the umpteenth time with my students, so I'm a little influenced by Death as narrator.) I'm sorry it's not exactly a fun entry, but there are some of them around...

Death has come to town. He arrives on runway 13A at midnight, thirteen minutes behind schedule. Despite the ferocious Twitter campaign demanding a new runway to deal with the increased traffic, the flight was late as usual. He couldn’t resist tweeting: #JFK #FLT307 #lateagain just for the pure heck of it.

He blends in with the weary commuters—squalling infants protesting painful ears and broken sleep, briefcases no doubt stuffed with duty free goods and hotel mini bar spirits, and myriad rackety suitcases squalling about just one trip too many. No one takes any notice of Death, no one senses his menace even though he mischievously brushes against as many unfortunate travellers as he can. What fun. Back in the swing of it again after the hiccup last time. He rubs his artificial leg. That will haunt him for the rest of his days, may they be long and eventful.

Death walks, lurching a little, protecting himself from the unseemly haste of humans desperate for their comfy bed, whether hotel or home. He has no baggage to collect; it would slow him down, but this night he can’t resist a little people watching as the weary souls await luggage collection at No 7 carousel. He stands in the vast, clattery room, surrounded by chattering children and the peculiar odour of those cooped together too closely on a thirteen-hour flight, watches them fighting over their luggage like chickens in the hen house pecking for grain. 

He could have done the deed earlier, on the plane, but that would have been too easy. And not according to plan. And, heck, he would have bit the dust too, or the ocean. Not ready for that sacrifice, but the time was coming. 

Gotta always stick to the plan. He studies the bed-ready faces, wishes he could tell them how lucky they are to be alive. How capricious is Death.

He follows the crowd to customs. A blind man could find his way simply by the noise and crush of humanity not at its best. The aromas from the coffee shop tantalize his olfactory glands, but he has no desire to indulge himself. He hardly recognises the place; it’s been so long since he visited, but this is just a quick in and quick out so it doesn’t bother him. No place is home any longer. The world is his stage. And he’s such an evil player. How delicious!

No one takes any notice as he passes by. Midnight eyes are blind, even those of the custom’s man, badged MARVIN. There are things that a sleep-deprived MARVIN, probably pulling a double shift, should have noticed. Just what was hidden beneath his long black coat? They do wonderful things with plastic these days. A body search would be in order, but he’s home free. Marvin missed an opportunity to be a hero, dead or alive.

Death shrugs and heads away from the passport-stamp-thumping desks, the babel of foreign languages, the wail of exhausted children. As he exits, he deliberately brushes a young lover caught in the act of whispering sweet nothings to whoever is on the receiving end of the phone. The young lover turns his shoulder towards Death, and continues his midnight electronic tryst. Oh, young man, I could finish you in a moment!

Now Death is out of doors. Humidity clutches his throat, the acrid smell of exhaust fumes threaten to overwhelm him. Then it begins to rain before his lungs are poisoned; it washes away the grime, turning the pavement into a slippery, oozy slush.

Death squints through the tumbling rain. A shaft of moonlight shimmers on the taxi roof, turned red by the neon sign poking its broken nose from the opposite side of the barrier. How strange. But it is a strange night. He checks over his shoulder, both directions. then wrenches open the nearest taxi door. The artificial smell of air freshener offends his sensibilities. The seat sags and he lurches into the middle. He smirks, imagining the lurching that people will be doing tomorrow…er, today.

“The Plaza Hotel,” he growls to the driver. The driver gives him the finger with his eyes, then pulls out into the stream of traffic. Death doesn’t glance behind. He feels hidden in the interior with its misty windows. He has more important things to think about. The plan must be perfectly executed. Ha, ha. Perfect choice of words.

Room 13  on (well, it should be 13!) the thirteenth floor is the perfect place to visit for his thirteenth act of terror.

Death has come to town.

jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

WORD COUNT: 758
General feedback please as this story is for this blogfest only.

Click on the WEP HAUNTED blogfest list in my right-hand sidebar to read other entries. Click on the TRICK OR TREAT badge to visit participants and to snaffle a book! 

Here are Francine's rules for both AUTHORS and VISITORS:

Authors: 

1) pop all the names of people who ask for a "TREAT" into a hat and choose a winner!

2)  Award a Kindle copy of the book/s featured to the winner

Visitors:



1) State in your comment whether you want your name popped into the author's hat.

2) Use your imagination for demanding your Treat! 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!