By: Michael Gu
There was always something about willow trees that seemed unsettling to me. I don’t know whether it was the long silver branches that looked like hairs on a ghost or the way it sways with the wind; willows are so graceful but unsettling. This is a Halloween story to get you ready for a scare. Hallow’s Eve is coming up, and I thought a good spooky story is always great. Brandon is a young man who works at a bar in a hotel. On the day before Halloween, Brandon fails to get a raise and decides to skip Halloween. What a terrifying discovery he made.
During the fall, people don’t appreciate all the beautiful nature in small towns. All the yellow-orange trees, the nice, cool gust of wind. Trees start to lose leaves as vegetation prepares to sleep. The Weeping Willow trees lose their long, beautiful, and full branches.
It was late October, the noon before Hallows’s eve. Brandon was sitting on a smooth wooden bench by Vermillion Lakes, admiring the view of the gray clouds covering the tip of the majestic sight. Across the lake were the huge snow-covered Rockies standing tall with all their might. Marshes surrounded the huge lake, partially frozen with hints of white at the top of riverweeds. Chunks of fallen logs stayed frozen in time, unmoving until spring. The chittering of birds and croaking of frogs ricocheted through the foggy bog. Behind him were the smaller Rocky Mountains that didn’t have a trace of snow atop the cracked walls.
Brandon sighed, his warm breath visible in the bitter cold air. His weary brown eyes glimmered in the sun. He was wearing a gunmetal gray puffy coat with a navy-blue beret. He was young, but over twenty; his hair was a shade of a red maroon, which curled up at the front. He was reading The Weeping Girl by Håkan Nesser. His nose in the book, Brandon was a bookworm; he loved reading and would finish a novel in a day. He worked as a chef in the Beaver Bar, making delightful food for customers at a semi-high price. Today was his day off. As time went by and the sky started to darken, his phone started to ring. Brandon closed the book with a thud and stood up, answering the phone.
“Hello?” asked Brandon in a calm voice.
Muffled yelling and a ruff voice ushered out of the phone speaker.
“Yes, I’ll be there. I’m so sorry. This'll never happen again. Right away, sir, I’m so sorry.”
A panicked expression spread across his face. He had forgotten that he had made an appointment with his boss about a possible raise. Brandon ended the call and looked up again at the colossal beings and sighed. He turned around and passed a weeping willow tree, walking to the bus stop.
Brandon fidgeted, tapping his foot on the gray concrete. He was never very patient when he didn’t have a book on hand. He was the only person there, at the stop. He wanted to reach for a book or anything to keep himself busy, but he knew he could not focus on the appointment if he did. The red-white bus came hastily into sight, made a turn, and halted at the stop. A few people got out, and he climbed into the cramped hull. He sat down on one of the small blue plastic seats that felt like you were sitting in some chunks of uneven wood log. Beside him sat an old woman who had clear white hair, just like the strands of hairlike branches on a willow. She was weeping. Crying into a red handkerchief.
“Are you okay?” asked Brandon in a caring tone.
The woman looked at him, sniffed, and started to talk shakily. Her voice was cracking every sentence.
“My-My-y husband p-passed away today. We’ve been m- married for o-over sixty years.” She started to hysterically cry again into the handkerchief. Brandon hurried to comfort her by putting his hand on her shoulder. She cried into the handkerchief for the next minute or so and finally stopped. “You're a great young man, thank you,” she said and sat up straight again.
A while later, the bus arrived at the stop with a puff of air. He got up and could see the sun was setting. Brandon got out of the bus and stepped onto the shiny stone pavement as he waved goodbye to the old woman. As he walked down the stone pavement, down the line of street shops and lamps, a whistling noise sounded in his ear, and a cold gust of wind struck his back. Brandon whirled around in fear, but there was nothing there. He could’ve sworn there was someone behind him, breathing, whistling, trying to scare him. It was the day before Halloween; obviously someone would try to scare him, he thought, so he continued down the new polished sidewalk with a slight laugh. The winds were strong, howling through the surrounding mountains; snow was falling from the sky in small patches. The surrounding areas were as if it were Christmas: houses covered by snow and warm lights shining through the frosty windows. Clouds covered the orange sky, the sun peeking behind the mountains, waving goodbye.
*
The Beaver Hotel came into view. It was a tall wooden building, cottage-like, and wooden beams crossed the sides of the building in an X. Beaver Bar was inside of a big hotel, which had polished wood balconies outside each room. It was rather skeletal-like; the outsides of the hotel had beams forming a frame-like shape and stone bricks filling the gaps, giving it a nice and filled texture. Brandon walked under the front door, which had a huge overhang that was hollow on the inside with many Christmas lights glinting different colors. There were automatic glass doors that slid to the side as it sensed Brandon’s presence, and the warm air washed into him as he entered. Smells of hot chocolate and other wintery snacks filled the main reception. The reception had a black marble desk and a crystal chandelier hanging on the ceiling. The walls were polished and painted stones with a smooth texture, and the floor was covered with a dark red carpet. There were two halls coming out of the room, one leading straight into a hall of rooms and an elevator on the right. The other led to the Beaver Bar. Brandon hurried down the second hall and into the smell of freshly made food and crowds of people. He could hear songs playing on the speakers and kitchenware clanking with the plates. As he walked past the crowd, he came to a door, hidden from all the tables and the sounds of chattering. On the slightly worn-down door, in gold letters, “manager’s office." The creaking of the silver knob and the joints of the door was incredibly loud. Inside there was an older man; his face was demanding, and his eyes were staring at him as if he were prey. He wore a leather jacket that was odd because no one wears leather jackets here anymore.
“Haven’t you been taught to knock?” He lectured angrily. His boss was a grouchy man who was very strict about basically everything, whether it was where a glass of water was placed, how someone’s hair looked, or even where a fly was.
“So sorry, sir!” He apologized with a bow.
“Why are you bowing?" This isn’t a performance.”
“Sorry sir.” He spoke quietly as if he were trying not to wake a baby from its sleep.
The man eyed Brandon from head to toe like a snake trying to find out how to quickly kill its prey. Brandon was facing down and silent. He directed his gaze back to his face, laughed manically, and stood up with a serious gaze.
“You’re not getting the raise after this happened! You can try to ask me again when you prove you’re worthy!” He scoffed and added under his breath, “If you ever are,” then ushered him out of the room.
Brandon heard the door shut close and stood unmoving outside of the room, irritated. Defeated, he left the bar and went to the bathroom. “I’ll just try again later,” he whispered to himself. He washed his face with water; the noise of running water splashing against his skin calmed his nerves as he wiped his face and looked at himself through the mirror, determination sparked in him.
*
It was late; Brandon had returned home to his lonely small apartment on Delton Road. His apartment was on the second floor and was an average size, big enough to fit ten adults if all of them were cramped in. In front of the door was a tiny room that had an orange leather sofa that wasn’t very big and could probably only seat two people, and a small spruce wooden desk that he would work on. He hung his coat on the coatrack that had birds imprinted on the top and sat down on the orange sofa with a thump. He thought that returning home would help him get ideas on how to earn a raise. The thought of skipping Halloween to work. He never really liked the day when people dress up to scare each other and go from house to house to steal candy, so he thought it wouldn’t be a big loss as he could always go next year. He smiled at this plan and went into his bedroom. His bedroom was small and only had a bedside drawer and a single full-sized bed. Brandon changed into his bedside clothes and hopped into bed, tucking the warm fluffy blanket over himself, and turned off the lamp. His eyes shut close, and his foot twitched slightly as he hugged his blanket close. Darkness engulfed Brandon as he fell into an endless void of night.
*
The silver moon was shining through the open window, casting a silver shadow on the floor. Brandon was sleeping soundly, and snores came out of his mouth every so often. The sky was clear and so very tranquil. Near the lake, an ominous whistling echoed down the banks. The world was so peaceful. Croaking of frogs and screeching of crickets sounded throughout the sky, but a whistling noise traveled, disturbing the natural environment. It was something that didn’t belong on this earth. A clocktower’s clocks clanked and clicked, reaching one o’clock in the morning, sending a chime down into the town. Suddenly a crashing sounded throughout Brandon’s apartment, waking him in an instant. And when he stood up, he saw all the cups and pans sticking to the ceiling. Immediately he reached for his phone, which was on the desk. The cups were swinging as if puppeteered by sharpshooters; it hit the phone dead on before he could reach it. He screamed as pots and pans were swung at him, hitting furniture behind him as he dove and dodged. Brandon crashed into the side of a wall when a pan struck him on the side. The pan stood in front of him, slowly and menacingly advancing towards him. Brandon looked around frantically trying to find something to shelter himself with but couldn’t find anything that wasn’t trying to attack him. Fear coursed through his veins, and his heart beat faster than ever. In this moment, he saw a wood cutting board laid out under the pan and reached for it with his foot. The pan struck the ground, trying to crush his foot, but only hit the floor, causing huge dents and chips of wood to spray all around. He got the cutting board and stuck it out just in time for the pan to smash the board, striking it in half. He bought himself just enough time to jump out of the open window and fall onto the car hood underneath with a thump. Immense pain ached throughout his body, but he was relieved to have been able to fit through the window and escape the pots and pans. When he looked up, he could see the pan trying to fit through the window, but somehow it had closed on them. He laid back down and let out a sigh of relief, but his consciousness didn’t last long as he passed out a second later, consumed again by darkness.
*
The next day went by fuzzily; he was on a white bed in a tiny hospital. The smell of chemicals was present as he got up. In front of him was a doctor typing on his keyboard.
“You’re awake!” he exclaimed as he picked up a phone and whispered something into it, then hung up.
“Where am I?” Brandon grunted as he struggled to sit up straight; his vision was still fuzzy, and his head ached as if it were burning.
“Easy there, you’re in the hospital,” he said calmly as he put his hand on Brandon’s shoulder and gently pushed him back down to a lying position. “Do you remember anything?” he asked while grabbing a notebook from a counter next to him.
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. He couldn’t remember what had happened, his thoughts couldn’t reach him; it was as if trying to get to know someone you never met; he just couldn’t remember.
“Might be a slight effect of amnesia.” Shrugged the doctor as he spoke again into the phone.
“Your condition seemed to have gotten a lot better,” said the doctor in astonishment. “All your wounds have healed in record time!”
“How is that possible?” Brandon interjected.
“Unsure.” He said with a shrug. “No one’s ever healed so fast, but you’re free to go. If you have any more issues, you can call me.” Handing a card to Brandon.
“Thanks doc.” He said and got up with a grunt. He still felt aching throughout his body but managed to get up and leave the room.
The doctor called after him. “Oh, and don’t forget some officers want to ask what happened later tonight.”
Later tonight, where? Why hadn’t the doctor asked him? Isn’t there something weird about it? He pondered for a few seconds but didn’t turn to ask. He’d be better off by himself right now than answering questions.
*
It was the afternoon; Brandon had arrived home and twisted open the door to his room. Inside he could still smell the scent of blood and see the broken glass stabbed into the walls and scattered on the floor, chips of wood spread out evenly across the floor as if someone threw a pile perfectly. The dented pots and pans lay still and unmoving at the window. “What a mess,” he whispered to himself, thinking that this’ll take a long time to clean up. Wasting no time, Brandon decided to grab a book and leave the house. He wanted to go somewhere only he was at, someplace he could go and vent, somewhere where birds' chirps are the only sound in kilometers.
Brandon arrived at Vermillion Lake, where he sat down once again on the bench to clear his head. He thought of what had happened this past day and how unfortunate he was. As he flipped through the soft pages of the book, he thought about this and couldn’t focus on the book, so he looked up with a groan. “I hate Halloween.” He screamed, tossing the book out into the lake. The book splashed on the surface of the water and began to sink down into the dark, murky waters. Brandon blamed Halloween for the events that had happened. What other holiday has spooky incidents like pots that attack? He screamed in frustration at the lake and picked up a rock only to toss it at an onlooking beaver, which squeaked when it hit it. As Brandon started to calm down, he heard the same soft whistling sound he had heard to his right. He twisted around furiously about to give the whistler a piece of his mind, but to his surprise, the weeping willow tree was the only thing there. It was unusual because it was the only one with its leaves when it should’ve lost them all. The strands of silver branches waved and swayed with the wind, but it wasn't what was making the whistling. Behind the willow, a silver-clothed individual came out into view. Brandon screamed like he had just been hit again; the figure had bloody eyes, skin that was rotting, grey robes that were ripped apart as if torn from an animal, the head of the creature twitched, and a deafening screech followed. The figure slowly limped forward, bones snapping every step. Brandon fell back onto the grass, which died as soon as the creature touched it, patches of gray forming from seemingly nothing. The smell of rotting death filled the air as the creature lunged towards Brandon with its arms outstretched and nails sharpened. Within a moment, Brandon’s screams were gone, and what sounded was a clean slice echoed through the pond. Even all the birds had stopped chirping.
Brandon had had his last scare.
Authors Notes.
In Canada there is free Healthcare.
The moral of the story is to always enjoy the once in a year opportunity.
Second, if you get rejected you can always keep trying, so don’t force the next day and let the next day’s happen.
Third, never take out your anger on something else, they don’t deserve it (Even if it's a seasonal holiday just don’t!)
Good story