Spooky Stories-Part I

As October ripened and Halloween drew closer and closer, I found myself getting in the spirit of things.  Every smiling jack o’lantern and crepe-paper bat seemed like a friendly reminder of what I could look forward to.  I knew that Geena would have all sorts of fun Halloween-themed things for us to do, because Geena always has a finger on the pulse of campus culture… plus, she’s always volunteering to help other people with their big projects!

But Geena’s generosity has a downside.  When I swung by her apartment in the week before Halloween to suggest we check out a Halloween concert in the student lounge (which might just be four different bands all covering the Monster Mash over and over), she informed me she had already made plans.

“Aww, Mike, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed, swooping around the kitchen counter to kiss me on the forehead.  “I promised to help Wendy and Lilly with the theater’s bake sale.”

I eyeballed the ghost-shaped cookies cooling on the counter.  “So you’re going to be selling cookies all night?” I asked.

Geena slipped on a pair of oven mitts.  She wasn’t wearing anything else.  She waved the mittens at me before scooping up the pan of cookies.  “That’s right.  I’d love to go to the concert, Mike, but a promise is a promise.  Besides, it’s probably just four different bands all covering the Monster Mash over and over.”

The way Geena knew my brain scared me sometimes.  “Yeah, I thought that, too.  …I just wanted to spend time with you,” I admitted, shuffling my feet.  “Can I come to the bake sale?”

“Aww.  Mike!”  Geena slid the pan of cookies over another one and turned to pat me on the head with her mitten; a small puff of flour rose from it.  “I would love if you came to the bake sale, but… it’s kind of a girls-only thing.  Sorry.”  She hugged me, then, pressing her warm body against mine, and I felt a frustrated stirring in my pants.  Geena’s body was warm and full and naked in front of me, but like the little frosted ghost cookies, not for me.  “I’ll make it up to you, okay?” she said.  “Don’t worry, we’ll have a great Halloween.  You can live without me for one night!”

“…yeah, I know, but I don’t want to,” I said.

Geena laughed as she carefully wrapped several stacked trays with aluminum foil.  “Well, if you want to spend more time with me tonight, I can take the long route and walk with you back to your dorm!”

I figured it was the best compromise I would get, so I got Geena’s clothes for her and helped her dress, holding her jacket open for her to slide her arms in, kneeling to help her get on her slouchy boots.  I offered to carry the cookies, and she let me; tray in hand, together, we left her apartment and walked toward campus.  I tried not to act too disappointed, but Geena, as usual, was attuned to my moods and clearly desperate to cheer me up.

“Mike, why don’t you just go to the concert with some of your friends?  Maybe I can get out of the bake sale early and meet up with you,” she suggested.

“I don’t know if any of them would want to go.  And they’re not exactly perfect replacements for my girlfriend.”

“I know it’s not what you wanted, but it’s a better option than sitting around moping all night.  Even if you don’t go to the concert, promise me you’ll do something fun?  Even if it’s just hanging out in your dorm telling ghost stories or something.”

“My RA would kill me if I lit a campfire in my dorm room.”

Geena laughed and swatted my arm as we came to the front of my building.  “I didn’t say anything about a campfire!  Listen, I don’t know how long the bake sale is going to take, but if it gets out early, I’ll come by.  Okay?”

“Okay,” I sighed, passing her the tray of cookies and getting a kiss in return.  I watched her depart, her long, glossy, dark hair swishing down her back and her hips making her butt sway teasingly.  I knew it was dumb to feel so let down that my last-minute plans were’t going to happen, but anytime I was with Geena, I always found myself craving more of her.

It was already past the equinox and the days were shortening; the sun had gone down and it was rapidly getting dark out.  I turned reluctantly as Geena finally walked out of my line of vision, swallowed up by the dusky shadows. I used my keycard to get into the dorm and jogged up to my room.  Geena’s insistence that I try to do something fun had felt like a command, so I was going to try.  Harry, I knew, would probably have some weed; that seemed like a pretty quick way to feel better.  I hoped he was in.

Luckily for me, he was, and he wasn’t alone, either.  Oz, a friend of Geena’s and a senior who lives off-campus, was lounging casually in the door frame chatting.  I suspected he was there for the same reason as me.

“Mike, my man!  What’s up?” he greeted me cheerfully.

“Not much.  Just looking for a pick-me-up.  I’ve got the Halloween blues,” I admitted.

“Bummer, man, but I’ve got just the thing,” said Harry, turning toward his room to get his stash.  Harry looked like he was planning to stay in for the night to fulfill orders; he was wearing a worn, baggy pink hoodie and a pair of equally worn and terribly clashing red boxers.  I had to admire his style… or lack of style.  

“What’s got you down?” he asked.

“…it’s nothing,” I admitted.  “I was just thinking it would be fun to go to a concert or party or something tonight, do something, you know, spooky.  But Geena volunteered to help with a sorority bake sale.”

“Geena isn’t even in a sorority!” exclaimed Oz.

“I know, I know, she’s just addicted to helping people,” I grumbled.

“Well, that’s a pretty good problem to have.  Listen, I know neither of us is a ten–” began Harry.

“Speak for yourself,” interjected Oz, batting his lashes.

“–but if you want to do something tonight then we can totally make it happen.”

I considered Geena’s suggestion.  “Well… maybe we could just stay in, smoke, and tell some ghost stories.”

“That’s a great idea,” agreed Harry.

“It was Geena’s.”

“You’re really got Geena on the brain, huh?  …well, maybe we can take your mind off her for a little bit!” said Oz.

Harry handed me a dime bag of weed and I forked over $10.  “You guys really want to?  You don’t think it’s corny?” I asked.

“No way, it sounds cool.  Let me get my roommate; I think he’s studying in the common area.  Meet back in your room?  If we stay in mine, people will be coming by all night to buy,” said Harry.

“Okay, great.  Come on, Oz,” I said.  I led Oz down the narrow, windowless, painted cinder-block hallway of the dorm to my room.  My own roommate was out (at the concert, probably… hmph!) so we had the space to ourselves.  I hurriedly swiped up some old clothes from the bed to make room.  Oz gazed around appreciatively, arms crossed.  

“Wow, this sure takes me back,” he said.  “Nice to know nothing’s changed since I was a freshman.”

“They probably never update the dorms,” I agreed.

Oz plopped down onto my bed, stripping off his jacket and toeing off his shoes to get comfortable.  A few moments later, Harry knocked and entered with his roommate, Jung.  Harry had not bothered to put on pants; he seemed content in his fluorescent-pink hoodie.  In contrast, Jung was in jeans and a t-shirt and socks, looking perfectly normal.  I related more to Jung’s sense of style than Harry’s! 

Despite their differences (Jung was wealthy, from a city, and an only child, while Harry was poor, from a farm, and had older brothers), they got along pretty well.

The two of them settled onto the floor, and Harry pulled out a new bag of weed and a bong.  Oz stretched across the bed to crack open the window, and then he flicked off the light.

“Hey!” cried Harry.

“It’s supposed to be dark, if we’re telling ghost stories.”

I heard some bubbling, followed by the familiar skunky smell of grass.

“We could at least have a flashlight,” said Jung’s voice in the dark.

“I think I saw one on Mike’s desk!”

I winced as I heard a glass, a desk lamp, and a stack of papers fall over; Oz was clearly knocking everything over as he felt over my desk for the flashlight.  Finally, he found it, and he flicked it on, putting it under his chin to light up his face with shadows.  

“You know what we should do?” asked Harry lazily, a puff of smoke escaping his mouth when he spoke.  “We ought to make it interesting, make it into a little contest, raise the stakes…”

“Stakes are for vampires.  I’m in,” said Oz immediately.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Free dimebag to whoever gives the best story,” said Harry.

“Hey, I’m going to go to the bathroom real quick before we get into it,” I said, climbing to my feet.

“Hurry up, Mike.  I have a bag of weed to win!” said Jung.

“…hey, wait, this won’t be fair.  Jung’s your roommate so you’re biased…” began Oz.  That was the last thing I heard as I exited into the hallway to go down to the floor’s restrooms.  I tried to be quick; when I came back, I found out I hadn’t needed to rush, because they were all still arguing about what the contest should be.

“–worst story gives it to the one who told the best story.  So it’s like, ranked,” Oz was saying.

“Are you still trying to figure this out?  It’s just ghost stories and you’re turning it into a chess match or something!” I said.

“Mike’s right, we’re overthinking it.  Let’s just go with Oz’s idea,” said Jung.  He turned to me.  “We all tell one story.  At the end, we vote.  You can’t vote for your own story.  The person who tells the best story gets a blowie from the loser.”

I only half-heard him; I was taking a rip off Harry’s bong.  Something about blow?  “What, they get a what?  A joint or something?” I asked, leaning toward the window to exhale.  All the other guys seemed like they’d gotten a head-start on the bong and were stoned already.

Jung said something but I didn’t catch it; Harry was bubbling away on his bong again.  It was hard to keep up with him.

“I think Harry should go first; if we wait, he’s going to get so high he won’t remember his own story,” said Oz, holding out the flashlight.

“Best story goes first.  Good idea,” said Harry smugly, taking the flashlight.

“Wait, what are the rules again?  We’re voting or something?  The winner gets something from the loser?  I missed it.”

“Pass me the bong,” asked Jung; I took it from Harry and passed it over.

“You guys ready for some hardcore scares?” asked Harry, angling the flashlight under his chin.

“Ooo-ooo-ooo!” cheered Oz, clapping.

“What if there’s more than one winner?  Or more than one loser?  Like, a tie?” I asked.

“Mike, relax, you’re over-thinking things,” said Jung, passing me the bong.  “Take another hit and let Harry talk.  You’ll have your turn.”

“I know, I know, I’m not not clear on the rule–” I began, but Harry cleared his throat, loudly.

“Mike, you need to get on our level.  It’s like, the simplest rules imaginable,” said Harry.  “Winner, loser, stories, oral.  This is not brain surgery.”

“Aren’t all stories oral?” I asked.  I was feeling a little floaty; I’d taken way too big of a hit.

“Speaking of brain surgery…” began Harry, ignoring me.  He wiggled his butt on the floor, settling himself in, getting comfortable.  “Imagine, if you will, the incredible ways that science has advanced in the last few decades.  With every generation, we build upon the discoveries of the last, and now, we are all prodigies, products of the innovators that came before us.  But when would we know if science had gone too far?  What would happen if someone took the knowledge, the skills, the confidence of modern medicine, and decided to wield it with impunity, to create something disturbing and unholy for their own dark desires?  Who would stop them?  Could they be stopped?  This is the story… of Maddie’s mad creation.”

To be continued, in…

• Harry’s story (October 10)
• Jung’s story (October 11)
• Oz’s story (October 12)
• Mike’s story (October 13)
• And the winner is… (November)