Hugh J. O'Donnell

The second the Sun sank below the horizon, he opened his eyes and raced outside. Once again, he had missed the sunset in all its fantastical and beautiful colors. He stared up into the gloaming.
He had always been an early riser. That hadn’t changed after he died. His eyes were better now than in life, but it wasn’t the same.
The gloaming wasn’t a sunset and never would be. Still, as the vampire watched the dull reds shift into twilight purples, he savored what light he could stand and worried for the night when it was no longer enough.

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She was ready to leave almost as soon as they moved into the haunted house.
“We’ll flip it as soon as I get it fixed up,” he promised.
“This place needs a priest, not a handyman,” she countered.
“It’s not that bad.”
“So far this week, I have been woken up by mysterious howling, found threatening messages written on the bathroom mirror, and was chased down the hall by dripping blood!”
“So the house likes to play pranks.”
“Pranks?” She asked, opening the bedroom closet. A pile of skeletons tumbled to the floor.
“This place has good bones,” he protested.

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I offered her the seed, and she examined it with a covetous expression. Her brown, twiggy hand hovered over mine.
“Long have I desired this,” she said. “In the place of a pumpkin king, you would have a queen, not spooky, but beautiful and terrible as the blood moon, as tempestuous as an early blizzard. Sweeter than all the candy corn of the earth!” The sky around her darkened. Leaves sprouted from her shoulders, flowing in a cape down her back, and a crown of stars wreathed her round, orange head. She pulled back her hand and the vision faded.

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She tends the village’s scarecrows every day. She sets their poles, mends their clothes, and replaces their lost straw. She makes sure they are comfortable and in good working order.
Under her watch, none of the scarecrows have ever fallen.
But she is getting older, and the village has known safety and plenty for too long. The villagers laugh at the old stories and jeer at her as she does her rounds. Without an apprentice to carry on her work, she worries what will happen when she is gone.
She wonders what the villagers will do when the darkness returns.

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As an undertaker, he maintained a grave sense of humor. He always wore his funeral best and drove a black hearse with custom RM41MORE license plates.
He kept Halloween decorations up all year long, and gave out full-sized candy bars each year.
It wasn’t until he died, with a packed house for his funeral, that they discovered his secret.
Hidden in a back closet were hundreds of carefully wrapped paintings, a lifetime of work. His art style was vivid and colorful, full of vibrant landscapes, happy portraits, and adorable animals. He captured all the joys of his life in paint.

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Once a year, the villagers gathered outside the witch’s hut. It was always a night after the harvest before the hard frost turned the world white with snow.
She looked out at the crowd and smirked. Tonight was the one time they came to her willingly, without desperation in their hearts. They wanted to know the darkness she lived in, just for a night.
She considered showing them the true terror of the grave, but it was nice to be appreciated, even only once a year.
She sighed, put on her makeup, and got ready to give them a show.

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Peanut was a shaman. She had been protecting her tiny flock for decades, and even though she was getting old, she still held a position of great respect within the tribe.
When the monsters came from the sky, long-limbed and carrying sinister weapons, she was the only one with the ancient knowledge to understand their language.
One morning, the hunters caught a group of them. They came to her first to ask what they should do. She examined the tall, bald-bodied creatures.
“Aw, this one’s got a little underbite!” One of the humans cooed at her.
“Eat them,” she declared.

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