SPOOKTOBER STORY #2:

It's just before my 31st birthday that I notice the weird, desperate note in my own laugh. I find it unattractive, making a mental note to try to not do it again, and continue discussing politics with my boyfriend. We're eating cupcakes. Cupcakes are fun.

It's almost exactly a year later that I notice it again, this tinge of manic sadness when I laugh, like I'm really trying to force it, to let everyone know that, *yes*, I really appreciate the comedy stylings of John Mulaney. Like I need everyone to laugh along with me to let me know that I'm right, that I'm correct to laugh at this. I really don't like that sound in my laugh, so later, that night, after the show and when I'm home alone,(my boyfriend left me in January for a woman he met while buying cupcakes. Cupcakes are no longer fun and I usually cry when I see one), I try to make myself laugh by watching cat videos online, and while I am laughing I observe very closely to see if I can hear the desperation. I don't hear it and consider the case closed.

I'm 35 and I notice it all the time, now. When I laugh, it goes, "Ha ha ha?" and rises in pitch, and it's weird, and ugly, and makes me feel ugly when I do it. I try not to laugh, I love to laugh, but it makes me sick to hear it, to feel this ugly and pathetic thing coming out of me. I stand in front of the mirror and practice laughing normally, but I can no longer remember how. I watch other people, in public, on television, on the internet, and try to learn how to laugh without that sick pathetic desperation, that deep and boundless sadness coming through, "Ha ha ha?"

I'm 39 and I've conditioned myself systemically not to laugh. When I feel the convulsions start to come, I pinch the fatty flesh on the inside of my elbow and *twist,* hard, until tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. It hurts, and is slowly driving away all of my friends, who no longer identify with me and my joyless existence, but it's better than hearing that sound. That sound isn't laughing. It sounds like an old woman mourning her son. Haaaa.... haaaa.... haaaa?

I'm 44 and I am alone and the thing I am most afraid of is the noise coming out from me and I do not want to ever hear the noise again but John Mulaney is back on the television and I can feel it rising inside of me and so I pinch and *twist* but he is funny he is *funny* and so I turn off the television but it is too late and I hear it, this awful, ghostly weeping sound, inhuman, but it's coming out from my mouth and I am laughing and I am laughing and I am laughing and then maybe I am screaming

SPOOKTOBER STORIES #1:

honestly jon's just sort of creeping me out lately
nothing overt but just sort of a gross creepy vibe that gives me the willies
do you think it's ok if we don't invite him

SPOOKTOBER STORY #12:

Q: You recently shared a news post onto your Facebook page's timeline. Some minor gossip about a superhero film, do you remember?
A: (inaudible)
Q: Could you please speak up?
A: Yes. I remember.
Q: How many members would you say your Facebook page has, Mr. -----? A rough estimate.
A: About 12,000.
Q: About 12,000. And you thought these 12,000 individuals needed to read casting news about a superhero film, is that right?
A: Yes.
Q: Why is that?
A: I just thought so.
Q: Uh huh. ... Why, would you presuppose, Mr. ----, that the majority of those 12,000 individuals are members of your Facebook page? What's the draw?
A: I don't know.
Q: You must have some idea.
A: (inaudible)
Q: Speak up, please.
A: I said, I know what you're getting at, and I don't want to talk about it. I'm done, ok?
Q: Oh?
A: Look, I'm SORRY, okay? I know I'm supposed to - They follow my page because back before I burnt out into this... fucking husk, I used to have interesting content, ideas, I'd interact with them on a personal level and I felt like I was leading a community, but you don't know what it's LIKE, okay!? The human mind isn't this infinite well, I can't be... I can't constantly come up with something new, or clever, or engaging! And there's all these mouths, 12,000 constantly gnashing, open mouths, a sea of starving, famished faces with sunken eyes and yellow, sharpened teeth, "Feed me, feed me content, I hunger, I crave, I need, need, constant need and infinite hunger for... content, anything, I don't care what, feed, feed..." So yes! All right? I fucked up. I gave them what they wanted. I stopped trying, I'm... broken! I don't have any new ideas. I don't have any ideas at all! I can't... I'm part of this machine, now, and I'm the terminus of the soulless, blind thing that stands a thousand feet tall and covers the globe from pole to pole...! So I shared casting gossip, and yes, all I added was "Hmm... what do you think?" So I fucked up! Fucking kill me! I live in Content Hell! Put me out of my fucking misery!
Q:... No, I think I'll keep you alive.
A: Please... please...
Q: Back to your admin duties, Mr. ----.
A: ...please...

(end of transcript)

SPOOKTOBER STORY #11:

SPOOKTOBER STORY #10:
[The post is a link to CNN’s live coverage of a debate between presidential candidates Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. This Spooktober Story has only grown more upsetting with time.]

SPOOKTOBER STORY #9:

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and The Invasion.
All the rest are darkness.
The Reign of Kzorr shall endure
beyond the end of recorded time.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #8:

As my fingers fall on the keys, heavy and inevitable, I find myself typing the words: "Brand Strategist". My stomach heaves. What am I doing? Why is this happening to me? I feel cold, and realize my body is coated with sweat: clammy, awful.

I look at the page. Next to "Brand Strategist" I type something that looks like "Marketing Expert," or at least I think that's what it says, my eyes are glazed with tears of pain, gut-wrenching terror, and all I can see is a dim blur.

By the time I even think to type "Visual Engineer," I'm curled on my floor, in the fetal position, dry-heaving, wishing I was dead.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #7:

"Yee-haw, Pardner," monotones the cowpoke cashier at Hauntabilly Mansion. "That'll be $24.99"

Yikes! That price is a real fright! You reach into your pocket, trembling... will you have the cash in your wallet for these two smoothies, or will you look like a real ding-dong in front of your hot date? Only TIME and FATE will TELL, my friend...

SPOOKTOBER STORY #6:

You think: "these kettle-crisped salt-and-vinegar chips are delightfully piquant!" You look around the break room, searching for a friendly face for which to deliver your review of the kettle-crisped salt-and-vinegar chips, but the small space is devoid of any coworkers at all. The microwave hums, its glass turntable slightly offkilter, emitting a squeak at every three-quarter interval.

The break room has been vacant but for yourself and your kettle-crisped salt-and-vinegar chips for the past ten minutes, what's in the microwave that would require longer than ten minutes to heat? And which of your absent coworkers would have deemed it necessary to evacuate the break room as their food warmed?

You stand, feeling sluggish. The kettle-crisped salt-and-vinegar chips sit as a clump in the pit of your gut, no longer delightfully piquant. You sniff the air: the now surely superheated contents of the microwave emit no noticeable odor, but the room smells organic, old, dusty. The timer doesn't display a time, rather the word POPCORN, blinking on and off in a rhythm that feels slightly nauseating.

You flatten your dress against your thighs, and realize your hands have gone clammy. The wad of soggy, masticated kettle-crisped salt-and-vinegar chips in your stomach turns over like an elephant seal rolling in its own waste. You take a step towards the microwave, squinting, but the window is clogged with old foodsplatter, impossible to see through.

The timer now reads PIQUANT.

The microwave turntable squeaks sound like a mewling kitten, its leg caught on a nail, dehydrated and terrified and dying. You clutch your stomach, the clod of chewed up, moistened kettle-crisped salt-and-vinegar chips working its way back up your esophagus slowly, deliberately, on its elbows and stomach, climbing through your body with purpose, malice, with hate in its soggy heart, hate towards you, you chewer, you devourer, you, you, you, you reach out your hand to open the microwave door

PIQUANT
PIQUANT
PIQUANT
PIQUANT
PIQUANT
PIQUANT
PIQUANT

SPOOKTOBER STORY #5:

...~positive vibes~...

Holy spooks, the long-awaited conclusion to the critically acclaimed "Bologna Factory" epic. Grab a bucket.

--------EPILOGUE--------

"Once again, I am satisfied. Thankyou, Jeremy Georgia."
The bologna factory's smokestacks sparked and plumed with each spoken word.

Jeremy Georgia, formerly known as Steve, sulked upon a pile of bologna, disappointed that his story hadn't ended yet. Various whimpers could be heard from the forest. Jeremy's acid reflux started to act up.

Earlier in the factory, with Martha, during those moments of bologna intensity--- closing upon them with an embrace of intimate meatery, Jeremy remembered his true purpose.

His great-grandfather was lost within the foundations of the bologna factory long ago. The two have fused, and so it was up to Jeremy's grandfather, and then his own father, to maintain the Bologna Factory. To maintain its hunger. Family is important.
His father eventually strayed from the feeding routine and became one with the machine. Jeremy Georgia would not repeat that mistake. No sir. A steady flow of supple woman flesh fell easily into his arms over the years. Jeremy's trembling, sweat drenched form proved irresistible.

He fed Martha to the machine. Jammed her into the oven like socks in a drawer. Martha and her tasteful pink spandex thing. The Factory, as usual, was satisifed. They were very like-minded. Almost like parts of the same being, actually.

"Your form will not serve me for ever!" stated the Bologna Factory, "You must bear a child to continue this legacy of feeding! I shall assist you!"

Jeremy Georgia had little idea what Great-Grandfather Bologna was talking about. Nor did he really care. The after-effects of his self-hypnosis were still giving him conflicting thoughts.

'Why ever did father fuse with this machine?' he wondered. 'Where was mother during all of this? Actually, I'm not sure if I ever did meet her.'

Jeremy Georgia sat for a moment, picking at a hangnail on his left thumb, when he heard a squenching and a wet rumbling emanating from the factory just behind him.

Silence. And then something else.

A series a spongy, soft footsteps.

Getting closer.

Stopping just behind him.

Jeremy Georgia felt a warm, spice and lard scented hand gently fall upon his shoulder.

It was greasing up his denim jacket.

"My darling Jeremy Georgia," a woman's voice began, a slight hint of myrtle berries on her breath, "let's make babies or something."

SPOOKTOBER STORY #4:

The ghost is wearing something with old-timey ruffles. You can hardly believe your luck. "Look!" you exclaim, jabbing at the photograph. "Ruffles!"

Old Man Garrey leans over, across the creaking bannister, his spookometer tucked in his armpit. "I don't see it," he says, and climbs up the stairs. You think, inside your head, "Blind old coot," but you do not say it out loud, because Old Man Garrey is a well respected spookologist, and is your head ghosting professor at Ghosting School.

You walk over to your classmate, Feredar. Feredar has a little moustache which you think is kind of cute but you still wish he would shave, because he is your Ghosting School crush and you do not like it when other people make fun of your Ghosting School crush for his little moustache. "Hi," you say.

Feredar blinks very slowly and turns his head towards you. His spookometer is hot pink plastic and at least two generations old. It is going wild but he is looking at you rather than the dials. "Hi," he says.

"Look!" you repeat. "Ruffles!" He does look, for a long time, at the photograph, then blinks languidly again. "Ruffles," he repeats. "Where?"

Your heart falls out of your guts and into the spooky basement of this haunted mansion. You look at the photograph again. There is the ghost, very clearly, with spooky old-timey ruffles and a face like a gaping hole in a human soul.

"Right there," you explain, trying to hide the tremble in your voice. Feredar looks at you and you can tell that he thinks you are just another foolish underclassman. He looks right through you. Then, he looks back at his spookometer, like you have already left the room.

You are outside and you are crying into your backpack. Everything is the worst. Why did you even come to Ghosting School? You are just a stupid kid. You hate yourself.

The ghost with the ruffles is sitting on the stoop, smoking a long opium pipe, watching you with what would be where its eyes would be if it had eyes. You kick some dirt at it and stomp back inside.

Stupid Ghosting School.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #3:

"The results of the test are in!" the host is shouting at me, spittle flinging from his slickly plump lips onto my cheeks. The audience brays for my blood, they gnash and howl like animals. I am feeling unwell. My hands feel clammy. I wipe them on my jersey but it seems to accomplish nothing.

"Are? You? The? Father?" shrieks my wife, directly into my face, before running around the stage, smearing herself with coconut oil and human hair. Of course I'm the father. I'm happy to take responsibility for the child. I remember conception and the nine months that followed. I'm financially secure enough to raise a child.

"Is he? Is he the father!?" hoots the audience, simultaneously, their faces feverish and pink. I try to tell them that yes, I am the father, but the board behind me lights up in screaming neon and drowns out my words. I turn to look at it, I can only read three letters at a time:

YOU

'RET

HEF

ATH

ER!

The screen explodes, confetti and sparks raining down on the stage. A PA, standing too close to the power outlet is set ablaze, she runs backstage, dying horribly. No one helps her, so excited are they at my diagnosis. My wife pisses herself and rolls around in it, laughing until she begins choking on her own tongue. The host kills himself with a ceremonial dagger he keeps in his tie.

I go to the cradle and pick up the baby, walking silently offstage as I gently burp it.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #2:

I awoke with a start
A noise! A clatter!
I climbed to my roof
A hatch! A ladder!

Outside in the dark
A figure! A shape!
My mouth hung wide
Aghast! Agape!

For what I saw there
In dimness! In gloom!
Was a hunched old owl
A symbol! Of doom!

"Hello Mr. Owl," as my heart
Did thump! Did thump!
"Hoot hoot!" said the owl
I cry! I jump!

"Leave me alone!"
I howled! I cried!
But alas! by that time
I'd croaked! I'd died!

Now I perch here too
An omen! A curse!
And hoot death at those
Who I think are the worst!

October 3, 2016

Short chapter this time. I'm tired and don't want to be plagued by the nightmares of Chapter 3 when I do the sleep.

-------CHAPTER 2--------

Steve and Martha continued down the curvy country highway to the bologna factory. A smell of spiced meats permeating the air; wafting through the car vents.

Martha began to salvate--the drips sliding down and off her spandex dress. Steve felt his taste buds pucker.

"We're almost there, dollbody," he eagerly glanced over, "to the bologna factory."

"Mmm, that's right we are." Martha was ecstatic; continually readjusting her dress, her chin slick with saliva. Steve's thighs began to shudder.

They took a right turn down a thickly wooded dirt path. Dead branches knicked and poked at the passenger windows as the Cadillac's bologna tires bobbed and bounced on the uneven earth. Steve felt he was relying more on his heart than his sight. The bologna factory was near. It was getting closer. Closer. It was----

Right there, beyond the cast iron sign, it stood. Rusted spires and deep red walls towering against the foggy sky. Steve pulled up alongside the greeting monolith:
'THE BOLOGNA FACTORY' was printed on its face in bright red. A typeface similar to comic sans.

Steve killed the engine. He and Martha slowly turned toward one another.

No words needed to be spoken.

They exited the baby blue Cadillac.

Hi I'm pretending to be Jon Phillips for the time bean.
Horribly spooky story time, goodness gracious.

CHAPTER 1:

The headlights cut through the road mist like a bullet through margarine.

"I'm taking you to the bologna factory," Georgia stated to Martha, as they cruised down highway 456 in the dead of October night.
"Don't you think this is...a bit fast? We just met."
"The only ones I bring to the bologna factory are the ones I think are worth a damn."

They locked eyes; sweat pouring from their brows. The soft light of the radio panel glistening off each drop. Each stream.
Georgia returned his hard gaze to the road, not before catching a moment of eye contact with a roadside deer, and smacked his lips.

"My father--," he began weeping softly.

Martha placed her hand on his wrist, caressing his denim sleeve. He calmed a bit, his sweat subsiding. Martha's pink spandex dress ceased amazing him 3 hours ago.

The bologna factory will do me good, he thought.

"Take...take me to this bologna factory of yours." Martha's eyes were glistening, like marbles dowsed in petrol.
Her skull orbs brought long buried memories back to Georgia's mind.

"Now that I think of it, I haven't been there in a while," the sweat began to re-accumulate. "I shouldn't be doing this...not after...," Martha's fingers dug into his wrist.

"I'm really looking forward to the bologna f--"
The car buckled and hopped with a shriek of strangled metal, the ass of the vehicle veering off the edge of the road. Georgia recovered and pulled over. The sput-sputtering of the engine ended with a key-turn and a gaze into Martha's teeth. And then her eyes.

"Bee Are Bee," Georgia stepped out of his baby blue Cadillac into the foggy cold; a whimsical mist washing over him.

Everything was as it should be: darkness, coldness, roadside deer teasing him with playful glances. The road was strewn only with pine needles and dead leaves. And one palm sized rock--not enough to cause that ruckus.

And then he looked at the tires.
Oh, the tires.

There was something deathly, sinfully wrong with the tires. They weren't tires. At least not the tires of a sane world. They were tires of bologna.
Large wheels of bologna tightly fastened around the rims of his baby blue Cadillac. As if they were there from the start. Professionally installed. Or grown.

Georgia reached out---hand trembling---and ran a finger along the slick, glistening, probably delicious, meaty surface.

"Yep...It's bologna."
"What was that?" Martha was leaning onto the driver's seat, window half rolled down.
"The tires are made of bologna," Georgia replied, "Pure bologna. I think we should turn around. Go back to the pub."
"You're full of it! I'm not going home til I see this bologna factory of yours." She clicked her tongue and began to roll the window back up, but stopped, "I don't know...I, like, can't get it out of my head now."

Georgia could relate. He knew there was an eldritch wrongness awaiting them. Hanging over and pushing them. He couldn't go back. He wanted to want to, but the effort turned his stomach and ached his brain.

"You're right, Martha. Let's go to the bologna factory. Together."
"I can't wait, Stevie."

That's right, he thought, My name is actually Steve.

Steve, now resigned to his fate, dusted off his knees and climbed back aboard.

"O-Onwards to the bologna factory," muttered Steve, stiffly cracking an awkward half-smile, starting the car.

------to be continued holy shit im spooked------

Yes. I am doing that Spooktober Story thing, like I did last year, like I do every year. You know what the spookiest thing of all is? Creative stagnancy.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #1:

In the first part of this story, we are spooked out because of a ghost or whatever. I describe it in detail, really trying to build up the sense of spookiness.
Then the ghost comes up and does something unghostlike, like asking us for directions, which really punctures the sense of dread created in the first part of the story.
That's the joke. That's the whole joke. Oh my god.

NORMALVEMBER STORY #1:

Greg suspects he has enough time to eat a bagel before catching the bus to work. He is right.

SPOOKTOBER STORY #25:

SPOOKTOBER STORY #24:

Soon, the spooking time, rumbles the janglebones, grave barrowly. Fum fum fum, it grolls, and turns wrist to boob-tube infraclacker, desounding feed, hoofing cool sad noises out flat face holes. Sour air swells chest parcels, ticklers grasp leg hinges, and protts it vertical. Crack crack!

Janglebones dums and drums, ambulating westward, braining up to-dos of to-days and to-morrows as it pots black grain to paper mouth, setting brew to black wakewater. Fum fum fum, it grolls again, chattering jawly and dancing eyes. The spooking time peals ever pacer... lo lo, dull of dulls to janglebones! Recco any other! To glug fair breaths or squint a near star!

But janglebones too a quagmire of darkshackle, of spook and of shake, of bite and gnaw unconscious. Snoa relief for janglebones. Burden and bondage and duty. Cloak et now with sorrow?

Snoa wish it, soft thumpered et... for janglebones cloaks too, but snoa sorrow lo et.