Credits
HUGE thanks to @Rymiscuius for writing this introduction post for the event!
“Come on now.” Mr. Halloween said. “Time you all got your fill. Everyone knows blood runs cold on Halloween.” He spoke openly with no one there, then parted the withered red drapes and opened the window. A single knock on the window frame sent shivers through the condemned home. Dust and wooden bits from upper floors fall like droppings. The loudest thing were the squeaks, which became intense as red eyes glowed. Bats, hanging from above on the boards and frame, suddenly descend in this solid vortex of hissing wing flaps and screaming children, into a sky tuned to the old radio of 1910. Once gone, he closed it, then clicked his cane across the ground, walked yonder to a white desk, pulled back the seat and sat down.
The desk surface had dust at a femur-bone thickness, clung on its sides and undercarriage. Water-damaged and leather-cracked books stacked at the top two corners, three, white as snow. He pounded the desk with his black leather glove. Dust floated from its century old grave, and Mr Halloween crossed his arms. then swiped them wide, cast a cloud that rolled, turned to storms and grew as it travelled across the room. It picked up entire dust colonies in its sweep, and exited out the door in one consuming mass. Colour restored on the desk, a reddish plum with slick finish. The boards slowly became fluid and re-weaved into its natural place. The cracks on the walls formed together, with its fainted fern green patterned wallpaper growing over the placement, and the trim and finishes became unchiseled, applied a new coat of paint, and the fireplace had its white stone re-created, polished, with the painting above restored to its mighty glory. A portrait of an old family in fine wear, their faces still smudged into vestiges of torn skin, empty eyes, nose and mouth, with removed hearts and hands.
Mr Halloween placed his hands on the edges of the now clean desk, with a small book having materialized amidst the dust storm. He grabbed a match from his reddish trench coat pocket, struck it with his nail and lit a wax candle. His face told us he was early forties, with stitches around the hair-line and around his neck. Hair slicked back with pomade, eyes pure white, glassy and fogged except for a singular faint dot. A top hat on his head, beaver-pelt, black, with a golden ribbon around its base before the brim. He placed it on one side of the desk, then looked forward towards the camera, now fixed in a seat and level with the man’s eyes.
“Welcome, to my living abode. I'm Mister Halloween. I’m glad you could all survive this long, to this very, very, unique day. I know it must’ve been dangerous, looking over your shoulder every fourth step. Dare I say, perilous.”
He smiled, nodded his head, eyes closed and placed his hand over the book. “But I assure you, it was all worth it. For tonight, you, dear boy, those in attendance and those at home, I offer you a story. A book, to unfold before your very eyes in real time. The Nightmare on LAW Street.”
The house shook from its very foundation and groaned. Mr Halloween stomped his cane, twice, looking at the floor. “Settle down! We have guests!” Then, once the shifting and grumbling quieted, he released a sigh, placed two hands on his cane and returned his gaze to the camera. The man behind it breathed heavily, and crept into the audio.
“Sorry. It’s past feeding time. The house doesn’t enjoy making itself presentable for very long. It’s… painful. But, we catch more flies with honey, not vinegar. Like yourself.” Again, he placed his hand on the book. “But rest assured, I will protect you until our story is finished. See, Nightmare on LAW Street is a tale of violence, debauchery and the unexplained. Gold, sanity, sancity and pride are on the line. Weapons, suplexes and madness of all kinds. It’s a book populated with vampires, victims, monsters of the human kind and not-so-human kind…. A Great-Great Mystery, with dead girls, feral raccoons, killer bees, hell raisers, scarmakers, paladins and heroes, villains and tyrants. Everything you see tonight, is foretold in this book.”
He opened the hard cover and slipped his index under the first page to a body of text. Something made him pause. He remembered, “Pardon me.” He knocked his own temple and his eye popped out onto the table like pool balls. Both came out, and he rubbed them with his sleeve before shoving them back in. They swirled around, then reset, with black pupils consuming eighty percent of his socket. “I needed to clean them to read. Now.” He opened the first page. “Shall we begin the Nightmare on LAW Street?”