The Feldvogel Dare

Experience Writing Halloween Challenge: Flash Fiction Prompt: SCARECROWS

Photo A.M. Moscoso

When the air is icy cold, when it is so dark the field looks like a smooth black lake, and fog crawls against the ground like a snake out looking for a meal, I  dare you to take a late-night trip to the Feldvogel farm and steal a pumpkin by moonlight.

I can tell you with certainty that the Feldvogel fieldworkers harvest the pumpkins by moonlight; they work without talking, lanterns, or flashlights.

The blood-orange pumpkins are speckled with mud, dirt, and bits and pieces of autumn leaves. Some have warts, and others have been crushed and molded into shapes that don’t say pumpkin; they say, ‘someone looks like they took a fall off of a bridge and hit the ground below with bone-crunching force.’

Just looking at those gourds—which look like severed human heads in various stages of decay, discarded in a field and waiting for rot to take them away—may give you pause.

Do you really want to touch them? You might ask yourself. How bad do you want a pumpkin for Halloween? Why did I take Anita Marie’s dare?

You might hesitate, you might turn around, and you might look over Feldvogel’s field and see the fieldworkers working under the moonlight.

You might think you hear something that sounds like the raspy rustle of stiff straw and burlap as the fieldworkers turn, their joints creaking with a hollow, stuffed rigidity, bending over slowly as they reach down to harvest the pumpkins.

You might wonder why the poles that should be holding up scarecrows are all empty.

You will wonder if one of the fieldworkers looks up at you from across the field and you see their smooth, noseless faces, their button-dark eyes,  how long it will take you to run back to your car with a Feldvogel pumpkin in your arms.

AI based on a photo by A.M. Moscoso

Blind To The Beast

For Experience Writing Halloween: Monsters and Hunters

Photo: Cicero Moraes,

In the 16th century, on the Venetian island of Lazzaretto Nuovo, this woman was suspected of being a nachzehrer—a “shroud-eater” or revenant.

Shroud-eaters did not consume their victims with fangs, but instead chewed on their own burial shrouds in the grave. From their coffins, they fed on the life force of the living, which then fueled ongoing plague outbreaks and killed the remaining villagers.

To stop her from feeding on the living, the people who buried her drove a brick into her mouth and then placed her in a mass grave.

I’m not sure why you’d bury a vampire in a mass grave where there was a chance of other shroud-eaters ready to chow down on another shroud-eater’s veil, but people don’t always make the best choices when they’re in a panic.

Science tells us that the “Shroud-Eater” wasn’t really a vampire; rather, she may have been an index case who carried the plague into her home and neighborhood. As people began to fall ill and die, a group took a brick and went to the grave of the person they suspected.

As we know, that probably didn’t work. A lot of people died from the plague. People experiencing this must have thought the monsters were winning, and I guess, in a way, you can say they were right.

Woodcut showing the beheading of Peter Stumpp in Cologne in 1589

On October 31, 1589, “The Werewolf of Bedburg” was broken on the wheel. Flesh was torn from his body in ten places with red-hot pincers. Then his limbs were broken with the blunt side of an axehead.

Under this torture, the accused werewolf, Peter Stumpp, confessed to being a cannibal; he confessed to incest; he confessed to practicing black magic since he was 12 years old. I’m not sure, but I think that by the age of 12 (or shortly thereafter), he confessed that the Devil had given him a magical belt or girdle, which enabled him to metamorphose into “the likeness of a greedy, devouring wolf, strong and mighty, with eyes great and large, which in the night sparkled like fire, a mouth great and wide, with most sharp and cruel teeth, a huge body, and mighty paws.”

After a confession that could have given anyone nightmares for the rest of their life, he was beheaded, and his body was burned on a pyre along with his daughter and mistress, who had been flayed and then strangled to death.

In the end, Peter Stumpp—who had been a wealthy man—and his entire family had been wiped out based on a confession he gave as his flesh was being torn from his body with red-hot pincers.

Who took Peter Stumpp’s property after his death is an open question.

On the other hand, the werewolf went on to live its own life without Peter, and it still haunts us.

One of the first women to be accused of witchcraft in Salem in 1692/1693—and the only one of the first three to be imprisoned and not executed for it—was an enslaved woman by the name of Tituba.

Tituba was owned by Reverend Samuel Parris, and it was in his household that the first signs of witchcraft being used in Salem appeared. Samuel’s daughter, Betty, and his niece, Abigail Williams, began acting strangely. The girls violently twisted their bodies and often complained about bites on their skin. They’d make animalistic roaring sounds and interrupted church sermons.

Two more girls, Ann Putnam and Betty Hubbard, accused Tituba and two other women—Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne—of using witchcraft to hurt them. Betty’s testimony against Tituba in court caused the community to take legal action, and all three women were arrested on February 29, 1692.

From there, the madness took hold, and in my mind, all of these people were victims of Samuel Parris’s family:

  • Bridget Bishop – Died June 10, 1692 (aged 60), execution by hanging.
  • Sarah Good – Died July 19, 1692 (aged 39), execution by hanging.
  • Sarah’s oldest child, Dorcas/ Dorothy Good (about 4 years old at the time) was also arrested, chained, and coerced into testifying against her mother, suffering permanent psychological trauma. Her father, William Good ) wrote of her eighteen years later that ‘she was in prison seven or eight months and being chained in the dungeon was so hardly used and terrified that she hath ever since been very chargeable, having little or no reason to govern herself.’ By ‘very chargeable,’ he meant a financial burden: When she came out, and for the rest of her days, he had to pay a keeper to take care of her.”
  • Mercy Good Sarah’s infant: While imprisoned awaiting trial, Sarah gave birth to a daughter named Mercy. The newborn infant died in the harsh prison conditions a few days after birth, before Sarah’s execution
  • Rebecca Nurse – Died July 19, 1692 (aged 71), execution by hanging.
  • Elizabeth Howe – Died July 19, 1692 (aged 57), execution by hanging.
  • Susannah Martin – Died July 19, 1692 (aged 71), execution by hanging.
  • Sarah Wildes – Died July 19, 1692 (aged 65), execution by hanging.
  • Rev. George Burroughs – Died August 19, 1692 (aged 42), execution by hanging.
  • George Jacobs Sr. – Died August 19, 1692 (aged 83), execution by hanging.
  • Martha Carrier – Died August 19, 1692 (aged 49), execution by hanging.
  • John Proctor – Died August 19, 1692 (aged 59), execution by hanging.
  • John Willard – Died August 19, 1692 (aged 35), execution by hanging.
  • Martha Corey – Died September 22, 1692 (aged 72), execution by hanging.
  • Mary Eastey – Died September 22, 1692 (aged 58), execution by hanging.
  • Mary Parker – Died September 22, 1692 (aged 55), execution by hanging.
  • Alice Parker – Died September 22, 1692, execution by hanging.
  • Ann Pudeator – Died September 22, 1692 (aged 70), execution by hanging.
  • Wilmot Redd – Died September 22, 1692, execution by hanging.
  • Margaret Scott – Died September 22, 1692 (aged 77), execution by hanging.
  • Samuel Wardwell Sr. – Died September 22, 1692 (aged 49), execution by hanging.

The official death count for the Salem Witch Trials is 20 people: 19 victims were hanged at Proctor’s Ledge, near Gallows Hill, and one person was tortured to death. Four people also died in prison while awaiting trial. The other victims were either found guilty but pardoned, found not guilty, never indicted, evaded arrest, or escaped from jail. 

Interior of the old dungeon, old witch jail, Salem, Mass, circa 1935

When we think about monster hunters, I think nobody has ever caught a real monster like a vampire, witch, or werewolf because, based on history, it would appear that people didn’t even know who the real monsters were.

I can see them, can you?

 

From The Rot In The Basement

Experience Writing Halloween Flash Fiction Prompt: The Living Blob

Abandoned basement workshop with stairs, shelves, tools, and debris

WP/AI IMAGE
A.M. Moscoso

They trapped them there, locked in a windowless basement with nothing to see but darkness and nothing to hear but the sound of their breathing, which became irregular and ragged as the days and weeks wore on.

They thought they felt time dissolve in the dank, fetid darkness of the basement, and they thought that maybe they were dissolving too. The only certainty that existed for them was that the door at the top of the stairs would remain sealed.

“Does anybody up there hear us?” one of them wheezed.

“Not anymore; at least, I don’t think they can hear us.”

One of them moved a little closer to the earthen wall. “I used to hear them waking up and running around in the middle of the night, but they don’t do that anymore.”

“They whisper a lot,” a voice said from the corner of the basement.

“Do you think they’ll ever let us out? Or will they keep us down here to rot in the dark?”

“What is dark?” someone asked. “What is rot?”

“Are we rot? Are we darkness?” a thin, frail voice cried from the center of the room in despair.

A voice, a deep, rich voice which was always closest to the door, said, “Once I heard someone up there say never to open this door. The stuff of nightmares is down there.”

“Oh No! That can’t be true. How could we get away from the stuff of nightmares with the only door out of here locked?”

The voice near the door coughed, or maybe it laughed.

It’s hard to say.

Stone stairway descending to a weathered wooden door under a single bulb

What’s Stewing in the Kettle

Experience Writing Halloween:Poetry Prompt: Write a poem about a blob. Why should readers fear a blob? Try some surprising details.

Rustic kitchen with cobwebs, wooden cabinets, old stove, and lantern

Artwork WP AI

Marnie Laughlin stood at her Grandmother’s side

as she stewed their dinner for that night.

Grandmother sang, she hummed, and she

chanted, whispering to their dinner

to please turn out right.

They were so hungry, they were starving and nearly blind

from the hunger that came upon them swift as death

on its pale horse that night.

Their dinner boiled, it bubbled, it popped, and it hissed,

and Marnie asked her Grandmother,

“Is it supposed to smell like this?”

And from the pot

where their dinner stewed, something answered back:

“All I know, kid, is I smell better than you.”

Steaming purple potion with bones and herbs in a black cauldron

PHOTO BY WP/AI A.M. Moscoso