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From: The Technician <technician666@gmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Dead Writer's Society - A Halloween Story     Humor / Parody
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Date: Mon, 06 Oct 2014 06:10:01 -0400
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Dead Writer's Society - A Halloween Story
by The Technician

Humor / Parody

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A few writers from the past "Seize the Night" on Halloween.

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I posted this story on the Literotica.com website under the pseudonym
Nom_De_Guerre, but am posting it on other sites under my normal tag of
"The Technician." The following warning is absolutely not needed for
this story, but if you look up my other stories, some of them are
rather intense.

WARNING!  All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18
ONLY.  Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content.  All
people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to
persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations,
and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real
life.

If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference
between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province,
nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts
depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to
somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if
acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is
included with the article.  This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The
Technician ( Technician666@Gmail.Com. )

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this
story for personal, non-commercial use.  Production of multiple copies
of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly
forbidden.

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Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (The Technician}
Senior Project  http://www.a1adultebooks.com/book.htm?pr=7753

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 * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Nathaniel Winthrop sat at his computer reading the most recent entries
from the on-line Halloween contest. `Not bad,' he thought to himself
as he finished the last story.  There isn't a whole lot I could say
negative about the story itself, or the way it was written.  I guess I
have to fall back on attacking the author.

He opened the comment window and began typing.  "Who ever told you
that you knew how to write?  I have seen better drivel from the crayon
of a third grader.  You are the worst loser in the history of hack
writers.  Why don't you do the world a favor?  Delete your account,
draw a warm bath, and slit your wrists to put us all out of your
misery.  And remember, it's cross the road to call for help, down the
road to find freedom."

He smiled as he clicked on "Submit as Anonymous."  

As he was still sitting there smiling, he heard a soft voice behind
him say, "Aren't you are repeating yourself?"

"What?!" he exclaimed, looking at the speakers of his computer.  

"I said, you are repeating yourself," the voice re-iterated.  "You
have used that exact comment at least twice before."

"Who's there?" he yelled, now realizing that the voice came from
behind him.

Nathaniel thought he was alone in his basement bedroom.  He knew his
parents were asleep upstairs.  Spinning around quickly he looked for
the source of the voice.  There was no one there, but he wasn't alone.
A variety of white, smoky, swirly shapes were behind him.  As he
watched, the shapes slowly became more and more dense until finally
they became almost people.

They weren't people.  He wasn't sure what to call them.  They were...
almost people.  They looked like people dressed in costumes for a
party of some sort, but they weren't quite solid.  They had stopped
shimmering and swirling and were now like very dense, colored smoke.

"Let me introduce ourselves," said one of the figures.  He appeared to
be in his late fifties or early sixties and was dressed in a toga. "We
are The Dead Writers Society." 

When Nathaniel didn't respond he suddenly blurred through the air to
directly in front of Nathan's face and said loudly, "Carpe Nocturn!"

"What?" sputtered Nathan.

"He means `Happy Halloween,'" said one of the other smoky figures.
"But he's been dying to say that to somebody ever since he saw that
movie years ago."

"What?... who are you?"

"As I said," the toga-clad man continued, "we are The Dead Writers
Society.  Each of us, in our own time, in our own way, were famous, or
at least good, writers.  Now we are all dead, and we have banded
together to watch over writers of the world today."

"So what do you want with me?," Nathan said, somewhat derisively.
"Have you come to give me a writing award?  Or, perhaps because it is
Halloween, have you come to kill me in some grotesque and perverted
way?"

"Kill you?" said a smoky figure dressed in an old-fashioned suit with
very wide lapels.  "We would never KILL you."  He laughed softly. "No,
no, no, there are much more interesting things to do to someone than
kill  them."

"So, what then brings you to me?"

"That would be me," answered a young woman dressed in a modern-looking
black dress.  Her's was the voice that had originally spoken.  She
held out her arms, "I took your advice... down the road to find
freedom."  There were long, ugly scars following the veins on the
inside of both of her arms.

"You always posted several comments on each of my stories.  I thought
they were from different people and that my stories were terrible...
and that I was terrible.  I believed what you told me.  I did what you
said to do.  But when I got to the other side, I found out that it was
only you, and that you say nasty things about every story you read,
regardless of who wrote it.  Because I would have eventually been a
great writer had I lived, I was invited to join The Dead Writers
Society."

"As were we," said several voices.  The voices sounded very odd,
almost hollow, and as they spoke, several paler, smaller, smoky
figures came to the front.  One was an older gentleman; two were
middle-aged women; one was a young woman; another was a boy barely out
of his teens. The rest of the figures formed an indistinct crowd
behind them..  "We did not take your advice about the warm bath and
razor blade, but you killed us nonetheless.  We are the writer within
that you murdered with your callous comments."

The young boy spoke.  His higher-pitched, hollow voice sounded
especially eerie.  "I know that I had a lot to learn.  Sometimes my
grammar wasn't what it should have been, and my plot lines needed help
and cohesion, but there are ways to tell me that without destroying
me.  The dead cannot go back to the living or I would go back to
myself and show me that I could be, if not a great writer, at least a
decent writer.  But writing is dead within me now. ... because of
you!"

"If the dead cannot go back to the living," snorted Nathaniel, "then
what are all of you doing in my bedroom."

"Ah, yes, we are here, aren't we?" said a man dressed in a dark, 19th
century suit. "Like bells ringing in the night.  Bells, bells, bells,
bells, bells,..."

"Edgar!" shouted the man in the toga.  "If you say tintinnabulation I
am going to smack you so hard that you won't coalesce again until next
Halloween."

Turning to Nathan, the toga clad man said, "You will have to excuse
Mr. Poe.  He wasn't that stable before the rabies brought him over to
this side and occasionally he gets carried away in his own prose." 

He smiled and continued, "But he is essentially right.  No one of us
can come back from the dead to the living, but all of us together,
especially on a night such at this, can do many things."

"That's the how," replied Nathan with obvious contempt in his voice,
"But WHY are you here?"

"To punish you," said a very foppishly dressed man with a fur-trimmed
cape hung carelessly over his shoulders. "We argued for weeks about
exactly how to punish you for extinguishing the light of promise in so
many young and gifted writers.  I personally thought you should be
thrown into a dark and squalid prison with the low life of London."

"We heard you, Oscar," said the leader with a very tired voice.

"I voted for bricking you up in a wall... or strapping you to the
floor with a giant scythe swinging above you."

"Yes, Edgar, we heard that, too."

"But they liked my suggestion best of all."  It was the young girl
with the mutilated arms.

A man in a white suit with a bushy white mustache said, "Normally I
don't quote Scripture to anyone about anything, but what she suggested
reminded me a great deal of Second Samuel, chapter twelve, where the
prophet Nathan tricks King David into condemning himself for his
actions with Bathsheba.  David thought he was condemning a wicked
neighbor who was stealing sheep, but he was actually condemning
himself for stealing Bathsheba by murdering her husband."

"Samuel... uh, Mark, I don't think he gets it," said the leader.
Turning back he said, "Nathan, let me explain it clearly to you.  You
punished the writers and their writings for no reason - unless you
count the sick satisfaction you get from making others suffer as being
a reason.  So we have decided to let the writers and their writings
punish you."

"How?" Nathan snorted.

The man in the wide lapels stepped forward.  "You know, some mugs just
need roughing up.  Let me and the boys have a couple of minutes with
him and he'll start to see the light."

"Oh, I think he is starting to see the light, Mickey," said the
leader.  "He just needs a bit more wisdom to realize what it means."

He again did the blurred swoosh to suddenly be face to face with
Nathaniel.  "What it means is this.  You are going to live out every
story which you tried to destroy this year- the excellent ones, the
good ones, the bad ones, the terrible ones- it makes no difference. If
you tried to destroy them, they get to destroy you.  If you did your
anonymous assassination on one of a writer's previous stories, tonight
their Halloween story gets a chance to return the favor. You might
find pleasure; you might find terror; you might find pain and
suffering; but you will experience each and every one of those stories
from the inside."

"Here's a particularly good one," said the man in the toga. "The plot
is about this man who has to dress as a woman for a Halloween party
and gets a little more than he bargained for."

"Ooh, I like this one," said the fop, "It has the feel of a stage play
and it concerns Vampires in London."

"Me and the boys vote for this one," said the smoking figure in the
gangster suit. "It's all about some dead mug from the 20's who finally
gets his rocks off in a hotel room in Iowa." He took a long draw on
his cigarette and added, "I'd kind of like to see how you handle
getting screwed by a ghost."

The man in the white suit pulled the thick cigar from his mouth and
said dryly, "Myself, I'm a little partial to this one. A Halloween
party behind the gates of hell would be a good place to start."

Nathaniel grabbed his head and began screaming as things that only he
could see began happening around him... and to him.

As his screams filled the house, a balding, late middle-aged man
stepped forward and looked around as if he were preparing to address
an audience from a stage. He took a pocket watch from his trousers. As
he slowly wound it, he muttered, "Hmm. Midnight in Grover's Corners."

He then raised his hand and gestured toward the basement bedroom scene
which had just played out before him. "So ends our Halloween tale," he
began.  "Please vote and make comments, but before you do, pause to
remember the difference between `instructive' and `destructive' or
perhaps next Halloween the voices of The Dead Writers Society may
swirl around you..."

"... like the tintinnabulation of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
bells!"

"Edgar! I warned you!"

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End of Story
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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