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Spookfest 2012 Continue the Story
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Hmm. Halloween guacamole. Living, moving, resurrected or reanimated guacamole. I may not look at a corn chip the same way again! You did a great job of pulling this together, A.F.!
Oh, I like this! Great ending...holy guacamole!
Willoughby peered through the dark forest, trying to discern the source of the growling. If it was another damn Werewolf, he was going to have to complain to the home-association. This would be the fourth one this month. While he was at it he would complain that they still hadn't removed the bodies from the previous three he had killed.
What worried him most, though, wasn't the growling but the stench, bitterly sweet like rotten flesh and acrid as an orc's foul breath. Willoughby took a deep breath and tried to swallow his fear. He tried not to think of how close he'd come to being ripped to shreds the last time the moon was full. If it hadn't been for his quick thinking and his Bellini shotgun, he might have ended up like his neighbor, Mr. Williams, gutted and half eaten. Mr. Williams hadn't listened when Willoughby explained why the expense and pains-taking labor of loading his shotgun shells with pure, silver buckshot pellets was necessary.
Shaking his head smugly at the thought of his neighbor's folly, Willoughby suddenly realized that instead of the Bellini shotgun, he had grabbed his son's BB gun by mistake. Willoughby gripped the BB gun like a Louisville Slugger and crept forward while the growling grew more fierce.
Too late he heard the scuffle behind him. He spun round as he swung the BB gun. And missed. Not that it would have mattered, as standing before him was a monstrous creature that even monsters feared to dream of.
"Why couldn't it have been a werewolf", thought Willoughby, "or even worse, my wife?" Upon reflection he was glad it wasn't his wife, it would take more than a silver bullet to slay that beast.
Much like boiled okra, it oozed green slime and left a slick emerald trail behind it that came from the direction of the run down cemetery. Willoughby felt his knees shake; he knew that slime.
“Somebody help us all, the Halloween guacamole has come back from the grave!” With a piercing, slime-curdling scream he fled, never noticing that the slime also ran. In terror the creature crawled back into the safety of its undead tomb, the horrible sound of the human haunting its nightmares.