Three Halloween Shorts
In this series, Blue-Collar Fugue and Rabbit Rabbit get weird. We started with the same prompt and see where we ended up 24 hours later, with little to no fuss. Following are the three prompts which I wrote and published on Substack October 26, October 28, and October 31st.
What Haunts You?
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What Haunts You? 〰️
1: What haunts you?
I awaken to jostling: the creak and cold bounce of a cargo van’s payload. I’m groggy, with a bad headache. My eyelids droop as the driver pulls into a patch of dead grass beside this building in a town I don’t recognize. I want to ask a hundred questions, starting with where we are, but my mouth is covered by something sticky. My heart thuds in my neck as the hooded men who drove us here shackle us together at the wrists and lead us to the portico of what seems to be a public library. I don’t know who the men are or why they are so angry with us, but they keep yelling Backs against the fucking wall! over and over.
Most of the library’s windows are broken out and dark graffiti adorns the outer brick walls which we are now pressing our backs to. A maroon velvet rope is suspended between stanchions before us. I shiver as I look at the faces of the people who I’m chained to. There are six of us: Granddad and Grandmother Doré, Father, aunt Penelope, my 6-year-old cousin Constance and me. It seems that we each have a strip of grey duct tape covering our mouths. The adults appear calm, but my cousin’s green eyes are flooded with tears as they dart back and forth from my aunt Penelope to the hooded men.
A thick ceiling of clouds has lingered for days, and this morning is no different, so as the sun rises, the dark night sky only lightens a few shades from black to grey. What is the opposite of twilight? Is there a term for it: that damp, dark moment just before the sun begins her monotonous ascent? Regardless, it is that time of the day. Everything is grey. Mist clings to the bald branches of the few scattered saplings which surround us. No birds sing. The streets are unsettlingly free of vehicles and pedestrians. Smoke is billowing somewhere nearby.
On the portico, concrete columns are separated at intervals of twenty feet and between two of the columns at the rear of the library, there is a ten-foot-wide patio, tiled in terra cotta. One of our hooded captors pushes the stanchion of the velvet rope to the side, and unlocks the chain which attaches my Granddad’s shackles to ours. He leads him to the center of the terra cotta patio. Granddad is wearing a short-sleeved plaid shirt with a ball-point pen tucked into a breast pocket. The cuffs of his Wranglers hang high around the worn soles of his cowboy boots. In the center of the patio, the hooded men attach chains from the columns to each of Granddad’s wrists, and pull his arms out to his sides. Another man approaches him and I see the glint of a blade in his gloved hand.
Panic fills me. Who are these men, and why are they intent on harming my family? Has Father’s religious fervor finally spawned a violent reaction?
Constance whimpers. Penelope rattles the shackles but gets shoved back against the brick wall as one of our captors sticks the muzzle of a pistol in between her eyes. I feel my eyes burn with tears as I stare down at my bare feet, which are cold against the terra cotta tile. A crisp autumn wind blows hard across the desiccated fields of harvested corn and shorn wheat, carrying with it the inescapable odor of manure.
The man holds the blade to Granddad’s face. He cuts a small slit into the duct tape covering Granddad’s mouth, and then pokes a short straw into the slit. As our captor backs away, a seven-foot-tall metallic half-cylinder is lowered into place in front of Granddad. My family members shift uneasily behind the velvet rope. There’s a rattling of chains, muffled moaning, a whirring of machinery. I’m staring at my toes again, but raise my trembling chin. I force myself to watch as a torrent of something heavy and grey sprays out of a dozen nozzles attached to the concave side of the half-cylinder. My eyes widen as the cylinder encircles Granddad two times, three, four, a half dozen times, spraying him from all angles. With every rotation of the device, another layer of this cement coats him. The chains restrict his movements while the fast-drying liquid freezes into place.
Alberto Giacometti “Femme Debout” 1960 (h/t A. Daytner for knowing the name of this artist)
Again, I look at the ground. Chains clank. Muffled sobs emanate from Grandma, Penelope, and Constance as Granddad’s labored breath puffs through the short straw protruding from his mouth. We are silent witnesses as the cement mixture freezes Granddad into a final pose. High-pitched wails emanate from his straw.
The hooded men unlock Grandmother’s shackles next, and they lead her to another spot on the patio. The men force her to her knees. They chain her into place, giving her a breathing straw just like Granddad’s. The half-cylindrical hell device is lowered into place in front of Grandmother, whose hands are pressed together in a prayer. The machine whirs to life again and surrounds Grandmother, covering her in the same quick-dry liquid. Constance is sobbing so hard that her tears have loosened the tape on her mouth. She screams for Penelope. Mommy! Mommy! Why are they doing this! Mommy! Help me!
That’s enough moaning, Constance. My head swings, as do the heads of Penelope and Constance to regard Father, who has no tape covering his mouth. Father stares straight ahead. In the grey autumn morning, with the fog intensifying, he stares out across the desolate fields surrounding this place, speaking calmly. That’s enough. Can’t you see how lucky we are? We are being given the gift of immortality today. For centuries, we will stand here proudly as our countrymen and their children and their children’s grandchildren pay us their respects. For decades, we will be anointed with crowns of freshly-cut calla lilies and baby’s breath. Poets and songwriters will glorify our existence. The only price we pay here—together—today is the price of our soft, vulnerable, mortal bodies. Eternal glory awaits, child. Praise Balal.
Constance hangs her head and sobs. Penelope looks back and forth between Constance and me. Her eyes are rimmed red, tears stream down her face. Their crying brings tears to my eyes. My tears continue to fall as Dad is led away and placed into his final position on the portico. Penelope follows, then little Constance. They saved me for last.
I think Granddad and Constance are dead.
Some of the cement must have missed my left ear canal, because I can hear, albeit poorly from that side—and I can breathe through this damned straw. For now. I’ve heard labored breath and soft moaning coming from the others for what must be days now. I know none of us can last much longer, here in the dark. I am tired, my belly rumbles. I am parched and in pain. I hear distant gunfire and the sound of flames raging nearby. There is an acrid taste to the air. Every now and then a thunderhead booms, a grateful reminder that I remain alive.
You Are Dead
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You Are Dead 〰️
2: You are dead
Dearest Friend,
It has been many years since last we corresponded—but my oracle, Suze, tells me that you will be joining us here very soon!! This is excellent news! For me, anyway. I grow so weary of my dull companions here, and simply cannot wait to spend time with you again. In anticipation of your travels, I wanted to send you this briefest of missives to give you a certain aura for what you can expect to experience here. And, though I am not herein allowed to reveal the date of your imminent death (rules, rules, rules!), suffice it to say: don’t make holiday plans! ;)
Now then, the first thing to mention is that you oughtn’t worry about the trauma of your impending demise. You won’t recall it here. I’ve spoken with others of our kind, and their experience is just the same as mine was, lo those fifteen years ago: at some point just before Death claims you, the lights go out, and when they come back on, you are here, with us, in all your glittering splendor, queen!
The next thing to know is you’ll be paired up with a property! Isn’t that lovely? Bid adieu to the headaches inherent in viewing open houses, vetting realtors, arranging movers; the hassle of packaging up your priceless belongings, the backaches, etc etc, ad nauseum. When you are born to this plane, the house you find yourself in is yours to haunt for as long as you want it. Really? You ask. Really! And the best part is there is no mortgage, because we have no need for money on this side, Silly! Now, if there is a specific residence that you’d prefer to inhabit, Suze (again, that’s my oracle) assures me there is a Liminal Locale Lottery (LLL) which all recently departed spirits can apply to. No guarantees! Suze told me. But it’s worth a go!
My oracle, Suze
I myself was paired up with a lovely home in a bucolic area of Ohio—a state I never visited in my mortal years. It was quite tranquil…at first. But soon the young Greenes here bore a baby boy. And a year later, along came another baby boy. And another, and yet another! Well, having raised a couple of young lads yourself, I’m sure you understand how tempestuous and dreadful Gage, Gunnar, Gavin, and Grayson can be. If they aren’t wrestling on the stairs or demeaning their mother, they are masturbating to the Wal-Mart circular or lighting spiders and other helpless beasts on fire. Well, I’ve had quite enough of the lot, and while it’s against my Christian upbringing to do so, I’ve begun to haunt them. It is invigorating to watch these little pests writhe in agony as I hover above them, moaning and shaking their beds, and showing off my gaunt and pale face as they awaken from deep slumber. Oh, they shriek and cry! Grayson, the puniest of the brothers, often pisses his little pants. What fun we have! Once you arrive, I’ll teach you all my favorite techniques, of course.
It isn’t all fun and games, though, I must say. For one, there is a certain odor on this side. Do you know that purple industrial-strength cleanser called Fabuloso? Well if one combined the potent, synthetic lavender scent of that product with the stale-fart-smell of roasted cauliflower, you’d have an idea of how malodorous it is on this plane. All 👏 The 👏 Freaking👏 Time 👏 Honestly, it’s quite distressing. A dozen roses, puppy dog breath, pine needles, and the bottom of a garbage bin all smell the same. So that’s annoying.
Also, and this one may be tough for you to hear, because, let’s be honest, YOU REALLY LOVED YOU SOME FOOD, Girl: there is no eating here. I know. But that’s not the worst of it, because we can STILL FEEL HUNGER. You know I went to bed hungry many, many nights in my mortal life. I thought I knew hunger over there, but let me tell you something: I didn’t know shit about hunger until this. Every day, all day, for as long as I’ve been dead, I feel a burning pain, deep down, an unrelenting, unquenchable agony that’s worse than anything you could possibly imagine.
Welp, please do LIVE IT UP in your final days, my dearest. I am so eager to see you again.
XOXO
—Yours, from beyond the veil.
Death Comes Ripping
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Death Comes Ripping 〰️
3: Death comes ripping
Content warning
This piece includes descriptions of suicide, self-harm, and death. -JAS
Big Death
Big Ole lay bleeding on his dinner table
Big Winchester repeater blast to
Big Ole’s back
Big sundown
Big horizon
Big blood
Red River of the North
Big Ole’s
Big brother, Wm B’s
Big cattle, trampling
Big Ole’s potato harvest
Big family feud, 1915.
Big Ole:
Big sick,
Big surgery,
49 pellets
No. 5 shot
pried from pelvis,
kidney, stomach, spleen, bowel,
some passed clear through to Big Ole’s
Big belly
Doc Verne did what he could.
Minnie cradled his head,
Little Arthur, Chester, and Viola
held his
Big hands, whispered
Big prayers.
Big coffin.
Big trial,
Big sentence,
Big Ole’s
Big brother, Wm B sent to
Big House in Stillwater.
Big release two years later
No big relief.
Big shame
Big wait
Big PTSD, probably
Big accident
Big Northern Pacific train,
Small sedan,
Big Ole’s
Big brother Wm B didn’t see
Big flashing WigWag signals
Dragged sixty feet,
Big survival but still—
Big hurt
Big shame
Big wait
Big morning, 1931
Big boom
Little Wm B
Big blood
Potato cellar
Little note:
“...big despondent…best for all concerned…”The final prompt from the Blue-Collar Rabbit Collaboration was borrowed from The Poet’s Companion: “Find an obituary in the local newspaper and compose a letter, ode, elegy, etc to that person.” I was going to pick an obituary at random for this, but then I remembered something I had discovered a few months back while I was doing research on my family tree.
I never met my Great-Grandma Sadie (Brendemühl) Lemke, because she died literally hours before my birth on January 7, 1980. Years prior, when Sadie was only 14, on September 15th, 1915, her father Fred Brendemühl was coming in from work in the fields along with his brother, William. According to news reports, Fred and William’s brother-in-law, “Big” Ole Norby began to yell at them from across the road. It was harvest time, and the Brendemühl brothers had once again left the gate open to their adjoining farms and William’s cattle were trampling Norby’s potato crop. Sadie’s father Fred was trying to calm Big Ole down, when William crept up behind and shot him in the back with a Winchester repeater shotgun.
William’s sister Minnie and brother Fred carried Big Ole into the farmhouse near Kragnes Township, MN (a few miles north of Moorhead). The local doctor drove out to the farm and decided Big Ole’s health was too precarious to risk driving him in to the hospital in Fargo. The doctor performed surgery, pulling 49 shotgun pellets from Big Ole’s torso, and for a short time, it looked as though he might improve. Four days later, however, Big Ole Norby was dead. He was 42 years old and left behind his wife, Minnie and three children under 10.
William Brendemühl and Minnie (his wife’s name was also Minnie) on their wedding day, 1895
Big Ole’s shooter—his brother-in-law William Brendemühl—was charged with murder and stood trial three months after Norby died. I don’t know all the details of the trial, but he was charged and sentenced to ten years in the State Prison of Minnesota at Stillwater. Again, I don’t know the details, but William was released only 27 months into his sentence, in March 1918.
State Prison at Stillwater in 1895
All I’ve learned about these incidents over the past 24 hours is from contemporaneous reports in the Fargo Forum and Moorhead Daily News. There were very few mentions of William Brendemühl in these resources between his release from Stillwater in 1918 and 1929. It seems he was struggling with money, because he parceled off several acres of land and sold some of his hog herd.
Then in 1929, William’s car was struck by a National Pacific train on Sixth Street in Moorhead (there’s an M&H at this location currently). His sedan was dragged some 60 feet down the track, but he miraculously survived. He told officers that he did not see the crossing’s flashing warning signs.
Was this truly an accident? One can only speculate to William’s state of mind. What amount of shame, regret, guilt was he feeling? His brother Fred had since moved to Montana, and his sister Minnie (widow of Big Ole) had gotten as far away from the Red River Valley as one could, relocating to Southern California.
Then, on March 31, 1931, at 5:30am, William headed down to the potato cellar on his small farm south of Moorhead, scribbled a few lines onto a crumpled sheet of paper, and took his own life, using the same gun he shot his brother-in-law with, sixteen years prior.
I’m here in Fargo-Moorhead again for work, and looked up both Big Ole and Wm B on Find-a-grave.com. I discovered that they are buried only 10 minutes apart from each other. I drove up to the cemetery, traversing likely the very roads traveled by Big Ole and the Brendemühls over 100 years ago. In an eerie moment on the drive, I glanced up and saw a mailbox at the end of a long gravel driveway leading to a farm. the name on the mailbox: BRENDEMÜHL. The same family has been living on that land since the 1890s.
William Brendemühl’s grave, Oak Mount Cemetery, Kragnes Township, MN
Big Ole Aslak Norby’s gravesite, North Buffalo Cemetery, Kragnes Township, MN
Thank you for reading these pieces, a limited series of collaborative prompts with my dear friend Alysha, writer of Rabbit Rabbit. I urge you to read her response to the same prompts, and to subscribe to her work. She truly is one of my favorite writers on Substack.
