Oliver was ready for another beer.
The kitchen was filled with murky red light and when Oliver opened the refrigerator door, a loud witch cackled from within its dark space. He fumbled until he felt the coldness of the bottles. He grabbed the brews and shut the door.
The unexpected mummy standing beside him nearly caused him to drop the beers.
“Oliver,” his friend said, emotionless.
“Jeezus, Jack. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” Jack replied, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t feel good.”
Oliver saw the black circles under his friend’s bloodshot eyes. “Damn, bro. That’s not makeup? Maybe you should go home.”
Jack took one of Oliver’s beers, and drank slowly. Handing the bottle back, he said, “Yeah, maybe. Had a bad day at work. Someone bi—”
Before he could finish, Oliver’s wife rushed in and said, “Jack! Heather’s barfing.”
“Awesome,” Jack responded, and then coughed hard for a moment, spitting out darkish goo into the sink, which Oliver couldn’t tell if it was phlegm or blood. They walked out and Oliver started to take a drink of the opened beer, but set the bottle down, not wanting Jack’s crap.
It was still as a graveyard in the living room. No one was talking. They just sat with eyes dully fixed on the television. Oliver proclaimed, “Y’all really know how to party!” eliciting only grunts and growls. He shook his head, concluding that these parties were getting deader by the year.
More retching emanated from the bathroom, so he went to help. Before he went inside, Molly exited, closing the door behind her, looking greenish herself.
“Not good?” Oliver asked.
“Really bad. Can you find Connor or Reneé?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Oliver responded.
“Thanks, love.”
Oliver moved from room to room, without success. He finally checked the garage, and called out, “Connor? Reneé?” No response, so he hit the light switch and a solitary light bulb flickered on, illuminating a gray Prius. The windows were tinted so he couldn’t see inside, but he figured they were getting it on, just like they did at too many other college parties.
“Hey! Lovebirds! You need to come inside.” Oliver heard low moaning from inside the cab and averted his gaze.
“Don’t mean to interrupt, but Heather and Jack are sick. Plus, Molly and I need to leave.” Oliver heard one of the car doors open so he headed back and found Molly sitting on the floor, a beer bottle by her side.
He stood beside her and said, “How are the barfers?”
“Quiet,” Molly replied.
Oliver said, “I found our hosts in their car… and they were making funny noises. I told them to come in and take care of their guests.” Molly reached up, and Oliver obliged, pulling her up with some difficulty.
“Jeez, woman. How much did you drink?”
“Just the beer you left on the counter.”
They walked to the front door and Oliver opened it. Molly slumped hard into him, so Oliver picked her up, maneuvered outside, and kicked the door to close it. Before it shut, he saw Reneé stumbling down the hallway.
Carrying Molly to the car, he eased her inside, and walked around. He saw Connor lumbering toward them, but only waved as he closed the car door, started the engine, and drove off into the misty night.
“That was a wasted night,” he said, looking at his wife slumped against the passenger door. “And my costume was stupid. Next year, we’re going as James Bond and the chick from Resident Evil. I love you, babe, but this is one night of my life that I will never get back. I wish—” but his words froze in his throat when he turned to see his wife’s ghastly green face inches away and moving closer, teeth barred, and blackish red drool spilling out.
His screams were lost in the screeching sounds of the car turning over and over, as it careened off the road into the dark, foggy night.
Source:
http://www.microhorror.com/microhorror/author/john-s-knox/the-halloween-party/
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