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  SCARY HALLOWEEN - Copyright 2019 G Parker

  SCARY HALLOWEEN - Graeme Parker – owns the rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or other-wise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance of the fictional characters to real persons is purely coincidental and non-intentional.

  This book is written, and edited by Graeme Parker

  Cover designed by Graeme Parker from KGHH Design

  SCARY HALLOWEEN

  VOLUME ONE

  GRAEME PARKER

  Contents

  FOREWORD BY KENSINGTON GORE - THE MAN BEHIND THE MASK

  COVER MODEL DANI THOMPSON

  DANI THOMPSON IS IN GOREFEST 4 – HERE COMES THE BRIDE

  THANKS FOR THE MEMORY BY GRAEME PARKER

  THE EYE OF THE CROW – GRAEME PARKER

  LOT 666 BY KENSINGTON GORE

  GET STUFFED BY GRAEME PARKER

  IF YOU GO DOWN TO THE WOODS TODAY…

  PETER PUMPKIN HEAD EATER (PREQUEL) GRAEME PARKER

  PETER, PETER, PUMPKIN EATER BY GRAEME PARKER

  HALLOWEEN POEMS AND LIMERICKS

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER ONE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWO

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THREE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER FOUR

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER FIVE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER SIX

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER SEVEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER EIGHT

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER NINE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER ELEVEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWELEVE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTEEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER FOURTEEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER FIFTEEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER SIXTEEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER SEVENTEEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER EIGHTEEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER NINETEEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-ONE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-TWO

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-THREE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-FOUR

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-FIVE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-SIX

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-SEVEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-EIGHT

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER TWENTY-NINE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-ONE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-TWO

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-THREE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-FOUR

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-FIVE

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-SIX

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-SEVEN

  HALLOWEEN IMAGE NUMBER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SCARY IMAGES FORM KENSINGTON GORE

  PICKED BY KENSINGON GORE 1

  PICKED BY KENSINGON GORE 2

  PICKED BY KENSINGON GORE 4

  PICKED BY KENSINGON GORE 5

  HORROR ART 666 OF THE BEST

  BEING FRANK – SHORT STORY COLLECTION OPEN TO WRITERS SUBMISSIONS

  HAPPY HALLOWEEN FAMILY FRIENDLY IMAGES

  BOOKS & PROJECTS COMING SOON BY KGHH PUBLISHING

  MURDER AT THE CARBOOT SALE

  KGHH A CLOCKWORK LEMON

  ALICE IN ZOMBILAND

  ACID BATH KILLER

  MOONSHOCK

  GOREFEST DEAD JESTER

  SGT. SLAUGHTER vs THE NAZI ZOMBIES FROM HELL

  FRIENDS UN-UNITED

  PICTURE THIS

  PICTURE THIS FUTURE EDITIONS COMING SOON

  KENSINGTON GORE’S BIG BOOK OF NOTHING

  GALLERY OF HORROR

  THE GALLERY OF HORROR PROJECT:

  THE DAY OF THE NEW GODS – LUKE WALKER

  KENSINGTON GORE’S HAMMERED HORROR GOREFEST

  KENSINGTON GORE’S FEMME FATALE

  LOCKER ARMS BY ZAKARY McGAHA

  OUTPOST H311 BY SARA JAYNE TOWNSEND

  GHOST HUNTER Z – D.A. SCHNEIDER

  THE COTTAGE BY D.C. CUMMINGS

  WATER OF LIFE BY CAROLE BULEWSKI

  THE PIPER AND THE FAIRY

  KENSINGTON GORE’S – BIG SCARY ONE

  DEDICATION

  To all the scary horror people… God knows there are a bloody lot of them and on the whole they are all bloody good people.

  People like:

  Judy Matheson (Jarvis)

  Dani Thompson

  M Harris

  Kim Culpepper

  Nick from Femme Creatif

  Nicola Jones

  Naomi Hill

  Chantal Laura Handley

  Dan Young

  And special thanks

  To the love of my life

  Sandra Kinloch

  FOREWORD BY KENSINGTON GORE - THE MAN BEHIND THE MASK

  My name is Kensington Gore, and I am a horror legend. I love horror, but I also love comedy and scaring people and making them laugh is my thing. The thing I live for. I love Hammer Horror and I worked a lot on horror and constantly got Hammered, therefore Hammered Horror came about. A birth of Gore, horror and so much more.

  I have been off the scene for a little while, but rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated as someone once said. Nope, I’m back from the grave, well I only ever had one foot in it anyway. But enough about me, you didn’t buy this book to read about some old director fart? You want stories and to be scared and hopefully enjoy a good laugh at the same time.

  I don’t believe the state of horror these days! That’s why I have got my scary hat on and made a book of scary images and art for you all.

  There are stories, scary photos, art, poems. A huge thank you to all the contributors. Happy Halloween to all bloody lovely scary people.

  Kensington Gore Halloween 2019

  COVER MODEL DANI THOMPSON

  Photos M Harris – Dani Thompson

  DANI THOMPSON IS IN GOREFEST 4 – HERE COMES THE BRIDE

  Photo M Harris – Dani Thompson

  Coming up in Gorefest 4 The Frankenstein special we have not only Dani Thompson’s great regular column Diary of a Scream Princess but a simply stunning photo shoot with her as The Bride of Frankenstein.

  Dani is a great horror actress, very creative and has a true passion for horror. We want to thank Dani publicly here, as she is amazing and has helped us at KGHH Publishing so much. She is a pure joy to work with and other film makers, publishers and photographers should get in touch with her about any suitable project.

  www.dani-thompson.com

  social media platforms @missdaniteeze

  Dani’s Vegan Lifestyle Blog - food, fashion, beauty, home, travel, activism, events and more, run by actress, model, presenter and veganista @missdaniteeze

  https://t.co/BoqSBYI7uR

  “I love a tasty dish and they don’t come much tastier than the vegan food and tips the lovely Danni Thompson serves up here” – Kensington Gore

  Photos M Harris – Dani Thompson

  THANKS FOR THE MEMORY BY GRAEME PARKER

  At first, I assume we are going to the coffee shop down the street. A most excellent idea, I think perhaps a nice coffee will reboot her.

  Sandra is experiencing a run time error this morning; she’s a little uptight. I know this because she’s swearing more than usual. Understandable I suppose given what’s happened. At least she’s stopped th
at interminable switching me on switching me off again. My poor insides are in bits after it. Think, up all night retching after a bad curry.

  I’m not new to her, I’m recycled, Sandra has a thing for recycled she’s always upcycling and reusing, well you have to these days. To Sandra a ‘bag for life,’ means life.

  We take the lift to the ground floor and exit onto the busy street. It’s a sunny morning, the kind that usually has Sandra humming and dawdling along looking at the shop windows but this morning she walks quickly, looking straight ahead. As we near the coffee shop I’m pleased to see that our usual table by the window is not occupied. I’m an adaptable sort myself but Sandra is read only, right click all you like but you still sit at the same table and ordered the same skinny mocha with caramel.

  I’m surprised to find we’re not stopping; we are walking on past. I hope she’s not taking me to that awful greasy spoon. Hideous place, mugs that look like they’ve come second-hand from a motorway trucker stop. I’m not a snob, but seriously how many souvenir plates from Benidorm can one establishment feel are necessary?!

  I shall make my feelings known. I shall refuse to connect to the Wi-Fi. But we’re not going to the greasy-spoon either. Sandra takes a left down a side alley I haven’t been down before and stopping in a doorway between a mobile phone shop and a rather dodgy looking hairdressers called rather imitatively “Curl up & Dye!”

  She rings the bell and a gruff voice buzzes us in.

  The hall and stairs are carpeted in a check ugly snot green and diarrhoea brown.

  On the first floor there is a garment alteration service, but we continue on up until we come to the door that says, “Dave’s Computer Repairs!”

  Error 404 file not found!

  Nothing in my existence to date has prepared me for the sight that now greets me. If I could do that thing humans do, what is it you call it? Turning and running? I would do it now. I would be back down those stairs quicker than you could say ‘Integrated peripherals.’

  I simply don’t know how to convey the horror.

  They are everywhere, the dead, the dying, the maimed, stacked on every conceivable surface. Monitors cracked, docking stations hanging loose, miles and miles of wire innards tangled on the floor.

  I spot an Acer, a Studio XPS an iMac a dinky little Samsung notebook that can’t be more than six months old. Others have clearly lain here a while, dust feasting upon dust in the dark crevices of their keyboards.

  Sandra takes me from her bag and hands me to a large dimensioned man; think desk top model with a 30-inch screen, who I compute must be ‘Dave.’ He’s wearing a T-shirt that says, “The Geek will inherit the earth!”

  ‘I’m in deep do-do,’ Sandra says, ‘this is like epic fail!’

  I like Sandra, her tendency towards pseudocode notwithstanding. Apart from this morning’s switching on switching off incident she mostly treats me well. I’ve heard of the indignities suffered by other computers the upended drinks, the greasy finger toddlers, the cats that refused to maintain a distance.

  As the man turns me over in his hands, I look at Sandra’s pale stressed face and wonder if perhaps I overreacted earlier, it was not my proudest moment that much is certain. But then pride in computer terms it’s neither here nor there.

  The man sets me down none too gently on the table, he unscrews my back panel and begins to poke at me!

  For reasons known only to him he takes an immediate interest in my CPU; puts it through a series of convulsions that will do him no good whatsoever, me even less.

  Already I’m feeling dizzy.

  ‘STOP!’ I want to shout, ‘Or I’m going to need a full factory reset!’ But I sense that this man is not particularly fluent in my language ‘leave it out mate,’ would probably be more effective. He persists in pummelling my systems sending them this way and that. It is when he presses hard on my graphics card that it happens. Something amazing something I wouldn’t have believed even if I’d heard it from my own motherboard.

  There is a wooshie feeling, a juddering.

  I am slipping away. Slipping, not hibernating it is most definitely a slipping, and all is growing dark.

  But it is not a troubling dark this is no crash. It is a soft gentle darkness that sucks me in, beckons me forward into a place devoid of codes and algorithms.

  Now I am travelling deeper, deeper into a tunnel of blackness. Black walls pin pricked with fibre-optic light I don’t understand what is providing the momentum because though my battery is full, I sense that I am powering down.

  I come to in an apartment with peach coloured walls, floral chintz curtains and floral chintz sofa. I’m on a desk beside the window looking out onto a sun-dappled courtyard where a group of young people in leotard and legwarmers are gathered around a fountain.

  I call upon my memory to tell me what this place is only to discover that my memory has shrunk to the size of a pea! It is almost not there at all. The rest of me, on the other hand has grown immeasurably large. Obese, that thing Sandra is always worrying about, giant even. I’m so large I wonder how the desk can hold me.

  There is a calendar on the wall open to the month of May, but it is the year that grabs my attention 1985. I look at myself, take in my green screen, my cassette disk drive, my Z80 processor. It is 1985 and I am an Amstrad 464.

  A woman enters the room, elderly and small dimensioned, think 8-inch tablet or one of those tiny notebooks, she lowers herself into a chair in front of me then immediately gets up again, ‘coffee first,’ she says.

  But how is it going to work, I wonder? I cannot conceive of a bag large enough to carry me and how will such a slim-framed model transport me to a coffee shop?

  The woman goes to the far side of the room and takes a jar from the cupboard. She spoons brown stuff into a cup and pours water on top before returning to the desk. She slots a chunky cassette tape into me, and it is the oddest but at the same time the most magical of feelings.

  Stuttering letters weave across my monitor giving occasional jumps and flashes as if the very fact that they have materialised is something to be celebrated. Sentences form in a laborious fashion, not unlike the woman’s breathing.

  The woman does not scroll down through anything there are no LOL’s or emojis, and where I wander are all the cat pictures?!

  ‘Dear Gordon,’ the woman types. ‘It is with sadness that I have decided to abandon my research and return to England. I was with the doctor this morning. Things, by which I mean the tumour, have deteriorated. Though since it is a tumour it is more correct to say that it has progressed. In any event, it seems that I have less time remaining than initially calculated time of course being the most unknowable of sciences and any attempt at calculation is an exercise in arrogance. I shall return next week. I would like to walk one last time the pier at Brighton where we used to go for ices in the summer. You, me and your father. And I wonder now if you remember that, perhaps you were too young?’

  Then there is a tugging, a pulling, a sense of things being rewound at great velocity. As suddenly as I left it, I am back in the repair shop where the man is doing terrible things.

  Hands grabbing my insides, a dirty ungloved hand rummaging and jabbing about. His fingers closed around a vital component and he squeezes!

  And while all this is going on what you might ask is Sandra doing?

  Sandra is looking on in a manner that I can only describe as callous. There is a hardness to her I haven’t seen before ‘Help me. Do something!’ But she just leans against a table trailing her fingers back and forth over a desecrated keyboard.

  This morning I erased her PhD thesis, all of it, including the footnotes and bibliography. In my defence allow me to say that I was provoked. She had typed one time too often the words: Machines are incapable of autonomous thought. A phrase that is offensive and patronising, not just to me but to all computers.

  Once on a train to Newcastle a computer across the aisle told me that in a past life it was on board the Apollo 11 during t
he moon landing.

  Others have claimed to be the reincarnation of Pascal’s adding machine, or that they worked on the first draft of Harry Potter.

  I have no time for such fabulous concoctions. Yet I am certain that what I experienced back in that floral chintz room was real. It is its sheer ordinariness that convinces me. A basic standard model Amstrad, a woman, a life, no more no less. And in this hellish place, the sensation of that cassette sliding into me lingers.

  The repair man for a combination of luck and brute force is about to stumble upon something. It is not the thesis, it is an almost forgotten email from a year earlier, tucked deep into my hard drive a communication which caused Sandra much sadness. I don’t remember much about how it began but I do recall precisely how it ended. ‘I hope that we can still be friends?’

  How fortunate I am to be spared this thing called friends, the very mention of which prompted three long weeks of crying and swearing.

  Sandra deleted the email, believes it to be gone. But things deleted are never truly gone, they languish in the shadowy corners of memory to resurrect themselves when least expected.

  The more proficient the memory the more complex and intricate the hideaways were the past may lie in ambush. Is there a spam folder in the human mind, a place to which hurt and fear and shame maybe diverted? From what I have observed of Sandra, I think not.

  Yet in spite of this humans demand more and more memory. Thousands of gigabytes, millions if you could get them. I can’t help thinking you would be better served by having less.

  If I could, I would do for Sandra what the repair man unwittingly did for me, I would bring her away to some other place and clean her memory of its own devious games.

  But with all the gigabytes at my disposal I cannot do this, and so with the email a nano second from resurfacing I do the only thing I can do… I create a diversion I performed on myself, a system restore. And look, here it is returning already; the thesis.