The Werewolf's Halloween Costume: A YA Paranormal Story

The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume:

  A FREE Werewolf Halloween Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of My Big, Fat, Hairy Werewolf Intervention

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  The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2012 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © XtravaganT – Fotolia

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE werewolf Halloween story. Any errors, typos, grammar or spelling issues are completely the fault of the werewolves. (They’re not very patient with the editorial process!)

  Anyway, I hope you can overlook any minor errors you may find; enjoy and… Happy Halloween!

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  The Werewolf’s Halloween Costume

  “I’m just gonna put this out there now,” I murmur as I pull away from his curb, Topher riding shotgun in his standard crisp black jeans and matching v-neck t-shirt, “but… I am so not impressed with your costume this year.”

  Forget Halloween, dude wears the same damn thing every single day and must do six loads of laundry every week because they always look brand spanking new.

  Topher smiles his cheesy, knowing grin and says, “Trust me, Rain; you’re not ready for my Halloween costume.”

  I make that annoying scary movie “ooooohhhhh” sound, waving my fingers above the steering wheel dramatically as I roll down Mott Street.

  “Why, are you going as a male stripper and have to do a pole dance at every door because, seriously, that’s about the only thing would impress me at this point.”

  He smirks but I turn away slightly to hide the sudden blush that’s blossomed from my throat to my forehead.

  (Whoa, where did that come from?)

  He shakes his head, unruly black curls doing their unruly black curly thing. “Hey, at least I don’t cop out completely and wear one of those cheesy ‘This IS My Costume’ T-shirts like you know Braxton’s going to.”

  I shake my head, limp chestnut hair not doing much but staying in place as I cruise over to the wrong-ish side of town to pick up Braxton. “Yeah, well, at least the dude’s trying. This is… just… pitiful.”

  I make a kind of half-hearted gesture with my free hand toward the passenger seat where Topher is reclining, smiling, fiddling with the simple crystal pendant he always wears, the one tied loosely around his graceful neck with a cheap leather thong.

  As if remembering he’s not driving himself, Topher finally looks over and chuckles.

  “I’m pitiful?” he barks, leaning back against the passenger seat door to get a better look. “I’m pitiful? What do you call… that?”

  The way he’s eyeing me up and down, from toenails to earlobes, I’m assuming “that” is my costume.

  You know, what there is of it.

  “I’m supposed to be a French maid,” I say, sliding my little feather duster out from the cup holder in the door panel and waving it, wand-like, in the air for emphasis.

  “Since when did the French start hiring hookers to clean their houses?”

  He laughs at his own joke, but won’t stop looking just the same.

  Part of me hates him right now; part of me really, really wants him to keep looking.

  My face goes pink again and he says, softer this time, “I’m sorry, Rain, it’s just… I’ve never seen so… much… of you before.”

  The pumpkin beer I’d snatched from Dad’s cooler before I left the house just now has me feeling slightly frisky so I purr, “What… are you complaining?”

  “Actually,” he says, sounding vaguely shocked. “No. I kind of like it.”

  “Yeah, well,” I snort, focusing on my driving since I’ve been kind of distracted for the last few minutes, “let’s just hope the judges like it.”

  “What judges?” he asks lazily, like he does everything else.

  “Seriously, Topher? The judges at the costume party we’re going to tonight. For Halloween, remember? We’ve only talked about this for, like, the last sixteen lunch periods straight.”

  He looks a little miffed, whether at me or just at himself I’m not quite sure.

  “Well, why didn’t you remind me?” he whines a little, shaking those short little curls. “I would’ve actually, you know, worn something!”

  “It’s too late now,” I grunt, pulling into Braxton’s grody apartment building, dodging kids playing football in the parking lot and dumpsters still left out from trash day. “Hopefully Braxton will pull out all the stops and… nope… there he is, and he’s—”

  “Wearing the same ‘This IS My Halloween Costume’ T-shirt as last year,” Topher smiles, getting out and climbing in back to give Braxton and his 260-pounds the shotgun seat, as usual.

  “Nice costume,” Braxton wheezes as he hoists himself in.

  “What’s it to you?” Topher bluffs from behind our seats as I help Braxton buckle himself in.

  Braxton and I share a look before he turns around and says, “We were going to try and win that prize money and split it, remember?”

  “No,” Topher says quietly, our eyes meeting in the rearview mirror as I wait for traffic to die down so I can get back on the road. “I honestly don’t.”

  Braxton shakes his head, long blond hair coming down to the shoulders of his size XXL Halloween shirt. “A hundred bucks each would really help out right about now, you know Topher?”

  “The grand prize for the Costume Contest is $300 this year?” Topher asks, and I swear it’s like he’s hearing this for the very first time.

  Braxton and I share another glance, but say nothing.

  “Come on,” Topher suddenly urges as we come out the other side of the Cedar Cove Arms apartment complex. “Let’s swing by the drug store and see if they have anything good left. We can totally still win that money.”

  “What do you care?” I harrumph, turning in the opposite direction toward the community center on Maple Street.

  His brown eyes are pleading in the rearview mirror as I meet them again. “Honestly, guys, I totally forgot all about the grand prize. Come on, let’s—”

  “It’s too late anyway,” says Braxton, chewing on a breath mint from his pocket. “The Rotary Club won’t let you in after 7, costume or no, so…”

  As if on cue, we all look at the digital clock above my busted dashboard radio: we don’t even have ten minutes to spare, and the drug store is in the totally opposite direction.

  Topher goes silent as the community center suddenly rolls into view.

  “I don’t know why you’re suddenly freaking out now,” says Braxton, chewing on mint number four. “You had all week to get ready.”

  “You too,” Topher shoots back.

  Braxton rolls his eyes. “You know how hard it is to find a costume in my size? Besides, I spent all week helping Rain with her hooker costume.”

  “French maid,” I remind the two of them as Topher finally cracks a smile from the backseat.

  As I cruise around the crowded parking lot, hoping to find a spot somewhere within the same time zone, Braxton turns to Topher and asks, “What’s got you so distracted this year, anyway?”

  I slow down and sneak a peek at non-costume boy just as Topher shrugs and replies, “Halloween’s falling on a full moon this year.”

  “Doesn’t it always?” Braxton huffs, turning back around and pointing to a free space clear at the edge of the parking lot.
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  “Have you ever tried hiking three miles in four-inch heels?” I bark, turning around for another pass. “There will be one closer.”

  “Only in movies,” Topher insists. “This is the first time there’s been a full moon on Halloween since, well…”

  But I’m too busy trying to find a good space to hear the distress in Topher’s voice, and Braxton’s chewing so loud on the last of his breath mints – please, let it be the last of his breath mints – that I can barely hear him anyway.

  I finally find a spot – not really, but what are they gonna do, tow a 12-year-old Datsun on Halloween? – on a slim patch of grass by the grease trap behind the Community Center.

  We climb out of the tiny car and stretch our backs at the same time.

  Around us stream much cooler kids with tons better costumes, and suddenly all chances of cashing in on that 300 buck prize go right out the window.

  Sure, Topher looks statuesque in his daily black getup and matching curls, but it’s not a hot body contest, you know?

  And me?

  I feel suddenly ridiculous in my skimpy French maid costume, particularly considering the chill in the air and how it’s washing across my mostly bare derriere.

  Yes, there’s a frilly black skirt covering my butt cheeks and, of course, the obligatory fish net stockings up and down my long legs but for a girl who’s used to about 22 more “layers” on a regular school day, I might as well be skinny dipping (minus the pool).

  As they have before school, and during school, and after school ever since we started hanging out together freshman year, the boys flank me; Topher on my right, Baxter on my left.

  “I’m sorry I forgot,” Topher whispers as a walking shower curtain passes by, a shoo-in for the Most Creative Prize. “I just… I’ve had a lot on my mind this month.”

  “It’s okay,” I say as we wait for Baxter to grab a pumpkin spice cocoa from a booth by the ticket window. “It’s not for me so much I’m trying to win, but… I know Bax is trying to fix his laptop and he’s having a hard time getting that last hundred bucks together, you know?”

  Topher nods, gravely, a pained look on his face.

  “No worries,” I chuckle, nudging him. “A few more weeks without being online 24-7 won’t kill the guy. Heck, it might even do him some good.”

  “No,” he sighs, fingering his crystal necklace nervously. “I know how much that computer means to him. I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t have been so selfish.”

  I lean into him then, the black fabric of my frilly short skirt rustling against the stiff denim of his jeans. “I’d hardly call flaking on your Halloween costume selfish, dude. We’re just kidding with you.”

  “I’m not,” Baxter winks, handing us each a hot chocolate. “I was really counting on that dough. If we don’t win, Topher, I’m going to start crashing with you and using your computer.”

  Topher and I groan as I pay our way in.

  The Community Center is decked out gaily with black and orange streamers and blinking orange lights in every available nook and cranny.

  There are plastic skeletons hanging from the rafters and black rats stuck on every beam and a wisp of fog from a machine humming near the kitchen wafts across everyone’s feet.

  Kids from school cluster in groups along the (fake) cobweb-covered walls, as if we’re all sitting back in the cafeteria at Cedar Cove High.

  But it’s not a school function so there are grownups mingling as well, most of them decked out in standard costumes plucked straight from the racks of the nearest Mart: there’s a husband and wife decked out like mustard and ketchup squeezers, a guy wearing a giant whoopee cushion and, of course, a dozen or more Jasons, Michaels and Ghostfaces from Scream.

  “You might have a shot after all, Rain,” Topher says, breath sweet like cocoa and nutmeg and warm as he leans in a little closely.

  “Yeah,” Baxter groans, pointing across the room at a cluster of clingy, leggy chicks from school. “You and the three other French Maids here tonight.”

  Sure enough, Molly Simmons, Caroline Gecko and Tracy Pollack all chose to wear matching French Maid getups, each one looking hotter than the last – and way hotter than me.

  I turn around and head straight for the snack table, Topher and Braxton racing to catch up.

  We feast on walnut peanut butter cookies and frozen apple ciders as spooky, scary songs mixed to a syntho-beat turn the covered basketball court into a frantic dance floor where giant ketchup containers dance with whoopee cushions and sexy Snow Whites.

  “Careful,” Braxton warns around a mouth full of peanut butter bars, “you have to be able to fit in that costume at least until the contest’s over.”

  “Who knows?” I say back, mouth full of candy corn. “My only chance of winning might be as a naked French maid?!?!”

  Braxton’s laughing so hard I’m afraid he’s going to choke, so I look left and right for Topher, but he’s nowhere to be found.

  “Where’s Mr. No Costume?” I ask when we’ve both swallowed.

  “He had to take a leak,” Braxton says subtly.

  “But he’ll miss the Costume Contest,” I whine, watching from across the room as the Mayor of Cedar Cove, North Carolina takes to the stage and starts fiddling with the microphone stand.

  “What’s he gonna miss?” Braxton asks, turning to join me as we face the stage. “Worst Costume of the Last Century?”

  We chuckle but I gaze nervously toward the restrooms as the crowd kind of surges us helplessly along toward the stage.

  I try to hold back, waiting for Topher, but it’s either move forward or be trampled and how will I ever seduce Topher from inside an iron lung, so… onward I go.

  I watch anxiously as Mayor Murphy makes a big speech about how “proud” he is of the night’s huge attendance, or everyone’s “holiday spirit” and “creative energy.”

  We all kind of gold clap each time he pauses because he seems to expect it, but really we all just want to know: who won?

  As I secretly cross my fingers behind my frilly lace skirt, the Mayor starts calling folks up to the stage.

  My fingers cross tighter and tighter as one by one ketchup bottles and whoopee cushions and gladiators and sexy Snow Whites slink to the stage, not a single French maid asked to join them, least of all me.

  At last, five contestants stand nervously behind the Mayor as he announces, “And now, back by popular demand, I’m going to open the floor up to one final contestant who you get to vote on collectively, gang. So look around, folks, is there anyone you see standing next to you, perhaps, or even across the room who deserves to win this contest more than these brave folks already standing on stage?”

  As if on cue, a giant roar rips through the Community Center.

  Chicks, children and Baxter scream as the crowd parts to make room for the thundering presence that has suddenly announced itself.

  The roaring grows louder and louder as I spot giant, hairy shoulders and a growling, sneering, gnashing head rotates from side to side.

  “Dang,” wheezes Baxter, impressed enough to pull the giant orange lollipop he’s been sucking on away from his face for a better look. “That is one convincing werewolf costume.”

  “Werewolf?” I blurt, adrenaline pumping. “I thought it was a black bear on steroids!”

  “No,” Baxter argues, as if I was really serious. “Check out the teeth and is that… dang, dude even sprung for the lifelike drool hanging off his fangs. That had to set him back at least two bills, Rain!”

  The howling grows more ferocious as, without asking, the werewolf grinds and gnashes and claws and paws and generally menaces his way to the stage.

  His giant, massive, muscular fingers grip the two metal rails on either side of the rough wooden steps as he clomps and chomps his way up to the stage.

  Mr. Ketchup bottle faints.

  Mrs. Mustard bottle swoons.

  Whoopee Cushion guy, no lie, messes himself (I think).

  And sexy Snow White lite
rally stage dives into the crowd, the only problem being… no more crowd.

  She lands on the suddenly empty dance floor with a sickening thud, something maybe, possibly snaps but then she groans and begins crawling out of the way so at least we know she’s okay.

  You know; sort of.

  That leaves only Mayor Murphy and Werewolf Guy still on stage, expensive – according to Baxter – fake drool drizzling down his fake fangs, although I have to say they look pretty darn real to me.

  In fact, the whole dang costume looks pretty much Grade-A, A-list Hollywood Movie Monster Makeup good.

  We’re talking muscles moving in his feet, kneecaps bulging and about as big as most bowling balls, shoulders as broad and hairy as Viking defensive lineman – the actual race of Nordic warriors, not the football team (not that those dudes are too shabby, but… seriously, dude is cut).

  And that hair.

  It is some kind of authentic.

  “Where would you get hair like that?” I ask Baxter, who’s busy cramming his mouth with popcorn balls as if he’s front and center at a double creature feature.

  Where is Topher?

  I cannot believe a monster movie fan of his proportions is missing all this!

  “It’s gotta be real,” Baxter says clinically, admiring the seven foot tall creature’s glistening black hair, which covers his bulging muscles and most of his wicked looking face.

  Wolfie’s eyes glow a fierce, brownish yellow to match his giant, six-inch fangs.

  His snout is gleaming and leathery, the dark brown color of my Dad’s favorite deck shoes.

  His chest heaves in and out with the effort of breathing and growling and snorting; it’s amazing Mayor Murphy hasn’t bolted with the rest of the contestants.

  “Well,” he chuckles nervously, signaling to someone off stage. “I guess that just about seals it. Due to the fainting, fleeing and jumping offstage of the rest of the contestants, this year’s winner of the grand prize of $300 is, well, The Wolfman!”

  Suddenly a timid bank clerk-ish type woman, complete with a mint green business suit and crooked bifocals trembles her way onstage, bearing the biggest check I’ve ever seen.

  Mayor Murphy grabs it, poses for a few photos with some clown from the local newspaper, waving the Wolfman over as he hands off the check.

  The Wolfman’s paws are so authentic, so real, they actually kind of pierce the check where he grabs it in the top