OldenNight

OldenNight is my second novel, currently underway.  Unlike Carpathian Nights, this novel is set in rural Idaho primarily during the 1930s.  It is full of supernatural events but is organized as a series of short stories shared at an unusual family reunion held the day before Halloween.  Also, it is done in a very playful manner and might be described as "Comic Horror."

Prelude:

    The cousins chased each other among the trees of the old orchard, shouting happy taunts at the slower runners. Nearby, the older family members arranged their wooden chairs in something of a circle. Uncle Oliver struck the match to the great pile of branches and splintered old boards. The flames surged up with the help of what he called “Boy Scout Fluid.” The blaze immediately drew the kids like moths to any light.

    The boys followed instinct, reached for the safe end of a burning branch with the certain pleasure of waving the burning tip in graceful arcs until the flame went out. It always produced a pleasing trail of smoke. The kill-joy mothers, predictably, ordered an end to the fun.

    With hesitation, the sullen boys put down their brands in defeat to those higher powers. The aunts, uncles, and grandparents moved their chairs closer. They gazed into the blaze and prepared to share memories and tell family stories.

    It had been a most unusual family reunion. It had been scheduled for August, but first came the haystack fire, then the chicken coop went up in flames. Then Grandma and Grandpa’s basement flooded in September. With each event, the reunion got shoved back again and again until it finally materialized on the last Saturday of October.

    Despite the lateness of the season, the reunion initially proceeded as usual. There had been the usual eating binge, which included Aunt Anna’s legendary baked ham, Grandma’s butter rolls, and Uncle Morgan's home-made root beer.

    Next came the talent show, followed by more eating, featuring Aunt Anna’s banana cream pie and Uncle Ancel’s sticky toffee cake. Then there were the games, followed by another round of desserts topped with the just-completed ice cream served directly from the churn.

    In the late afternoon, it was traditional to gather in a great circle of chairs in the orchard to reminisce and tell stories. In former years, the orchard provided pleasant shade for the gathering, but this year, the trees were bare except for a few heroic apples unwilling to release their grip.

    It was expected that, with the energy expended during the games, the young cousins would be able to sit quietly and willingly learn about the family's heritage. Yet, despite the rambunctious activities, the cousins, particularly the boys, would occasionally twitch with unspent energy.     Though not all that late, the sun began its descent, casting its final bloody rays on the old barn that towered at the edge of the orchard. The lowing of the cows interrupted the formal time of storytelling before it had hardly begun. No one had milked the cows. The festivities had lasted longer than anticipated. With a weary sigh, Uncle Oliver ejected himself from his chair.

    Over the next half hour, those who were not needed for the chores engaged in small clusters of conversation, while the younger boys, who did not know any better, made futile attempts to poke sticks in the fire without being caught.

    Oliver and Morgan returned from the barn, which by then had morphed into a menacing black silhouette. The full moon began as a sliver of light, capping the barn’s cupola. The glow held the gaze of all until it reached full maturity as a swollen orange globe. A light breeze came up, forcing a few to shift their chairs out of the path of the smoke.

    It was all too much for the younger cousins. It was dark, and the conversation so far was boring. They knew that they would have to endure a certain number of poorly told stories from the old people before they would be dismissed to do something fun. The young and mischievous Fred Haroldsen, who had been tipping his chair back despite the frequent orders to stop doing so, toppled backwards to the ground, sending up a fan of autumn leaves. Though he was only slightly embarrassed, he jumped to his feet and took a bow, hoping to dispel the eruption of laughter.

     “Excellent form,” shouted Uncle Ruben. “Someone had to get the storytelling going. Fred, my boy, it looks like you are first!” The boy stared about the crowd in horror. “Go on,” encouraged Ruben, “You kids are making family history by your daily antics that will be told for years to come. Have at it," he insisted. "I know well enough that you have had your share of adventures this year?” Rather than having nothing to say, Fred didn’t know where to start. He briefly pondered on what story he should tell. It had to be one that wouldn’t get him into trouble.

    His freckled face brightened after a moment's thought. He then began his tale: