Bloodthirsty
A Goulash Halloween Story
We had only seen each other maybe twice in the past three years, thanks to Covid that ultimate plug puller for friendships on life support. Once upon a time, she and I made sure us small town gals would have a social life. And amazingly this unofficial vow was upheld, nearly religiously, for five years. If it hadn’t been for the pandemic, it might have lasted longer. I am grateful, it lasted longer than one would expect given the circumstances of our friendship.
You see we really didn’t hit it off when we first met. We were just roommates in a little apartment on campus, with two other girls who were also in their sophomore year of college. That was about all we four had in common, that and we were cordial enough no one really fought. Strange how four people can live together for about three years and the bond we all shared barely ranged above acquaintance. Rom-coms are so off the mark about female camaraderie, they never account that for some of us, how we end up living together is through potluck. Four different personalities going after four different majors. Honestly, unless we were celebrating Christmas or needing a ride to the store none of us mingled socially.
Two on each side, Shelia and I were basically living in different states in a twenty-foot space. She in Maine and I in Hawaii. We defined each other through small, albeit distinct, quirks. She was a vegetarian and atheist, while I was a God-fearing omnivore with a particular taste for red meat. It seemed unspoken the two should never meet, which we rarely did in those waning frantic scholastic years. Me, struggling to keep up grades and scholarships, while Shelia was passing with flying colors in the classrooms that made her scholarships ironclad. I would’ve been envious, had I not clocked how inept she was surviving the outside world. Not that I would ever say I was street smart but in comparison I was the Artful Dodger to her Oliver Twist.
Being one of the two girls to have a car, Shelia would bum a ride to the grocery store that I was only too happy to allow. She never offered gas money; she really didn’t have it, but I was starved of companionship that her accompanying me was payment enough. Together we would go down the aisles, bemoaning the fact we were financially reduced to buying the powdery, foul tasting off-off brands hidden in the back of the shelves. However, only one of us would actually buy them.
Vegetarian options are not cheap, but even if I was craving red meat, I had to forgo it in part due to my own tight budget. Shelia, on the other hand, would complain about the price of food, then buy the more expensive brand because it tasted better. Only to eat half of it at home, leaving the rest to dry up out in the open of our living room. She balked at the idea of leftovers as reheating the ready-made meals in the microwave messed with the flavor. I don’t think I need to clarify what Shelia wasn’t majoring in.
For the longest time, I theorized she only kept a boyfriend for the meals. I think she was right in believing I was a prude. She loved her boyfriends as much as she cried about them at two in the morning. Even if incompatible, to an outsider’s perspective, she devoted herself to the relationship and by all accounts, with the exception of one, they were pretty decent guys. Two proposed to her and I thought the last one, who chose graduation day as the perfect moment to ask Shelia to be his one and only, would have been the one for her.
Being so focused on my studies, I had no luck in the romance department. There was a joke amongst my roommates that if I didn’t find a boyfriend by graduation, I was going to enter a convent. I took it in stride. I never shied from the fact I had yet to lose my virginity. I was in no hurry, even if they persistently kept saying I was getting old. The jokes never changed; it was always: Become a nun already! Or, a boyfriend can’t compete with your committed relationship with the church.
They were not entirely wrong. Between studies, exams, church charities and meetings, I hardly had the social life I craved since high school. I boil it down to obligation. Shelia and I were devout in our respected ways—or loyal or dependable, whatever makes that trait palatable.
During my senior year in high school, I was determined to go to a secular college; a college unrestrained by one doctrine. What was the harm, after all? There was no fear of me being swayed by an nonreligious, non-God-fearing syllabus that would give me a paper degree. I had given much of my youth in the Catholic school education and church functions with no regrets, only longing. They saw me as gifted; I saw myself losing out. You don’t always make friends or lovers in church.
A compromise was fought for and won. Father Jo gave a good letter of recommendation to the college of my choice and a stellar one to the local Catholic church where I would volunteer. As much as I was unenthusiastic about the sacrifice to my little-to-no free time, it was—not to be ironic—my saving grace.
Gifted I may have been in my school, college proved I was painfully average, maybe even below that. Though not stupid, it was an adjustment to understanding the vastly different teaching style of each class. Not to mention the testing. I lost scholarships in my first year and if it hadn’t been for my extra work at the church, I would hardly have money for the gas to drive there. Between hoisting my grades back up and working at the church, I watched with envy at my roommates living out tv romances—ill-fated as they were—and skating by with ease in their classes.
I vowed this would not happen after graduation. I was going to have my damn social life, once I could afford it. It took a bit, but I got a job that catered to my field of study. Yet, just as I was settling into the work routine, an unexpected merger happened. Everyone was going to have to be retrained and updated on the new system.
God, I hate seminars. And I hate traveling for seminars.
While I prepared myself for a long boring waste of time, I wasn’t prepared to see Shelia there and by the look on her face, she didn’t expect to see me either. Somehow, despite our different degrees, we ended up going in the same direction. She was doing much better than me, no surprise there, but we had to laugh. If only we had known. But how could we?
She thought I’d become a Mother Superior or something, which I tried not to take offense to, even though I never thought I had a resting bitchface or the temperament to give off that idea. I hit her with an equal innocuous blow when I blurted out how surprised I was she wasn’t married. It wasn’t like the signs were not there. She wasn’t wearing a ring; her last name was the same on her stick-on nametag and the dead giveaway was that she wasn’t gushing about her husband while flaunting pictures. Caught, she waved it off awkwardly stating the guy was an ass.
We talked through the training, realizing how much we had in common. Both of us had to return to our uneventful hometown after college. We were both living with our parents or some other relative we could afford rent with. Both of us were single and unhappy about it. Both of us bored, though not quite as broke and not quite too far from each other. I had forgotten that she was only an hour and half away from me. I never drove her home, boyfriends did that, so I guess it was easy to miss.
By the end of the training, we were clueless to the new updates, procedures, and process of our newly merged jobs. However, we were not ignorant of our need for friendship. So, it was decided that we’d slip away from our respected humble boring towns for a monthly girl’s day out. We met up at a halfway point and went into the neighboring city, a middle size metropolis that would never have a skyscraper, but had the most beautiful downtown area. We tried to do everything, fancy drinks at a fancy bar before a show, a day trip to the seaside with the photogenic pier, high-tea, museums, tours, but more importantly, trying out new restaurants.
We loved discovering new eateries and it was no struggle to find ones we both were eager to test out. Which was not a struggle as most have vegetarian options. Shelia occasionally dared to try a chicken dish, only to leave the majority of food on her plate. In college I would be tempted to scold her for the waste. But we grow up. Her life, her decisions. Besides she didn’t lecture me when I ordered the beef bloody, no more than I imposed my religious beliefs on her.
Only once did she make inquiries about my faith and it wasn’t the question I expected. Not that I’m a top candidate for missionary work. I’ve always said if anyone was curious, I’d answer the best I could without shoving it down anyone’s throat. That said, explaining Christianity’s supernatural mysteries to unbelievers was not something my teacher prepared me for. I suppose Shelia would be curious about how someone could believe in a flood that consumed the world, talking snakes with evil intentions, raising the dead, feeding five thousand, the consumption of body and blood for one’s sins or having a strong following with no social media presence.
I probably came off blindly naive, but I couldn’t lie that I believed in all those things. She didn’t seem satisfied, but I gathered it was not really the question she was asking. Thus, encouraging her not to beat around the burning bush.
She didn’t laugh, nor did she get to the point even after I gave my word not to judge or preach. Instead, she admitted it didn’t bother her that when she died, she would go to hell.
Now, that did take me aback. Hell was hell for a reason, not just little firepits, but a cesspit for awful things you’d never want to wish on your own worst enemy. Hell is indescribable and sadly, because it is so, I couldn’t convince her that she should not underestimate the horrors of it. She steadfastly believed earth was already hell, so there couldn’t be any place worse.
It was so tempting to tell her that earth was a playground for the inhabitants of hell, only I couldn’t. So, I didn’t. I just urged her to ask the damn question she really wanted.
It was about prayer.
Her minty green eyes were full of pleading when she broached the topic with me. She nearly looked embarrassed if not desperate. People think if you pray for things, it’s granted like a wish from a genie. It was heartbreaking to explain to her that prayer doesn’t mean getting what you want, sometimes it’s for the best we don’t. Only Shelia couldn’t, or didn’t, want to accept that. If she was to ask for something, she wanted to be sure to get it.
She wasn’t selfish in that thought. I truly understood. I’ve prayed for things I feared I wouldn’t get, sometimes for things I knew wasn’t going to happen for me. But I knew for both of us, whether in prayer or wishes, our greatest desire was an end to our loneliness. We were growing up, but we still talked about boys (or men now), getting married, having a home and children. Out of the two of us, Shelia wanted it so badly, my own loneliness pitied her.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. She husband-hunted with a statistical vigor that would make dating apps’ algorithms jealous. Even with that mathematical approach, each year she grew more frustrated with the results and I was sure she was getting to the point of selling her soul for a husband, if she believed in souls. Personally, I was waiting on the right guy, even if it meant in the end achieving the record of being the world’s oldest living virgin. Shelia liked to jab that I secretly want to be a nun. And I would laugh, because that would be easier, as nuns don’t have to do freelance work to earn extra money.
It was nice being around Shelia, even if only once a month. Her companionship was a social outlet for me. That is until that damn pandemic. Bordered up at home, trying to keep my job through a computer, it became clear my only outlet was church. Special permission apparently and just like how it kept me afloat in college, it kept me sane during the pandemic. Sort of. Not sure how someone like me could keep sane on the most basic level in those circumstances, six feet apart might as well have been six feet under.
However, unlike most of us who were floundering during the isolation, Shelia was thriving. To the point that what little slots there were for us to meet up, closed. A boyfriend in another state will do that and I can’t compete. In college, when she proudly announced she was seeing someone, she would bloom with excitement. It was not the case this time when we somehow managed to see each other in the small breaks of Covid. Already, it was awkward. Anybody who dared to leave home to visit anyone, even whilst adhering to the rules, were still silently scrutinized, particularly by wait staff who lost the coin toss.
Plus, she chose a place where I couldn’t order a steak much less salisbury steak. There wasn’t even red wine or a Bloody Mary to order.
During the whole visit Shelia seemed aloof, picking at the cheesy ravioli on my plate that I never offered to her. She seemed more guilty of wanting it than taking what was mine. Despite picking the restaurant, Shelia eyed the menu dismally, a dieter unable to order their favorite things from their favorite restaurant. We talked about work, how we were doing, but she wasn’t much of a conversationalist. An awkward silence cut through every sentence. It was only when we were saying our goodbyes, she whispered to me that she had met someone.
That was it. Nothing about what he was like, what they did, how she felt about him. In fact, I heard nothing else from her after we departed. I did try to reach out, only for silence on her end.
Shelia was always bad about posting stuff online. After college kept her personal relationships close to her chest, having burned her fingers a couple of times gushing over relationships that soured. The world didn’t need to see everything going south. I was no better; I was never encouraged to disclose work or church life. It wasn’t the internet’s business anyway. Even in college, I rarely kept an online presence, except the occasional bitching about not being able to eat meat on Fridays. Nevertheless, it was a great way to communicate and I missed interacting with Shelia, my little breath of fresh air.
When all seemed lost forever, it happened. The great big post she was still alive and better than ever. It happened; it finally happened. In the midst of Covid, Shelia got the wish she always wanted granted. And I messaged her with congratulations and an invitation to celebrate with drinks. It went unaccepted for a month. I had come to terms with the fact the friendship was done for good and could look forward to seeing wedding photos on her socials.
However, right as I had written things off, out of the radio silence, she invited me to the wedding. It wasn’t super formal, worse than that actually. The message she sent was unusually sloppy like autocorrect was glitching. Then again, she was a light-weight. Drunk on booze or happiness, a little would bulldoze her over right into the tipsy phase. She was eager that I come, that we hang out as soon as possible, probing if I had a boyfriend yet and strangely if I was “intact.” She always was an awkward drunk. I replied I was still dating Jesus.
She sent a laughing emoji with tears in its eyes.
Overjoyed, I accepted, hoping to reconnect. And we did. Along with her new set of friends whom she met through her fiancé.
Every single one of them was a vegan to the core. Which was not a problem. They were also really nice folks. Accommodating enough with the exception of where we ate and sadly, not even vegetarian restaurants were good enough. An adjustment for sure, but I am always cordial. The restaurants were pretty cool, very photo worthy, not that this group was very interested in that. They were foodies who knew what places served the best dishes, coffees, desserts; places they swore I wouldn’t even taste the difference.
I was game. I liked trying something new, and the church said nothing about eating fake meat on Fridays. The cafes they chose were pretty amazing downtown places and truth be told, the dairy-free coffees were a blessing to my gastric issues. However, I will put my foot down: fried mushrooms will never taste like calamari, cake needs eggs and milk, and, lactose or not, there is no substitute for cheese. Thankfully, when it comes to alcoholic drinks, vegans still enjoy the best.
Still, as Shelia mentioned, vegans not only had a harder time finding restaurants that catered to their lifestyle, but the ones that did were expensive. She too struggled with finding palatable vegetarian options when going out to eat, whereas I had no problem. Knowing her as a lover of animals, I could understand her choices and that of her new friends. Plus, they looked younger, were vibrant, and vivacious. Maybe that lifestyle had something going for it.
Our first outing together I tried a vegan burger and was pleasantly surprised, though disappointed in the cheesecake. Dairy just has no substitute in my book, and by the prices not any cheap ones. I suppose if I wanted to, I could eat vegan meat. If I wanted to, but it isn’t the same. No contest, that red meat is just superior and at least you know what it will taste like. Vegan meat, it turns out, is a roulette of flavors; some were ok, some you’d like to forget. Thankfully, I learned how to swallow without tasting or choking.
At least I didn’t have to pretend with the company. They were so easy to get along with and Shelia seemed to have even grown out of her shell more with them than she ever did with me. They drew out the best in people without having to ply anyone with several strong drinks. (Thank you God, alcohol is vegan friendly and I could order a Bloody Mary without dirty looks.)
I came to discover that most of the group were married, some since the age of 18. Considering they were all in their 30s that was pretty impressive, but they seemed more impressed with me. They were polite and genuinely curious. I think each one repeated the same question just to be sure. And I gave them the same answer.
When they sang out the melodious: No guy, ever?!
I’d ring out off-key: Nope, I’ve just never grown close enough to be intimate with.
They queried if it was a religious thing, but I laughed it off. Honestly if that were the case, I’d already be in a habit.
We met in person a second time at Shelia’s bridal shower, a very small ordeal. She was not having a conventional wedding so there really wasn’t a wedding party, no bridesmaids or groomsmen. In fact, she hardly invited any of her family. It was just her small group of friends—the new ones she met through her fiancé and little ol’ me.
Shelia’s new friends were the very essence of the word: friendly. Always with a grin and hug when they greeted me. They also would ask if I was single and when I answered no, they gave a smile replying what a shame. It was quickly becoming the joke between us all and none took offense. They certainly never poked fun at me for this choice; they seemed to find it endearing.
There was plenty we could talk about, except food. They always gushed over all the best vegan snacks and I would try not to cringe at it. Religion was also clearly a hands-off topic. The times my faith was referenced, they cringed. It was an awkward dance in conversations. Vegan Atheists and a Bloodthirsty Catholic, neither of us ashamed for what we were and neither were going to change the other.
Despite these differences, we got along well. We liked drinking, we liked going out at night and we all loved Shelia. We also loved Halloween and the spooky stuff. Well, I like spooky, they love horror. Which surprised me. Shelia hated dark rides and the sound of thunder. Puppets even freaked her out. But her tastes seemed to have shifted with her new group.
Spooky yet sweet is how I like my Halloween. Classic jack-o’-lanterns, ghost stories, haunted mazes, stuff that wouldn’t keep my brain awake are all I need. I’ve enough haunting anxiety in my regular life. But to Shelia’s friends, I was an absolute weakling. They watched more horrifying movies as babies than I dared in my 20s. They spoke of movies and texts I was unfamiliar with and with premises that made me shiver.
Halloween was a big event for them. They had a midnight feast, a barn venue so they could be as loud and drunk as possible without worrying about neighbors. They played games and had a special table made just for the occasion. It was clear they only talked about it in front of me to drive up my interest. It sounded like a bash anyway, but Shelia would be the only reason I would consider going.
I was glad to still be a part of Shelia’s life even if sometimes it meant traveling several hours to another state to hang out with her and the friends she cocooned herself with. Even if our friendship fizzled out after the wedding, I knew she would be fine with her bright new friends. Her bright new friends might have been the best thing she got out of an engagement. She probably thought I would be fine since I had the church.
Shelia would show me photos of them together picking out wedding dresses, getting their nails done, eating out, venues they had suggested. I’d ask her what her fiancé was planning for the wedding, only for one of Shelia’s vegan friends to laugh. Apparently, whatever Shelia wanted was what her fiancé would want. Shelia would blush at the jests, rubbing her gorgeous diamond engagement ring that her designer nails flattered.
It was not that her new friends didn’t try to include me. I mean, after our second meeting they immediately friended me online. Although, they hardly chatted with me or posted very much about their lives. I did meet their respective spouses on our third outing; a fun little tour of the spookier side of the old city I lived about an hour away from.
The husbands were all very handsome, fit, flirty and just as vivacious as their wives. They were all paired so perfectly together as though ordained by God. So in sync, a look would give a secret message that only the spouses knew. The husbands didn’t go with us on the ghost tour, funny enough. I guess that was for us girls only. They just ate dinner with us, then waited till we got back, like devoted puppies sitting by the door. I kinda felt bad excluding them. They were, after all, just as friendly as their wives. They too friended me online, though they hardly chatted with me.
Which was a shame, cause I wanted to know if they had any equally hot single friends of the male variety. I’m sure it was too juicy to keep the news about Shelia’s virgin friend from the husbands. It was tempting to ask, but as I thought about it, I wasn’t sure I could handle dating a vegan. And Shelia’s friends seemed to know no other people. It still confused me as to how they tolerated me. I made no secret I was omnivorous boarding on carnivorous, but having been raised with manners, I was polite to eat what was convenient for the group. Shelia assured me that was why they liked me.
My faith, I think, did bother them. There has always been a joke of who would you rather converse with: an atheist or a vegan? I wonder if there is a reverse joke? Shelia’s friends were both as were their husbands. And while none dissuaded me or chastised me, I did notice how uncomfortable they eyed my badges of honor. My cross necklace which I got during my first communion and then my little saints. I didn’t wear my cross necklace all the time, I have other jewelry, but I could never let go of my saints, particularly when I felt I earned them. They were little things, hardly clashing with anything I wore and were not the kind whose ears I had to cover for indecent conversations.
I’m a virgin, not a prude. I can enjoy a good sex joke.
I’ve had them since my senior year of high school, my St. Agnes and St. George, my eternal company. Shelia, funny enough recognized them, poking fun at me at how I still wore them. She never asked about them, only inquiring if there was one for soulmates or love. I didn’t have anything specific for her that I think she would care for, though I offered Saint Vincent, patron saint for wineries, since it came with a free bottle. She told me to save that one for her fortieth birthday if she was still single.
St. Vincent, I guess, was going to have to wait since something answered her prayer or wish, however she viewed it. I had never seen her so happy about someone. She gushed how her fiancé looked, what he did, how he treated her, it was truly better than anything one could put down on paper. He had to be some kind of Adonis stepped out of a dream, Shelia’s dream specifically. And it must have been true because all her friends liked talking about Shelia’s husband-to-be, the man who I had yet to meet or see in photos.
Perhaps Shelia didn’t want to jinx it, but there wasn’t even an engagement photo of them. He wasn’t on her socials, otherwise I assumed he would have friended me like the rest of the group. I was assured, not just by Shelia, but by everyone else that her fiancé had a sweet yet demanding job. Late nights, strict procedures, long weeks and sometimes weekends. He feared having a social media account would compromise his job. If he made time for anyone it was only for Shelia. He had even abandoned the friends he lent her.
Everyone seemed connected through the elusive fiancé, yet Shelia insisted she wouldn’t have had him if it weren’t for his friends. And he by all their accounts was her perfect match, better than any algorithm could come up with. It wasn’t an easy relationship, particularly with his high-profile job. Shelia even decided to quit her job to accommodate his lifestyle. I had to pull her aside to ask, as any friend should, if she was willing to sacrifice her old life for this man. I didn’t like that she wouldn’t look me in the eye, but at least she gave me an answer. Not that it made me feel easy.
As far as she was concerned, she would sacrifice anything for him.
Well, despite my concerns, my elders reminded me that if this was Shelia’s choice, then I had no right to dissuade her. Mostly because there was no way I could dissuade her. She was adamant in her decision, clearly backed up by her fancy new pals. On her head be it, as the saying goes.
I may not have been able to impart advice or caution, but no one said anything about offering some luck.
One night when we were all out on another ghostly city tour, I took Shelia aside while the others were distracted—sometimes it was like they were glued together—and gave her a little box containing a tiny pendant of St. Priscilla, patron saint of good marriages. I knew she didn’t believe in such things and it would hold very little worth in her opinion, nevertheless it was the thought that counted. God on her side, even if she refused to be on His.
She wouldn’t touch the box.
For someone who could keep a tan in winter, Shelia suddenly looked in need of a blood transfusion. This is why you don’t give up red meat, I thought. I assured her it was just a little pendant, like the ones I kept on my bra strap—I had gotten tired of those wary looks so I kept them closer to my heart, though I could have done without the indention on my skin. Her hand shaking, she pleaded I put it away, immediately.
Putting it in my pocket, she brushed by me, smiling and waving at her clique who were waiting behind us. They didn’t ask why she was so pale or why she looked uncomfortable, they just clung tenderly on her arm, drawing her close, placing their heads on her shoulders.
Struck by some instinct, I rushed to her, prying her away from their grasp. Placing a hand on her forehead, I bitterly declared this was why you shouldn’t give up red meat.
The group went quiet, their smiles never wavering, their eyes never blinking. Soon all their hands flew to Shelia’s sweating forehead. In unison, they agreed! I was so dumbfounded I stuttered for words. Her more cherub-faced friend, chuckled with girlish vigor as she set me straight. It seems I am very ignorant of vegans, since no one is born one. I should have known that at some point in their lives vegans have eaten meat, at least to put them off it for life. Gross.
I wanted to shy away, make some excuse to leave, but none would have it. They pulled at my arms, dragging me closer to them, hugging on me and Shelia for the rest of the night. They were so forgiving, so kind, so friendly.
Never in my life have I ever wanted to bolt into the darkness, never to see their grinning, veggie-munching faces again.
Shelia called up afterwards to invite me to another bridal party. It was immature and wrong, but I faked being sick. Part of it was the long drive to and back. Part of it was not wanting to partake in another vegan meal. Part of it was that I was uncomfortable with her friends. It was a poor excuse and, wracked with guilt, I went to confession that same hour. I had rather a quick forgiveness, but then came the caveat: the next invitation extended to me, I had to accept.
Sometimes I hate my dedication.
October came around and Shelia called, inviting me to her friends’ special Halloween party. Hesitation rolled out of me without a push. Shelia grasping the situation, suddenly began crying over the phone. She was worried at our last outing she had offended me and that was the last thing she wanted. What she really wanted was for me to be there. Not just because this was her friends’ big annual bash they had been planning all year or that it celebrated a holiday we all loved. She wanted me to finally meet the man of her dreams, it meant so much that I did. I didn’t realize she held so much stock in me. I couldn’t refuse. It was for Shelia.
Besides, I love Halloween and this was the most social I had been since the pandemic. Well, outside the church. If anything, I needed to get out more and with the New Moon on the rise, it was a great start to a new social life, since even before the pandemic it was lackluster.
I blame the job.
Dressed like a medieval nun I drove to the apartment Shelia shared with her fiancé. She messaged me that she would come down to meet me. I waited for some time, playing with my rosary beads, sweating under the habit until finally Shelia made her appearance, decked out in a beautiful black wedding gown.
Before I could hop out of my car, Shelia hopped in. Wiping her wet cheeks Shelia apologized, that her groom was not joining us. Before I could ask what was the matter, she asked me to drive to the party since she wasn’t feeling good about driving herself. Though, a little bummed because she volunteered to be the designated driver, I said nothing and let her direct me to where we needed to go.
We drove for a while in silence, Shelia slowly tucking herself into a ball, muttering the occasional direction. I didn’t like seeing her so melancholy and resisting that painful urge to pry was getting the better of me. I thought it must’ve been a hell of an argument, or maybe he just broke her heart by cancelling on her last minute. Either way, she was quiet about it all, too upset to even vent about the asshole.
Finally, I pulled over, scaring her half to death. Shelia pounded on the dashboard, her blotchy face growing redder while her eyes welled up. She looked like a panicked rat caught in a jar. Pushing her arms down with a force that surprised her, I told her to forget the party. True, Halloween is my favorite holiday, people were expecting us, our hosts had spent all night decorating for the party, only none of that mattered.
The better thing to do was be selfish and get hammered. Throw the bottles on the asphalt and watch them smash to a thousand pieces. It would be better than sulking. Shelia glanced uneasily at the case of wine I brought, not because she never drank rosé, but knowing it was the very best and very expensive stuff. St. Vincent’s Rosary Rosé. Even vegans can’t resist it, I joked when I showed them off to her early that week.
I couldn’t be sure, but the shadows sifted oddly on her face when she turned away from the wine crate. Though horse and soft, I could just make her mumble under her breath that it would be a waste. I almost laughed at the idea. I meant getting hammered and destructive with cheaper bottles, only Shelia didn’t seem to be in the mood for humor or juvenile joviality. She forgot her phone at home, so there was no way to call her friends and cancel. I was ready to remedy that when I noticed my own phone was missing. I searched frantically everywhere until I agreed with Shelia that I must have left it at home.
There was no choice. We couldn’t be no shows, not when Shelia’s friends spent so much time decking out a barn one of them owned. This was the night they planned for a whole year. They even made a special table for goodness sake! A table! Not to mention that since meeting them, they gushed about it constantly. How fun it would be, to be wild and let loose with no nosy neighbors to stop them. A midnight revelry of food and drinks, to be merry on All Hallows’ Eve.
It was an argument I could not win. And though I figured my ruckus days were finished in my 20s, abysmal as they were, I suppose this was the last chance I would get before age reared its ugly head. Well, I did until I was the designated driver.
For all her insistence of how fun it was going to be, Shelia continued to look so damn miserable, annoying me to the point I berated her for not dragging her deadbeat fiancé to the party. At least she wouldn’t be drowning her sorrows all night. Except, it turns out, Shelia was adamant on not drinking, instead asking if I would do it for her. I wasn’t so polite. I mean how was I to drive back home? I refused to sleep in a barn and it didn’t make me feel better when Shelia said she would drive my car back.
My car was my car. No one else was going to drive it, particularly a girl in Shelia’s state. It was getting to be the last straw with Shelia. I even threatened for the last time that I’d turn my car around and go home since no one was going to enjoy the party. That was my mistake.
Shelia became so pale, she glowed against her ebony costume. Eyes bulging, she began groveling for me not to turn around. Groping me, her nails scratched at the fabric of my costume, searching for the flesh to cling to.
I felt sick.
I had seen her in emotional states before with breakups, but never to this extent. I thought I was going to have to find a gas station along these backroads and call for medical assistance. But she wouldn’t let me stop the car and certainly not give me a second chance to pull over. I had threatened to do so, since I couldn’t slap that nonsense out of her, only for her to start laughing.
Suddenly, she admitted she had lied to me. She didn’t want me to back out because there was going to be a Halloween surprise. I was at last going to meet her fiancé. He and his friends wanted to make this big brouhaha for me. Shelia was just playing a part, which was strange since she is a terrible actor that hates surprises. Mostly since she hates them.
This must have been an exception for my benefit. Not that it made me feel less queasy. I did want to meet him, but I could do without the theatrics. I asked when he was coming and according to her around midnight, he was bringing the feast.
While I dreaded the vegan meal waiting at the stroke of twelve, I was pleased she began to recover. With the cat out of the bag, she acted relieved with a big wet smile on her face, eyes never wavering from the road. I did find it funny that she didn’t ask me to swear not to tell anyone that I knew about the surprise.
I think I was only glad to see lights ahead so I could let Shelia run off the manic energy she had bottled up. I’m not sure why she wanted me to park a good distance from the barn, which was beautifully set up. She wouldn’t answer any more of my questions. As soon as we parked, she leapt out of the car and sprinted towards the barn, not bothering to help me with the cases of wine I had to haul up the hill. Thanks, Shelia, for helping a sister out.
Sweaty, panting and tired, I dredged up enthusiasm when I met the ever-cheerful crowd that greeted me. They were afraid we weren’t going to make it—I mean genuinely afraid. I could tell by their crusty eyes they were burgeoning on tears. I almost felt guilty for wanting to back out, I didn’t know I meant so much to them. They wouldn’t let me go or out of sight the moment I arrived, completely ignoring Shelia. Which I didn’t like, though, they soothed that over. Shelia wanted this to be my day since I loved Halloween more than she did and she wanted all attention on me. I would have thought by now Shelia knew I hated this kind of attention, but I guess she was being sweet and Shelia was never one for Halloween, not really. I had found it weird she made friends that loved it more than me.
Keeping me close, her friends showed off their handiwork. They had prepped all day to make their barn perfect for the evening. Though to be fair it wasn’t what I expected from people who claimed to love Halloween so much. There was not even a single jack-o’-lantern or black cat cutout. There were lots of black silk streamers, crimson candles, both flameless and real. Their dedication was impressive, I had thought they would go for full-blown camp, not atmosphere. I guess it was good no one asked me to host a Halloween party.
Above us swayed old antique lanterns filled with a copper glow that projected creepy backend shapes on the barn wall. They turned in circular motion so their shadowy creations moved in a roving dance. Eyes wide and brilliant swirling, every single one of them focused on me. A disturbing illusion. Others had faces with no detailed eyes that were not all that frightening, yet all the more unsettling. The rusty sounding movements placed an iron taste on my tongue. Unconsciously, I licked my lips, making Shelia’s friends assume I wanted a drink. One went to fetch one while the rest showed off the pièce de resistance.
The table in the barn was impressive. They said it was wood, but it looked more like black marble. And it was shorter than I expected. I was under the impression it would be longer like a Viking banquet, but vegan food is expensive. It would be highly doubtful there would be a grand spread, even for a table with a grand design. It was definitely their kind of style, with horrifying faces and demonic symbols probably stolen from a movie, nevertheless it was beautifully made. A shame that it was going to be disposed of at the end of the night or so they claimed. A new table was designed for the year. Must be made of plywood, I thought. It really is a shame homemade crafts only last for so long, a short-lived prop for social media pictures.
For as much as they talked about this Halloween party, no one told me much about the party’s themes. Most everyone was dressed like they were going to a goth wedding; someone could have taken ten seconds to send me a memo.
I suppose it didn’t matter that I stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone was fawning over my costume, saying it was perfect. My hand was never without a drink, which while not a Bloody Mary was still bloody looking. It also wasn’t that good, probably because of all the food coloring, making me take little sips, until I could reach my own alcoholic supply.
I tried to catch Shelia’s attention to grab me a bottle, but she had consigned herself to a corner, content to being ignored despite being the bride-to-be. I wanted to tell her the gesture was nice, but I didn’t need to be the special guest even for Halloween. These were her people not mine.
For a split second I was able to shake them off to sneak over to the wine crate I brought, but the moment I popped open a bottle of the wine, they surrounded me. Shelia must have told them of my expensive contribution the way they descended upon it, downing it like water. It twisted my stomach.
They couldn’t believe how good it was or that I could afford something that actually lived up to the price tag. A single life has its perks, such as affording nice things to serve, unlike the hosts. I mean it wasn’t like vegans couldn’t have some kind of spread. There were aisles in almost every grocery store dedicated to such snacks. All I saw at the party was my expensive hooch and their subpar spiked punch. Not even a rice cracker to soak it up. I didn’t even get to drink what I brought, a cup of punch was put in my hands, one that was constantly being refilled to my bladder’s detriment.
After taking an unflattering piss behind the barn, I caught Shelia who seemed bent on removing herself from the crowd. I shouldn’t have, but I kinda berated her for not telling me to bring some food. I had wafers in my pocket, but it was not why I brought them. I didn’t want to resort to eating them, they might as well be rice crackers.
Shelia assured me her friends were just dramatic and wanted to give the whole devilish vibe of Halloween. It was going to be midnight soon when the feast was planned. But I didn’t see a clock or anyone’s phones. And Shelia sounded no more enthusiastic about it than I was.
Already, my head was feeling fuzzy. I wasn’t sure I could wait for whatever delivery was arriving at midnight. It was to the point I almost threw her my car keys to go get me some snacks. Shaking her head, she thought I needed a distraction and, buzzed or not, I should try to enjoy myself.
Having no choice, I took her advice and distracted myself with games. We played games of chance, which I kept winning. Even sober I’m not that good. The only games I found myself losing at were the drinking ones. Soon, I was becoming more and more inebriated from the flowing cups of punch I was being served. In the end I resorted to eating the thin, bland wafers put in the pocket of my costume.
I’m no lightweight by any means, but I had to stop playing games. My head was spinning, my skin clammy, things were becoming distorted. People were talking but not talking. Moving but way too quickly. I jumped too many times when someone approached me. They all laughed at my timidity, but I didn’t find it funny. The air smelled like copper, it was heady too, like a thousand hands pressing down on me.
It was suggested I sit down to watch a horror movie. I would have objected if I hadn’t suddenly found myself sitting on the ground. I heard moving about even if I couldn’t see them. My flesh crawled; it sounded like snakes slithering in the grass. The projector clicked, blaring its power on the sheet tied taunt on the side of the barn. The movie began, its color too bright, its sound too warped. I remembered how Shelia’s friends talked about the movies they liked, but this was too strange, even for an arthouse project. It might have been a snuff film; I dunno, I was trying not to pay attention, but it wasn’t a simple task. Not when the sounds were forming my name, not when I was struggling to distinguish reality from distorted imagination. Shelia’s friends were clapping around me at the sight on the sheet, laughing and whooping like animals. I felt this cold blast rush by me as their blurry figures ran excitedly into the movie one by one. Husband and wives, friends and lovers all disappearing into the sheet with a joyous leap.
In other words, it was not a movie I should’ve been watching plastered.
I felt suddenly alone with this filth. In the air was this soft pleasant laughter and gentle singing. Tearing away from the film, I thought I saw Shelia’s friends drunkenly dancing naked on a hill, right under the moon, singing my name. A song ripped into me. Something about the heart’s desires? Or maybe it was the price of love? It didn’t sound very lovey-dovey. Then again, at this point I was hammered. The world was spinning, making less and less sense.
I tried yelling for Shelia to take me home, except something stole my voice. My bleary eyes attempted to find her, only no one was there. The hazy, amber-tinted light from the barn spilled out becoming crimson, running out of the barn, running towards me. God, what was in that punch?
I stumbled towards my car, not making it as I vomited on the cold grass and passed out like a wuss.
It was like waking up groggy from a nap that should have lasted longer. The grass was no longer beneath me, exchanged with something harder and colder. Shouldn’t have surprised me. They didn’t have a bed for lightweights in the barn. I just wish the sobriety had kicked in at that moment so I could’ve viewed it as a Halloween-induced nightmare. All these ghouls and goblins hanging over me, chanting, giggling, pawing at me.
No one was talking sense. Dark figures hovering over me with their gleeful murmurings about wonderful feasts and mature virgins. This was either a joke or my subconscious tormenting me. I think I heard one crow about Shelia’s reward being absolutely earned. She would be rewarded if she helped me out and took me home. Only I couldn’t see her in the crowd of shadows, I couldn’t even move to find her. My stomach grew sick when one said something along the lines of eating it fresh since it came only once a year. What the fuck, I thought, since my mouth was too numb to say it.
My sobriety was kicking in at a rotten time. It was becoming too real, seeing the warped faces of Shelia’s friends, hearing chanting, smelling of blood and spices. I had never wished more for a prank at my expense; giving me a taste of their vengeance for eating meat. After all, this must be how they think animals are slaughtered, terrified, and doped up on some disgusting altar.
But no. I think the giant butcher knife being lined at my wrist gave a pretty clear answer. That and the bastards stripped me naked.
Helpless, I realized the predicament I was unable to wiggle out of. I struggled to move in general, except for my eyes and my ears. The rusty song of the creepy lanterns swaying above us, the gurgling sounds of their stomach, the crisp strike of a blade being sharpened. And it was sharp, their special knife for a special occasion. Black as sin, its tip poking my exposed belly without penetrating the flesh.
With saliva-coated voices they said I should thank Shelia, gleefully knowing it was too late to be mad at her. I tried to spit, but that just made them laugh. Chops smacking, they were done playing nice and with an unfamiliar warble, the knife at my belly rose, gleaming like a cherry tomato in the candlelight. The hand holding it shook, almost teasingly. Only I wasn’t sure who it was teasing, me or its companions. The black figure began to groan, dropping the knife. With a lurch it vomited blood all over me.
Gross.
Before anyone could guess what happened, others doubled-over puking blood, moaning, crawling, begging their unseen master to save them. After a while, their bitching finally went silent and I could sober up in peace. I hate it when I get drugged. It always takes an hour to recover if I don’t vomit soon enough.
Grabbing my costume they had tossed aside, I made my way back to my car. Retrieving my real phone—Shelia wouldn’t have known I had switched it—I called up Father Jo to help with the mess. Shelia was nowhere in sight, probably fled once shit hit the fan. I guess she figured a man wasn’t worth it, even a man of one’s dreams…or nightmares as some find out too late.
Poor girl, I really liked her. Maybe this is a good lesson for her. Some prayers are not meant to be answered. Or maybe she’ll think twice about making deals with friendly strangers who make promises too good to be true. Or maybe just avoid vegans. Not that I have anything against vegans, just the bloodthirsty ritualistic devils posing as ones. I have to admit though, I’m getting tired of taking care of them. It’s getting old using my virginity as bait.
© 2025 E.R. Dyal/ Escape by the Fireside
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