A tiny trio of Halloween related stories to tickle the much anticipated “scared shitless” itch that comes to the surface at the end of October each and every year.

PARK AVENUE WITCH ... Sue Alden was more of a spinster than a sensuous siren with her big black rimmed glasses and her constant pulling of her unruly hair that cascaded down past her petite feminine shoulders with a mind of its own. She seemed rather normal except for her strange old-fashioned broom and her long sharp fingernails that were more like weapons than some silly fashion statement. A complicated female that perennially blossomed like an exotic flower on the last day of October each year like some renowned comet on a tight schedule.

PUMPKINS ARE NOT TO BE TRUSTED ... The thing that made Peter Pumpkin stand out in a crowd was the fact that he was never seen in public without his decidedly orange cashmere socks. His smile drew the ladies like moths to a flame and they marveled at his stamina in matters of carnal delight in the light of the autumn moon.

THE HAUNTED CONDO WITH A VIEW ... No self-respecting real estate office wanted anything to do with 69 West End Avenue because of the terrible rumors about strange happenings at the end of October each year without fail. The prestigious Board of Brokers had banned it from their list of properties for sale or rent simply because no agent was willing to take the risk of showing it to any customer regardless of the tempting commission.

PARK AVENUE WITCH

In the center of the island of Manhattan, there exists a street that lays claim to fame as the most expensive real estate in the entire city of New York with the possible exception of Central Park South. Of course, that latter address was made up predominantly of five-star hotels with stellar credentials.

Park Avenue starts much without pomp and circumstance in that area below the confines of Grand Central Station owned mostly by “old money” families with impressive connections. It loses identity in the railroad sector to emerge like a rising Phoenix on the north side of that complex with a splash of greenery and uncommon trees separating the traffic into North-heading and South-heading streams of motor-cars and taxis flowing like mirrored rivers in a random pattern of movement with no beginning and no end.

Pedestrians scurry to and fro like some ballet written by a Russian composer with absolutely no sense of the desperate need to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible.

Classy persons of the feminine persuasion lead pampered pets on short leashes. It is not unlike a choreographed parade of human dominance over the animal world. The process gives credence to the subtle hint of bestiality present just below the surface of reality. The suggestion lurks partially hidden like some difficult to decipher sub-surface symbiotic relationship. It is true forensic evidence of a system most likely more valued than customary “family” and “friends” associated with a normal societal structure.

One seldom sees “children” on Park Avenue.

It is as if there were specific rules written for the place like those of a senior citizen locale requiring all residents to be over a certain age.

“All persons under the age of eighteen are prohibited from permanent residence on Park Avenue and must be accompanied by an adult at all times.”

Right in the midst of this childless hive lives a still attractive female with the name of Sue Alden. She is one of those slender, soft-skinned women that exude an air of mystery on a low burner for eleven months out of the year and only burns brightly in the month of October. Sue is not the brightest penny in the stack and she is definitely not the “hottest” number ever seen in a Brazilian bikini, but in those hazy, crazy days of October, she has a sort of magnetism that draws men into her web with the stamp of “Pending” written in red ink across their quivering rear ends.

Sue has smoldering hazel eyes that hide the yellow brick road of her inner feminine core. In an earlier period of her existence, she was under the sway of female attraction and was always seen in the company of some sweet young thing just in from the country. Now, she was strictly a “meat and potatoes” bitch looking for Mister “Goodbar” in dark man-caves and places where swinging dicks congregate to express their macho nature. She never hesitated to put her feminine assets on the line in such discussions and generally came through with the goods when push came to shove. Most real men tend to appreciate that sort of honesty in a “nice piece of ass” and usually did their best to meet her expectations after she had suffered a hard cold spell of “no cockitus”.

It was a chilly day late in October when she stood on the stoop of her building looking for something and not quite certain what it was that she was looking for on the almost deserted street. The department of sanitation street washing truck had just sprayed the gutters with non-potable water and the scent of the city hung like shattered dreams pressing down on her shoulders with the certainty of her cursed fate and childless future. A young man staggered down the puddled concrete pavement trying to not step in the cracks because he knew it was Friday the thirteenth and he didn’t want the specter of bad luck to stick to him like some untreatable virus of unknown origin. She could tell from his lack of firm resolve that he was in the clutches of the jester of drink and that he had little comprehension of his surroundings and little appreciation for either the time or the place.

He was the perfect subject for her often repeated test of human spirit and total lack of fear of the unknown.

It was easy to get his arm around her shoulders with his fingers drooping down to rest comfortably on her swelling breast. It was all so human with care and concern for a fellow human in need of some assistance.

Young Harold Wilson was not a virgin.

That was more a matter of accidental circumstance than any sense of devious planning on his part to separate a young lady from her undies just before introducing her to his tool of creation. His equipment was still in the original carton and still sitting on the shelf. Harold waited for some sort of customer interest in giving him the “thirty day guaranteed satisfaction or your money returned without a single question” trial and he hoped it would be a female of at least some semblance of sexual inspiration.

There was no doubt that at that time of night after all the bars were closed and all the females were either hooking up with happily horny cock-wielders or tucked snugly in their little beds that young Harold knew with certainty that he had met the girl of his dreams and it appeared she was eager to drop her drawers in feminine submission to his need for penetration experience. It was the best of both worlds for Harold on top of that “hello kitty” bedspread as he humped and pounded his way to Sue Alden’s core of ultimate release.

Harold was merely twenty and he had no idea that his new best friend and ass-hole buddy Sue was actually that age almost two dozen times over. It was true that she had failed to find a single human male with the ability to fertilize her witch’s egg with the seed to create the seventh sister. The parable of the “Seventh Sister” was repeated in song by the long line of moonlight dancers with not a single stitch to their name. They all knew the coven’s affiliation with the underworld of evil and vileness was best not spoken of in mixed company. They all feared bringing it down on their backs with a meaty slap of finality that might destroy them all. It was the spark of new life that attracted and frightened Sue at the same time. It was the time of her old non-soul meeting as fate dictated head-on in a collision course of carnal bliss according to the star’s million year old proclamation of future things. It was time for her to spread her legs and accept her fate because there was no other way to resolve the issue.

The following summer, Sue gave birth to a bouncing baby girl. She named the girl Samantha because it sounded so much like a real witch’s name. Samantha was the seventh daughter of the coven’s original founders and the time of the witch had finally arrived on Park Avenue.

Samantha was probably the only baby carriage to be found on that famous street but the residents were too frightened of the assertive Sue to ever make a fuss.

As in the way of things, it was almost a baker’s dozen years later that Samantha roamed freely on Park Avenue in the October moonlight. She was never far from her broomstick because the cost of taxis had grown with inflation far beyond a witch’s ability to finance transportation of the human variety.

Besides, there was nowhere to park in a city of buses and trains.

PUMPKINS ARE NOT TO BE TRUSTED

Peter Pumpkin was originally the biggest pumpkin in the entire pumpkin patch just outside the city. He was ready to be taken to market and sold to the highest bidder on that cold October day. It was Alice Sweetbody that first saw him sitting on the counter just waiting to be picked up and carried home for the Halloween season.

Everybody bought a pumpkin for Halloween.

Some pumpkins were eaten and made into delicious pies.

Other pumpkins were not so fortunate and were relegated to just merely being decorations either inside the house or outside on the porch or in the front yard where everybody could see them and remember that this was a special time of the year.

It was Halloween.

It was a time when all the spooks and goblins and black cats roamed amongst the humans and were accepted as an amusing part of the background of normal life.