My First All Hallows Eve
Written By: Thom Schilling
The best sex I never had was on October 31st, in a graveyard, during a thunderstorm, with a witch who caught my eye. It was unseasonably warm and Melissa the enchantress was in front of me at the delicatessen and ordered a corned beef on rye with extra spicy brown mustard, a dill pickle spear, and a grape soda.
I pointed to Melissa. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
“Are you sure you can handle that?” she sneered. It was not a question, but it sounded more like a challenge.
“Certainly!” I volleyed. “Can you?”
“You’ll never know . . . unless . . . unless . . .”
I knew she was probing and I walked eyes-open into her trap. “Unless what?”
“Unless you come with me to dine at my regular place.” Expecting a park, or a mall, or even her house, I was utterly stunned when she announced, “The Old Pauper’s Graveyard.”
“Are you telling me you eat at The Old Pauper’s Graveyard?”
“Only on All Hallows Eve, and the Solstice - summer and winter. Those three nights each year when lost souls congregate to find brief solace from their wanderings. They are my most favorite Sabbats.”
“So, you only eat in a boneyard three times a year?”
“Goodness, no! I eat at other cemeteries, too.” She lifted an index finger and added, “However, the spirits in this burial ground are strongest on those few nights. The solstice are when the impoverished could be pushed no further and they settled for haunting their last burial grounds to resolve tragic deaths, debts owed, unresolved conflicts, or unfinished business. Does that frighten you?”
“No, not really, but I am curious.”
“Then Halloween is sure to scare the life back into you. Wayward spirits seek out souls to haunt and share nightmares; then comes an army of demons.”
Melissa giggled, “It should frighten you. Curiosity killed the cat. Don’t you know that?”
“Maybe, but only the curious can grow spiritually. Don’t you know that?”
She winced. “Are we going or not?”
On the outside chance there was some kind of sexual ritual on Halloween, I opened my passenger-side door and roared, “Hell, yes! Get in!”
#
I have been to the Pauper’s burial grounds before. As soon as kids in Mulberry Grove were licensed to drive, he/she would visit the Old Pauper’s Cemetery. It was a little curiosity mixed with facing one’s fears. Each Halloween, the road outside the boneyard was filled with parked cars desiring a little scare.
College kids at the local Liberal Arts College would frequent the Old Pauper’s Cemetery. It was a perfect place to relax social norms, trample on sacred grounds, and smoke weed with the undead. Besides, one History Professor taught that sex in cemeteries is not a modern occurrence. Ancient Roman writers noted that throughout history marble orchards sometimes hid prostitutes, and were used for acts of public disobedience. During the Black Death, sex on graves became so commonplace it was unexceptional. It was an act of procreation and a trip to hell, all in one night.
The Paupers’ graves were three miles of dusty roads away from town. It had not rained in over a month, and the trees, shrubs, and weeds were limestone colored. Our dust choked all living creatures near our destination. In the distance I saw thunderheads rolling towards us.
“Drive a little past the gates,” ordered Melissa. “Park next to the slime-green mossy pond.”
No sooner than getting out of my car, I was swarmed by mosquitoes, and smacked five bloodsuckers dining on my cheek. “Damned, they’re fierce.”
She reached down, pulled a plant from moist soil with red roots and small yellow flowers, and then she mashed them between her hands. A clear liquid with a heavy chlorophyl odor seeped out and she smeared the fluid on my wounds. In seconds, the itching stopped and the bugs avoided the area of contact.
“Wow! What did you just do?”
“I’m a witch. I know these things. My enchantment repels insects and bad spirits, alike.” She handed me the plant. “Here, rub this on all exposed skin and let’s have a bite to eat.”
The air was thick with humidity and hovered around 85% with a temperature of 92°. It was too miserable to contemplate sex or corned beef. With a wave of her dainty hands, the air suddenly dropped 20 degrees and the humidity fell to 10%.
The Pauper’s graveyard was an eerie, shadow-filled place where the air was thick with grief and destitution. It had a ghostly presence beyond earthly description, It’s where the taste of death danced on one’s tongue. Overgrown with thistle and poisonous undergrowth, the graves stunk of rotting sod and 200 year old decay. The earliest dates on the crumbling headstones were from Barnaby Pettibone who was born in 1802 and died in 1853. The last person buried - Gwendolyn Roe, was buried in 1900. Tonight was where Melissa stopped to open her brown paper bag.
Since their graves were side-by-side, I chose to lay my sandwich on the headstone of Mr. Pettibone. As I glanced at Melissa, I noticed her inch-long nails. Nodding at her can of grape soda, I asked, “Need help?”
She smiled pleasantly and replied, “Please.”
As I opened the soda, the sun touched the horizon; fog clung to the grave stones and snaked around statues of angels and children bowing in eternal prayer. During the final moment of daylight, shadows stretch long and thin, pooling in nooks and crannies where light dare not shine. On the rare occasion when the wind stopped blowing; I heard the rustling of leaves being trod upon by shady phantoms. Whispering voices streamed from the crumbling tombstones, both everywhere and nowhere all at once. On this evening, ghostly figures rose up before our eyes and joined forces with spectral animals who silently wandered amongst the rows of graves; some stone daisies were adorn with dust-covered plastic flowers left on previous Memorial Days, but mostly not.
A sudden gust of wind blew away our paper bags causing them to flitter from headstone to headstone as they took an unnerving rollcall of the dead.
“Do you feel it?” asked the sorceress.
“What?” slipped from my lips just before the temperature dropped another ten degrees. Were my goosebumps from fright or the sudden drop in heat?
“Hold me tight,” she insisted. “I’m cold.”
She was freezing cold, so I put my arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. When our bodies separated briefly, I saw the moon reflect off her shining eyes. They were both frightening and compelling. I wanted to pull her inside me but I feared she would actually absorb my essence; pulling me so tight we would morph into one symbiotic creature unable to live without the other.
At that moment, the universe stood still: no time, no feelings, no air; just nothing. Nothing more than pending fate attaching itself to my very soul. She placed the side of her head against my chest, but my desire was cut short three seconds later when a blinding flash of lightning was followed by a deafening roar of thunder.
In the distance, apparitions crisscrossed the boneyard amid cackles, screams, and shrieks of terror. When the wind picked up speed, the night creatures roared louder than the thunder.
Another flash of bright light and the night air was tamed by the brief silence before the next crackling. Melissa squeezed my hand and pulled me deeper into the marble orchard; to the point where a witch altar stood four feet tall, and was stained brown from centuries of bloodletting during seasonal sacrifices.
As she leaned back on the altar, the wind blew so hard it uprooted plants and toppled ironwood trees. Nevertheless, not a single hair on her head moved.
“Why is there traces of blood on the altar? I thought witches only had symbolic sacrifices.”
“Those are modern-day witches. My coven dates back to pagan times, when humans and animals were sacrificed to the gods of nature.” She flicked her hand. “Tonight, it is of no concern. We are celebrating the night of witches, all souls eve. It’s a long day, nature is at its peak, and we give thanks for a rich harvest. We focus on life, not death.” She hopped on the 4x8 limestone slab, laid on her side, patted the middle of the altar, and reached out. “Join me.”
I realized the thunder and lightning subsided. The wind ceased, and it was as if time stood still. However, when our hands met, the night sky arced with white light. Twelve spears of lightning crashed down from above, narrowly missing us. Thunder rumbled into one long, continuous roar, mightier than 1,000 angels on the day of reckoning. Static made our hair stand tall, and heighten our fears.
When our lips touched, we forgot about everything happening to us and around us. If we were struck by lightning it would only enrich our excitement. We could be killed by electrocution, or not. It did not matter.
The tempest started amid a fresh torrent of thunder and lightning. Water pooled in the small of her back as she settled atop me. I spit rain rather than drown. Another bolt of forked electricity cut down the sapling next to the altar and it fell over us. Just then I felt a hand grab my bicep. I locked onto it until I felt a pair of one inch nails dig into my back. Fearing I was held by a frightful third creature, I tensed up and Melissa shrieked louder than the storm. “Phantoms, be gone!”
As I rolled away from the specter’s grasp, I felt a third pair of calloused hands, and then a fourth pair, and a fifth. I fought my way off the altar and bolted away from the limestone slab and directly into a six foot deep coffin holder. The grave was half-full of watery muck and my face dropped below the surface. Struggling to climb out of the pit, a deluge of rain water cascaded down preventing my escape. The harder I fought, the more I pulled skeletons on top of me from other watery graves. I battled with an army of corpses to free myself from the fatal trap.
After one final burst of fury, the rain and rage ceased. I climbed a ladder of ribcages until I pulled free from the deadly pool. Completely exhausted, I collapsed at the foot of a tombstone.
#
The next morning, as the sun rose over the gates of the Pauper’s Burial Grounds, the fog clung to the tombstones and gradually melted away. Placing my hand over my eyes, I squinted and read the tombstone’s epitaph: Melissa Meyer 1900 - on the head stone. There was no mention of her death but I found a rock-hard corned beef sandwich behind it.
So you see, sex with Melissa was not to be. Nevertheless, every Hallows Eve I go to the Old Pauper’s Cemetery and wait for her return.
Thom Schilling is a graduate of Hanover College and a Neurodivergent Writer who enjoys writing stories about the unusual, the edgy, and all things weird. Since 2024, Thom has had 30 of his short stories and creative nonfiction pieces accepted by various publishers in the United States, Canada, and Great Britain.