Axis Mundi

It got tiresome by the campfire, listening to Tug try to scare us with a meandering tale about some sickle-wielding maniac. It was just some random stream of gory images narrated in an out-of-breath theatrical stance, hockey mask lying askew on his neck. I concentrated on Jack, sitting on a log as far as possible away from the fire to still be considered part of the group. Jack, usually the quiet sort, could spin quite the spook story. And he was next.

As Tug described his killer gouging then sickle-ing off some wayward teen’s head, I saw Jack shiver at the thought and pull his old wool jacket closer. Interesting reaction, I thought, tapping my wizard staff impatiently in the dirt. The others, from Avenger to Zombie poked the fire, or dug in their sack for candy, or beat each other with plastic weapons.

“Com’n, wrap it up, fat boy,” groaned one of the two vampires (the Twilight one, not the Dracula), “It’s Jack’s turn.” Jack’s smile flashed in the dark.

“Fine,” Tug hissed, and quickly summarized, “But on nights like this he is still alive. Maybe here in the woods behind the McNaughtry’s Farm. And you might hear the sound of a sickle on some kid’s face and—Oh. My. God. There. He. Is. Now. The. End.”

Tug shuffled back to his place next to Jack, and elbowed him in the chest, “Your turn, Jackie-boy. Let’s see what you got.”

Still smiling, Jack was gathering the straw Tug had nocked loose from his threadbare outfit.

“Indeed!” He bellowed, rising shakily under his oversized head, “It’s time.”

Grinning, Jack bowed low before us, politely doffing his lid by the stem so that the breeze puffed up the candles and made his eyes blaze brightly.

This was going to be good.