The Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth
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Erotic Horror
With gratitude and apologies to Fredrick Brown, and those who preceded him. TW
It was still Halloween. Barely.
The Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth knocked on the door of the Evil Grown-up.
Knock-knock!
The Evil Grown-up sat in his living-room half-asleep, thinking deliciously evil thoughts. Visions of apples hiding razor-blades, gooey candy bars hiding sewing needles and s'mores laced with broken glass danced in his head. And in the basket at his feet, ready for a trick-or-treater, were all of those delicacies and more. The Evil Grown-up was a very wealthy man, yet he had no friends. Instead, he surrounded himself with very expensive art. His collection of Dali paintings hung on the walls and his Giacometti sculptures cast grotesque shadows across the room.
Knock-knock!
The Evil Grown-up stirred. Was this a trick-or-treater at last? At, what, 5 minutes to 12 someone was finally knocking at his door? An evil grin opened, like a raven spreading its wings, across the face of the Evil Grown-up. Slowly he stood, and slowly he lifted the basket of treats, and slowly he walked to the door. The raven's wings that were his evil grin spread wider. Yellowed teeth shone between the Evil Grown-up's blackened lips. Heavily made-up eyelids rose to meet their waxy, blackened brows, and pinpoint pupils danced in jaundiced eyes that were rat's nests of capillaries. And the Evil Grown-up pulled on a mask that was not only a mask, but a perfect representation of his own hideous Evil Grown-up face. Oh, how he loved the thrill of removing his mask that was not a mask, just to see the terror on trick-or-treaters' faces. How they used to run into the night, their bags crammed with his razor-blade apples, broken-glass s'mores and sewing-needle candy bars.
Knock-knock! Knock-knock!
Slowly, the Evil Grown-up swung open the heavy wooden door. The silence of its opening was far more menacing than any squealing, creaking, groaning complaint that ever issued from the hinges of any door you've ever heard, or feared that you might hear.
The very silence of the jamb said "This house is ready for you, Trick-or-Treater!"
"Trick or treat!" sang the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "Trick or treat!"
"My, my!" said the Evil Grown-up. "You must be the last trick-or-treater on Earth! You're certainly the only one so far tonight, and there were only two last year. I wonder what is becoming of the trick-or-treaters!" The Evil Grown-up was pretty sure he knew the answer to his own question.
"I am. I'm the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth," said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "So many of the other trick-or-treaters were hurt by Evil Grown-ups that all the little kids just stay home now."
The Evil Grown-up looked down at the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth; actually looked. Actually saw. And said, "My goodness, what a scary mask you are wearing, little boy. Or are you a little girl?"
"Does it really matter?" said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth from behind the scary mask.
"No, I suppose not. Not to me, anyway. You're all pretty much the same to me."
"Not 'all,' sir. There's just me, remember? I'm the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth."
"Fine. But tell me about that mask, little person. It seems to have two mouths, one on the left and one on the right. What sort of mask is that?"
"It's a Space Alien mask. I'm a Space Alien. Last year I dressed up something else. And the years before that, many other things. Just like all trick or treaters."
"You think you're a Space Alien," whispered the Evil Grown-up to himself. "Prepare to be a late Space Alien."
And aloud, the Evil Grown-up said, "And the mouth on the left has voluptuous red feminine lips, while the other mouth has thin, masculine lips."
"That's how it is with us Space Aliens," said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "We have two mouths and any number of stomachs. Never fewer than four."
"You don't sound like a child anymore," said the Evil Grown-up. "Just how old are you?"
"Does it really matter?" said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth.
"I suppose not. Not to me, certainly. But look, this is becoming tedious. Let me give you some apples and some candy bars and send you on your way. It's late, and no one else is coming, so you are welcome to take them all." And the raven behind the Evil Grown-up's mask spread its wings as far as wings can spread and as far as evil grins can stretch.
"OK, but first I have a treat for you," said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "I'm going to give you the blowjob of a lifetime. What do you say?"
In all his years of mistreating trick-or-treaters, the Evil Grown-up had never been offered any treat, much less a treat like this. And, he had to admit, it had been years and years, more years than he could remember, since anyone, of any age or any gender, had shown an interest in pleasuring his member.
But his member remembered. And swiftly it rose to attention.
Some tiny part of the Evil Grown-up's mind was still considering the wisdom of accepting this offer, even as the rest of his mind was occupied by the sound of the tug on his zipper, the feeling of the hand thrust through the opening and through the front of his boxers, and gripping his oh-so-attentive male part and extracting it through the parted front of his trousers and placing it ever so gently between the voluptuous red lips of the female side of the mask.
As the tender, gentle pulling and pushing, sliding and licking began, then became more vigorous, more assertive, more clearly goal-oriented, some spasm of long-dormant conscience, or perhaps simple prurience, exerted itself, and he asked through his ever louder panting and moaning, "Please, tell me how old you are."
"About 357 of your Earth years," said the mouth that was not occupied with his member. "And now, if you will excuse me, I will bring up some of the treats to which you have treated me over the last few years." And the little hands that had grasped his buttocks became like talons of steel that would not let him go.
And up from the depths of no fewer than four stomachs, and into the mouth behind those voluptuous lips, came sewing needles and broken glass and razor blades, some made dull and ragged by years of exposure to alien stomach acid.
And the Evil Grown-up screamed and screamed, and the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth began to blow and blow, and gases of unearthly origin flowed through innumerable punctures into bladder and balls and veins and arteries, until the Evil Grown-up began to look more like an evil dirigible than a human being. And the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth released the Evil Grown-up, and the Evil Grown-up deflated, his skin stretched and distorted almost beyond recognition. And just alive enough to realize how much he must resemble a Giacometti inside a Dali-esque puddle of skin on his own porch.
And the raven-smile behind his mask folded its wings, as if to say, "Nevermore."
It was still Halloween. Barely.
The Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth knocked on the door of the Evil Grown-up.
Knock-knock!
The Evil Grown-up sat in his living-room half-asleep, thinking deliciously evil thoughts. Visions of apples hiding razor-blades, gooey candy bars hiding sewing needles and s'mores laced with broken glass danced in his head. And in the basket at his feet, ready for a trick-or-treater, were all of those delicacies and more. The Evil Grown-up was a very wealthy man, yet he had no friends. Instead, he surrounded himself with very expensive art. His collection of Dali paintings hung on the walls and his Giacometti sculptures cast grotesque shadows across the room.
Knock-knock!
The Evil Grown-up stirred. Was this a trick-or-treater at last? At, what, 5 minutes to 12 someone was finally knocking at his door? An evil grin opened, like a raven spreading its wings, across the face of the Evil Grown-up. Slowly he stood, and slowly he lifted the basket of treats, and slowly he walked to the door. The raven's wings that were his evil grin spread wider. Yellowed teeth shone between the Evil Grown-up's blackened lips. Heavily made-up eyelids rose to meet their waxy, blackened brows, and pinpoint pupils danced in jaundiced eyes that were rat's nests of capillaries. And the Evil Grown-up pulled on a mask that was not only a mask, but a perfect representation of his own hideous Evil Grown-up face. Oh, how he loved the thrill of removing his mask that was not a mask, just to see the terror on trick-or-treaters' faces. How they used to run into the night, their bags crammed with his razor-blade apples, broken-glass s'mores and sewing-needle candy bars.
Knock-knock! Knock-knock!
Slowly, the Evil Grown-up swung open the heavy wooden door. The silence of its opening was far more menacing than any squealing, creaking, groaning complaint that ever issued from the hinges of any door you've ever heard, or feared that you might hear.
The very silence of the jamb said "This house is ready for you, Trick-or-Treater!"
"Trick or treat!" sang the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "Trick or treat!"
"My, my!" said the Evil Grown-up. "You must be the last trick-or-treater on Earth! You're certainly the only one so far tonight, and there were only two last year. I wonder what is becoming of the trick-or-treaters!" The Evil Grown-up was pretty sure he knew the answer to his own question.
"I am. I'm the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth," said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "So many of the other trick-or-treaters were hurt by Evil Grown-ups that all the little kids just stay home now."
The Evil Grown-up looked down at the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth; actually looked. Actually saw. And said, "My goodness, what a scary mask you are wearing, little boy. Or are you a little girl?"
"Does it really matter?" said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth from behind the scary mask.
"No, I suppose not. Not to me, anyway. You're all pretty much the same to me."
"Not 'all,' sir. There's just me, remember? I'm the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth."
"Fine. But tell me about that mask, little person. It seems to have two mouths, one on the left and one on the right. What sort of mask is that?"
"It's a Space Alien mask. I'm a Space Alien. Last year I dressed up something else. And the years before that, many other things. Just like all trick or treaters."
"You think you're a Space Alien," whispered the Evil Grown-up to himself. "Prepare to be a late Space Alien."
And aloud, the Evil Grown-up said, "And the mouth on the left has voluptuous red feminine lips, while the other mouth has thin, masculine lips."
"That's how it is with us Space Aliens," said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "We have two mouths and any number of stomachs. Never fewer than four."
"You don't sound like a child anymore," said the Evil Grown-up. "Just how old are you?"
"Does it really matter?" said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth.
"I suppose not. Not to me, certainly. But look, this is becoming tedious. Let me give you some apples and some candy bars and send you on your way. It's late, and no one else is coming, so you are welcome to take them all." And the raven behind the Evil Grown-up's mask spread its wings as far as wings can spread and as far as evil grins can stretch.
"OK, but first I have a treat for you," said the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth. "I'm going to give you the blowjob of a lifetime. What do you say?"
In all his years of mistreating trick-or-treaters, the Evil Grown-up had never been offered any treat, much less a treat like this. And, he had to admit, it had been years and years, more years than he could remember, since anyone, of any age or any gender, had shown an interest in pleasuring his member.
But his member remembered. And swiftly it rose to attention.
Some tiny part of the Evil Grown-up's mind was still considering the wisdom of accepting this offer, even as the rest of his mind was occupied by the sound of the tug on his zipper, the feeling of the hand thrust through the opening and through the front of his boxers, and gripping his oh-so-attentive male part and extracting it through the parted front of his trousers and placing it ever so gently between the voluptuous red lips of the female side of the mask.
As the tender, gentle pulling and pushing, sliding and licking began, then became more vigorous, more assertive, more clearly goal-oriented, some spasm of long-dormant conscience, or perhaps simple prurience, exerted itself, and he asked through his ever louder panting and moaning, "Please, tell me how old you are."
"About 357 of your Earth years," said the mouth that was not occupied with his member. "And now, if you will excuse me, I will bring up some of the treats to which you have treated me over the last few years." And the little hands that had grasped his buttocks became like talons of steel that would not let him go.
And up from the depths of no fewer than four stomachs, and into the mouth behind those voluptuous lips, came sewing needles and broken glass and razor blades, some made dull and ragged by years of exposure to alien stomach acid.
And the Evil Grown-up screamed and screamed, and the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth began to blow and blow, and gases of unearthly origin flowed through innumerable punctures into bladder and balls and veins and arteries, until the Evil Grown-up began to look more like an evil dirigible than a human being. And the Last Trick-or-Treater on Earth released the Evil Grown-up, and the Evil Grown-up deflated, his skin stretched and distorted almost beyond recognition. And just alive enough to realize how much he must resemble a Giacometti inside a Dali-esque puddle of skin on his own porch.
And the raven-smile behind his mask folded its wings, as if to say, "Nevermore."