Will and Pete loved each other in a time when doing so could get you killed. Flash forward seventy-five years and you can still find people who wouldn’t think twice about doing just that to a couple of men in love with each other. What happens every Halloween night at the abandoned and reputedly haunted house at the end of Loon Lane might not change any bigoted opinions, but it will make you think twice about what’s behind the next glory hole.
I won't say too much about Glory Hole to Hell as it is a short story and I don't want to give anything away. However, I do want to mention that it was delightfully creepy, intriguingly romantic, and even a bit weirdly erotic. A delicious blend of paranormal, contemporary, historical, and lustful romance. Personally I think some characters get what is coming to them while others are locked in reliving a particular point of time that I wish they could be free of but it is a choice that was made and lived with, so to speak😉. I loved the choice of paranormal entity the author used, personally I think it is an under used element in print today which only made Glory Hole to Hell stand out even more. This one may be short on quantity but the author jam packed it with quality, a true creepified gem.
RATING:
“And that’s when they turnt round and saw tha’ bloody hook hangin’ from the banister.” Bob finished off his version of the bloody hook story and waited for his companions’ responses.
“That’s the same as the hook on tha’ car handle story, jus’ set inna house.” Tom snorted at his friend’s lack of creativity. He turned to Will with a raised eyebrow. “How ’bout chu new guy? You got any good ghost stories?”
Will looked at the table crowded with big, burly roughnecks and shrugged his wide shoulders. “Might be I have one,” he said nonchalantly. “But isn’t it a bit of a cliché to be telling ghost stories on Halloween night?”
“What else’ve we got to talk about? There ain’t no single women in this shitty little town. Might as well get in tha’ holiday spirit,” Caleb said as he looked around the small bar, which was packed with other guys who worked out in the oil fields in the middle of nowhere North Dakota. “Or maybe you know where to find some? Ya sound like yer from round here.”
Will shook his head. “Nope, just passing through. I’m from farther east, about six or so hours down the interstate,” he lied easily in his flat Midwestern accent, so different from the twangy southern one his three companions had in varying degrees of understandability. “But I do happen to be a bit of a haunted house buff, and there is quite an interesting story about one not far from this very bar.” The other men leaned in and Will knew he had piqued their interest with just that one little sentence.
“So go on then, git to tellin’.” Bob’s southern accent was getting stronger with each sip of whiskey he took, and he’d taken quite a few.
“Well…” Will started, as if hesitant, “There’s a house out on an abandoned dirt track. The name on the sign at the end of the track, faded and all with time and the elements but still legible, is Loon Lane. Some say it’s always been called that but others insist it was given its name because only someone looney would dare go down it. The only thing at the end of Loon Lane is a big, crumbling farmhouse that’s been abandoned since somewhere around the mid-1900s.”
“I think I heard ’bout that place! It’s only ’bout five miles from here, right?” Caleb, the youngest of the bunch, asked excitedly.
Will smiled at the enthusiasm of the youth. He was sure Caleb was already thinking about how easy it would be for them to just drive out there and see it for themselves, and wasn’t that just what Will was hoping for? Will nodded. “It’s more like ten miles, but yeah, it’s pretty near here.” Encouraging the kid was easy enough but the other guys wouldn’t be as easy to hook.
“’Kay, so what’s so scary ’bout that house then? It got a ghost or somethin’?” Tom asked.
Will leaned in. “It’s got two,” he said in a hushed whisper.
“That’s the same as the hook on tha’ car handle story, jus’ set inna house.” Tom snorted at his friend’s lack of creativity. He turned to Will with a raised eyebrow. “How ’bout chu new guy? You got any good ghost stories?”
Will looked at the table crowded with big, burly roughnecks and shrugged his wide shoulders. “Might be I have one,” he said nonchalantly. “But isn’t it a bit of a cliché to be telling ghost stories on Halloween night?”
“What else’ve we got to talk about? There ain’t no single women in this shitty little town. Might as well get in tha’ holiday spirit,” Caleb said as he looked around the small bar, which was packed with other guys who worked out in the oil fields in the middle of nowhere North Dakota. “Or maybe you know where to find some? Ya sound like yer from round here.”
Will shook his head. “Nope, just passing through. I’m from farther east, about six or so hours down the interstate,” he lied easily in his flat Midwestern accent, so different from the twangy southern one his three companions had in varying degrees of understandability. “But I do happen to be a bit of a haunted house buff, and there is quite an interesting story about one not far from this very bar.” The other men leaned in and Will knew he had piqued their interest with just that one little sentence.
“So go on then, git to tellin’.” Bob’s southern accent was getting stronger with each sip of whiskey he took, and he’d taken quite a few.
“Well…” Will started, as if hesitant, “There’s a house out on an abandoned dirt track. The name on the sign at the end of the track, faded and all with time and the elements but still legible, is Loon Lane. Some say it’s always been called that but others insist it was given its name because only someone looney would dare go down it. The only thing at the end of Loon Lane is a big, crumbling farmhouse that’s been abandoned since somewhere around the mid-1900s.”
“I think I heard ’bout that place! It’s only ’bout five miles from here, right?” Caleb, the youngest of the bunch, asked excitedly.
Will smiled at the enthusiasm of the youth. He was sure Caleb was already thinking about how easy it would be for them to just drive out there and see it for themselves, and wasn’t that just what Will was hoping for? Will nodded. “It’s more like ten miles, but yeah, it’s pretty near here.” Encouraging the kid was easy enough but the other guys wouldn’t be as easy to hook.
“’Kay, so what’s so scary ’bout that house then? It got a ghost or somethin’?” Tom asked.
Will leaned in. “It’s got two,” he said in a hushed whisper.
CL Mustafic is a born and bred American mid-westerner who mysteriously ended up living in one of those countries nobody can ever find on the map of Europe. Left with too much time on her hands – let’s be honest here it was the lack of television channels in her native language – and too many voices in her head trying to fill the silence, she decided to give her life-long dream of writing a novel a shot. So now between shuttling kids back and forth from various activities, risking her life on the insanely narrow, busy streets of her new home town, she loses herself in her own made up world where love always wins.
iTUNES / B&N / SMASHWORDS
EMAIL: clmustaficwrites@gmail.com
KOBO / iTUNES / SMASHWORDS
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