Witches in the Trees by Brandon Hooks - Halloween Reading!

This is one of my favorites by this author!

Witches in the Trees

“So how would you like to die, pretty boy?” the young dark man in the black mask asked me.


My body lay strapped to a tree trunk in the Pine Level, Alabama woods off of Troy Highway. My girlfriend lay lifeless, bloody, and violated on a tree trunk to the right of me. The monster raped her before viciously cutting her throat. I shed every last tear I had over her death. I was trying frantically to keep at bay the tears of being faced with my own death.

What was my own death destined to look like? I thought. The dark man’s question hit me again just like a sniper’s bullet.

“So how would you like to die? Don’t make me ask you again,” he said in a thunderous voice.

I quivered and responded, “H-hey, d-don’t d-do th-this.” I finally found my voice again. “All I was doing was flashing you so that you would turn on your headlights. What did we do wrong?”

The man slowly unveiled his mask, revealing both a cruel, masculine face, and a slash of a nasty grin. He looked to be the age of thirty. He placed his right hand over his shirtless body in the same format as a soldier does while pledging allegiance to the flag. He said, “My name is Leroy Groom and I pledge my allegiance and trust to the Bloods, my eternal gang. I will dispose of this traitor so that I may be counted worthy of your family and its heritage. May this second murder complete the initiation process. In you’re hands I commit my spirit.” A pulsating horror rushed through me, setting off an uncontrollable sensation of flailing limbs and the jerking of my head.

Leroy held up the cake knife, stained with my girlfriend’s blood, and walked up to me with his lantern blaring in my eyes and leaves rustling. I was a dead fish. The rope was wrapped so tight around me, resulting in a struggle for me to breathe properly. He stopped before me and grinned. With the knife in preparation for murder, he asked what would eventually become the final question of his life on earth. “So, would you like to take it in the throat or the gut?” He painted his face with the brightness of the lantern, exposing a set of gold teeth. “Yeaaahhh, you're wanting to take it in the throat like you’re better half here,” he said in a cold and cruel laugh. He pressed the blade of the knife against my Adam’s apple and held it there. He rubbed the bloody blade against the rough hairs on my neck, forcing my Adam’s apple to roll downward and back up in response to the terror I felt at the moment.

As I waited for him to carve a hole into my throat, a low moan wafted through the air. I could hear the gentle movements of tree branches swaying. The odd thing was the fact that there wasn't a breath of wind in the air. Where I stood, the air was still and somewhat humid. I couldn't feel any brush of wind on my body. The moan increased and resembled a cry of suffering. Leroy still stared into my eyes with the blade pinned to my neck. Was he oblivious to the behavior in the air? I asked myself. The forest moaned louder, "Ooooooohhh, urrrrrrrrrghhh!" My attention turned from the black eyes of Leroy to a giant black shadow slowly descending down close behind the killer. "Oooohhh, uhhhhhhh!" the forest moaned. Leroy placed the mask back onto his face and turned his right hand over in preparation to carve, like a father readying himself to carve the family turkey.

Before he could succeed in my murder the forest came alive without any warning, and an immense tree reached down and seized the killer. Screams pierced the silence of the Pine Level woods, and then the corpse of Groom fell from the night sky and onto the ground, directly in the epicenter of the lantern’s brightness. His entire body frame had been pulled completely off! I stared down into the light and noticed his bloody skeleton before me. His bloodied bones were hanging from gummy, caked up guts that made my stomach churn. I shrieked in hysteria, and was immediately silenced when the witch tree that I was pinned to came to life and threw me to the ground. All I could hear was the thunderous breaking of branches as the tree which held me captive, fled away in the darkness. This gave me just enough time to apprehend the dying lantern and search for the way out of the forest.

The next day two corpses were found by hunters. Both had been stripped clean of their bodies, courtesy of the witches in the trees!


(c) 2007 by Brandon Hooks

A Burial at Maple Hill by Brandon Hooks - A spooky story for your Halloween reading pleasure!

The glare of an early summer full moon bore down on Mitt Croonquist, thirty-eight, as he prepared himself for the final stages of the despicable act. A sliver of a brown-red cloud split the moon’s face in half, but still permitted enough light to peel away some of the darkness that was Maple Hill Cemetery in Huntsville, Alabama. Stars were absent for the night, leaving in its wake a slight, red firmament. A sulfur-like odor mated with the moisture-laden air to birth problems for Mitt. However chastised he was by the atmosphere wasn’t good enough to force him to steal away from the scene and call it quits. He would see his plan through come hell or high water.


Leaves scrambled over and around his feet as a lone breeze passed through. Sickly trees that were normally vivacious hung their branches down against a backdrop of hundreds of black headstones, while the peek of a hill in the distance rose to kiss the breastplate of a Christ statue. The hill cut sharply to the right, and descended about a fourth of a mile into an additional part of the cemetery. The yard appeared as though it were burdened with a conference of thousands of demons in rituals due to how the moon’s light failed to reach this part, and how the darkness masked each headstone.

“That’ll show em,” Mitt mumbled as he hammered the remaining nail into the doomed, nameless guy’s coffin. His thoughts of how the idiot cut him off in traffic just yesterday drowned out the unearthly screams that shook the exposed coffin. His heart was exempt from sympathy. He didn’t care about the kid. And he sure as hell didn’t care about the fact that God above was trying to poison him with sulfur, and trying to suffocate him with humidity. Nobody cuts me off in traffic, and lives to see another day, he thought.

He stared into the hole that housed his victim’s deathbed. “So… what’s it like down there? How’s the weather?” He thrust his head skyward and laughed.

“LET ME OUT! PLEASE! GET ME OUTTA HERE!” In an insane fit the victim drove his arms into all corners of the coffin until bones protruded through his skin. His eyes widened and quivered, tearing the eyelid muscles.

“Nobody can hear you, guy. Everything in town’s closed, and people have turned in for the night. Can’t help you there, bud.” Tim proceeded with throwing the dirt on the hole. As each bit of dirt hit the coffin the screams curdled more of his blood, but he shrugged off the nightmare and steadily buried his victim within the earth.

Two things excited him as he went to work on the burial. He couldn’t believe how isolated he was from the other gravesites. He could not have picked a better place for the murder. No chance of disrupting the resting places of Ford Gilmore, and Terry Madding, he thought. What thrilled him the most was how after the road rage incident his father responded abruptly by racing to the scene once he’d knocked the driver unconscious with his iron right hook. He just hated that his father had to rid his wife of the coffin he put her in so that his son could have a spot for his victim. They transported the thing by way of his father’s big rig while the victim lie soundly in the back of his 2008 Chevy Silverado. So they’d made a night of it. Father and son heading out for a manly night on the cemetery. He was told to give him a call once the job was done and he was leaving. How did he actually agree with what I was doing? Tim thought. Murder… of someone simply cutting me off in traffic? What the hell!

As he finished the final touches in the burial the screams began to dwindle into muffled sobs and prayer. Like that would do any good. He directed his thoughts to the incident again. A little over twenty-four hours had passed so the details were still remarkably vivid. It was amazing how he and his dad were able to transfer the body to the truck without being noticed. No sign of evidence he knew of that would put them away for good. When the driver got out of his car and walked over to him in confrontation, he just calmed him down enough to walk with him and talk with him away from the traffic, and away from public view. Then he belted him in the face, and that was that. So here he was, now down to the closing act of his performance. The curtains were about to close. When he’d shoveled the last patch of dirt into the hole the screams were gone. He stood over the site while leaning on his shovel like an old man supporting himself with his cane. It was done. That ghost face, Marilyn Manson looking punk would be dead within thirty minutes… maybe an hour.

The moisture in the air and the rotten eggs smell began to feel insufferable. He wasn’t sure where this stench was coming from. He took a whiff of his arm pits. Nothing but the Burberry Touch Cologne caught his senses. Man, I feel as though I could one night stand someone and get’em pregnant. What woman could resist this fine, fine fragrance. He took a seat on the headstone of Terry Madding and sat staring at his achievement. He looked down and said, “So, can you not resist this cologne? Hmm? If only you were up here with me then maybe I could show you a good time out on the town.” Oh well, he thought.

He reached in his pocket, pulled out the cell phone and dialed the number. “It’s done dad.” “Really? So the job is done. He’s really dead?” the voice on the other end asked. “Yep. He’s gone. I can no longer hear his screams. I’m sure he’s done torn so hard at the walls of the coffin that his painted nails have worn away.” “You’ve made me proud, boy!” His father shouted in triumph and praise. He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Man I need a nap. Just thirty minutes should suffice, he thought. As he shut his eyes he could hear a bit of a punch to the wind. The sulfur was all around now and increasing by the second. A burn to the air weakened the vessels in his nose creating a trickle of blood. He wiped away at it and sniffed the clot all the way back up to the roof of his nose. He would nap nevertheless.

He dreamt of the victim of his crime. The object of murder was grungy, huge in height, and he let his black hair extend down to his back as if he were a Metallica punk gifted with a supermodel’s head. He was quite certain he could pass for a twin of Marilyn Manson, and almost betted that people wrongly desired his autograph. What made him stand out from other gothic looking guys was his build. He packed a punch in his physique. Most of these types of guys were scrawny, but not this particular individual. He himself was not as built as this guy was, and it was only a sheer miracle that he was able to lay him out and bury him without interruptions.

He wiped his nose again, and squirmed at the discomfort of the egg-rotting stench that led to a succession of coughs and gags. The humidity succumbed to blazing heat. He tried to wake up but something felt as though it were pressing hard against him. He imagined himself paralyzed. I can’t move! He awoke to faint breathing. Who’s watching me? He wondered. He did a scan of everything in the area; nothing out of the ordinary. All was silent. His victim was probably dead for good now. With that knowledge and assurance he closed his eyes, readjusted himself on Terry Madding’s headstone, and indulged himself in another nap. Before images of his victim could flash across the screen of his mind again, footsteps approached him. The heat amplified as if it were a black summer day. He jolted up from his nap to see nothing but the shadows that were the gravestones, and the hill rising to meet the breastplate of the Christ statue. All in my head.

Instead of taking to Madding’s gravestone again for a nap, he fell to the ground, and shut his eyes. Mother Nature blew a fresh breath of sulfur on him, and the heat was reaching high magnitude. He thought he’d heard stifled laughter. “WHO’S THERE?” He shouted. The wispy cloud that had teased the full moon was gone. It shone down in all its glory on the scene of his atrocity. His heart began to beat faster. He feared he had been watched the whole time. If so his life was over. The sulfur was so extreme now that he bent over and vomited. The heat made him sweat, and the fatigue was still potent.

Once more he collapsed to the ground and fell asleep. For thirty minutes he’d gone without dream or thoughts on his successful act. Sleep consisted of nothing but the blackness that were his eyelids. When thirty minutes had ended he watched as his mind ran scenes of him once again being transported by his victim as if he were unconscious and being rescued from a blazing house. He squirmed in his sleep-this time he couldn’t wake up. Something felt hard against his body-paralyzing him all over. He tried to waken but couldn’t. He was bathing in sulfur now, and the heat was beginning to scorch him. He slapped at his face in hopes he could end the stings of heat.

He dug his fingernails into his eyes and pulled them open to find his victim staring into his eyes. This time his eyes were a deep penetrable, almost seductive purple. They widened then decreased as he looked his killer all over, staring down into the very fiber of his black soul.

Mitt drove his arms into all sides of the coffin breaking his bones, and hammered the right side with his head.

“HELP ME! GET ME OUTTA HERE! HELP!!!”

“Nobody can help you now. You’re mine forever, Mitt. I’ve been watching you since you were conceived. When you arrived I helped fashion your mind to what it is now. I molded it and shaped it. God the Father couldn’t have it. Jesus Christ couldn’t claim your soul. You had no desire for the good things of the soul. With that I took your heart from you. I robbed the Father of the very essence of who you are; your immortal soul. So I set up the traffic incident for your final downfall. I even took your father too. I molded his mind and convinced him he didn’t need to tolerate his wife’s naggings any longer. So I took control of him, Mitt. I forced him to take the life of his own wife.”

He laughed.

“So now I say it’s time to come with me. I have LOTS of friends and family awaiting your arrival. They’ve been waiting thirty-eight years. Come with me so I can show you your new home. The thing withdrew his face as Mitt lay lifeless from a stopped heart. His eyes were replaced with milky white films, and his face was locked in an expression suggesting a screaming fury up to the time of his death.

Old Lady Eldridge by Brandon Hooks - A story for October!

Devon Penny and Blaine Roby lived on Dubuque Street in the Gunter Grove neighborhood. Unfortunately, for old lady Eldridge, so did she; and she was about to become the next victim of the boys’ cruel pranks. Devon and Blaine were known throughout the Gunter Grove community as pranksters, and hard-core troublemakers. Their track record of activity was astounding when it came to the elderly. Any chance they could get, they trespassed, rang doorbells, and threw rocks at houses. They escaped detection from the police every time. Parents forbid their children to associate with the hoodlums, forcing Devon and Blaine to have no friends, and to cherish one another.


The boys’ favorite pranks included wrapping a house with toilet paper, or spray-painting the windows. When they were lucky enough to get hold of them, they set off firecrackers, waking the whole neighborhood. Ms. Eldridge of Dubuque Street was next on their list of elderly harassment.
The old lady lived all alone most of her adult life, and now three scrawny cats were her only companions. Perhaps it was self reliance which enabled her to keep active well into her nineties. Each day, her familiar figure, still upright and without the support of a cane, scurried the length of Dubuque Street, laden with shopping bags. This furthered their cause to terrorize her. The one thing they were in agreement on was that they despised the elderly, and this one was fresh meat for their undertaking. She lived in the establishment alone, and without a man protecting her honor.

There wasn’t a call for violence against her. The mission was easy and painless; make her aware of who ran the neighborhood. There method for achieving this outcome was to knock on her backdoor many times, and insult her with the vilest words possible. When this was done, they would hide in her storage shed, a structure that stood in solitude within the closed in, but well kept backyard.

Typically old ladies like Ms. Eldridge lived in ramshackle, neglected properties, like the one across the road from her superior abode. However, this singular old lady had bought and maintained a prestigious home with neat paint-work and tidy gardens. It was her retirement savings that did this for her. She worked many years of her adult life as CEO of an explosive, worldwide, law firm. Within two years of her retirement, she’d accumulated a vast fortune through the use of an IRA savings account. It was obvious that she didn’t see the need to put any of the money into her looks. She kept it saved and decided the riches outweighed the need to do something about the level of her comeliness. I can attest to you how unattractive Ms. Eldridge was by the actions of one particular neighbor when she was seen outside for the first time tending to her rose bushes. A neighbor running into the house as if a tornado was barreling towards him is a solid, reasonable depiction of her incapability to show the world a beautiful woman.

There were certain, concentrated parts of the house that fed her obsession. She washed the purple drapes that hung in the window frames twice a day! She seemed to nurture a fear of robbery, as was evident when she was continuously observed pulling at the bars on her windows like a mad-woman trying to escape from her own house. The front door was black, and so it remained, even after the weather had delivered punishment on its color and texture over the years. When it showed signs of dying into a light, dirty, brown, she would simply take out the old Sherwin Williams paint bucket, and drive the brush over the door with a fresh coat of black. The huge rose bushes flourished every day, singing its music to the world, and to old lady Eldridge’s lonely heart.

For three days during the week of the promised attack, the boys watched her house. When the fourth night arrived, Ms. Eldridge was gone. Her driveway was vacant. Maybe she was shopping for groceries, they thought amongst themselves. The entire day had gone by, and she never returned. They were too excited and carefree at heart to pay attention to the fact that it was after 1:00 am on Friday morning when she finally returned home.

They met each other Friday night by the street light at the edge of the crippled, abandoned house across the street from Ms. Eldridge’s dwelling. It was ten forty five, and all lights were off in the old lady’s house. They ran like marathon contenders to her backyard, and stopped at the back door. A gentle breeze tickled them as they stood at the door that divided an antisocial, old lady from the world.

There was silence behind the back door when they walked up to it, and then one of the cats whined softly, thrusting them backwards as if they had seen the old lady’s face for the first time. Then something else happened that stilled the currents of their blood. There were slow, heavy footsteps approaching the door. One step… two steps… a third step… and silence.

The cat screeched in anger as a loud thump pounded the floor. Devon held his chest, hoping he could slow the pounding of his heart.

Blaine whispered to Devon, “Pssss, get ready to run to the shed. I’m gonna knock ten, hear me, ten times. When I finish knocking run as fast as ya can. I will stand here and wait until she turns the knob. Then I will catch up with ya.”

Devon said nothing.

“Hey, don’t ya be an ole wuss like ya were a couple a weeks ago when the ole man pulled the gun out on us for trespassing and rolling his house.”

Devon nodded his head and said, “Okay, jus knock on the door so we can get this over with. I hate the way I feel about this. Old ladies scare the shit out of me!”

Blaine covered his mouth and chuckled. Devon stood away from the door, and prepared to make a run for the shed. Before Blaine could even conceive of knocking on the door, something occurred that almost forced Devon to heave. The old lady was talking to her cats! Her tone was sad and weary, and each time she spoke, the cats howled as if in answer.

“How could that young man do such a thing to me, my darlings? How could he physically violate me like that? He is a heathen destined for the pits of Hades.”

Blaine could feel a scream begin to form. Before he could unleash it, he pounded on the door ten times. Devon darted towards the shed as if his very own life depended on it. He shut the door enough to where he could still see the back door. Blaine stood there waiting for Ms. Eldridge’s arrival. Devon shut the door and sighed.

“Hey, ya ole turkey! Let’s see yer ugly face!” Blaine antagonized.

Man, it is hot in here! Devon thought.

A long time passed, and all was silent. Blaine was still at the door waiting to play the joke.

Geez, what was taking the old lady so long? He thought.

He felt himself getting hotter by the minute. A breath of wind, like a thief in the night, slapped the storage shed, causing him to jolt, and sending a ringing throughout the structure. Following this came the sound of soft footsteps, like someone slowly walking through a yard of leaves.

Well, it is about time, dumb ass! His thoughts screamed as Blaine walked instead of running to the shed.  Typical Blaine; can’t even follow his own plans!

There was a dead silence as the footsteps ceased.

What was he doing?

He thrust open the door, and before him was The Grin! It was not the type of grin where the person is thinking, I’ve got you right where I want you now! No, this was the type of facial display where this person was preparing to delight themselves over a brutal murder. This type of person wanted to see their victim witness a small glimmer of eternal hell, and they wanted to be the one to make it happen! This was old lady Eldridge, the woman rumored to be lonely, but harmless. She now stood before Devon. In her right hand was a sword that he was all too familiar with. It was a 16th century Renaissance Sword. It was a deadly sword he had read about a couple years back while surfing the internet during his unhealthy obsession over swords. This time the sword was no longer the object of his fascination. Instead it was an object of horror, a long piece of European metal bathed in Blaine’s blood. She held his corpse up with the sword. Saliva dripped off her milky, white teeth as she uncoiled her enormous tongue and wiggled it.

My God, what was this thing, or should I dare even call her a woman?! He thought, as he was too paralyzed to waken the neighborhood with his screams.

Nothing else in the world mattered but that smile! He couldn’t remember if he even caught a full glimpse of her body. He knew that she must have been skeletal in her frame; by the way the corner of his eye captured her. There was a stream of white hair that flowed from her head, but his pounding heart had an intimate relationship with one thing; the smile! Her black eyes and cold blooded grin did all the talking, and that was enough to cause Devon’s heart to beat the walls of his chest. Her grin spread further and saliva dripped as if she were a famished animal, hurting for Devon’s blood.

Blaine’s face was pulled downward and apart as if a monstrous hand had pushed out of his throat and was stretching the mouth to escape. All his facial bones and nerves were shattered. His face remnants consisted of a cross between unimaginable horror and unprecedented shock at what had been done to him by such a harmless lady.

Devon watched as she threw Blaine’s corpse on top of the shed. She approached him with growing speed. As she stood at the door before Devon, she spit and cursed him. This time around her voice was weary.

“Young man, may I ask what you're doing in my yard this time of night… hmmm?” She asked as if she were just an annoyed old lady.

Devon fell to the side and hit the wall.

Ms. Eldridge grabbed him by the shirt and said, “Young man… hey!”

She slapped him across the cheek.

“Hey, I’m talking to you! What are you doing in my yard?”

Devon struggled to find the words.  “I…”

“I asked your friend up there the same question and he had the same answer. Well, I had to just answer for him I guess.”

She held up the long, bloody, European metal and gave it an adoring look.

“These ere such nice, fancy weapons, wouldja say? Perfect for the disposal of heathen children.” She asked as she transferred the blade of the sword to Devon’s throat. His heart pounded louder. Eldridge’s ears pricked up like a dog hearing the sound of food hitting his bowl. Ever since she was raped by the bipolar 16-year old boy, her insanity had given her permission to hear everything! Now, her ears were in tuned to the pounding of his heart.

“Calm down there, young fella.” She said. “Yer soul is gonna be so stretched with terror before I can shove this sword into yer heart.” She said. “What good would it do me ta try and touch that heart when it is cold, scared, and barely functioning?”

“I… I don’t know.” Devon said.

She lifted his chin up and stared into his eyes.

“Hey, it won’t hurt that bad. I will make it a painless death. Promise.”

“Please don’t kill me. I won’t tell anybody…. promise!” He cried.

Ms. Eldridge’s mood suddenly changed. It went from cold blooded lack of remorse to vicious. Her face was dark with a contorted snare.

“Yer not gonna tell anybody, huh? Now, let’s see if I have this correct. You and yer friend up there come trespassing into my backyard, wanting to play a joke on me, which by the way would never work to begin with.

While she spoke she took the sword and pointed it to the back of the storage unit. Devon looked back and noticed the frame of a skeleton like body lying face down. The frame was youth-like in size. His heart raced so fast it managed to skip beats.

She smiled again.

“Yes sir. That was the last young 'un to try and outsmart me. Foolish boy!” She said.

“So, anyways, you and yer friend up there want to trespass on my property, and you say that you’re not gonna tell anybody what I have done!”

She stretched her neck and faced him as if she were preparing to plant a kiss on his lips. The irony of her pleasant smelling breath was tremendous.

“My boy, you will be the one that will be going to juvy. I just did what I had to do with an unruly boy.”

Devon couldn’t scream. Even the sight of another murdered boy couldn’t help him with it. He felt pale and weak. He never thought a person could literally be scared to the point of death, but it looked like he was the exception to the rule.

She withdrew her head from his face and pointed the sword at the area of his chest.

“I think I will shove it rigghhtt there.” She said with a wink.

His heart beat louder and he felt weaker. He didn’t care anymore. If she was going to do it, she needed to get it over with. His heart couldn’t slow down from the brink of destruction. It had been pumping its terror-stricken blood for what seemed forever. The adrenaline racing through his body kept him alive a little bit longer.

Ms. Eldridge quickly withdrew the blade and looked towards the driveway.

“Did you hear that?” She asked.

The sound of car doors slamming relieved him a little bit, but not long enough, when he realized that whoever was out there was in terrible danger. The old lady’s eyes rolled back in her head as she stretched her neck to see who was visiting this time of hour.

“Sssshhh!” She whispered to Devon as she scurried away from the shed and into the darkness towards the back door. The visitors were police officers.

“Hey, new guy. We’re just gonna try and ask this person here if they know anything about the robbery that took place around this area a week and a half ago. I know it’s late, but tomorrow I’m off, and the sergeant wants me to feel you in on how we question citizens who might know something about a crime in the area.” The chief officer said.

“Affirmative.” The rookie responded. They knocked on the front door. The shadow of the old lady turned and flailed in the dark near the back door. Devon’s head ached, and sweat saturated his palms.

It is a perfect time for me to get the hell out of dodge! He thought, but it was just that, wishful thinking that couldn’t come to reality because he was paralyzed by the events playing out.

It was as if he’d been chained and couldn’t move. The tides of blood in his stomach seemed to be sloshing around, as he felt his bowels move. He bent down and gripped at his buckling knees.

Must not have a panic attack! His mind screamed as if shouting at himself would somehow alleviate the doubt that was there. Hell yeah I was going to have an attack!  My best friend lies dead above me while I stand here in these four walls of searing hell, worrying myself to death over two cops whose fates will be sealed by their own blood if I don’t do something to stop it!

The quiet night returned, and time passed by. A dog howled in the distance.

God, just let me die! His thoughts screamed again.

What followed next was the sound of a door slamming in the house. Trees bending slightly under the influence of a coming storm preceded screams from inside her house, like the cries of a tormented soul in hell trying to get the Almighty God to hear them all the way from the glory of heaven. Devon retrieved what was remaining of his strength, and flung open the door in a last attempt at escape. He ran into the throat of the night with a certain knowledge that would terrorize him for the rest of his life. He left behind two souls that didn’t know anything about the evil that lurked in the mind and heart of a lonely, violated, misunderstood woman.

Devon was diagnosed with severe schizophrenia and paranoia. He was the patient at Bryce Mental Hospital in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, where his parents visited him frequently. Over time he made progress and began to forget about the events that occurred that night. He thought about Blaine a lot, and wished he was still alive so that they could carry on their destructive pranks. Kids will be kids, the old saying goes, and these two boys were pure kids, immature, and reckless.

Ms. Eldridge escaped jail time for the murders on substantial proof of her insanity. She was institutionalized as a result, and would remain there. Devon never knew he could cry like a screaming baby, when one night he awoke to the door slamming, and seeing the Grin at the foot of his bed. He wasn’t sure if he’d caught a full glimpse of her body, though.