To whom it may concern

Written for Day 2 of the 31_days October challenge. The prompt was "all soul's day"



At dusk, Eerie Cemetery glittered with a thousand gravelights. The huge wrought iron gates, usually closed and locked at sunset, were flung wide and the living citizenry began to trickle in beneath the great black sign. Their voices were hushed and they carried small white candles in paper holders. The air was thick with the smoke and scent of incense, vast brass braziers glowing red and orange in the failing light.

The ghosts moved like shadows in a fog, hazy patches of darker grey against the deepening twilights. Cold fingers trailed across the hot bright flesh of the living, the gaping hollow of dead maws pressed over the warm, wet mouths of these mortal trespassers, sucking out the heated breaths and the soft-spoken words that carried in the still evening.

Melanie Monroe stood with her parents, her face cast down, studiously avoiding eye contact with Mr. and Mrs. Wilde as the five of them hovered around the upturned face of a cherub statue that had never ceased to weep. If anyone had looked, at the right moment and at the right angle, they would have seen Devon at her side, his mouth moving soundlessly, his hands reaching for her as though to tug her sleeve, tap her shoulder, shake her into acknowledging him. Melanie stared at the dead November grass between her toes, and pretended not to hear.

Marisea Carter wore a trapper hat and a hand-knitted snood that had been made with more enthusiasm than skill, and her eyes were cautious and watchful as she scanned the dark corners of the burial ground. Andrea stood beside her, hands cupped around a candle made with grave dirt and bone meal. She stared at the half-eaten spectre of Steve Konkalewski who slumped disconsolately against the far wall.

Steve’s parents still believed that their son was out there somewhere, and his wire-wrapped face stared balefully out from every milk carton in Eerie. When the Eerie Dairy had first deposited the new Missing cartons on the Teller’s front doorstep, Marshall and Simon had tried sleeping in shifts while they watched his picture for signs of movement. After weeks with no indication that the photograph was anything other than what it appeared to be, they had given up. Marshall rarely ate breakfast at the family table anymore. His mother would nag him about it being the most important meal of the day, and he would snatch a slice of toast or a rock-sized lump of industrial coffee cake from the counter as he hurried out the door, but long lazy Saturday brunches were now a thing of the past. The older Tellers attributed it to adolescence, but Simon had started checking out books on survivor’s guilt at the Eerie Library.

Steve lifted his head and caught Andrea’s gaze. She smiled invitingly and raised the candle, head cocked in what she hoped was a welcoming manner. Steve narrowed his one remaining eye and curled the uneaten portion of his upper lip in a derisive snarl. Andrea frowned, her aspect flickering as irritation surged through her. Marisea glanced round in alarm, but Andrea’s human face was already back in place. Steve’s dead skin blanched still further beneath the layers of dried blood, and he slowly faded against the worn brickwork, gone off to haunt and sulk and stomp in some other part of Eerie that the dogs had smeared with his mortal remains.

Mary B. Carter, white-gloved and pink-hatted and carrying a stack of leather-bound books tied together with twine, made a disapproving noise.

“Oh, stop that, Auntie,” said Marisea. “You know what ghosts are like. You let one of them throw a moody with you and pretty soon you can’t sleep for all their whining and huffing.”

“A little compassion for a child who’s been eaten alive wouldn’t go amiss,” countered Mary B.

“Hey, remember Trip McConnell?” said Marisea. “The boy who got hit by a milk truck because he was so in love with you? How long did you keep him around after you died?”

Mary B. Carter shifted uncomfortably.

“That’s not the same,” she blustered.

“Sixty-two years pining for you,” said Marisea. “And your ashes were barely cold before you got shot of him.”

“Well, it’s different when you’re my age,” said Mary B. “And I was newly cremated, I couldn’t be tied down so early in the afterlife.”

“Hmm,” said Marisea.

“Anyway, that’s personal,” her aunt continued. “I’m retired now, I can do what I want. You girls are here in a professional capacity. You represent the Mary Carter brand, you can’t just go flashing your eldritch abominations to every spook and spirit that annoys you.”

“Can you not say abominations?” said Andrea mildly. “Quantities and configurations of teeth and appendages are a personal choice, and the idea that there’s one correct arrangement is really very homo-sapiens-subjective.”

Mary B. Carter glowered from beneath the brim of her pale pink cloche hat and began to fade from view. Only her voice remained, muttered darkly about young people these days thinking they were so much cleverer just because they knew how to move between dimensions.

“Technically I’m a couple of millennia old!” Andrea called at the fading voice. An elderly milkman stood beside a crypt bearing a human-sacrifice motif thrust an arthritic fist in the air and shouted “Represent!” He and Andrea grinned at each other and the two of them exchanged the understanding nod of the temporally displaced.

Marisea tucked a strand of dark hair back under her fleece-lined hat and grimaced.

“I think we need to be more careful about the kind of magazines we leave lying around,” she said. “Business Insider and the ghosts of elderly relatives make for some really annoying conversations about the direction of the family company. I swear, if she drops one more buzzword on me before breakfast, I’m warding her bedroom so bad that she won’t be able to manifest a speck of ectoplasm.”

“Ehh, she means well,” said Andrea. “She’s just old. And dead. And apparently incapable of lasting romantic commitment.”

Marisea groaned, covering her face in her hands.

“Please don’t make me think of my deceased octogenarian aunt’s sexual escapades,” she said. “It’s bad enough that Tripp keeps showing up in tears in the guest bathroom and covering the whole second floor with snow.”

“Sorry,” said Andrea, failing to sound sorry at all. In fact, she sounded as if she was trying not to laugh.

“Anyway, stop distracting me,” said Marisea, bumping Andrea with her shoulder. “We’re supposed to be here looking for lost souls and offering them sanctuary. This is a solemn event. Make a serious face.”

Andrea pulled her thick woollen scarf up over her nose.

“This is the best I can do,” she said, her voice muffled. Marisea laughed.

Around them, the night-gaunts swirled.





The Children

Eventide by froodle, in which the sun goes down, and Eerie's lost children gather

Milk by froodle, in which Marshall develops a completely cromulent fear of milk trucks

Whistle by froodle, in which Steve Konkalewski is unhappy about the way things turned out...

Three by froodle, in which Marshall and Devon discuss video games in a cemetery

Marys by froodle, in which Mary C. Carter takes on her new role

A Story About Devon Wilde by froodle. Devon Wilde walked through the Eerie Cemetery, and his feet made no sound on the gravel pathways.

Disguises by froodle, in which Marshall goes to visit Devon Wilde

Lillian by froodle, in which Marilyn's mother has concerns





The Andrea/Marisea Series

Marys by froodle, in which Mary C. Carter takes on her new role

The Microwave by froodle, in which Andrea Fantucci returns to Eerie after a considerable absense

The Eldritch Abomination in the Room by froodle, in which the microwave is most definitely not discussed

Twelve Sleeps! by froodle, in which Andrea does not enjoy Christmas shopping

Mirror by froodle, in which Mary C. Carter does some housework

Invitiation by froodle, in which Mary C. Carter makes use of Marshall's well-honed delivery boy skills

Figurehead by froodle, in which Lake Eerie's ghost pirates encounter the lighthouse

Awakening by froodle, in which Marisea must confront an unhappy spectre at an unreasonable hour

4.57pm by froodle, in which Mary C. Carter waits for a bus





Milkman Series

Milk by froodle, in which Marshall develops a completely cromulent fear of milk trucks

Reanimator by froodle, in which the Milkman returns

Multiplicity by froodle, in which Marshall must once again confront parallel realities, diverging timelines and public speaking

Lillian by froodle, in which Marilyn's mother has concerns

Hound by froodle, in which Simon makes a friend

Slyboots by froodle, in which a certain corporal of the infernal regions comes to Eerie. Crossover with Johannes Cabal the Necromancer.

Strawberry by froodle, in which there is unauthorised hubbub in Eerie

Nap by froodle, in which Marshall has a quiet moment in the Secret Spot