It was All Hallows' Eve and Stephen was peeved.
His wife Tabitha was out with the grandchildren and wouldn’t be home for hours.
She was sleeping peacefully now, hopped up on painkillers, and cared for byher sister Vixen.
As darkness gripped the skies, the doorbell announced the first visitors of the night.
There stood The Ten.
Men and women, not a child among them, their faces staring back at him.
Their costumes bore a Victorian theme, and they crowded in an arc around the door.
“Trick or treat, Mr. King,” they growled in chorus.
“Aren’t you lot a little too old for this?”
He had hoped for children and his anger was growing.
“Trick or treat, Mr. King,” they growled again.
“The costumes are good, but the accents need work, fellas.”
“Trick or treat, Mr.
It was shorter, terse.
Stephen was never known for his even temper.
I’m Stephen King, you think you’ve got the option to scare me?”
He immediately wished he hadn’t said that.
The Ten looked up in unison, creepy smiles plastered across their faces.
Stephen knew the man right in front of him.
It couldn’t be… he knew them all.
The modern-day master of horror was about to experience a rather harrowing Halloween.
Stephen Kingawoke in his dank basement, bound to a chair.
One of them bent down and his long face was in front of him again.
Stephen couldn’t believe his eyes.
Was it really him?
“Well, Mr. King.
Trick it is then,” smiled H. P. Lovecraft.
My uncle was a learned man, he needed to solve the mystery of the old Harris house.
The cellar seemed to be the source of it all, so that’s where we went.
A whole night in there, Mr. King.
We shouldn’t have slept.
Oh how I wish we had just stayed awake.
We took turns sleeping, and I saw things I can never unsee.
To this day, I remain unsure if those were nightmares or reality.
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“Why are you doing this?”
“What is the meaning of all this?
What have I done?”
A shadow coughed and chuckled.
“Because you deserve it,” said a voice with a strong German accent.
“Why do I deserve it?”
“Never mind that, Mr. King.
It is not necessary to accept that as true, you must only accept it as necessary.”
Kafka always had a way with words, even if English wasn’t his first language.
“This trial gives the defendant nothing.
You are guilty, no?
I knew another one like you once.
Have I told you about Josef K.?”
And Franz Kafka told the tale ofThe Trial.
“hey, what about my wife?
I need to see Tabitha.
She must be worried,” Stephen croaked.
“Ha, typical!”
cried Gertrude Barrows Bennett.
“A sentiment most fitting of this time when women’s superiority to man has not been clearly recognized.
The future sees women for what they are, King, we will triumph over men.
And Gertrude Bennett alias Francis Stevens told the tale ofFriend Island.
“None may leave the Circle, Mr. Stephen turned to see who spoke and saw that The Ten were standing all around him.
In the middle stood William Hope Hodgson.
“In the darkness lies our destruction.
And yet, in all that, he brought a story of love and longing.
His heart was larger than he’d ever let on.
“Come, Mr. King.
Let me take your mind off your troubles with a story.”
And William Hope Hodgson told the tale ofThe Night Land.
“Friends, surely this man has had enough.
Let us not allow the evil within get the better of us,” implored a lone voice.
“You heard what they said, if he deserves it, he deserves it!”
But while it sounded hoarser, it was unmistakably the same voice.
Stevenson continued arguing with himself, with impassioned pleas for Stephen’s safety and brutal hisses suggesting unimaginable acts.
And Robert Louis Stevenson told the tale of theStrange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Stephen’s mouth ran dry.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” he said quietly.
“None of this makes sense.
It’s not logical.
For heaven’s sake, why is HE here?”
“It’s elementary, my dear King.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s unmistakable mustache quivered with excitement.
“I’m not here due to my great detective.
Have you ever heard about the physiologist Austin Gilroy and the psychic who fell in love with him?”
And Arthur Conan Doyle told the tale ofThe Parasite.
“You wonder, Mr. King, when you will finally exit this infernal door?”
Quoth the poet “Nevermore.”
A manic cackle pierced the room as Poe was finishing.
He immediately stopped talking.
“Imprisoned in your own castle, Mr. No one dared utter a word when Ann Radcliffe spoke up.
They all owed her their gratitude, for without Radcliffe, what is Gothic literature?
“I see much of my Emily in you,” she said.
“She too was trapped in a castle, surrounded by misfortune and the deathly supernatural.
She too was longing for the love of her life.
But like you, she too realized the truth.”
And Ann Radcliffe told the tale ofThe Mysteries of Udolpho.
What are you hoping to get out of this?
This is just some twisted, sadistic exercise,” Stephen yelled.
“You’re all monsters.
“You don’t know real monsters, Mr. King.
I was just 17 when I met the grandson of a man who made monsters.
His name was Dippel, and his grandfather was the alchemist at Castle Frankenstein.”
Mary Shelley was softly spoken, but each word carried the weight of scars.
Is this some supernatural punishment, Stephen wondered to himself.
An elaborate lesson to see the good in things.
And as if to confirm his thoughts, Stoker leaned in and whispered.
And Bram Stoker told the tale ofDracula.
As Stoker finished his story, the wooden floor above the basement creaked.
Nails make a distinct clacking on polished planks.
And then he laughed.
Lovecraft was perplexed but annoyed.
“It’s just the damned dog, Stephen.”
“Oh I know,” Stephen said, catching his breath.
“Molly has been asleep all night and she’s finally awake.
Poor girl, she had a terrifying morning and needed to be rushed to the vet.
Do you know what happened?”
Asked Lovecraft, as The Ten noticeably stiffened.
“She was bit on the nose by a rabid bat, Howard,” Stephen said menacingly.
The basement door crashed open.
And Stephen King told the tale ofCujo.
–The End–
Notes for Readers:
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