Petaluma’s 2021 scary fiction contest winners

A restless demon, a hungry house, two frisky ghosts and more

There are some very twisted imaginations out there — and the Argus-Courier would like to applaud you for it. For the fifth year in a row, we asked you to write up the scariest stories you could think of, and once again, you did. Some were more funny than scary, and one or two were almost sweet, while several were just plain disturbing.

Out of the 20-something submissions we received — each inspired by the writer’s choice of one (and sometimes two or all three) of the eerie photos we’ve been running in the Argus-Courier for the past month — our independent guest judge Jeffrey Weissman has selected his three favorite scary/funny stories, plus two equally upsetting runners up.

Our scare-loving congratulations go to Kathy Guthormsen, Stacey A. Dennick and Bob Canning, who submitted the first, second and third place stories, along with runner’s up Kristen Welch and the Argus-Courier’s own Goth-with-a-heart-of-golden-weirdness, columnist Oliver Graves. Because we could, the staff included one “editor’s Pick” for Julie Wilder-Sherman’s “Peek a Boo,” a satisfyingly terrifying conclusion to a kind of trilogy of terror she’s written one story at a time, over the last three years.

To all of you: Your scary stories made such an impression on Weissman — who, as an actor, has helped tell a few impressively scary cinematic tales of his own (“Twilight Zone: The Movie,” among them) — that we’re seriously concerned he might not sleep well for weeks.

“This is a new adventure for me,” Weissman admitted, adding that as a Libra, he had a very difficult time choosing the winners.

“It reminds me of the time in junior high when the teacher would write a suggestive opening scary-line on the board like, ‘One rainy, dark night there was a crack of thunder and …’” Weissman said. “Scary prompts open a world of possibilities and it’s amazing seeing how people let their imagination run wild with it.”

Weissman admittedly wrestled with his choices right up to the end, seriously considering a number of excellent stories, including some by youthful writers as young as 6 and 8. Especially difficult to forget were Nadine Dove-Petrigh’s "No One Is There,“ involving and expectant mother trapped in a hole, and Sorsha Walker’s hilarious ”The Hole,“ which expertly explains why normal people don’t put ketchup on pizza.

“This really wasn’t easy,” Weissman said, adding, “But to me, everyone is a winner who picked up a pen and wrote something and submitted it.”

Come, Calls the Demon

By Kathy Guthormsen

First place winner

The voice wakes me from a sound sleep. I’ve been dreaming of trees and …blood. The metallic tang of it lingers on my tongue.

“Come,” the voice calls. “Come.”

Trance-like, I rise from my bed and pull on my robe.

The back door creaks when I open it and step into the night. The new moon provides no light. Stars wink in and out as wispy clouds cover, then reveal them. I hear the low, resonant hoot of the great horned owl who lives nearby.

“Come.”

I walk towards the voice, my robe trailing in the grass, my feet wet with dew. At the edge of the lawn, I stop and listen.

“Come. I’ve been waiting. It’s time.”

I step into the grove of trees just beyond the garden. The trunks loom, darker shadows on an already dark night. I shiver.

“Closer, closer, you’re almost here.”

The owl swoops silently and lands in front of me blocking my way. Its yellow eyes bore into mine. I take another step. The owl does not move.

“Step around. Come closer.”

A lone tree stands in a clearing in front of me. I feel its pulse throbbing in my bones and echoing my heartbeat. It pulls me closer until I stand in front of it. I watch as a ragged hole forms in the bark, its edges glowing red. Burning, though there is no heat. The air feels chilled against my face and raises goosebumps along my arms. A shadowy, demonic face with black eyes appears slowly beneath the bark, its gaping mouth pleading for release from its prison.

“Reach inside and free me. I’ve been trapped for a thousand years.”

The owl flies between my arm and the tree as I reach out. Too late. My fingers touch the heart of the tree. I jolt as cold fire burns in my chest. The demon shoves my soul out of my body as it possesses me. Untethered, my soul floats, formless, weightless toward the tops of the trees where the owl waits to guide it home.

My spine stretches and groans as the demon inside my body grows. My arms and legs lengthen. My fingers twist. Scales cover my skin. My hair tangles into long snake-like ropes. I taste the air with my tongue, then turn to watch small animals creeping in the dark.

I am the demon.

My gut clenches against a hunger that has been building for a millennia. I stride towards the town to hunt blood and flesh.

Behind me, the bark grows back while the tree waits for the next demon to imprison.

Patience

By Stacey A. Dennick

Second place winner

“Come in!”

Mr. Wurst suppressed the urge to clap his hands together at the sight of the family on the threshold.

“Welcome to Casa de Los Dolores. We’re delighted to have you.”

And have you we shall, he thought. Just like the last two buyers, right after your check clears.

“We?” Mrs. Lambdon asked, drawing her son near. She had big hair and too bright teeth.

Wurst slapped on his realtor’s smile.

“This old mission is completely renovated, but retains the original—”

The boy scrunched his freckled nose.

“It smells weird in here.”

His red hair was delectable. Wurst addressed the parents.

“Time for the tour.” Sweat broke out under his toupee. He needed this sale, the house was hungry, and so were his creditors. He gestured around the master bedroom, with its heavy wooden beams. “Just repainted.”

To cover the blood stains.

The voices commenced their infernal chanting.

“Twenty-one, twenty-one, twenty-one!”

Wurst shuddered.

“Take your time, l’ll be just down the hall.”

Scurrying out, he cowered against the wall, hands clenched over his ears. The voices couldn’t be trusted anymore, not since his run of bad luck. Patience, he told himself. The buyers were almost at the point of no return.

At last they reached the back room.

“Here’s the old priest’s sanctuary, although he wasn’t officially a priest.” Wurst indicated a wall covered in a geometric pattern of black and red tiles. “Family legend has it he designed this.”

The family stared, transfixed.

“Yes, yes, yes!” the voices shouted.

Cracks appeared in the plaster wall opposite. They radiated outwards, until, with a crunch and a poof of acrid dust, the wall fell open. Dozens of rats scurried out, running for cover.

Mr. Lambdon screamed. The boy clutched his mother. A demonic stench of ammonia, vomit, and sulfur burned their throats.

He’s coming.

A human hand emerged from inside the wall, scratched and bloody, the skin gray. Opening its fist, it dropped a child-sized heart onto the floor.

The family stood in a frozen tableau. Smoke poured out of the heart, swirled in a funnel like a tornado, finally coalescing into a man’s form clad in brown linen.

Wurst bowed low, his voice shaky with reverence.

“Padre. Your new disciples, with a child, of course.” Wurst felt in his pockets for a pen. “I just need them to sign.” A wave of dizziness assaulted him. He tasted bile. “Just a sec, I left the paperwork—”

“No. Now!” Padre roared. He engulfed Wurst in his smoky grip. There was a horrible ripping noise, followed by slurping and crunching.

When the wall slammed shut, the family popped out of their trance.

“Where did the realtor go?” Mr. Lambdon asked, looking around.

Mrs. Lambdon shook her head.

“This place feels all wrong, Honey. I really want a Danish modern look.”

“Yeah,” said the boy. “And it stinks.”

The Hole in the Wall Horror

By Bob Canning

Third place winner

Old Zelda Goldcrap lived alone in a crumbling hilltop mansion.

She always wore black, which unfortunately emphasized her pale, sickly skin and wispy white hair. Kids were scared of her and, in fact, the little girls across the road from Zelda, made upa rhyme about her as they jumped rope. It went:

“Who’s the wicked witch in black?

Let’s all hope she don’t come back.

If she does, we’ll break her nose

Both her teeth and 20 toes.“

Top that, Cyndi Lauper!

Every Thursday, Zelda went into town for provisions to get her 10% senior discount at Petaluma Market.

“She was sour,” was how the check-out folks described her, not just because of her sour disposition, but because of her, well, her sour smell. Living with three dozen feral cats can do that.

But there was also Carl, her handyman.

And there hangs the tale.

Carl Schicklenocker was a real ladies’ man back when he was stinkin’ rich. (Yes, that Carl Schniclenocker, of Schicklenocker Industries). But old Carl was also a stinkin’ drunk, and his alcohol-fueled jealous rages broke up all five of his marriages.

That much alimony can make any millionaire a handyman in no time flat. But Carl was as good a Mr. Fixit as he was a husband.

Carl would “fix” Zelda’s plumbing when it went flooey, but then the flooey would return soon after. He stopped working on her electrical problems after a power surge fried his hearing aid. But he did chop wood for her wood-burning stove.

Truth be told, Zelda was lonely and desperate for a man’s attention. Carl wasn’t fussy and he was frequently frisky, and after surviving COVID, he had lost his sense of smell. And when he drank, somehow Zelda looked (and smelled) fairly ... human.

One day, Zelda’s bathroom sink sprang another leak, and water was seeping into the kitchen below, so she called Dulcini the Plumber. When Ducini the Plumber arrived, he politely requested a clothespin which Zelda supplied, and with his nose clamped, the poor, unsuspecting S.O.B. climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Carl, waking from a drunken stupor, saw the tall, handsome stud entering Zelda’s bathroom, and yelled, “Don;t go fixin’ to be mixin’ with my vixen!”

Carl grabbed his ax and chased Dulcini the Plumber down the hall and own the stairs and into the kitchen, sending 36 freaked-out cats a-hissin’ and a-pissin’ in every direction.

“Stop!” yelled Zelda, running after the men. “He’s here to fix my plumbing!”

But Carl, without his hearing aid, thought she said something dirty, and turned and swung the ax at Zelda! Zelda ducked, but the wall behind her didn’t.

Dulcini the Plumber made it to his truck and sped away with his life. Carl, however, had a fatal heart attack, and Zelda skidded on the wet linoleum, fell, struck her head, and was found a month later, face-planted in the litter box.

Well, it’s that time of year folks, and the ghosts of Zelda and Carl are “alive” and frisky on Halloween in that crumbling hilltop mansion with the hole in the wall.

Bleeding Hole

By Oliver Graves

Honorable Mention

"It's still dripping," Carla said, looking at a glob of blood stretching itself down the wall, drawing a fine red line. Bradley stood there shaking his head.

"How can it bleed more?" Carla asked in a very bewildered tone.

Carla and Bradley stood looking at this large broken out hole in the wall. They stood close enough to the wall to see the shape of the fragments, close enough to lean in for a better view, but kept their heads and hands hovering back. The shock of seeing it was holding them back.

"This is where it was, right?! Right here?!" Carla asked loudly.

Bradley looked at Carla and shifted his head around, looking at other parts of the room. Bradley was taking in a deep breath and in that moment felt uncomfortable doing so, turning away from the sight of the blood to let his lungs fill with air. Bradley rotated back, turning his sights to Carla and looking back at the hole.

"Are you going to say anything?!" Carla said, even more frustrated.

"Yes, it was here, it was right here," Bradley answered swiftly.

Carla and Bradley looked at each other.

"It's a coincidence." Carla said, shaking her head.

"A coincidence?! It was here, it was right here, Carla." Bradley reaffirmed.

"No ... no," Carla disagreed.

"Yes, yes. I remember setting the wall myself. I remember, I know, it was here. This is where I left Andre's remains, right here, where this hole now is,“ Bradley explained.

Carla was shaking her head.

"I don't know what you did," Carla said with a lingering liar's tone in her voice.

Bradley rolled his eyes.

"Oh sure. You can't deny it. The blood is on your hands too,. But I guess instead it's on your wall!" Bradley said loudly.

Silence took the pair as the heat of the conversation died down. They took in the sight of the blood dripping once more.

"Andre kept saying he'd come back, This just feels, what ... but?! How?!" Carla asked, confused.

"I watched the body burn, the whole time, I didn't leave anything for anyone else to do, " Bradley assured Carla. “I collected the ashes. I mixed the ashes into the cement, and used that cement right here for this part of the wall. There's nothing to come back. Just this wall.”

"Then where is the rest of the wall, Bradley?" Carla said in a louder tone again.

"I don't know! It could be, it's-" Bradley was saying, unsure, shuffling around. The up and down intensity of the conversation removed anxious feelings and allowed Bradley to examine the hole. Bradley looked around more closely and noticed drips on the ground.

It seemed to form a trail.

As Bradley looked and noticed, Carla noticed it as well.

The two began to quietly follow the drops to see where they led. Very quietly, they would point and turn a corner and guide each other to follow the trail. Soon they found themselves outside the building.

Just outside in the dirt, a few feet from the door, that's when they saw it.

To the sound of concrete rubbing together, and a slight thump here and there, they looked on in awe and terror.

They’d found the rest of the wall, mostly in one piece. It was still bleeding.

And it was moving.

It arched up, slid forward and thumped down. Cracks in it looked almost like joints. Petrified, Carla and Bradley could see the scraping of where the wall had been, the progress and distance it made in the dirt.

Silently, the two watched, as the wall slowly inched it's way across the ground, like a worm.

Monster

By Kristen Welch

Honorable Mention

Uncle Frank was dead.

He’d lived on an old family estate. Our only other relative was my nephew, Georgie, who’d been in a psychiatric hospital since childhood, after murdering his parents and little sister, Clara. Frank, a lifelong bachelor and retired chemistry teacher, had written to me years earlier that Georgie was still deranged and hospitalized. I hadn’t heard from him since.

In town to settle Frank’s estate, i needed to get the padlock keys from the local shop.

“I thought you arrived yesterday. I saw some lights on in his house as I drove by last night.” the clerk said, demandingly adding, “You need to pick up his monthly order! He up and died without paying for it! I’ve been stuck with this stuff all month! I can’t sell 10 cases of Monster energy drinks and all this candy corn in this little town. Who even likes candy corn, anyway?”

She scowled and held out her hand.

“Cash or credit?”

“What’s an old man doing with all these drinks?” I asked.

“He mumbled about an ‘experiment.’ He started adding ‘seasonal candy’ to his order. Candy corn, candy canes, then those horrid Easter peeps.”

She paused and repeated, “Cash or credit?” Out came the hand again.

With 240 energy drinks now packed into my car, I slowly crept up Frank’s driveway. I was stunned by the crumbling, neglected mansion, the light the clerk had mentioned still on in the front window. As I climbed the stairs, I had an eerie feeling and unwittingly tripped over an aluminum can.

Startled, I screamed, but continued on.

Now freed from its padlock, the door creaked open. An aged, dusty envelope lay on an entryway table. As I read the letter, my nervousness turned to fear, then panic. My nephew Georgie was not away in a hospital for the criminally insane. He was here, locked upstairs, and had been for years!

Questions shrieked in my head.

Why hadn’t Frank told me? Was Georgie still up there? The last line of the letter warned that Georgie became violent when he was hungry or thirsty. Uncle Frank had died three weeks ago. Was Georgie even alive?

I tiptoed upstairs to the back of the house. There was a gaping hole in the far wall, dried blood on its sharp edges. Had he clawed his way out of here? My heart was racing and my skin shivered. Behind me was a clatter of cans. I spun around, and there he was, peering from the doorway, his eyes freakishly bulged and his skin waxy and pale. We stared, both frozen. I was trapped between him and the bloody hole.

He slowly smiled, revealing blackened, decaying teeth.

“Auntie?” he said, hoarsely. “I’ve been waiting for you.” He started to shuffle towards me, his empty smile turning into a snarl.

“Monster. I need more MONSTER!”

By Julie Wilder-Sherman

Editor’s Choice

She lay there, eyes fluttering, lips muttering, her mind slowly clearing. She tried opening her eyes, raising her eyebrows, contorting her face, only to feel a stickiness, something like Elmer’s Glue or warm wax stuck between her bottom and top eyelids. Moving her tongue around her mouth, she attempted to make a sound. A grunt from deep within her chest expelled between her parted lips.

Willing her eyes to open, she moved her eyeballs back and forth, determined to break free from the darkness. A gray cloudy fuzziness filtered through the slits of her gummy eyes and finally she looked around the room as she lay still.

She remembered falling, a blackening, a face at the kitchen window with a cerulean sky framing the bug-eyed image.

Human? No. A fish? Yes, yes, a giant gray fish with its mouth opening and closing, as if gasping for air, beckoning her from the window. It called to her in a guttural, hoarse voice. She’d staggered into the living room. She vaguely recalled a warm, wet breath on her neck. A large, pink, dirty, fuzzy thing standing close. Then she had fainted.

As her eyes slowly became accustomed to the navy blue hue of light, she felt a presence and heard a low gurgling giggle. A child’s chortle it seemed, but she wasn’t sure. She moved her head to face the sound and looked right at him. Grinning at her, his eyes bulging, some of his teeth missing, he pulled back behind the door as if playing a game.

She heard him giggle again.

Cautiously rolling to her left side, she faced the doorway with her torso. The giggle came again, and the child with the ghoulish blue-gray face, his hair sweaty and matted, his grin exaggerated by gibbous eyes, stared at her.

Her mouth dry, her throat parched, she croaked “Wh-who are you?”

The child stared at her with his large black irises and giggled again. He pulled back behind the doorway. Seconds passed. Then a full minute. She whispered, “Wh-where are you? Who are you?”

The child peeked around the corner again. Still grinning, he stepped out from behind the door and she saw he held a carved pumpkin in his hands, its mouth dripping blood from a gaping orifice.

A flicker of recognition hit her hard and she raised herself slowly, propping herself up with her arms.

“Do you have my children?” she asked in a low seething voice.

He stood there, completely still, his grin turning into a grimace. She found her strength and stood.

“Do. You. Have. My. Children.” she repeated, with a force and trembling rage building inside her that was ready to burst. She reached out to seize the hideous child. As she attempted to grab him, he disintegrated like tufts of gray flour tossed in the air. She looked down and saw he’d left behind the sticky, sickly bloody pumpkin grinning at her with bulbous eyes.