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scary shit in the city of champs by warren bowen

7.10.10 Leave a Comment

 So you think that because you live in Edmonton nothing scary can happen? “Nothing scary ever happens in the City of Champions!” Well youʼre wrong. And ignorant. But thatʼs okay, because youʼre about to be educated.

     This story is true, and happened to me. So sit still and maybe youʼll learn something about truth and terror. Maybe youʼll learn something useful for a change.

     It was October 31, 2009. The night was bumping. Crazy parties everywhere. People were drinking alcohol, doing drugs, and doing each other. Bonkers. And me? Well, I was sticking to my six-pack of Mikeʼs Hard. Nothing too crazy, just enough to chill out and get a buzz. I love to get buzzed. And maybe you think itʼs funny to chill out and get a buzz on Halloween 2009. But that only makes the story more terrifying. No one believes a boozehound. But you better believe a guy buzzed on a 6er of Mikeʼs Hard.

     My buddies and I went to four keggers that night, each one more disgusting than the last. But in a good way. Like how often do you see Cleopatra throw up on herself? And when was the last time Gandhi beer-bonged a shit mix of red wine and whiskey? And Iʼll put money on the fact you donʼt know Abe Lincoln fights dirtier than Mike Tyson.

     The last party we went to where I learned all these interesting facts about historical figures was downtown, and it was packed. At least a hundred people. We got there at about 1 and it wasnʼt going to slow down any time soon. My buddies were all getting shittered, but like I said, I was sticking to my Mikeʼs; so when they ran off to go to some shots I took the opportunity to take a piss.

 You could hardly even get into the basement for all the people, and the line to the bathroom wasnʼt inviting. I couldnʼt be bothered to find my shoes and go outside, so I went upstairs. The place was three-stories, and I went straight to the third floor.

     Itʼs kinda weird when thereʼs a hundred people in a house, all on the first floor and in the basement. It was a big house, but upstairs was dead and sound didnʼt carry very far. My ears had this strange muffled feeling, like I was wearing a thick wig. But that couldʼve been because I was actually wearing a thick wig. Or maybe it was because of something else. Actually, no, it was pretty hard to hear people in that wig.

     So I took a piss in their deserted upstairs bathroom. It was the fifth door at the end of the hall, the only one that was open. I figured the rest were bedrooms either being used by sexy couples or locked up with the valuables. But when I stepped out into the dimly lit hallway again, that was the first thing I noticed—that it was dimly lit. It was really dark before, and I had actually knocked a picture off the wall when I was feeling along for a light switch I never found. One of the doors near the stairs was open a crack and an faint orange light was coming out.

     Iʼm not a creep. Watching people fuck isnʼt my thing. But when a door is open sometimes you just want to take a quick look, you know? Natural human curiosity. It didnʼt matter anyway because no one was in there. It was a weird room. Like I said it had an orange light coming out of it and that was from all these Jack-O-Lanterns around the room with really fucked up faces. They were awesome, super creepy. I was looking really close at this one where the eyes looked like they followed you around the room, when I heard a floorboard creak. I turned around maybe a little faster than normal and there was this guy standing in the doorway, really still. I couldnʼt see his face because, well, he didnʼt have a head. It was a pretty cool costume.

     “Can I help you?” he had this really deep voice, but it didnʼt really sound like it was coming from him. I mean, it sounds stupid to say it out loud but it actually sounded like it came from the pumpkin he was holding at his waist.

     “Oh hey, man, yea just lookinʼ around. These are some fuckinʼ cool pumpkins man, are these yours?” I  motioned to the pumpkins with my thumb without taking my eyes off the guy. Iʼm not a fag, but I couldnʼt really take my eyes off of him. Good costume, right? He didnʼt say anything, though. “Thatʼs a wicked costume, man. Headless horseman, hey?” He didnʼt saying anything again, and I started feeling a little awkward. Fucking social misfits, they all come out on Halloween. “Well, Iʼll just go downstairs then I gue—” 

     “Who are you?” It sounded like it came from the pumpkin again. I looked down at it for the first time, and saw that it had the same face as the pumpkin I was looking at earlier—the one with the Mona Lisa eyes. I donʼt know how triangles can follow you around, but I was shit in geometry class, and this guy was probably a math wiz.

     “Oh, Iʼm Crane, man. My last name, but everyone calls me that.” I put hand out there for a handshake or a bro grab or whatever this social goof did to introduce himself, but he just stood there, his pumpkin staring at me. “Oh, do you mean my costume? My friend got it for me, itʼs like an eighteenth century dude, a merchant or teacher or some shit. Itʼs a laugh, hey? The wigs awesome, but I sweat like a pig.” There was another awkward silence. “How do you get your pumpkin to do that, anyway?”

     “What does my pumpkin do?”

   “It sounds like itʼs talking, man, not you. And I canʼt see where your head goes, seriously wicked costume. How does it do that?” Guess what? The fucking goof didnʼt say anything again, so I just decided Iʼd have enough of this garbage, and almost said so, but thought Iʼd be polite. You want to be careful who youʼre rude to at a party where you canʼt see faces—could be anyone, you know?

     “Okay buddy, Iʼm gonna join the rest of the party.” I shoved past him a bit, but when we were touching, me half way in the door way, half way in the hall, he asked, “Where do you live, Crane?”

     “Near Whyte. This your place?”

     “You live across the river?” he said it like he was repeating the punch-line to a joke I had told him, like half-amused, but like the punch-line was obvious and he was really amused at the person telling the joke, not the joke itself.

     “Yea, man. Is this your place, or what?” I asked it as I was walking down the stairs, clearly not interested in the answer. Fucking creep show.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

At three thirty the party was deflating faster than the blow-up doll Brendan brought along for his costume. They were going to some girlʼs after party, but seeing as how I had been chatting her up all night, then found her making out with some dick dressed up as a unicorn, I wasnʼt keen on tagging along. Never go after the pirate wenches.

     I had my bike, so it wasnʼt a big deal. We had all biked to these parties, a small gang of Jekylls and Hydes, Kermits and Miss Piggies, and, well, me. Another friend was suppose to pair up with me as something historic or whatever, but he got swine flu. Probably from Miss Piggy.

  It was snowing really wet, and I knew itʼd be a bit of a bitch to get back. It was nearly fifteen blocks to High Level bridge and that wasnʼt even the halfway mark.

     The streets were pretty quiet, only cabs, really. I was hoofing it, some left over energy from good old Mikeʼs Hard. I took a breather when I got to the park on the north west side of the bridge, Victoria park I think. Plucked a smoke from behind my ear and looked at the river all sentimental and nostalgic, probably also because of the left over alcohol. My lighter was giving off a pretty strong light, I thought, until I saw something glowing on the bench not far from where I was standing. I could see it was a Jack-O-Lantern. I didnʼt move at first, but took a long drag and squinted at it, sort of like, “what the fuck are you doing here?” Thinking it would be a gooder I went over to it.

     My smoke sizzled on the snow when I got to the bench. My mouth had fallen open. It was that creep showʼs fucking pumpkin, man. The one with the staring triangle eyes, that geometric mind-fuck. But it was different somehow—then I figured it out, there wasnʼt a candle in it, but it was still glowing. Like, what the fuck man? That shit was fucking scary. I was tripping balls. I ran over to my bike, rammed my ass down and was just about to hoof it when I froze. Really, what the fuck was this? Some shitty Halloween joke? And I was being a pussy as my friends were probably laughing their tits off behind a bush. I biked over to the pumpkin.

     “You want some, agent orange?” I picked it up and cycled with it in one arm pretty clumsily to the bridge and chucked it off. “Fuck you, pumpkin! Jack-shit-O-Lantern!” Then, I heard something that made my skin pull on my bones.

     I like horses. Theyʼre smart animals, and I wanted to be a cowboy when I grew up as a kid. But that clip-clop-clip-clop I heard then was not a welcome trip down memory lane. It was fucked, too, because it was echoing, like we were in a tunnel. I was looking all around wildly, but couldnʼt see a damned thing, but the sound was getting closer. I hoofed it, straight up, on my bike. Marathon man. I didnʼt give a fuck if this was a joke, it was a good joke and I deserved to be scared. They had obviously put in a lot of effort and it would be rude not to give them a show. But seconds after I started I heard a horse nay, a nay, man, a nay. This wasnʼt any Monty Python coconut shell horse, but a real thing.

     I smoke and Iʼm fat. But shit I can bike hard. But even though I was biking hard, the bridge was taking a long time to cross. Felt like hours, man. I kept looking over my shoulder and couldnʼt see anything. Couldnʼt hear anything. I slowed down, caught my breath a bit. I stopped. I looked around. Nadda. I looked back at the park, then down at the river. I couldnʼt see the pumpkin. Then I heard this deep, deep laughter. I knew it was coming from far away, but it also sounded close. I looked at the east side of the bridge and there was that social goof. But he wasnʼt social goof anymore. He was on a fucking horse with a pumpkin in his hand at waist level. The pumpkin was different this time, and had this maniacal grin, fucking insane, out-of-its-mind bat-shit pumpkin grin that made my bladder loosen a bit. The laughter grew deeper and deeper and suddenly was all around me, like there were a dozen pumpkins laughing at me, and suddenly I felt like I was back in that fuckerʼs room with all the Jack-O-Lanterns looking at me, surrounded, and laughing their tits off.

     “Fuck you, you crazy bitch!” I donʼt know why I said it, I donʼt know why I say lots of things I do. It broke the laughing fit though, and in the time I blinked the falling snow out of my eyes the pumpkinʼs face changed to rage. I knew what that look meant. I hoofed it.

     This time the sound of my squeaky peddles was paired up with that clip-clop tunnel horse and I nearly lost my mind. And when flaming pumpkins began to crash all around me, I thought I had for sure lost my mind. The only thing I could think of was, “Holy shit. Make it across the river.” Looking back I saw that the headless horse fuck wasnʼt on the other side anymore, but was chasing me down throwing his bat-shit crazy pumpkins at me, laughing like a hyaena.

     That clip-clop was getting closer, closer. I could hear the sound in my brain, feel the evil horseʼs breath on my ass crack, and the smell of those pumpkins was in my nose, which actually smelled pretty good. I mean, at the time, yea I was fucking terrified, flaming pumpkins were being thrown at me, but roast pumpkin is a good smell. Think about it.

     I did an impression of my little sister, and I screamed like Iʼd never screamed before. She screams good, and it seems to help her cope with fear, so I tried it. I was screaming, he was laughing, the horse was clip-clapping and the flaming pumpkins didnʼt make a sound. Just when I thought I was dead and figured, well Iʼd had some laughs, I guess, it all stopped. I had just cycled past that pillar at the beginning of the bridge—you know the one, on the west side, it sticks right out and Iʼm sure people plough into it all the time. Whatʼs with that fucking pillar?

     I looked down the length of the bridge, and all I could see were pieces of flaming pumpkin, nothing else. I threw up a little bit, mostly in my mouth. I hadnʼt had a work out like that in ages.

The next day I when to the bridge with my buddies. I didnʼt really tell them what had happened, just that some fucking guy pulled a prank on me, and I wanted to show them the aftermath. We got there early, like 8.30 in the morning. No traffic, no people. No pumpkin pieces. They got bored of looking after about five minutes and started walking back to the car that was parked by HL diner. I caught up with them just in time to hear Tim say, “man, it smells like pumpkin pie here.”

     So donʼt for one second think that scary shit canʼt happen in the City of Champions. It happened to me, and this was a true story. Halloween 2009, baby.

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