Halloween: Tips For Easing Into DIY Halloween Makeup From Marie Murphy

20885148_10158990703750198_1631887498_nMarie Murphy is an internationally renowned makeup artist. She recently was invited to compete in the 2013 Illamasqua Makeup Distinction competition.

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This girl is the real deal! She was kind enough to stop by the blog and offer Halloween makeup tips for those less confident with makeup! 1395328_10151959638145908_2022744102_n

1. Dont be afraid of it, it’s only makeup! Experiment and practice! Use your bodypaint as a base, even if its just one shade! Lay your base down, say it might be white. Now set that with some white powder or transparent powder. Get a fluffy blending brush and use eyeshadow in the hollows of the face to get a gaunt zombie look if thats what your after. If you look at an image of the human skull, you can see the hollows, which are the cheekbones and the eyes. Use a blending brush with a MATTE eyeshadow to shade in these areas to give a gaunt zombie effect, don’t go straight into black, use a matte brown (very important that its matte and not shimmer) and hollow those areas out.

2. You can then use the body paint again to draw in any details, it doesn’t have to be crazy detailed, again, reference the human skull, you can trace in some teeth, or if a zombie looks is what you’re going for, get some impressive contact lenses and some fake blood they will make all the difference!!

3. Experiment, have fun! Try it out on your friends, work your way around the materials and get to grips with blending. Watch Youtube tutorials! This was my very first EVER time using bodypaint after watching a petrilude video 3/4 years ago: https://scontent-b-mia.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/149542_162037567166029_6637451_n.jpg

I got used to working with the materials, experimented with shading and highlighting and I went from that; to this!

https://scontent-a-mia.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/418384_332485590121225_278939883_n.jpg

It’s all about experimenting and most of all, having fun!!

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Halloween Hits Listed By Andy Watkins of Flies on You

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I am so excited about this blog entry! It is from a member of an amazing UK Punk Band, Flies on You. They are utterly fabulous. As soon as you finish reading this entry I insist you check them out!

GUEST POST

Oingo Boingo aren’t particularly known in the UK but they were big in the states and they always made a big deal about Hallowe’en.
The lead singer and songwriter Danny Elfman went on to write the songs and score for Tim Burtons nightmare before Christmas and there is one song that sticks out amongst all of them for me
:

The Dickies are another fave band of mine and although this isn’t my favourite song by them it still makes me smile.

Heres a link to the Dickies soundtrack to the film “Killer Klowns from Outer Space”. “Killer Klowns from Outer Space” is a brilliant comedy horror from 1988, and you can see the full film here:


 I do love horror films but probably more psychological ones rather than splatter ones, although I still think Evil Dead is brilliant.

Bette Davis ‘the Nanny’ still scares me now 50 years after it was made and was an early British Hammer Horror production.
Evil Dead, Don’t Look now, Reanimator, and countless others are on my DVD shelf at home.

Here is one of the funniest songs to come from an on screen alien;  it’s from a pretty obscure film called “Spaceship” and has a couple of famous faces you will recognise. I was stitches when I first saw this:

To finish off, here’s a track from Oingo Boingo and their Hallowe’en farewell gig.  Yes, that’s Warren Fitzgerald from LA punkers the Vandals on guitar.


Guest Bio:

Flies On You

Andy Watkins and Doug Aikman who together comprise Flies On You. The debut album from Flies On You, “Nothing To Write Home About”, was released on September 3rd 2012. There are surprises amongst its 18 tracks; hummable melodies, the occasional uplifting chorus, danceability, a certain pathos, eccentric digressions from the expected, a sensitivity and deftness of touch here and there which defy the Flies’ default setting of subtlety-free arse-kick. (Make the most of these now; there are no plans to include any such flowers-in-the-window-box on its fictitious follow-up, the “20 Minutes of Unrelenting Misery” EP.)

Website: http://www.fliesonyou.co.uk

Music: http://fliesonyou.bandcamp.com

 
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Halloween Horrors: Island of Dolls

20885148_10158990703750198_1631887498_n1184791_173874046133995_2012334377_nThis Island seems absolutely horrifying!

Check out this article, a very good read to get yourself into the spirit of Halloween!

http://www.vocativ.com/culture/photos/welcome-island-dolls-creepiest-place-mexico/

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Halloween Reads: The October Game by Ray Bradbury

halloweenreadsThe October Game by Ray Bradbury

He put the gun back into the bureau drawer and shut the drawer.
No, not that way. Louise wouldn’t suffer. It was very important
that this thing have, above all duration. Duration through
imagination. How to prolong the suffering? How, first of all, to bring
it about? Well.
The man standing before the bedroom mirror carefully fitted his
cuff-links together. He paused long enough to hear the children run by
switftly on the street below, outside this warm two-storey house, like
so many grey mice the children, like so many leaves.
By the sound of the children you knew the calendar day. By their
screams you knew what evening it was. You knew it was very late in the
year. October. The last day of October, with white bone masks and cut
pumpkins and the smell of dropped candle wax.
No. Things hadn’t been right for some time. October didn’t help
any. If anything it made things worse. He adjusted his black bow-tie.
If this were spring, he nodded slowly, quietly, emotionlessly, at his
image in the mirror, then there might be a chance. But tonight all the
world was burning down into ruin. There was no green spring, none of
the freshness, none of the promise.
There was a soft running in the hall. “That’s Marion”, he told
himself. “My’little one”. All eight quiet years of her. Never a word.
Just her luminous grey eyes and her wondering little mouth. His
daughter had been in and out all evening, trying on various masks,
asking him which was most terrifying, most horrible. They had both
finally decided on the skeleton mask. It was ‘just awful!’ It would
‘scare the beans’ from people!
Again he caught the long look of thought and deliberation he gave
himself in the mirror. He had never liked October. Ever since he first
lay in the autumn leaves before his granmother’s house many years ago
and heard the wind and sway the empty trees. It has made him cry,
without a reason. And a little of that sadness returned each year to
him. It always went away with spring. But, it was different tonight.
There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a million years. There
would be no spring.
He had been crying quietly all evening. It did not show, not a
vesitge of it, on his face. It was all hidden somewhere and it
wouldn’t stop.
The rich syrupy smell of sweets filled the bustling house. Louise
had laid out apples in new skins of toffee; there were vast bowls of
punch fresh-mixed, stringed apples in each door, scooped, vented
pumpkins peering triangularly from each cold window. There was a water
tub in the centre of the living room, waiting, with a sack of apples
nearby, for dunking to begin. All that was needed was the catalyst,
the impouring of children, to start the apples bobbing, the srtinged
apples to penduluming in the crowded doors, the sweets to vanish, the
halls to echo with fright or delight, it was all the same.
Now, the house was silent with preparation. And just a little more
than that.
Louise had managed to be in every other room save the room he was
in today. It was her very fine way of intimating, Oh look Mich, see
how busy I am! So busy that when you walk into a room I’m in there’s
always something I need to do in another room! Just see how I dash
about!
For a while he had played a little game with her, a nasty childish
game. When she was in the kitchen then he came to the kitchen
saying, ‘I need a glass of water.’ After a moment, he standing,
drinking water, she like a crystal witch over the caramel brew
bubbling like a prehistoric mudpot on the stove, she said, ‘Oh, I must
light the pumpkins!’ and she rushed to the living room to make the
pumpkins smile with light. He came after, smiling, ‘I must get my
pipe.’ ‘Oh, the cider!’ she had cried, running to the dining room.
‘I’ll check the cider,’ he had said. But when he tried following she
ran to the bathroom and locked the door.
He stood outside the bathroom door, laughing strangely and
senselessly, his pipe gone cold in his mouth, and then, tired of the
game, but stubborn, he waited another five minutes. There was not a
sound from the bath. And lest she enjoy in any way knowing that he
waited outside, irritated, he suddenly jerked about and walked
upstairs, whistling merrily.
At the top of the stairs he had waited. Finally he had heard the
bathroom door unlatch and she had come out and life below-stairs and
resumed, as life in a jungle must resume once a terror has passed on
away and the antelope return to their spring.
Now, as he finished his bow-tie and put his dark coat there was a
mouse-rustle in the hall. Marion appeared in the door, all skeletons
in her disguise.
‘How do I look, Papa?’
‘Fine!’
From under the mask, blonde hair showed. From the skull sockets
small blue eyes smiled. He sighed. Marion and Louise, the two silent
denouncers of his virility, his dark power. What alchemy had there
been in Louise that took the dark of a dark man and bleached the dark
brown eyes and black hair and washed and bleached the ingrown baby all
during the period before birth until the child was born, Marion,
blonde, blue-eyed, ruddy-cheeked? Sometimes he suspected that Louise
had conceived the child as an idea, completely asexual, an immaculate
conception of contemptuous mind and cell. As a firm rebuke to him she
had produced a child in her own image, and, to top it, she had somehow
fixed the doctor so he shook his head and said, ‘Sorry, Mr Wilder,
your wife will never have another child. This is the last one.’
‘And I wanted a boy,’ Mich had said eight years ago.
He almost bent to take hold of Marion now, in her skull mask. He
felt an inexplicable rush of pity for her, because she had never had a
father’s love, only the crushing, holding love of a loveless mother.
But most of all he pitied himself, that somehow he had not made the
most of a bad birth, enjoyed his daughter for herself, regardless of
her not being dark and a son and like himself. Somewhere he had missed
out. Other things being equal, he would have loved the child. But
Louise hadn’t wanted a child, anyway, in the first place. She had been
frightened of the idea of birth. He had forced the child on her, and
from that night, all through the year until the agony of the birth
itself, Louise had lived in another part of the house. She had
expected to die with the forced child. It had been very easy for
Louise to hate this husband who so wanted a son that he gave his only
wife over to the mortuary.
But – Louise had lived. And in truimph! Her eyes, the day he came
to the hospital, were cold. I’m alive they said. And I have a blonde
daughter! Just look! And when he had put out a hand to touch, the
mother had turned away to conspire with her new pink daughter-child –
away from that dark forcing murderer. It had all been so beautifully
ironic. His selfishness deserved it.
But now it was October again. There had been other Octobers and
when he thought of the long winter he had been filled with horror year
after year to think of the endless months mortared into the house by
an insane fall of snow, trapped with a woman and child, neither of
whom loved him, for months on end. During the eight years there had
been respites. In spring and summer you got out, walked, picknicked;
these were desperate solutions to the desperate problem of a hated
man.
But, in winter, the hikes and picnics and escapes fell away with
leaves. Life, like a tree, stood empty, the fruit picked, the sap run
to earth. Yes, you invited people in, but people were hard to get in
winter with blizzards and all. Once he had been clever enough to save
for a Florida trip. They had gone south. He had walked in the open.
But now, the eighth winter coming, he knew things were finally at
an end. He simply could not wear this one through. There was an acid
walled off in him that slowly had eaten through tissue and bone over
the years, and now, tonight, it would reach the wild explosive in him
and all would be over!
There was a mad ringing of the bell below. In the hall, Louise went
to see. Marion, without a word, ran down to greet the first arrivals.
There were shouts and hilarity.
He walked to the top of the stairs.
Louise was below, taking cloaks. She was tall and slender and
blonde to the point of whiteness, laughing down upon the new children.
He hesitated. What was all this? The years? The boredom of living?
Where had it gone wrong? Certainly not with the birth of the child
alone. But it had been a symbol of all their tensions, he imagined.
His jealousies and his business failures and all the rotten rest of
it. Why didn’t he just turn, pack a suitcase, and leave? No. Not
without hurting Louise as much as she had hurt him. It was simple as
that. Divorce wouldn’t hurt her at all. It would simply be an end to
numb indecision. If he thought divorce would give her pleasure in any
way he would stay married the rest of his life to her, for damned
spite. No he must hurt her. Figure some way, perhaps, to take Marion
away from her, legally. Yes. That was it. That would hurt most of all.
To take Marion.
‘Hello down there!’ He descended the stairs beaming.
Louise didn’t look up.
‘Hi, Mr Wilder!’
The children shouted, waved, as he came down.
By ten o’clock the doorbell had stopped ringing, the apples were
bitten from stringed doors, the pink faces were wiped dry from the
apple bobbling, napkins were smeared with toffee and punch, and he,
the husband, with pleasant efficiency had taken over. He took the
party right out of Louise’s hands. He ran about talking to the twenty
children and the twelve parents who had come and were happy with the
special spiked cider he had fixed them. He supervised pin the tail on
the donkey, spin the bottle, musical chairs, and all the rest, amid
fits of shouting laughter. Then, in the triangular-eyed pumpkin shine,
all house lights out, he cried, ‘Hush! Follow me!’ tiptoeing towards
the cellar.
The parents, on the outer periphery of the costumed riot, commented
to each other, nodding at the clever husband, speaking to the lucky
wife. How well he got on with children, they said.
The children, crowded after the husband, squealing.
‘The cellar!’ he cried. ‘The tomb of the witch!’
More squealing. He made a mock shiver. ‘Abandon hope all ye who
enter here!’
The parents chuckled.
One by one the children slid down a slide which Mich had fixed up
from lengths of table-section, into the dark cellar. He hissed and
shouted ghastly utterances after them. A wonderful wailing filled dark
pumpkin-lighted house. Everybody talked at once. Everybody but Marion.
She had gone through all the party with a minimum of sound or talk; it
was all inside her, all the excitement and joy. What a little troll,
he thought. With a shut mouth and shiny eyes she had watched her own
party, like so many serpentines thrown before her.
Now, the parents. With laughing reluctance they slid down the short
incline, uproarious, while little Marion stood by, always wanting to
see it all, to be last. Louise went down without help. He moved to aid
her, but she was gone even before he bent.
The upper house was empty and silent in the candle-shine. Marion
stood by the slide. ‘Here we go,’ he said, and picked her up.
They sat in a vast circle in the cellar. Warmth came from the
distant bulk of the furnace. The chairs stood in a long line along
each wall, twenty squealing children, twelve rustling relatives,
alternatively spaced, with Louise down at the far end, Mich up at this
end, near the stairs. He peered but saw nothing. They had all grouped
to their chairs, catch-as-you-can in the blackness. The entire

programme from here on was to be enacted in the dark, he as Mr
Interlocutor. There was a child scampering, a smell of damp cement,
and the sound of the wind out in the October stars.
‘Now!’ cried the husband in the dark cellar. ‘Quiet!’
Everybody settled.
The room was black black. Not a light, not a shine, not a glint of
an eye.
A scraping of crockery, a metal rattle.
‘The witch is dead,’ intoned the husband.
‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,’ said the children.
‘The witch is dead, she has been killed, and here is the knife she
was killed with.’ He handed over the knife. It was passed from hand to
hand, down and around the circle, with chuckles and little odd cries
and comments from the adults.
‘The witch is dead, and this is her head,’ whispered the husband,
and handed an item to the nearest person.
‘Oh, I know how this game is played,’ some child cried, happily, in
the dark. ‘He gets some old chicken innards from the icebox and hands
them around and says, “These are her innards!” And he makes a clay
head and passes it for her head, and passes a soup bone for her arm.
And he takes a marble and says, “This is her eye!” And he takes some
corn and says, “This is her teeth!” And he takes a sack of plum
pudding and gives that and says, “This is her stomach!&” I know how
this is played!’
‘Hush, you’ll spoil everything,’ some girl said.
‘The witch came to harm, and this is her arm,’ said Mich.
‘Eeeeeeeeeeee!’
The items were passed and passed, like hot potatoes, around the
cirle. Some children screamed, wouldn’t touch them. Some ran from
their chairs to stand in the centre of the cellar until the grisly
items had passed.
‘Aw, it’s only chicken insides,’ scoffed a boy. ‘Come back, Helen!’
Shot from hand to hand, with small scream after scream, the items
went down, down, to be followed by another and another.
‘The witch cut apart, and this is her heart,’ said the husband.
Six or seven items moving at once through the laughing, trembling
dark.
Louise spoke up. ‘Marion, don’t be afraid; it’s only play.”
Marion didn’t say anything.
‘Marion?, asked Louise. ‘Are you afraid?’
Marion didn’t speak.
‘She’s all right,’ said the husband. ‘She’s not afraid.’
On and on the passing, the screams, the hilarity.
The autumn wind sighed about the house. And he, the husband stood
at the head of the dark cellar, intoning the words, handing out the
items.
‘Marion?’ asked Louise again, from far across the cellar.
Everybody was talking.
‘Marion?’ called Louise.
Everybody quieted.
‘Marion, answer me, are you afraid?’
Marion didn’t answer.
The husband stood there, at the bottom of the cellar steps.
Louise called ‘Marion, are you there?’
No answer. The room was silent.
‘Where’s Marion?’ called Louise.
‘She was here’, said a boy.
‘Maybe she’s upstairs.’
‘Marion!’
No answer. It was quiet.
Louise cried out, ‘Marion, Marion!’
‘Turn on the lights,’ said one of the adults.
The items stopped passing. The children and adults sat with the
witch’s items in their hands.
‘No.’ Louise gasped. There was a scraping of her chair, wildly, in
the dark. ‘No. Don’t turn on the lights, oh, God, God, God, don’t turn
them on, please, don’t turn on the lights, don’t!.Louise was shrieking
now. The entire cellar froze with the scream.
Nobody moved.
Everyone sat in the dark cellar, suspended in the suddenly frozen
task of this October game; the wind blew outside, banging the house,
the smell of pumpkins and apples filled the room with the smell of the
objects in their fingers while one boy cried, ‘I’ll go upstairs and
look!’ and he ran upstairs hopefully and out around the house, four
times around the house, calling, ‘Marion, Marion, Marion!’ over and
over and at last coming slowly down the stairs into the waiting
breathing cellar and saying to the darkenss, ‘I can’t find her.’

Then …… some idiot turned on the lights.

 

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31 Days of Halloween: The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

20840387_10158990703780198_1674814103_nThe Raven isn’t a typical selection for a Halloween piece of a literature. For me, every October it is a must read simply because Poe creates such a sinister and foreboding atmosphere. This classic poem will forever remain a favourite. 

The Raven
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

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Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!

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Halloween Horror: Trick ‘R Treat

halloweenhorrorp169302_p_v8_adReleased: October 6th 2009

Trick ‘R Treat Trailer

There are many “holiday classics,” out there and most of them are centered around christmas. Unfortunately there are far fewer ones centered around Halloween, but I think Trick ‘R Treat deserves to be put at the top of your list.

I can’t imagine a movie that celebrates the holiday better. A horror anthology film written and directed by Michael Doughherty that weaves several horror tales together to teach us the meaning of Halloween and it’s icons as well as creating a new one in the form of Sam. A strange being that appears to be a child in costume wearing a sack as a mask who is the overseer of the evenings terrifying events as well punishing those who fail to adhere to the traditions of halloween. Finally, Halloween has a mascot; Christmas has Santa Claus, Easter it’s bunny and now Halloween has Sam!

Trick ‘R Treat may not be the most terrifying horror movie you’ll see, but it is most definitely the smartest and most entertaining Halloween movie you’ll ever experience.

Review by Cody Boyd

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Halloween Reads: Halloween Carnival Volume 1

halloweenreadsHalloween Carnival Volume 1

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Published: October 3rd by Random House Publishing

halloweenreview

STRANGE CANDY by Robert McCammon
Chocolate bars and sour suckers are trick-or-treat staples, but beware the odd sweet at the bottom of your bag. You never know who it’s from—or what it might do to you.

THE RAGE OF ACHILLES by Kevin Lucia
Father Ward should have heeded the warnings about hearing confession on All Hallow’s Eve. Because a man is about to tell him a secret more haunting than any he has heard before.

DEMON AIR by John R. Little
Fear of flying is not uncommon. But on this transpacific airline, the real danger isn’t the flight itself. It’s whoever—or whatever—is up in the air with you.

LA HACIENDA DE LOS MUERTOS by Lisa Morton
Trick McGrew, former cowboy star of the silver screen, has never believed in tall tales. But down in Mexico, the land of La Llorona, he’s about to find out just how real urban legends can be.

#MAKEHALLOWEENSCARYAGAIN by Mark Allan Gunnells
Some people will go to any lengths to rack up retweets, likes, and follows on social media, no matter who they end up hurting . . . or even killing.

halloweensynopsis#MAKEHALLOWEENSCARYAGAIN

Make Halloween Scary Again. That’s what our protagonist Dustin Davis asks of the internet in the short story #makehalloweenscaryagain. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happens.

#makehalloweenscaryagain is a short story that is both a horror story and a thrilling mystery as Greer City, South Carolina is terrorized by the hashtag killer. A murderer dressed as a scarecrow who leaves an interesting calling card that is both the title of this tale and a hashtag created by one of its central characters, a small time author of horror novels whose simple desire to bring fear back to his favourite holiday entangles him in the case of the hashtag killer.

An engrossing horror story,  deftly written by Mark Allan Gunnells as he takes us all across a city gripped by terror, telling the story from multiple perspectives as we see a cop chase after a murderer, a reporter chase after a story and man desperate to have his quiet life back. This short story is a Halloween treat worth your time this scary season.

***Review by guest blogger Cody Boyd***

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