7 Shades of Black

Chapter 1
7 Shades of Black

7 Shades of Black

by Tainted Sins

"I quite agree-in regard to Griffin’s ghost, or whatever it was-that its appearing first to the little boy, at so tender an age, adds a particular touch. But it’s not the first occurrence of its charming kind that I know to have been concerned with a child. If the child gives the effect another turn of the screw, what do you say to two children-?"

"We say of course," someone exclaimed, "that two children give two turns! Also that we want to hear about them."

- Henry James

1.

October 31st

The old man peered out his darkened window. The crisp air bit. The rain gutters still damp from the early morning drizzle. Red and yellow and orange and brown leaves swirled on the sidewalk beneath a dead brown tree with branches reaching up like cracks in the great gray sky.

"It’s an ill wind," the old man muttered.

A ragged mutt lifted his ear and raised two milky eyes to his master.

A boy in a white bed sheet with two holes cut in circles around his eyes, a boy wearing plastic vampire teeth and a black cape and a small girl in a pink princess dress hurried past the ancient house with the brown and white rotting wood and the weed ridden yard and that horrible face, like a blank and featureless rubber mask silhouetted in the window.

They held their bags of candy close. There would be no trick or treating here. This house, they knew, was haunted.

"Something is coming," the old man whispered. "I can hear it in the corn. The corn speaks to me!" he screeched. "Something is coming! Something is coming and I won’t be alone anymore! I won’t be aloooooooooonnnnne!"

From the branches the crows cawed and took to the air, flying far away from the hideous shriek.

2.

October 28th - October 31st

It had appeared near the gumball machines in Orson’s Groceries a few days earlier. It cost a quarter. A quarter and a turn of a metal knob for a small temporary tattoo delivered in a hemispheric plastic case. Each tattoo a Halloween icon: witch, pumpkin, ghost, scarecrow, skeleton, broom, pitchfork. The designs so simplistic one would find it hard to believe they could capture the interest of even the smallest child.

This being the case, we should conclude that there was something not right about these seemingly harmless stickers. For although it did not seem odd at the time, it would later be observed that the tattoos’ mundane appearance was equaled only by the strange fascination that ensnared adults and adolescents alike.

Arms full of brown paper shopping bags or sticky hands covered

with pre-Halloween candy, each would stop and look in turn. The crude designs, for reasons not even the purchaser could explain, was a perfect accessory to whatever costume, to whatever soiree or mischief the passersby intended for the upcoming holiday.

Perfection, for just a quarter and a turn.

And so they turned.

3.

October 31st

Dusk had settled, tinting the gray sky with the faded red and orange of the fallen leaves. Costumes were put on. Make-up was dabbed on. And, with a synchronicity that was wholly unnatural, all the tattoos were wetted and applied to an arm or the upside of the hand at exactly 6:45 PM.

And so it began.

4.

"Get out of here you little pervert!"

Strange words for a prostitute.

She held the purple silk bra to her ample bosom with one hand, an ineffective form of modesty, her double D-bordering on E-cup breasts spilling over the top. The intruder vanished. Eighteen year old high school senior Amy Stanton pulled the second of two black stockings up her thigh and slammed the door behind her. Hearing footfalls beating down the hallway, she turned to face the full length mirror. The purple thong with black ruffles was just too cute on her curvy thighs. She hooked the back of the bra, offering less of a view than her thirteen year old brother had gotten; still, she was all cleavage and blond hair. Amy wasn’t fat by any stretch of the imagination, though she was only a few pounds shy of being the feminine ideal of the renaissance. This being the case, she wasn’t popular in the conventional sense. Her body wasn’t built for cheerleading and her family was middleclass-their lack of wealth preventing her from keeping up with the popular fashions or throwing any posh parties. But she was popular…popular with the guys at least. In fact, Amy couldn’t think of a single girl she considered a friend. Boys, though, were plentiful. And not in a slutty way. Or even a dating way. It was more of a let’s just be friends kind of way. She enjoyed the attention showered upon her without ever having to put out-she just had to dangle the possibility once in a while and they all aptly listened to anything she had to say without a hint of dissent. So celebrated, and all she had to do was be there. It was a life worth living. And, true, what amused her even more was her brother’s conflict between their lifelong mutual hatred and his newfound fascination with her body as puberty struck. And it struck hard. It wouldn’t be long, Amy knew, before he was just another toy for her to play with. She pictured him on his hands and knees painting her toenails while she watched VH1.

Relishing the thought, Amy scooted into the tiny vinyl black mini skirt, so short the slightest bend would expose the bottom crack of her ass. Halloween was great for a large dose of T&A and an even larger dose of attention. She didn’t even bother with a top-the purple bra a better choice. It would have them all drooling. Of course "drooling" was a polite euphemism. Amy simply adored glancing at strained jeans and smirking just as the guy realized what she was looking at. Tonight, with them in their tight costumes and her wearing barely anything at all, it should be even better.

She applied a thick layer of black mascara and hooker red lipstick, this time not noticing the creak of the door or her little brother, Michael, peering in through the crack and grinning; the outline of a pitchfork on his hand glowing as red as her lipstick.

5.

The keg party at Barry Johnson’s house was the middleclass teen hotspot. Like so many movie clichés, Barry’s parents were away for the weekend: now kids were drinking beer around a crackling leaf bonfire; they were smashing jack-o’-lanterns with baseball bats, sparks flying; they were doing Jell-O shots out of girls’ pierced navels (and, when it was a little later, and the girls were a little drunker, shots slurped up out of their cleavages). Still, this wasn’t an all or nothing party: it was just one of many stops. People came and went, came again if they couldn’t find more booze elsewhere. In the bedrooms teens were hooking up; one night stands more than couples-Halloween had never been a time of commitment or definition. It was a time of fantasy: some more real than others.

Amy stood on the front porch making a final adjustment to her boobs.

"Boo!" her little brother yelled leaping from the shadows and the bushes wearing plastic red horns, a pointed tail and red spandex.

Amy jumped.

"Michael!" she screamed. "What the hell are you doing here you little creep?!"

Despite his explosive entrance, Michael took on a laid back air, sauntering over to his sister, a crooked grin and puffs of cold breath like smoke steaming from his nostrils as if he were the devil himself.

"I wanted to give you your trick," he said. "It is, after all, Halloween."

Despite a queer unease that trailed Michael’s unusually brash demeanor, Amy maintained appearances.

"Don’t you mean you wanted to give me a treat?" she said, her confidence growing as her eyes lowered to the firm yet scant outline in his tights.

Oddly the jibe was lost on that peculiar crooked grin of his.

For Amy, this was a first.

"Yes, that," Michael said. "A growing-so to speak-problem that I intend to remedy tonight."

Amy stared in astonishment.

"A pity you didn’t dress as Little Red Riding Hood. It would have been more fitting. A young woman bringing her…" his eyes lingered on her breasts "…bounty to a grandmother who is really a wolf just waiting to gobble her up."

"What the hell are you babbling about?! And why are you talking like that? You’re in remedial fucking English for Christ’s sake!"

"Ah, that. Well, Amy, it seems to me that vengeance, or more so, victory, victory after a battle long fought, requires a certain verbal panache to mark the occasion. For make no mistake, while I am doing this partially to solve my *cough* little problem, even more so I’m doing this because you’re a total cunt. Painting your toenails while you watch VH1? Tsk, tsk, tsk…."

Was it fear he now saw on her face, clouded somewhere in that storm of outrage?

"Look, whatever. Just get out of here you little freak, before one of the guys sees a junior high schooler trying to crash their party."

That crooked smile.

"And what about freshmen?"

"What?"

"Are freshman allowed at this party?"

"I-"

Michael held up his hand. It pulsed red, the pitchfork tattoo burnt black into his flesh.

"Amy?"

"Yes?"-dazed.

"Amy?"

"Yes?"-dazed.

"You’re only fifteen years old."

It was like a blow to the stomach that quickly turned into a terrible kind of pleasure.

"Fuck you," she managed to gasp as her maturity retracted in on itself.

This started with hardened nipples and a sudden randiness-a dampening in polite circles, wet panties to the more crude-and all sorts of rollercoaster rides in her stomach. Amy groaned. Her hips thrusting on the edge of orgasm as they slimmed. Her ass wiggled and bobbed from full and round to cute and pert. Her purple bra, stressed to contain its charge, loosened like a sigh of relief as her gyrations grew more violent. Amy, panting, felt them dwindle-images of her naked in the school locker room with the other girls ran backwards, with each turn leaving her a little thinner a little smaller-her breasts diminished down to a C cup, still enviable to most girls, but large and ungainly on her new lithe form, and Amy felt the loss like the vulnerability of standing in the showers with all the built beautiful seniors on her first day of high school.

The brink of orgasm.

And then the feeling subsided with the years it had stolen.

Michael took in the sight of his sister standing on the porch trying to catch her breath. Her face was softer, rounder-touched with a sort of innocence that only her eyes betrayed. Her clothes, what little there were, hung loose. Not falling off, just a poor fit. Still, the overall effect was potent: she looked like a girl futilely trying to pass herself off as an adult.

Still sexy in that jailbait kind of way.

In that, let’s make-out under the bleachers kind of way.

Amy, gawking down at herself, had come to the same conclusion. And while her mind had been untouched by the spell, her younger body carried an inherent insecurity that quickly overtook her.

She looked up.

"H-how?"

Michael shrugged.

"I don’t know. I only know that I can do it."

"Change me-"

"-back? I don’t think so. No. No, I think you’re going to go into that party just as you are."

"Never!" she said, clutching her crinkled bra.

Michael raised his palm. The glowing red pulse returned.

"Just as you are or in diapers," he said. "Your choice."

6.

From afar Amy was recognized and pursued. Each guy knowing that if there was any chance of pushing their friendship into a relationship of a more deviant nature, tonight would be the night to do it. That said, it was no surprise that Amy was surrounded by three seniors all offering her a plastic cup of beer before she’d gotten two steps into the house, each of them wanting the first crack at the great unknown.

Closer now, the boys’ shock was palpable.

"Amy," one of the boys said, "you look…different."

"Yeah, I know," Amy said in a lilting voice that was uncomfortably higher than her own. "The costume I ordered came one…" she took one of the cups of beer and looked down at herself, "er…two sizes two big."

"Riiight," one of the boys said, his pronunciation much too slow, "That must be it. Well…I’ll, uh, I’ll, um, see you later."

The other two evaporated soon after: onto greater conquests.

For Amy this lack of attention was even more distressing than her brother’s assault on her maturity: that, Amy thought, had only been a means, the end was her standing alone in the corner drinking her beer.

"Bad night?"-Tad Johnson, Barry’s fourteen year old brother.

Whether what happened next was a result of Amy’s younger body being incapable of holding the amount of alcohol she’d consumed or her desperate want to be wanted again was a debate for another day. And, really, as was stated earlier, results were far more important than the equations that produced them.

And so it was that Amy Stanton, the wet dream of Northridge High, found herself in Tad Johnson’s room: X-Men posters on the wall; Star Wars action figures still in their boxes lining his shelves; Transformers’ bed sheets that she rolled around on, kissing Tad as he clumsily groped her breasts through her flaccid bra; kissing this boy, cheeks flushed, so embarrassed, but he wanted her; he wanted her, he wanted her: she could tell by the firmness in his baggy jeans, a firmness that, an hour ago, would not have seemed quite so impressive (Tad, for what it’s worth, was dressed as a gangster or a rapper, she couldn’t tell which, again, the baggy jeans, a big fake gold clock hanging around his neck, fake capped diamond teeth: his sloppy kisses tasted like plastic).

7.

Outside Michael watched through the window. This was just too good. Even wielding so much power, this was beyond his wildest expectations. Still, he wanted more.

More.

8.

Amy didn’t notice the throbbing red glow just outside the window. She was far too busy fighting off Tad’s advances. She needed to be needed. She desired to be desired, despite what her brother had done to her. But she was only willing to stoop so low to get it. And, for her, making out with a fourteen year old was ground zero. Then the inept slobbering of her neck and mouth, the overeager dry humping and fumbling with her breasts, to her limitless mortification, started to get her hot: really hot.

She moaned.

Tad’s grinding quickened.

Then the purple bra, which straps had become unnoticeably lax, came off. Tad pulled off the gold clock, the XXL T-shirt with the letters "OG" on the front off along with it. Then the dirty Keds, then the baggy jeans and the tidy whities. Then the too cute purple panties with the black ruffles that slid down thighs now as narrow as her skinny legs, and the wrinkled stockings and the five inch heels which practically fell off her feet.

They were both naked squirming around on the bed.

It was one of those surreal moments.

Amy had already gone farther with this fourteen year old dork than she’d ever gone with any boy; worse, she intended to go even farther. She was just so horny.

Tad clutched at the breasts shrinking in his hands; his ironclad four inches exploring between her thighs, not able to distinguish between a girl who shaved her pubic hair and a girl who simply didn’t have any: said hair having fallen out moments earlier and Tad, assuming the prior rather than the latter, all the more excited for it.

He couldn’t believe his luck!....until.

"Eight years old," Amy muttered.

The shock of her words striking her the moment they escaped her lips.

The shock striking Tad seconds later.

The tits he’d so exuberantly handled receded wholly into her person, leaving her chest as flat and uninteresting as his own: the underdeveloped soft pink nipples the last trace of femininity left to her.

Eight years old, she’d said. And Tad saw she was right. Shorter, no tits, no pubs, narrow hips, narrow ass (a boy’s ass). She was a kid for Christ’s sake!

Tad leapt off the bed.

"Jesus Christ!" he screamed.

Amy slapped her hand to her mouth to keep herself from screaming.

"I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is," Tad said, his shock turning to anger. "What, does Amy have a little sister? Did you switch while my eyes were closed?"

"No, Tad," Amy said, "It’s me!"

"Yeah right. You’re sick, you know that? You and your sister. Tricking me into making-out with you, tricking me into almost…" his voice faltered, "…having sex with you. You’re just a kid for Christ sake!"

"You have to help me!"

"Get out."

"Please!"

"I said get out!"

He was already collecting her discarded clothing and shoving them into her arms.

"Out!"

He dragged her by the wrist, smacking her bare ass as he pushed her out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

Amy ran, naked and sexless, into the adjoining bathroom.

She locked the door; pulled her ill-fitting stockings on; her panties and the vinyl mini, both of which hung askew threatening to slip off her nonexistent hips; her bra clasped in the back, sagging with nothing left to hold: one silk purple strap hung halfway down her shoulder; her heels: she had to keep her feet pushed down to the toe to keep them from falling off.

A bang on the door.

"Hey, quit jerking off in there, I have to piss!"

Other angry voices joined in.

Apparently a line had formed outside.

She just had to get out of here: she had to find her brother, the little shit.

Amy stepped out of the bathroom and hurried down the hall, clomping and wobbling in her elephantine shoes, praying to make her escape unnoticed.

She’d made it to the living room, the door that lead outside, her freedom from further embarrassment, a few feet ahead of her.

"Hey, who brought the kid?" someone yelled.

The din of the party dulled to a muffled murmur.

The feeling of every eye on her-something Amy used to enjoy to no end, now though, with the thick make-up: the heavy blush and mascara; the oversized clothes on her undersized body: she’d gone from teenage goddess to little girl playing dress-up in just under two hours.

That was when her skirt and panties lost hold and fell past her wrinkled stockings to her ankles: her in just that hanging, hugely oversized bra and her bald minuscule sex between scrawny legs fully exposed.

"No!" Amy whispered hearing snickers, mostly from the girls and feeling that unbearable indifference from the guys. She bit her lip hard, hoping to wake up.

She didn’t wake up.

And out of the crowd of onlookers, Michael materialized in his red devil suit.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "may I present my ’older’ sister, Ms. Amy Stanton."

First, disbelief. Some Halloween prank. But most of the teens here had gone to school with Amy: they’d gone to junior high with her; they’d gone to elementary school with her; hell, they’d even gone to preschool with her: and their memories confirmed what Michael had said: this was Amy Stanton!

An ominous cloud hung heavy in the room, more of a sense than a smell, but if it had a scent, it would have been brimstone. This feeling. This being watching by something, by some thing, demanded, at some subconscious level, all the anxiety and dread in the room, leaving only scraps of acceptance for Amy: no one panicked, no one screamed or called the cops or a hospital: they just saw Amy, they just resigned themselves to the fact that somehow she had become a little girl. This mild amusement in the face of the dire and dreary feeling that had descended upon the Johnson house was a welcome distraction: especially among the girls: among bitter rivals.

"Michael! Change me back!" Amy squeaked.

"Not a chance."

"Hey Amy."-Samantha: that bitch who was always vying for the attention Amy so desperately craved. "It looks like from now on you’re going to be more concerned with milk money and the next episode of Sponge Bob than stealing guys away from me."

Snickers from around the room.

…look at her!…

…*laughing* God, she’s just a kid!…

…shouldn’t she be home with her mommy? *still laughing*…

Samantha moved in close. She wore a skimpy school girl costume: pigtails, a short pleated skirt, a tight white blouse that cut off at her belly, white ruffled socks.

"You’re just adorable," Samantha said, "but I think we can do better," she said, pressing in close to Michael, pressing her breasts up against him, twirling his hair with her long French manicured fingernails. "I don’t know, what do you think Michael? Maybe three years old?"

"Definitely," Michael said. "I’ll just love our family dinners at Sizzler, having to ask the waitress for a high chair."

"No!" Amy gasped.

That crooked smile: Michael held his pulsing hand up.

Samantha groaned.

Michael turned to her.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," she croaked, "just do it."

But she wasn’t fine. For the briefest of moments, Michael could have sworn Samantha was translucent: he saw right through her to the other side of the room. When solidity returned, Michael noticed a white pulsing light. It came from her upper arm where Michael could see a white outline of a ghost, almost faded beyond recognition, and the number three burnt black in the center of the outline.

Then, to his dismay, Michael saw what he had seen earlier on the porch: first it was a blouse that didn’t stretch quite as much as it should have stretched; a slimming; a loss of height; a loss of weight; a rounded face.

Maybe this was better, Michael thought. This girl who had been so blatantly hitting on him seconds before was now much closer to his own age: now she might embrace the fact that her partners would have to be younger too.

But it didn’t stop there. Samantha’s feminine curves were literally fading away. As her top hung low, Samantha grasped at her exposed tits, part of which slowly became see-through, losing mass, and then stopped existing at all, leaving her a cup size lower, a few years younger. She clutched at her ass as her skirt and panties fell to the floor: it faded. Her body, her height, her hair, her hips her tits, they faded, faded, faded and were gone: seven years old standing over a pile of clothes: faded: five years old; short; nearly a baby; baby fat replacing her womanly assets; her hair; even at this age: fading, fading, fading: three years old and she fell on her butt on top of the school girl outfit that wouldn’t be appropriate for years and years to come. It was odd to see a toddler blushing, trying to cover her privates, her nonexistent chest with her pudgy little hands. It was then that Samantha burst into tears: not a baby’s wail, but a woman’s lament, queer in its high pitched underdeveloped voice as her full bladder squirted a little into her hand, then a little more, her biting her lip to hold it in, as she freely wet herself and peed over the costume that had once looked so fetchingly tantalizing on her long lost alluring body.

Of course the transformation had enveloped Michael’s attention, particularly because the first girl to show him the slightest bit of sexual attention was now a wailing babe: and, as with most problems in his life, he blamed his sister. If she hadn’t been such a bitch, Samantha would have never suggested tormenting her further, she would have never mentioned the number three which had apparently triggered the ghost tattoo: a tattoo that was now strangely absent from the little girl’s arm.

Still, he could fix it.

He would deal with his sister later.

Michael held up the hand with the pitchfork etching towards Samantha, willing her to become fifteen again (still knowing she’d be much easier to seduce if she were a little closer to his own age). He willed, and his hand pulsed. He willed, and his hand pulsed. And then, in a burst of sparkling flames and the acrid burning of smoke, the pitchfork cracked and vanished: age progression, as many would find out on this sinister evening, was something the pitchfork tattoo found highly disagreeable.

"No!" Michael howled.

In the midst of such a calamity, Michael had failed to notice that his sister had snapped.

Eight year old Amy Stanton held her vinyl skirt up with one hand and one of her black stockings with the other one (the second stocking pooled at her ankle); her bra hung to her stomach and she clomped unsteadily towards the nearest guy in her far too big high heels, mumbling all the while, "I’m still sexy… I’m still sexy… I’m still sexy…"

"Hey baby," she said to Brad Dahl, one of the boys she’d toyed with time and time again; the words falling from too red lips, red that looked like she’d drawn on with a crayon: thick and circling her mouth like a clown’s face. "Why don’t we sneak upstairs to Barry’s parents’ room and see what happens?"-the wicked grin she’d attempted looked like she’d just said, "I’ll show you mine if you show me yours."

Brad looked smug. "I don’t think so."

"Come on baby," Amy said, reaching up to rub her hands down his chest (her skirt and stocking falling as she did so, once again leaving her naked from the waist down), she moved on to fondling his cock through his pants with tiny fingers. "We can have some fun…"

"Tell you what," Brad said, pulling her hand away from his crotch. "If your parents ever need a babysitter tell them to give me a call. Until then why don’t you go play with some dolls or something. Maybe you can get your ya-yas on by having Ken make-out with Barbie."

Amy was crushed.

She stared at Brad’s cute ass as he walked away.

God, how was she ever going to get through the years being a little kid again?!

While Amy was mulling this over, throughout all the rooms of the Johnson house, upstairs and downstairs, a vast array of rub-on tattoos began to glow.

And then the chaos really started.

9.

The Thompson house on Paper St. couldn’t be called a mansion, but it was close enough. Impressive in stature, painted white pillars and ash trees and brown, dead rose bushes that wouldn’t bloom until next year. A scarecrow the gardener had put up earlier in the week teetered in the wind; huge luminous windows, cardboard skeletons rattling in that fitful gust; music so loud you could feel the base thudding in your chest.

This party was by invitation only.

This was the cheerleaders, the jocks; this was the rich and the beautiful people. The truly elite of Northridge high. The help walked the halls and rooms carrying trays of campaign and Halloween themed d’oeuvres: Swiss chocolate black widows with raspberry hourglass custard, orange truffle pumpkins, tiny white chocolate skulls with red cherry eyes. Meanwhile, Kansas Thompson, dressed as Eve with green leaves covering her naughty bits-crotch and ass crack and a leaf bikini top-gallivanted through the sociable carrying a woven basket of caramel apples and wearing a stick-on tattoo that matched the orange truffles.

What happened next would be remembered as the kickoff of the evening’s affairs.

Kansas, a slim and elegant redhead with modest but notable B cup breasts felt a slow filling in her stomach not unlike the slight discomfort of overeating, but a bloating as well, though her bare tummy was and would remain flat. This queer sensation was accompanied by a loud, boisterous belch in mid-sentence. The social faux pas an abrupt stop to Kansas’ conversation and flirtations with Trey Harris, the top Northridge baseball stud.

"Oh… Oh God… Excuse me."

Trey frowned disgustedly and waved his hand in front of his face just as Kansas felt another belch rising. She fought it back with a sizable effort, feeling it become indigestion; a burning in her chest; a swelling in her breasts-the external effect first noticed in the stretching of her bikini band.

This ingestion carried to her ass as well, and, in her struggle not to pass gas and embarrass herself further, Kansas did not notice the slight glow of the pumpkin on the upside of her hand: the fore mentioned ingestion, to Kansas’ brief relief, became more of a watery feeling, a sloshing in her stomach, almost, even, again in her chest and backside-queer, something she’d never felt before, that heaviness in her breasts which she noticed Trey now staring at, as well as her ass as the water solidified, becoming more like pudding, or, more accurately, the gristle on an extra rare steak: this new turn came with a sudden and noticeable expansion that robbed Kansas of her once blissful ignorance.

The bands of her leaf bikini stretched. She could feel them cutting into her back. Looking down she saw less and less of the green leaves and more and more of an ample bosom Kansas had never dreamed of nor wanted given her slim build. Still, though most her attention remained on the nomenclature of her breasts that were quickly becoming a big pair of tits, she also noticed a sudden bottom heaviness. Her slender heart-shaped behind filling not with well toned muscle, but with the unfamiliar feeling of pure couch potato style fat. It was mere moments before the terminology shifted from butt to ass, and then from ass to fat ass. Kansas could feel the leaf bottom losing its hold and becoming a makeshift thong as it slipped between her ass cheeks. The boys who had been staring lustily from a distance at first licked their lips at the effect, but soon their hard-ons withered as Kansas’ ass become fatter and fatter and less and less appealing. Meanwhile, Kansas’ once perfect and pert B cups had become huge and sagging like a pair of oversized udders. From D to DD where the leaf bikini now only covered her huge round nipples-proof, as if anyone would have doubted it, that these babies were real.

"What the fuck?!" Trey finally managed.

"I don’t know!" Kansas said, trying and failing more and more to cover her huge milky white boobs-the basket of caramel apples fell and rolled across the floor. "You have to help me! You have to stop this!"

The room quieted to a low din as more people turned to look-only the boom, boom, boom of the music; the only thing left loud and uninterested.

Kansas moved into an E cup and then EE. The band of her bikini snapped, sending it flying across the room like a rubber band. Now Kansas wrapped her whole arms across her chest, the fat of her boobs spilling over and under her tight grip. Her enormous ass, too, strained her toned but slim legs and she teetered back and forth as the upper weight and lower weight kept an uneasy balance.

Marcy, the captain of the cheerleading squad, was the first to start snickering. Like the keg party twenty miles away, the dread that permeated the house on this haunted night left only hollowness where fear or panic should be, and all that remained was curiosity and amusement.

Marcy, having crossed the room beamed.

"My, my," she said, "it looks like my competition just got a whole lot bigger."

"Go fuck yourself Marcy!"

Despite the rebuff, Marcy continued.

F, FF.

"Look at you! You look like some cartoon adolescent fantasy. A freak show for porn movies or strip clubs. You’ll need a new nickname though. How about Candy Melons?"

The truth behind the insult hit Kansas hard.

She waddled, cried and jiggled her way up the long round staircase-hoots and hollers of laughter followed right behind; she teetered in and slammed her bedroom door. The next morning the Thompson’s would find their daughter sobbing: her titties so big they hung off her chest, one off the right side of the bed and one off the left, so enormous each one weighing more than her entire body, their size equaled only by their sensitivity: the slightest movement hardening those gargantuan nipples: each sob, causing them to rub against the carpet just enough to send her into yet another shivering orgasm: her fat fat ass, like two waterbeds pressed together, jiggling and jiggling and jiggling.

10.

Marcy Peterson was made out of curves. The hourglass figure. Big boobs, round ass perfect thighs long legs. Blond hair, blue eyes. B student, C cup breasts. She was the platonic form of a cheerleader. A cliché in Internet porn, perfection in real life. So much so that further description would be a waste of the reader’s time.

This was later in the evening. This was after a few more drinks. Strange things had been happening all around them. Halloween had been happening all around them, but still they went on.

Marcy dragged Trey, Kansas’ baseball stud, into the downstairs guest bedroom. They kissed. Tongues and lips. Bare branches of a tree beat against the window as the storm outside worsened. They started stripping. More beating, scratching. More unzipping, unbuttoning, unclasping. The baseball jock had come to the costume party in his uniform, the cheerleader in hers. She got his shirt off; beating; his pants off; scratching. The bulge in his underwear proved a school-wide rumor true. Pompoms were tossed aside; her top over her head; scratching; her skirt pulled down to her knees; beating; she stepped out of them.

Him in his underwear.

Her in her bra and panties.

They moved onto what they’re sex ed teacher called "heavy petting." Him on the bed grabbing her tits, her dry humping him. This, they’re teacher would say, was the last step towards the "danger zone." They’re teacher would never know how right she was.

On her shoulder, Marcy’s skeleton tattoo began to glow.

Back when people watched VHS tapes instead of DVDs, when they rewound a scene there was always that low dull hum and the backwards images flickered with static. This was not unlike the sound of the tree outside. And Marcy’s pink bra, her white cotton panties with the little pink hearts on them, they flickered; beating; once; scratching; then two then three times.

The strange abrupt unreality of Marcy’s underthings didn’t phase Trey in the least. Not after what he’d seen tonight. If he was lucky, Trey thought, the panties, the bra; scratching; would burst into smoke, and then the party could really get started.

A flash of light outside.

Thunder.

And then the flickering stopped.

The wind died down, and the storm passed.

Nothing had happened.

Everything was fine.

Just two kids drunk and having fun.

Marcy ground into Trey’s crouch. Her breasts shrank. At first Tracy attributed the looseness in her bra to the mundane: it must have come unclasped. Of course, that’s why her tits were bouncing in and out of the cups. This was further than Marcy intended to go with Trey. But what was the harm? It was Halloween after all. Let him have a little peek.

The view, to Trey’s disappointment, was less impressive than he anticipated.

"I didn’t know you stuffed," Trey said.

"What?!" Marcy stormed. "These are one hundred percent real buster!" she said, yanking her bra down to reveal her fried egg A cup breasts.

"Yeah," Trey groaned. "I can see that."

Marcy looked down and screamed.

She clutched what little there was left of her dwindling breasts. She looked out the window, at that dead motionless tree. Something was looking in at her. Something not right. She could feel its eyes on her.

"No!" she screamed. "No! Not me!"

There was nothing left of her chest. Marcy risked another look: flat as a boy, tiny pink useless nipples.

"No!"

"Look… Maybe a rain check…" Trey said, practically knocking her off him as he stood up, not believing his shit luck tonight.

Marcy stumbled to her feet.

Her panties fell to her ankles.

Her hips…

Her thighs…

Her legs…

Her ass (like a table with a crack in it)…

Trey turned, just before leaving, and hit her with an insult she’d mocked so many other girls in the locker room with: "A carpenter’s dream. Flat as a board and easy to screw. Well, you got the first part right anyway…"

Then he was gone.

Light.

Thunder.

11.

Melissa Jones was technically a cheerleader. She was technically popular. She was technically invited to this party. What that meant was, she stood alone in the kitchen while a loud wild group of jocks and preppies did tequila shots, bumping into her or elbowing her in the side in their reverie as if she didn’t even exist. This was called the lowest rung. And, her being the smallest fish in the biggest of ponds, Melissa would usually find a corner somewhere to wait the party out, miserably living vicariously through all the other girls as the guys hit on them, asked them out, kissed them.

It wasn’t that Melissa was ugly. She was above average. But she did have brown hair and brown eyes. Plus there was the whole Mormon thing. Melissa was from Utah, her family was Mormon, she was technically Mormon (always technically and never really real), and that weirded everybody out. Like she was in some cult, or was some religious prude: a reputation that the modest long flower print dresses that covered her otherwise delightful young body that her mother forced her to wear didn’t improve.

So Melissa should be standing in a corner.

She should be miserable.

She should be watching all the other girls and wishing she was one of them.

Instead, Melissa was smiling.

In the kitchen, a girl on the squad, Amy, dressed as a Playboy Bunny burst out laughing at some unheard jest, her backside bumping into Melissa as she drunkenly flailed about.

Annoyed, Melissa looked down at her fist. She opened it. On her palm the black etching of a witch crackled with blue light. Melissa closed her fist again. She stared at the puffy white bunny tail, the black spandex covered ass. She concentrated. She imagined-the one thing she did best: and it happened. She watched the girl’s ass widen. A big fat ass, Melissa thought, and by the time she was done, Amy’s butt had gained five pounds. A big round butt, stretching the spandex to its limits; stretching it so you could clearly see her butt crack in her otherwise little black bunny suit.

Now the inconsiderate bottom heavy bitch can go around helplessly bumping her fat ass into people all night, Melissa thought with deep satisfaction.

That’s when Melissa saw it:

Cindy, Amy’s best friend, had just noticed how fat her friend’s ass had gotten. She saw it, and she smirked.

Another backstabbing bitch, Melissa thought. This crowd she hated yet longed so much to be a part of. She put that aside. She had the power now. Since Cindy thought big butts were so funny, maybe she’d like a little one. Well, she already had a cute little fanny, so Melissa went in closer.

Cindy let out an "Eep!" She felt a sudden tightening. Like her underwear was slipping up her crack. Like someone had just given her a wedgie. It wouldn’t be until later that she realized what had happened. It would be one of those private moments. Her in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet. Then she would know what had happened: her asshole had clenched as tight as Melissa’s fist. It was tiny. Barely even a hole. Smaller than even a baby’s asshole. And when she shit, every time she shit, it would feel like she was getting butt-fucked by the entire football team. Worse, not physically but socially, the shrinkage had been so severe that the muscles to clench and unclench had vanished completely: what this meant was Cindy would be sitting in class, showering in the girl’s locker room, cheering at the big game when a long loud whining whistling fart would pass and pass and pass through that tiny hole.

But that was neither here nor there.

Melissa had already moved on.

Drunk with power and tequila shots, she saw the class president, Nicole Madison. The kind of pretty girl in glasses that oversaw all the dances and social events and won elections by being cute and bringing cupcakes and free buttons with her smiling face on it.

Right now, Nicole was standing in line for the bathroom.

Melissa zeroed in on her.

The pressure in her breasts.

It was as if someone had grabbed two pieces of round clay and then squeezed. The result was Nicole’s breasts flattening beneath the gold halo, beneath the white satin of her angel costume: again, her breasts flattened, but, with that squeeze, where her tits left her nipples went. In mere moments, Nicole stood there flat chested with nipples tenting her costume like a pair of seven inch cocks. And the satin rubbed against them…

…and the satin rubbed against them…

…and the satin rubbed against them…

People watched.

Nicole was in the middle of the line when she fell to her knees, ripped the front of her costume open, and jerked off her huge, erect, intensely sensitive nipples. It took seconds before she was writhing on the floor in a triple orgasm. Something that would happen anytime anything touched her nipples, anytime Nicole ever tried to wear a shirt again. If she didn’t walk around topless (and extremely careful not to bump into anything), she’d find herself back on the ground jerking and jerking and cumming and cumming and cumming.

Tawnya Stevenson was a girl who got around a lot. She wasn’t even on the squad and she still got more dates than Melissa. A lot more dates! Melissa couldn’t count how many times she’d watched Tawnya from afar, flirting, giggling, leading some guy into some bedroom: just like she was doing right now.

As Tawnya passed, playfully holding the hand of John Brandy, leading him to the recently vacated guest bedroom, Melissa held her palm open. Her pussy, she thought. Her pussy!Herpussy!HERPUSSY! Then she closed her fist.

Tawnya let out a slight squeak, then vanished into the bedroom with John. That squeak, a few minutes later, was followed by a scream and Tawnya running out of the room half naked-her costume that of a girl in the Mickey Mouse Club, her mouse ears now askew. Pain had chased Tawnya out of that room. A pain that would follow her for the rest of her life…unless she found the right man that is. Melissa’s spell had shrunk Tawnya’s pussy so much that a guy with a two inch dick would feel like Zeus himself was fucking her. Any bigger than that…well, that would be too big to handle. And Tawnya was a sexual girl. She’d find she couldn’t be sated even after the humiliation of asking the clerk at the sex shop for the smallest dildo, the smallest vibrator they had. No, soon she would be online placing ads. And since many men didn’t come in her size, she’d soon become desperate. She’d soon be asking for any age, any weight, any look-cute or ugly-just please, please no bigger than two inches! No bigger!

The spell let Melissa see it. It let her see it all. The future. The embarrassment. The Halloween. These wonderful flesh costumes that would never end.

John stepped out of the guest bedroom a few minutes later. He caught Trey’s eye from across the room and they both gave each other a "what the fuck?" look then shrugged in mutual frustration. Frustration another girl knew was her chance to steal away Tawnya’s current beau.

"Hi Emily," Melissa said to another busty hottie from her squad dressed in a black cat costume with ears and a tail and painted on wiskers.

"Oh…hi…um…"

"Melissa."

"…Melissa…"

She passed without even a look.

Melissa watched her. This time she started with her fist clenched. Her pussy, she thought. Her pussy!Herpussy!HERPUSSY!

A loosening mistaken for a draft. Like she was wearing crotchless panties. The idea turned Emily on. If John was a good boy, maybe next time. There was talking. There was flirting. There was drinking. There was leading back to the infamous bedroom. Trey watched from across the room, rolled his eyes and muttered, "Good fucking luck."

But this time John made it.

He got that black nylon cat suit off. "But keep the ears and the whiskers," he said. "They’re sexy."

"You’re kinky," Emily cooed.

Then they fucked.

They fucked.

And fucked.

And fucked.

And fucked.

Emily sighed with boredom. It was like being banged by a five year old. She never knew John was such an…underachiever. Why had Tawnya ever bothered with him in the first place?

John, with his nine inch cock, kept fucking her. She was hot and she had big tits, but it was like fucking air. He kept looking down to see if he was even inside her. He was. His cock inside that big gaping vagina.

"Why don’t we try anal?" was what brought the proceedings to an end.

"As if I’d even feel it," Emily scoffed, slipping back into her black cat suit.

The thought that Melissa had was: Nevermore.

Not with the biggest cocked porn star.

Not with the world’s biggest dildo.

Not with a fucking elephant.

Your cunt will feel fulfilled, nevermore.

You will have an orgasm, nevermore.

12.

May you live in interesting times was the ancient Chinese curse the teenagers of Northridge High were coming to understand all too well. But they were not the only ones who were touched on this dark night. As was stated earlier in this text, the adults as well as the adolescents had fallen victim to the temptation of the tattoos. The soiree at the Myers’ house was not unlike that at the Thompson’s. Lawyers mingled with doctors mingled with accountants mingled with stock brokers. All the prominent adults of the community were in costume and accounted for. All the tattoos were stuck on and in place. The only difference was, in this case, the magic was patient for a more private setting. For while the malevolent force that lurked and hid all around them had easily clouded the minds of the younger generation, it was not at all confident that it could do the same to this older more mature group: particularly those of such impressive intellect. No, whatever had clawed its way up from out of the basement, from under the beds, from the cornfields and from the glow of the Jack-o’-lanterns, did not want to risk a blinding spell. At least on these people. At least en masse.

So it waited.

It waited for a few drinks.

It waited for a few more.

It waited for talk and chitchat and laughter.

It waited for the climax of the evenings affairs. Said climax coming in the form of a plastic pumpkin commonly used for trick or treating: well, the trick would be there at least.

Karen Myers held the pumpkin. Her husband, Mike Myers, held a tray with large metal keys upon it. Each pairing of keys baring a black number: 1 1, 2 2, 3 3, and so on. Each closed door in the house held a copper plate with one of the matching numbers carved into it.

The keys were dumped into the plastic pumpkin. The pumpkin was shaken.

"Alright, let the festivities begin!" Karen said in an entirely overly dramatic manner.

The men and women lined up. Many of them in pairs; most of them married, which was what made this game so naughty, so exciting.

Each key was plucked from the pumpkin in turn; each number was matched with its corresponding number; and each door was found and entered.

Sex, of course, was to be expected. And this was the true costume: to not be married; to be single; to have a new lover; to have a one night stand-to be someone new, someone who wasn’t you anymore, just for one night: Halloween.

Laura Strode, a prosecutor for the state, age 39, held key number six. After comparing it with some of the hotter guys at the party, she stared down at the six burnt into the key in Peter Jacobs’ hand. Peter Jacobs’, a sleek and sleazy BMW dealer.

At first Laura frowned. This was not the hot and heavy stud she’d imagined; this was not a man who lived up to her standards.

But I’m not a lawyer tonight, she thought. I’m a French Maid, I dressed up as a French Maid and that is what I am.

Peter wore a tuxedo and when he said, "Bond. James Bond," that sealed the deal.

The keys they both held led to the billiard room. Peter was already knocking the balls aside, intent on creating his makeshift bed as soon as possible.

"I like your costume," he said without looking at her.

"Thanks."

A chill ran through the room. The scarecrow tattoo on her lower thigh glowed.

Peter had finished clearing the table. He turned to her and unbuttoned, unzipped his pants. He was already hard.

"A little foreplay first," Laura suggested.

"Fine," his voice was gruff and annoyed.

This would normally have been the end of things (had Laura ever considered allowing this situation to come this far in the first place), but the idea of lowering herself, of being a bit of a tramp just for one night excited her.

Peter walked over to her. He groped at her breasts and ground his crotch into hers like some inexperienced teen.

"What’s with the hay?" he said.

"Huh?"

And there it was. Coarse yellow straw poking out of her sleeves, poking out the bottom of her ruffled skirt, sticking out of her cleavage. Just a few strands at first, then more and more. This didn’t phase Peter, didn’t even slow him down. He kept groping and the hay crackled.

There was a sense of sudden fearful vertigo as the room widened like a movie camera zooming backwards. A voice echoed, "Semen to semen, straw to straw. The opposite of death."

"That doesn’t make any sense," she said.

"What?" Peter said.

"Oh, um, the hay. I don’t remember putting the hay in there."

"It doesn’t go with your costume at all."

The strands of straw, the growth and falling off of her strands of maturity. The way you just know things without being told.

"Stop it!" Her voice was higher.

Peter sighed and pulled back.

"Didn’t you get the rules of the game?" he asked.

More straw, more straw, more straw.

When Peter Jacobs looked up he didn’t see Laura the attorney: hot despite her age. He saw Laura the eighteen year old. Laura the teenager: hot, no despites about it.

"Help me!" Laura cried. Her age turning more and more into straw. And now the room was really getting bigger, her boobs getting smaller, turning into hay, hay and the cute and pert tits of a sixteen year old. Laura was a sixteen year old because the hay had all the rest of her.

"I can’t be this young!" Laura whined in her thirteen year old voice. "I can’t go to court like this! I’ll be a laughing stalk. The judge won’t even allow it!"

"I don’t think it’s stopping," Peter said.

Hay fell out of her costume, out of her skirt and panties, out of her loose fishnets, her looser fishnets hanging from young scrawny legs. Out of her cleavage it grew and fell, piling at her feet. Her body at awkward puberty. Pimples, newly grown pubic hair. Pubic hair that became straw and fell out. The straw was a measurement of all her years, like the long webs of fate, and though Laura kept her mind, what was left of her when the straw stopped growing, was a little eight year old girl in an oversized French Maid outfit stuffed fat with hay.

In the mirror, little Laura Strobe stared.

"No! No! No! I’m a woman! I’m an attorney!" she screamed: a little girl throwing a temper tantrum.

This is what she would continue to yell, to scream as the adults who didn’t believe her, or pretended not to believe her for the sake of their sanity, stuck her back into grade school. Just as her new teacher, Mrs. James, would stick her with advanced physics and calculus just to keep things hard for her. Just to make her struggle for good grades just like all the other boys and girls.

13.

Lacy Jackson stood holding a key with the number four etched on it and she couldn’t have been more pleased. Rick Derace was her match. He wore a Superman costume, though he didn’t need the muscular body mold that came with the suit. He was one hundred percent natural muscle: chiseled by hours at the gym, and a successful broker to boot. Best of all was the jealous glare of Laura Strobe, Rick’s wife, as she was led into the billiard room by that sleaze Peter Jacobs.

What her and Rick’s keys opened turned out to be a padlock on the shed out back. Inside, a cement floor, hammers and saws and pitchforks and hatchets hung on the walls. Definitely something out of a teen slasher flick. It was perfect. Lacy loved Halloween. She loved the moodiness of the place. And she loved cold cement floors.

Rick shut the door behind them.

A tingling on her right hand.

Lacy looked down. Strangely, underneath the broom tattoo, the number 40 appeared in black. This was Stacy’s age (though she told everyone she was thirty-five), but that’s all the number meant to her.

She caught site of Rick. At his perfect body, and forgot about it.

Stacy in her naughty witch costume. The pointed black hat, the black dress, tight and law cute, her cleavage spilling out.

"Oh no! Oh no! Superman, I’m in trouble!"

Rick, playing the part, lowered his voice. "What seems to be the problem miss?"

"I’m just so horny! I don’t know what to do!"

"Don’t worry!" Superman declared. "I’ll save you!"-the prominent boner in his tights proving he meant it. Then he started to take those tights off.

Then another tingling.

Lacy looked down. To her amazement, the broom was moving. She watched as it lowered down to the number 40 and began brushing back and forth. Lacy gasped. It felt as if her entire body was being swept side to side. It felt as if dirt, or dust…or something was being brushed out of her.

When the broom rose and solidified, the number now read 25.

Rick turned. It could be the lighting, the single bulb hanging on a string. But what he saw was a young woman. A woman without the few wrinkles he’d noticed earlier. A woman who’s breasts didn’t need the support of underwires to create the illusion of perkiness, but, rather, stood round and firm all on their own. A woman, young and nubile and ready for him.

Lacy vaguely noticed the changes, her mind still recovering from that queer sweeping sensation. Then Rick walked across the room, his tights off, his cock hard, and he grabbed her and he kissed her.

Lacy lost herself in the moment. Her hot lips pressed against his. Their tongues. Those passionate kisses like the cover of some cheesy romance novel with his dick pressed firmly against her. The tingling returned. The sweeping. The broom had lowered again. The broom was sweeping again, but Lacy ignored it. Lacy told herself that it was just her lust. Her hormones going wild. They said you got swept up in the moment for a reason. They said you got swept away. And that’s what Lacy felt, like she was being swept away.

On her hand, the broom, back and forth, back and forth.

Rick kissed the fifteen year old girl in the loose black dress, the dress that hung off one shoulder. He kissed her and kissed her and pulled her back up to him, assuming she had sat down, never imagining she’d lost height.

It was her moans that gave the game away.

Those high pitched pubescent moans.

"The fuck?!" Rick said, pushing her back so she clomped and stumbled on her loose fitting shoes, narrowly avoiding falling on her ass.

Lacy looked down at herself.

"Oh God!"

"What the hell is going on?!"

"I don’t know! I don’t know! Oh God I don’t know!"

That tingling. That brushing.

"No! No! No!"

Lacy clung to herself, tried to hold herself together. But she just wouldn’t stay. She was swept away like dust. She vanished in her dress. Her breasts vanished in her hands. Her hat hung low and covered her eyes.

Then the dress fell off her.

And a five year old wobbling in a pair of oversized high heels stood in front of Rick Derace.

Like so many guys before him, Rick was putting his pants back on in a rush. He was getting out of here.

"What’s happening to me?!" Lacy demanded in that little girl voice of hers as the broom and the number 5 vanished in a puff of green smoke.

"I don’t know," Rick said. "I don’t care. I’m getting out of here before it happens to me."

Then he was gone.

He’d left the door open behind him and now it swayed and creaked back and forth in the wind. Lacy tried to follow, tried to get help. But in those huge heels, she just couldn’t manage: she stumbled, she fell and she landed on her tiny little bum.

And then she started to cry.

Epilogue

The old man stood naked in his dark house. Those simple black outlines of temporary (although some might argue quite permanent) tattoos covered his entire body: witch, pumpkin, ghost, scarecrow, skeleton, broom, pitchfork. Seven shades of black. His once flaccid penis now pulsing and erect. His stringy white hair falling over his face, his ears: the hearing aid he wore. His yellowed dentures clattered in his mouth. In his right hand he held a butcher knife. Thick black liquid ran down the blade: drip, drip, drip in the puddle below it. All around the house, blood covered candy, bloody masks. The bodies of children lured in despite the house’s reputation by promises of hands full of chocolate.

No light bulbs burnt in this house of hell. Only candles. Candles burning everywhere. Black candles. Candles that looked like soot. The stink of sulfur thick in the air. The cancer eating at his belly.

He paced. Candy squishing between his toes. He stepped on bodies. On tiny hands and feet, on eyes wide with lifeless terror. He kneeled. He dropped the knife. He dipped his palms in the freshest of blood. The blood that hadn’t clotted yet. And then he began to paint the walls.

"Halloween has come!" the old man shrieked, busy in his work.

The ragged mutt lifted its milky eyes to his master.

"Halloween has come! And it is never, ever leaving agaaaaaain!"

The End

 

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