Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
By the time we stumble up my walkway, the sun’s threatening to crest the trees, fog machines still pumping mist across the lawn like Silent Hill with a party planner, and my skeleton militia standing guard like they’re waiting for roll call.
Bonehead stomps to a stop in the graveyard display, head swiveling between the foam tombstones and the lingerie orgy of twelve-foot skeletons draped across my yard. His hollow sockets widen. “Smash family?”
“No!” I squeak, flapping my arms as I drag my cart past him. “Those are lawn decorations, not cousins. Don’t smash them!”
He pouts, massive skull drooping like a puppy denied a chew toy.
Skully struts up the porch steps like he owns the place, sockets flicking to each animatronic zombie frozen mid-lurch.
One’s missing a hand, another shrieks “Braaaains!” every time a moth flaps past. He throws his arms wide like a punk rocker basking in an encore.
“Now this is my kind of freakshow. You’re telling me this is your house?
Babe, I’ve died twice and this is still the best thing I’ve ever seen. ”
“Compliment accepted!” I chirp, shoving the door open with my hip. Fog spills inside, curling over the glittery purple cobweb curtains and jack-o’-lantern string lights.
The werewolf in the corner perks up instantly, eyes glowing, voice box crackling: “Get out!”
Bonehead roars with laughter, pointing at it like it’s the funniest punchline in the universe. Then he barrels forward and tries to wrestle it, knocking over a velvet pillow shaped like a severed head.
“Don’t break him!” I shriek, diving in to rescue my animatronic. “He’s dramatic, not durable!”
Skully cackles so hard he nearly topples backward into my coffin coffee table.
“Holy fuck, this place is better than cable. Do you have any idea what kind of sitcom you’re running here?
Skeletons wrestling animatronics, haunted fog machine ambiance, neon fucking signage-” He gestures up at the bubblegum-pink glow above the bar cart.
“Rest in Pieces. That’s comedy gold. I wanna live here forever. ”
Meanwhile, Marrow glides across the living room like a Victorian ghost haunting a Pinterest board. He stops beneath the glowing sign, sockets tilted up in reverence. “Ah. A shrine. Death made sweet.”
“It’s a liquor shelf,” I say, tossing my hair. “But thank you, I did arrange it aesthetically.”
Bonehead pins the werewolf down and roars in triumph, raising one skeletal hand like a gladiator. “Smash wolf!”
The chandelier rattles overhead, fog curls out of the kitchen, Boa Gary’s jaw clatters from where he’s dancing with Detective Clawson as if to say what the fuck have you done now, October.
I flop back on the couch, hair spilling over the bat-stitch cushions, staring at the three of them like I just accidentally adopted three Great Danes with murderous tendencies. The fog machine hisses like it’s listening.
“So…” I twirl a strand of hair around my finger, flashing them a grin that wobbles somewhere between manic and horny.
“Quick question. How am I supposed to keep you? Y’know, tether you or whatever.
” I pitch my tone low trying to mimic Marrow’s voice, but with more of a ghostly ooooh to it. “Bind blood to bone. Flesh to flesh!”
That gets their attention. All three skulls swivel toward me like synchronized Halloween props.
Bonehead stomps forward first, shaking the werewolf’s decapitated head like a puppet. “Smash binding!” he booms. “You smash bone to bone! Like rocks! Like…marriage!” He slams the wolf head into the floor so hard the voice box lets out a garbled “geeeet ouuuut…” before sputtering into silence.
I press my palms together, eyes wide. “That sounds…violent. Which, okay, on brand, but maybe not practical?”
Skully leans back against the coffin table, crossing his long arms, sockets glinting like he’s about to roast me alive.
“Christ, doll, don’t listen to Mr. Mallet over there.
Binding isn’t a demolition derby. You want tethering?
Easy. Tattoos, blood oaths, sex magic. Or hell—just duct tape us together and call it a day.
It worked on your craft blanket, didn’t it? ”
I perk up. “Blood oaths, sex magic, and duct tape? Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Course I am.” He gestures lazily to the pile of purple streamers still stuck to his shin from the cemetery. “You already wrapped me once, sweetheart. Never thought I’d get mummified by Party City clearance.”
Before I can cackle, Marrow drifts closer, lowering himself in front of me like a courtier kneeling to his queen.
His fingers hover near my knee, careful, reverent.
“The others mock, but it is simple,” he murmurs, voice velvet smoke.
“Blood to bone. Flesh to flesh. One drop of your blood upon ours, one kiss of your lips upon death’s grin, a physical binding to represent the soul and we are yours. Until the veil closes.”
“Ohhh,” I breathe, goosebumps prickling up my thighs. “See, that’s hot. Why can’t you two explain it like that?”
Bonehead slams his hand against his chest with a hollow thunk. “Smash is hot!”
Skully snorts. “Yeah, if she’s into concussions.”
“I am!” I chirp brightly.
All three of them look at me—one exasperated, one delighted, one swooning like a tragic poet—and for the first time in my entire life, I feel like maybe I found my people. My…bone people.
I shoot to my feet, hair whipping like I’m in a shampoo commercial for deranged goths. “Okay! Blood oaths, duct tape, and sex rituals sound amazing—but first things first: shopping trip!”
Three skulls tilt at me like confused puppies.
“Shopping,” I repeat, hands on hips. “You think I’ve got ritual supplies just lying around? I mean, yes, I do have twelve gallons of fake blood, but I don’t think Spirit Halloween sells soul-binding rope.”
Skully cackles, leaning back against my neon Rest In Pieces sign until it flickers like a dying rave. “Oh, this is rich. She raises the dead and immediately takes us on a retail field trip. What are we doing, love? Popping down to Target for sage and sex candles?”
“Target has everything,” I say solemnly. “Also, if I don’t get a pumpkin spice latte in the next twenty minutes, I will die, and then you’ll have to find some other slut to blood-bond with.”
Bonehead stomps forward, chest puffed out. “I like smashing shops.”
I squeal and grab his bony cheeks like he’s a toddler. “No smashing, baby. We want a smooth shopping experience. Well—smooth-ish.”
Marrow steps closer, folding his hands behind his back with aristocratic grace. “Beloved, though I am ever your devoted knight, I fear skeletons in the mortal marketplace may draw…attention.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” I clap my hands. “I have disguises.”
Cut to my front porch ten minutes later, where the neighbors are probably wondering why three six-foot-tall men are standing under my twinkling purple jack-o’-lantern lights looking like rejected contestants on America’s Next Top Costume Party.
Bonehead wears one of my twelve-foot skeleton’s cozy horror sweaters, bright orange with a giant black cat across the chest. His skull pokes proudly out of the neckline, the sleeves dangling limp past his bony fingers.
On his pelvis I’ve duct-taped a jack-o’-lantern bucket, for modesty, because he asked for it.
Right over the black sweatpants that hang off of me, but look more like capris on him, with pink glittery skeletons climbing up the legs and Bone Me scrawled across the ass.
Skully got shoved into a leather jacket three sizes too small, loose, ripped boyfriend jeans, and a pair of neon shutter shades I found in my party bin. “I look like a cocaine PSA,” he deadpans.
“You look hot,” I assure him.
“I look like a midlife crisis with bone spurs.”
“Still hot!”
Marrow, of course, I dressed with ceremony. Long black trench coat over black leather pants. Velvet scarf. A lace cravat I once thrifted. And, the crowning glory: one of my wide-brimmed witch hats perched jauntily on his bare skull. He tips it when I look. I nearly orgasm on the spot.
“Behold,” I announce proudly to the empty street, gesturing at my boney boy band. “The most inconspicuous trio you’ve ever seen.”
A passing car honks. Someone yells, “Nice skeletons!” out the window.
Bonehead waves enthusiastically, knocking his pumpkin bucket clean off.
“Okay!” I clap. “Field trip! Target run! No traumatizing joggers this time, please.”
Skully mutters, “Can’t believe I crawled out of the grave for this.”
“Believe it,” I chirp, strutting ahead in my crop top that says Final Girl in dripping blood font, micro mini plaid skirt, knee socks spattered with fake blood and intentional rips, and five inch red heels.
“I have a boner,” Skully groans, bones clacking as he follows behind me. “Get it? A bone-er! Yet…still no cock. But if I had one, I’d totally screw you right here on the sidewalk for all your judgy neighbors to see, October-Baby.”
I spin on my heel, blowing him a kiss that would absolutely get me arrested in at least six states. “Promises, promises. Save the sidewalk sex for when you have a dick, Skully. I have a shopping list.”
Bonehead stomps up beside me, clutching his pumpkin bucket to his pelvis like it’s both a shield and a dick stand-in. “I like lists,” he declares. “Smash list?”
“No, baby.” I pat his clavicle like a dog I’m trying to calm. “This is a shopping list. Different kind of smash. Retail smash.”
“Smash carts?” His sockets light up like he’s just discovered God.
I beam. “Exactly! Smash carts.”
Marrow trails behind, gliding like mist in his dramatic trench coat, head cocked in polite disapproval. “Beloved,” he says, voice low and velvety, “forgive my candor, but perhaps skulking through a mortal temple of commerce while half-exposed is…unwise.”