A Visit From Saint Michael - A Halloween Story - Sex Stories

A Visit From Saint Michael - A Halloween Story

... hard to view the disintegrated shell of what had once been such a powerful and great man. I would tell them that it had been troubling to see what the ravages of age could do to such a brilliant mind. So, out of respect for all that Marvin H. Summerfield had once been, I would tell only of what he had once accomplished, not what he had currently become. Such a non-interview wouldn’t get published either. As I reached my car, a soft voice spoke from next to me. “You have my permission to tell the story once Marvin is gone. That will be just before next Halloween.” He laughed slightly. It was a chilling laugh, but I could not say why. He continued in a slightly stronger voice. “In fact, I insist that you tell it.” I turned and there was a very handsome young man standing next to me. “And you are?” I said somewhat angrily. “Names are so unimportant,” he replied in his calm, sweet voice. “All that is important is that you release the story.” I replied, “My editor will never publish it.” He laughed again and pushed his finger against the pocket of my coat. For the slightest of moments it looked as if his hand were just skeletal bones pressing against my jacket. My smart phone chimed, beeped and chirped all at the same time. “I sent you some links,” he explained. “Post the story on those sites. They all have contests for Halloween. They will publish it even if your editor will not.” His voice changed. It became higher pitched and almost cold as he said. “In fact, I insist that you ...

... publish this story as a warning to others. Remember, you have until the day of the dead next year. If I do not see it on all of those sites, I will return.” “Who are you?” I asked. This time it was not so much a question as a statement of shock and fear. He smiled at me and said, “My ancient name is “Mictlantecuhtli” or “Mictecacihuatl” if you would rather think of me as a woman. When the invaders stole my people’s native tongue, I became known as “Santa Muerte.” As he turned and began to walk away, he added, “... but you can call me Michael.” The handsome young man was gone. In his place was a robed figure walking away from me. As he walked, I could see skeletal feet beneath the robe and skeletal hands protruding from the sleeves. He turned again to face me– if you could call what turned to me a face. An old woman’s voice came from the skull within the hood. “Remember, the story must be told before next year’s day of the dead.” He... she... it... laughed once again. The image of the open mouth of that skull as it laughed is burned into my memory forever . So are the final words it spoke, “... or you will find out what it means to receive a visit from Saint Michael.” *** That is the true story of what happened at that infamous Halloween party behind the gates of hell at the mansion called The Dungeon of Hedonism. Perhaps I should have warned you at the beginning not to read it aloud... especially not to say the names aloud... most especially not to repeat Mickey-choo-choo or ...