This was the start of an idea to have a group write a story in a common world. Then we added a few central characters that everyone could use -- Mr. Perkins the school Principal. Chief Cody the Chief of Police etc.

Ground rules is you can't kill or hurt them. They must be available to wander into somebody else's story. A few key locations: ticket booth, buffet table, kitchen, bathroom, dance hall, DJ, and you can't trash or alter these locations.

He lingered over his beer, spilling the last few drops onto the floor for the ancestors.
"Ready for another Mr. ?" The bartender questioned.
"Wisakedjak, you can call me 'Whiskey Jack' if you prefer, it's easier for you Europeans to say." He replied.

As the bartender went to fetch another beer he looked around the place that was built upon the sacred burial grounds from so long ago. They had even buried their own ancestors here, over top of the ancestors in the graveyard next door. This was a place of great power. The intersection of many cultures. Unknowing and uncaring the Europeans were, no respect for the old ways. No courtesy, no manners, no sense of style. Even their Gods and Demons were just a faint reflection of the old ways.

The Great Spirit had given this world to his people. Wisakedjak should know, he was the first animal. Being first, he was at once the wisest of animals and the most foolish. The bravest and the most cowardly. The smartest and the dumbest. But even so, he had been around for a very, very long time and was nobodies fool. He was the coyote, the trickster, your best friend and your worst enemy, all at the same time.

The European invaders had even brought their own Gods and Demons to this land. Wisakedjak liked to play tricks, and this was Halloween, the European holiday. Now it was his holiday too! He smiled a toothy little grin.

A group of bikers walked in. Sleek as greyhounds in their leathers . Wearing their 'colors' proudly on their backs. A picture of a werewolf with the words 'Original' under it and then the 'MC' under that. They were all wearing 'wolfsbane' charms to keep them from turning, even though it was a full moon tonight. Whiskey jack muttered to himself. 'Werewolves, pahh! A real Windago would rip through them like a hurricane in a maize field. Werewolves can be killed, not so with a Windago, they can only be banished. Silly Europeans.'

She parked the battered green pickup in the farthest corner of the parking lot and left it with the windows down and keys in the ignition. Just as she'd found it when she stole it from him.

"We're home," said her daughter just awakening.

"Not yet honey."

Pulling the young girl behind, she headed towards the front door. It appeared to be a bar or nightclub, but that might mean he wouldn't think to look for them here. The sign above the door read, The 13th Annual Halloween Party and Costume Event.

Two steps inside the door she realized her mistake. A cover charge. After thirteen dollars just seven would remain.

"How ya doin'? I'm Al. The bartender. Wendy had to tinkle so I'm coverin' the door for her." He eyed her with doubt then had a look of understanding. "Hey, no problem lady. Those with exceptional costumes get in free."

"Costumes?"

"Yeah." He waved around the room. "We got your vampires, witches, zombies, werewolves and such," he grinned, "but you are the sole participants who came as a mother and child fleeing in terror. I think we'll clear enough tonight we can let your cover slide."

A young woman, Wendy she assumed, walked up. "Hey Al, thanks. I needed that. You have people at the bar complaining they are dying of thirst."

"Nuts most of 'em were dead before they got here. Come on," he took the young girls hand, "let's get you and mamma-san a table up by the bar."

Abigail Primrose sat nervously in her car trying to build up the courage to go in. She looked in the rear view mirror for the umpteenth time that night and adjusted the lock of brown hair she always wore draped over the scar on her forehead. It was always so hard to meet new people. She hated it. But being undead sort of made it a necessity. People always noticed when you didn’t age. They always commented on how you managed to keep your looks – after ALL these years. And if you stayed too long in one place they’d eventually start to suspect there was something wrong with you. So every few years you moved on. You changed your name and started again – having to meet new people.

Maybe she should just give it up, she told herself. Maybe she should hide in a crypt like other zombies and resign herself to a non-life of loss and loneliness. But with an involuntary shudder Abigail answered her own question. Abigail Primrose was not a monster. She was a fighter. If she could dig herself out of her grave to avenge her own murder then gosh darn it she could go to a Halloween party. Maybe she’d meet a nice man at this party – somebody sensitive and open-minded. Maybe she’d have some fun. At the very least she’d get out of the house. Besides, she told herself, she couldn’t go home just yet -- she’d made a roast.

Looking on the seat besides her she stared at the covered dish she’d prepared for the occasion. She just hoped the others at the party would like it. She’d tinkered with the recipe a bit. Paula Deen, celebrity chef, cookbook author, and blue-eyed belle of southern cooking had been very clear that one should only use apple cider vinegar in curing one’s meat but Abigail preferred balsamic vinegar. It was a taste she’d picked up on her Grand Tour of Italy. Wine, even sour wine, she felt made everything more special. But, admittedly, it was an ingredient that wasn’t always to everyone’s taste.