As anyone who's told tall tales around a fire can attest, it's always good to have a scary story or two up one's sleeve. And for this week's Halloween issue, we enlisted staff and friends alike to share their true (and not so true) recountings, along with illustrations by Dominic De Venuta:

Aaaaaand, we have one more bonus story for you from the Mercury's resident metal music writer, Aris Wales, who has "been dabbling in horror/Twilight Zone-y stories for a while now." Of course he is. Check it out below, and check the rest out over here.

Joined at the Grave

Francis digs graves. While his name may sound fragile, a gentleman he is not. Francis is a Sodomite. A vile man. A gluttonous pig. He drinks, smokes, snorts, shoots, and fucks whatever he can, whenever he can. To supply his vices and solicitations, Francis steals from the dead. Anything that will fetch a price. Even a man’s boots.

It’s a sunny day. Francis is digging. There’s a fresh one tomorrow. The headstone was finished today. Etched in it was a woman’s name. Francis didn’t remember what it was. Useless details. However, the corpses of women leave him and his wallet salivating. Women have more accouterments.

Francis leaned against a nearby tree and watched the service. Nobody came. Only the priest. And without an audience, a priest is like a clown without make-up. The holy man shuffled off. Reading nothing. Not saying a word.

“She must be a devil like me,” Francis thought.

Before lowering her, Francis went about his normal business. The casket was cracked. It moaned and creaked open. Beneath the lid, lay a beautiful bride. Bathed in an elegant white gown that matched the paleness of her flesh. While briefly stopped by her innocence, and the oddness of a woman being buried in a wedding dress, the moment was fleeting for Francis.

He proceeded with the task at hand. He spotted a prize. A grand ring. Gold. Encrusted with diamonds. The sun created many hypnotizing, glorious rainbows of light from it.

Hesitation flashed across Francis’ mind. Flashed and disappeared. He gently slid the prize from her cold finger, and gave her a jovial wink.

“I now pronounce you Francis, and unwifed,” he quietly sneered.

Francis took the ring home. It was too late to sell. He placed it on his bedside. He drank and flagellated himself to sleep. Per usual.

The next morning, Francis’ muscles were stiff. Almost atrophied. No amount of motion freed them. He called in sick. He drank. He smoked. Drank. Smoked.

“The ring!” he remembered. “I’ll sell it! Maybe purchase a top shelf lady of the night! She’ll free my body from this strife!”

But he couldn’t sell the ring. It was special to him. He couldn’t part with it. He passed out clutching it.

Francis awoke the following day to the feeling of the sun on his face. His eyes, with much effort and pain, slowly opened. Francis couldn’t move. He couldn’t even lift his head. The skin he could see was bluing. Affixed in his line of sight…the ring. And with all that effort to free his vision, he could no longer shut his eyes.

The sun went up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Francis had no visitors. Nobody called. He didn’t sleep. He withered. The bed sheets yellowed around him. His body decaying. His hair and nails grew. The ring. He saw nothing else. The ring, and his rot. Parasites devoured him. He watched. And watched. And watched…