Directions are never simple when you get them from one-eyed gypsies. The map I bartered in exchange for a mason jar filled with my own blood was etched into a chunk of goat skull, and now the jagged lines leading to the Humanoids are chalking away in the driving sheets of black rain. Ropy veins of undergrowth claw at my ankles as I push forward, my flashlight beam bouncing in front of me like a determined hunting dog sniffing out a wounded fox, ear splitting thunder lashing at my back like a whip, propelling me forward. A shovel over my left shoulder, an emergency crucifix shoved into my breast pocket, I am a Burke without a Hare, a grave robber with no riches awaiting my prying fingers, only a story, and a band, to unearth. Eventually, I stumble into a clearing, clotted under a hazy yellow fog. Brambles and crumbling stone crunch under my feet. It’s wet here, and things slither, unseen save for red eyes that blink and then scramble into the murk. Somewhere, probably in my head, an ancient church bell rings 12 times, and then falls silent. I’ve arrived, I’m sure of it, because there isn’t anywhere left to go, only inky blackness as far as the eyes can see. I am on the very lip of the world, the end of the road. A curious mixture of dread and determination overwhelms me. I slip the last dregs of liquid courage from my flask, and discard it, knowing that there isn’t much chance I’ll ever need it again. I am merely a pawn in an interstellar chess game, a servant of a profoundly cosmic evil whose plans are so dark and sinister, I dare not think of what horrible fate awaits the sleeping planet. I am doomed. I dig.

Hours pass, and my muscles scream for relief, threatening to snap. I am waist deep in the blackest of holes. Finally, my shovel strikes stone. A ghastly laugh passes my lips, the first sign of a shrieking madness that I feel engulfing me. I begin smashing at the marble with all of my remaining strength. Soon, the first crack. It emits a weird green light that quickly spreads throughout the hole and out into the abandoned cemetery. A scratching can be heard from under the stone, and it soon grows into a deafening crunch, the grave’s inhabitants smashing their way out of their confines. My work is done. I can only step back and watch as this horrible abomination unfolds. Perhaps because he’s the smallest member of the Humanoids, Johnny Machine is the first to crawl from that cursed hole. His already thin frame and chiseled features are even more meatless and ghostly from his time in the cold earth, although his Iron Maiden t-shirt and leather pants remain oddly intact. He reaches back into the grave, and with a sickly sucking sound, he pulls up his guitar. Worms pour out of its hollow body. I am frozen in terror as he lurches towards me. I reach into my pocket, passing over the cross, and grab my pack of Marlboros and a lighter shaped like a tiny gun. I offer them to the shuffling corpse. He takes them, lights a cigarette, and inhales deeply. The smoke drifts hazily from the puckered bullet hole in his forehead. He creaks closer to me, so close that his yellowed teeth scratch my cheek as he croaks into my ear. "Rock and Roll", he says, his voice a froggy horror, his breath smelling of snakes and brimstone, "will never die." And then, mercifully, everything goes black.

Days have passed, perhaps weeks, I can no longer tell. The Humanoids have me trapped here in this dank dungeon, surrounded by the gnawed bones of their victims. I refuse to eat, fearing that the gray meat they offer me are the remains of one of my own species. I lick the damp walls, lest I die of thirst in this horrid place. Periodically, the Humanoids come down here, forcing me to ask them questions. They will let me go, they promise, if I promote their rock band. I am too weak to resist. They plan on using this masquerade to infiltrate society, to hypnotize the citizens with raunchy hard rock, pulling them into their spiral of Hell with Kiss inspired party anthems. Halloween , they think, is the perfect time to launch their campaign of terror. "People enjoy Halloween, because they get to dress up as someone else." Guitarist Mike Demonic observes. "Fortunately for us, we look like this all the time." Clay Nferno, the vocalist, adds, "And the best part is, it makes it easier for us to find victims. Nobody suspects that we really are zombies. They think it’s just a costume, and they quickly find out the truth, becoming another delicious snack for the Humanoids." He smiles that lip-less undead smile, a hideous thing to behold. "Everyday is Halloween for us, pretty much", Johnny Machine tells me, except for the candy part."

I don’t know how much of what they tell me is true, and how much of it is mere conjecture, an unholy ruse to make them appear normal to the record buying public. The only facts of the case that I can confirm are these. The Humanoids come from another world, a vicious planet on the other side of the galaxy, a world of monsters who cannot die, only feast on the living. A planet with no name. "It’s too evil for a name’, I am informed, "but everybody knows where the fuck we’re from." They beamed down on Earth from a rocket ship manned by their drummer, ‘The Sinister Mister B’, 2 years ago, after hearing transmissions of FM radio broadcasts from 1979 that had finally reached their airspace. Enflamed by the sounds they heard, they decided to invade our planet, in search of the mythical ‘chicks and rock’ promised them by the Van Halen, Kiss, MC5, and AC/DC songs they intercepted from space. Being of a higher intelligence, they managed to successfully channel these rock and roll elements into a nearly bullet-proof sound of their own, quickly attracting a rabid following of rock fans. Fans that are completely unaware of the dark forces they worship with the banging of heads and the shaking of fists. Recently, they released their first 7 inch single, ‘Dirty Moves’ a sleaze metal anthem that has only served to further their plans for world domination. And now, they plan to recruit even more slaves into their nefarious mission with a brain eating orgy disguised as a Hallows Eve celebration. Beyond that, I can only report what they tell me.

Our conversation turns towards Halloween. Obviously, the Humanoids favorite holiday. "I’ve never received an apple with a razorblade in it, much to my disappointment", Mike reports. "If somebody gave me an apple on Halloween, it was going right through their living room window", Clay says. "In my neighborhood, there were like thirty 17 year old kids, so the police would just rope us off, blocking the streets, because it was like a war zone", Joey tells me. "I’ve gotten hit with eggs many, many times. And not always on Halloween, either." A peel of demonic laughter fills the room. "Me too", Mike says. "It wasn’t Halloween last time. I think it was just a random, drive-by egging." Johnny snickers. "We’re experts at getting hit with all sorts of things." I ask the Humanoids if they have any specific Halloween message. "Be spooky all day. Creep out your Fiends. Set up pranks." Clay demands. "And don’t forget to praise Satan", Mike adds. And then, the Humanoids left me to my ghastly work. After handing them many manuscripts, written on rotting cardboard and caked in my own blood and filth, they finally relented. I had written their wretched story, and they were through with me. The tossed me, blind-folded, into some kind of vehicle. They drove into the city. I was cast back into the blinding daylight, and told to never speak of the things I’d seen. As if anyone would believe me anyway.