HALLOWEEN WEEK 2025 CONTEST
Second-Place Winner
BY JENNIFER CANAVERAL
Copyright is held by the author.
LYNETTE LOCKED herself in the upstairs bathroom and studied her face in the mirror. She rubbed the dry skin encrusting her eyelids and brows. Her irises were ablaze yet, through the burning, she managed to glare at her altered reflection with contempt. Inhabiting this deteriorating body was exhausting enough but finding courage to open the bathroom door and face her sorority sisters felt impossible.
“Hey, Lynette,” A voice said, followed by a light knock. “It’s Dina. Are you all right in there? We’re worried about you.”
You should be worried, Lynette thought.
She wanted to confide in them but couldn’t face the ridicule. Couldn’t stand admitting her blasé and snide attitude towards that smarmy vendor is what put her in this heinous position.
***
The vendor seemed innocent enough. Just another local eccentric, hawking his homemade something or other at a farmer’s market. The man’s claims were so ridiculous, Lynette had to entertain them, if only for sheer amusement.
“The beauty secrets of my Ottoman Viper Oil date back to Ancient Greece,” The vendor told Lynette. “Inhale its essence by using the oil in a diffuser overnight. Put it on your face, massage it into your scalp, and apply droplets onto your eyes! This oil fixes any and all beauty woes because only the unique oils extracted from the Ottoman viper — Greece’s most venomous snake—contain exceptional properties. Certain . . . metamorphic properties, you might say.”
“So, you are literally a snake oil salesman?” Lynette asked, her tone deadpan, as she inspected the bottle.
“Yes, I am,” The vendor replied. “And for the small price of thirty dollars, you can be a snake oil proprietor.”
Originally, the purchase was a joke — a gag gift for a future Dirty Santa exchange, perhaps — but Lynette soon found herself entranced with the oil. The plan was strictly to test its potency in a diffuser, practice self-care with a little aromatherapy, but Lynette wouldn’t be satisfied with solely inhalation of the product. She felt a sudden desire, an all-consuming urgency to douse herself with the snake oil.
Following the vendor’s instructions, Lynette rubbed the oil all over her face and body, massaged it deep into her scalp, saturated every strand of hair, and even squeezing oil droplets into her eyes until she exhausted all the bottle’s contents.
The next morning, nagging headaches and stabbing eye pain plagued Lynette. She experienced pounding, debilitating migraines while her eyes burned with the slightest exposure to light. Analgesics like ibuprofen failed to have any effect on the throbbing and no ophthalmic solution available could thwart her photophobia.
Following the headaches, Lynette’s hairline started receding and clumps of her silky, flaxen tresses peeled away from her scalp. As alopecia quickly set in, Lynette’s entire integumentary system malfunctioned; her once healthy complexion now resembled the dry, gauzy skin of a molting snake.
Since initiating the Ottoman Viper Oil aromatherapy, Lynette rarely left the sorority house. If she did, it wasn’t without a pair of dark-tinted sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt to conceal her hair loss and desiccated skin. Hers may have been the worst case of caveat emptor in existence and there was nothing left to do but figure out how to live with this unfortunate transformation.
***
Lynette gripped the edge of the sink, reliving her encounter with the vendor.
So, you are literally a snake oil salesman?
These haunting words reverberated in her mind, like a relentless echo compounding her embarrassment and anguish.
Lynette collapsed to the bathroom floor, raising her hands to her head and feeling a cluster of small, tender mounds. She stood up, examining the bumps in the mirror when a sun ray beamed through a shower window. The rays blinded Lynette, causing her to writhe in pain, as streams of salty tears excoriated her tender corneas.
“Lynette,” Dina said through the bathroom door. “Come out and talk to us. We barely see you anymore and it’s got me worried.”
Lynette wiped her tears with a hand towel and took a deep breath. She gathered her composure as best as she could then replied, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be out soon.” As she debated whether or not to unlock the door, a buzzing from above caught her attention and she stared horrified as a lone yellow jacket flew past the shower curtain.
The prescribed Epi-Pen she was supposed to have on her at all times? In the downstairs kitchen. Her eyes widened as she leered at the wasp, following it as it hovered over the shower then descended towards the toilet. It flew aimlessly in circles until it collapsed and made a clinking sound as it plopped onto the porcelain lid.
The insect lay motionless, but was it dead?
Lynette grabbed a toothbrush by the sink, ready to inspect and prod the corpse but, before she could, a strange wave swept across the wasp’s body, muting its vibrant yellow abdomen to a dull grey. With the toothbrush, she scooted the corpse until it dropped and shattered onto the tiled floor.
Lynette collected the ashen remains, rolling the firm granules between her fingertips and identified its coarse texture.
“Stone,” She whispered to herself then touched her eyelids, feeling a strange sense of ease, the chronic pain throughout her body suddenly lifting.
“You sure you’re all right, Lynette?” Another voice — an irate voice — said through door. “I mean, I’m sorry you’re feeling like crap and all, but some of us need to shower! In this century!”
Lynette stood up and, once again, studied her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were still wrecked but no longer burning. The mounds forming on her scalp were all coming to a head, like a cluster of pustules nearing eruption, only these were no pustules. No pimply whiteheads at all.
Surveying her translucent scalp, Lynette saw each mound had a serpentine head and a pair of beady eyes. She touched their tiny heads as they thrashed on top of her skull and felt an aching in her bones — a sort of maternal pang — sensing the snake “births” were imminent. Lynette patted the tender mounds with tears welling in her bloodshot eyes, then said, “Soon, darlings. When you’re ready, Mommy will be here to greet you.”
“Look, Lynette,” The angry voice said, followed by a fist pound on the door. “Open up and toss us a bottle of Motrin! That shitty oil you’ve been diffusing all week is killing us. Thanks to you, we all have migraines and the gnarliest cases of pink eye known to man!” Caressing the budding snakes, Lynette closed her eyes in ecstasy and whispered, “You hear that, little ones? My sorority sisters are blessing you with cousins.
***
Jennifer Canaveral is a writer and librarian’s assistant from San Francisco, CA, U.S. She is the author of the 101 Horror Movie Haiku series. Her most recent work was published on the 50-Word Stories website. Jennifer lives in Kodiak, Alaska with her husband and three children.
