"We Go Every Year" by Pam McHugh — Our June 2025 Silver Medal Winner
Pam is our second place winner from the contest posted in our June 2025 issue!
What the judges had to say:
“The character depth delivered in this short fiction story was remarkable, and this author made every line count.”
“A wild tale from beginning to end. Could definitely be in a Creeper Crypt magazine!”
“...a fun read!”
Meet Pam
Pam McHugh lives and works in Calgary, Alberta. She has discovered the joy of creative writing in middle age. Many of Pam's ideas come from her children.
We Go Every Year
the unedited story by Pam McHugh
“We’re not turning around,” Tony hollers back at his whining brother. “Mom needs a break.”
The boys emerge through a thicket of yellow birch trees; their rubber boots sink into the sphagnum moss floor.
Tony wasn’t sure they’d make the trip until yesterday. “We go every year and we’re going this year,” their mother said, tossing clothes into her open suitcase.
So, here they are in the Cape Breton Highlands.
“You’re being a butthead,” Frankie says, jogging alongside Tony.
“Try sleeping with yourself,” Tony shoots back. The boys share the cabin’s second bedroom and its double bed. “Stop reading those Crypt Keeper comics and you won’t get nightmares.”
Frankie’s nightmares aren’t about the illustrated magazines, and they both know it.
Tony pulls forest air into his lungs as though sucking through a jumbo milkshake straw. A clearing of balsam firs reveals a brick monolith five kilometres in the distance. The Inverness Psychiatric Institute (previously Asylum of the Highlands) towers over the Atlantic’s crashing waves and outgoing surf.
Their father loved the ocean, said one day he’d convinced the owner of Boudreau Holiday Cottages to sell him a cabin. “But we’d surprise your mom, eh? Show up and tell her it’s ours. Really ours.” That was before the Halifax Port Authority incident, before—
“What’s that, Tony?” Frankie asks, pointing across the field.
It’s the sort of thing you can’t believe you’d missed.
“I don’t know…” Tony says, squinting.
Tony steps forward. Frankie draws closer to his older brother.
A large, lumpy rock rests in the meadow’s middle, maybe twenty metres from where the boys stand. Tony thinks about the geology unit in grade nine social studies; it’s probably marble or quartzite. The issue isn’t the rock, though. It’s what’s on the rock.
Two more steps forward. Seven-year-old Frankie now pulls at Tony’s forearm. “I think we should go back to the cabin.”
The weed grass and wildflowers electrify, pulsating with energy. Tony sees (searches!) for meaning in everything now. Maybe this is a sign. A nautical breeze crests the ridge, stirring the emerald landscape.
Tony points to a flat patch of grass. “Stay right there.”
“No,” Frankie says, walking in lockstep with Tony.
“Can you listen for once?”
Tony loves his little brother, but Frankie doesn’t listen and causes problems for their mom (who doesn’t need more problems). Disruptive. Impulsive. Impossible. That’s what teachers say about Frankie.
“Tony, let’s get Mom.”
So, what’s the thing on the rock? An army green jumpsuit. A black oxygen hose snakes between the suit’s hip and a white helmet. The jumpsuit is womanly, structured to accommodate the female form.
“No one’s in there. How could anyone be in there?” Tony thinks, pressing his brother behind him.
They step over a cluster of fireweed.
“I just want to see…”
“Tony, please…”
They’re so close now.
“One minute, Frankie…”
The helmet tilts back on the rock and the visor cavity—at least from Tony’s perspective—is empty. Who would just leave it here?
“Tony, the foot moved!” Frankie yells.
A red-tailed hawk shrieks overhead, temporarily shadowing the boys. Tony’s eyes follow the flapping wings until his peripheral vision catches the suit rocketing forward, boots kicking. Frankie rocks back on his heels, then goes stiff like the fallen trees they just hiked over.
Tony’s heart lurches as the suit’s occupant is finally revealed. The creature’s face is blueish and wormy veins pop from its forehead. The neck is long and craggy, an elongated grandmother neck. Stringy hair streaks across a mostly bald head.
“Zeeeeee-Roooooow-Gahhhhh-Vawwwwt-Eeeeeeee…” it says, foam dribbling from purple lips.
The thing’s eyes bulge and a gloved hand grabs Tony’s left arm. He tries to whip his arm free, but the grip is surprisingly strong.
“Corpse zombie! Corpse zombie!” Frankie hollers, hugging his brother’s waist.
Tony kicks the suit’s midsection but catches air and nearly tumbles over. The thing gulps air, sharp jaw jutting convulsively. The jumpsuit creature gurgles, its voice sounds female and maybe…German?
“Zeeeeee-Roooooow-Gahhhhh-Vawwwwt-Eeeeeeee!”
Tony heaves heavy sobs. God, he misses Dad. Why is everything always so messed up? Why can’t he make his mom feel less sad? He hates the driver who unloaded 1,000 pounds of gravel on the night foreman. Their night foreman. Their dad.
And now, a corpse zombie! He’s only fifteen but he’s so worn down, so goddam exhausted.
The thing releases her (its?) grip, chortling like a broken vacuum. But Tony doesn’t move, and it spits on him, repeating, “Zeeeee-row. Zeeeee-row. Zeeeee-row.”
The black eyes widen, before the thing’s angular features go slack. And then, it’s over. The corpse zombie falls back, helmet clunking against the rock.
“Run, Frankie!” Tony yells.
Frankie listens and they run hand-in-hand for fifteen minutes, not stopping until they reach the cedar cabin’s door.
Two hours later, a sheriff and psychiatrist squeeze into the cabin’s kitchenette. Tony’s mom prepares the coffeemaker.
“I’m sorry you boys had such a scare,” Sheriff Mackenzie says, eyeballing Frankie who’s still seafoam white.
“Delores was a former patient,” says Dr. Horne. “Only verbal when she wore that damn jumpsuit. It got left in a broom closet after she died, and Wendy obviously found it.”
The psychiatrist shakes his head. “Wendy escaped after breakfast today. She was fifteen when she came into our care. Severe anorexia. Her reality’s been pretty warped the past year. Wanted to get to outer space where she could weigh nothing. Zero gravity.”
Zeeeeee-Roooooow-Gahhhhh-Vawwwwt-Eeeeeeee.
“Pretty confident the coroner will come back with cardiac arrest. Eating disorders aren’t kind to the heart.”
“You did a good thing letting us know about Wendy,” Sherriff Mackenzie says.
Their mom stares out the window. “We should go home,” she says.
The boys lock eyes. Frankie shakes his head gently.
“We come every year, Mom,” Tony says. “Let’s stay. We want to stay.”
That night, the boys play Monopoly with their mom by the fireplace. Frankie doesn’t read his Crypt Keeper magazine. The boys crawl into the double bed together and Tony falls asleep gently holding his little brother’s shoulder.
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