October 2007
Buying Frenzy Surrounds Halloween
The holiday that induces nightmares in some has turned into a dream come true for retailers.
When it comes to the money Americans will spend on Halloween, it’s downright scary. And the psychology behind the spending fury is as hard to pin down as a ghost in the night, say Texas Tech University marketing and retailing experts.
Revelers are expected to spend nearly $5 billion on Halloween this year, based on data gathered from the National Retail Federation’s (NRF) Consumer Intentions and Actions Survey conducted by BIGresearch.
“That’s a significant increase from just over $3 billion last year,” said Debbie Laverie, a marketing professor at the Rawls College of Business.
Tillmann Wagner, Texas Tech’s retailing expert, and Laverie agree that the reasons behind the Halloween buying frenzy are varied.
Brujerías: Stories of Witchcraft and the Supernatural
New book chronicles supernatural folklore of the American Southwest and beyond.
A traveler finds a tiny baby crying along a deserted road. He picks the child up. The child says to the man, “Look at my long fingernails.” The man falls dumbstruck for days before he can recount what happened to him.
Can there be any truth to the story? Surely not; yet tellings of “The Tiny Baby” have persisted for perhaps hundreds of years and have traveled from Central America to the United States.
Just one of more than 100 in his new book “Brujerías: Stories of Witchcraft and the Supernatural in the American Southwest and Beyond,” the tale is a favorite of author Nasario García.
Spooky Short Stories
We put out a call for the next Stephen King and A.J. Wagner answered.
The Office of Communications and Marketing held a short story contest, inviting faculty, staff and students to submit their spookiest stories for the October issue of Texas Tech Today. Submissions were judged on originality and creativity.
Judges chose not one, but two stories by A.J. Wagner. Her stories Elijah and The Scarecrow beat out numerous submissions to win the spotlight. A.J. is the 20-year-old daughter of Kimberly Wagner, administrative assistant in the office of the Provost.
We threw one in from our own Cory Chandler for good measure.
Entries were converted to PDF and were not corrected for grammar or spelling.
The Scarecrow
By A.J. Wagner
The breath of a thousand winged demons breathed on that field, the stark shadows of bending blades swaying in a nighttime wind that gave off nothing but threat and unease. A scarecrow, its face contorted into a ruptured scream, bits of hay spilling from the broken stitching, it's eyes stretched, limp, and hollowed by the wind, stood its ground at the center to ward away the crows. But in this task it had rebelled in a silent reverie, and fallen in love.
The white breasted cackler, perched everlastingly on that deformed shoulder, crowed no more than it moved, its pitch feathers ruffling like black breaking waves, where foam was replaced by a cold aqua sheen. Her eyes were burned blacker than her body, pits of coal that glittered in the dying sunlight like jewels, or diamonds in the rough.
Elijah
By A.J. Wagner
It was over in seconds, in a flash of gaping maws and blood-stained teeth, of snarling howls and moans...All over. In the wake of the attack there was a line of scattered bodies, one after the other mauled, slashed, and eaten alive, a blotched spatter of corpses like a drop of blood fallen from heaven. Truly, God must have been wounded, too. The groaning mass of attackers stumbled on in pursuit of their prey, of the imminent carnage to gorge themselves upon. A twitch, a flicker of life, or something like it, came into the broken fingers of one man.
His eyes were clear but dull, lacking that glimmer of vitality, that depth and sheen, replaced by murkiness like swamp water, thick and shallow. His chest didn't heave for breath, even as he rolled slowly to his side and clumsily pushed himself up to sit. Every memory he'd had in life was gone, leaving only the vague idea that he had actually been alive at all. He knew he'd known a woman, that she was important somehow, and that he'd died for her. He'd died...
The Hangman's Minstrel
By Cory Chandler
Casper sang the song and the song was the wind. It cut like the wind, bitter cold, driving down into the morrow – the sigh of a dying fall, winter buckling down. He looked out at the hills and he watched for ghosts. He waited to join them. He felt the minutes tick into hours like so much spent gold. He waited. The waiting was hard and despite himself he sang. It was a way to pass the time, after all. What else could he do? What would he do? He was a minstrel; singing was his trade. It had carried him from palace courts to banquet halls and, ultimately, this cage. So he sang: love ballads to lost brides, lullabies to sons he’d never rear. An ode to the gallows, upon which he was destined to dance.
Illustration by Cory Chandler.
Click to enlarge.