The Halloween Project 2026 – Story 3: Punkabbestia

The streets of Trieste were washed with a gray rain that mirrored the sky and the Adriatic Sea. Gone were the hot days of summer with bathers crowding the beaches, tan lines slowly fading from young topless women and men sporting thongs. A cruise ship had crossed from Venice with its tourists ready for a journey to the Mediterranean despite the weather. Café-goers had moved indoors to enjoy lively conversation, aperitivi and white wines. School had begun, and few children could be seen on the cobbled streets.

But the punkabbestia still remained. They harangued passersby relentlessly. Vagabonds who sheltered in many of the abandoned seaside warehouses; they were a nuisance at least, criminal at worst. One seldom saw a single punk alone; rather, they gathered in herds of a half dozen or more. Usually they clambered and squatted on the sides of churches, public buildings and monuments. Black and leather were their clothing choices. Hair, either unkempt or shaved into a dramatic throwback homage to the punk bands of the 1980s and 1990s, always challenged styles of the day. Chains and piercings of every size and description, those seen and unseen, abounded. They were gruff, loud, anxious, and bothersome as they panhandled for euros from locals and tourists alike. The best that the Polizia could do was move them along as they grumbled and swore incessantly.

Casimir knew them, had known them for a very long time. They never failed to notice him, never failed to call out, like birds on a road worrying at a dead creature on the pavement.

“Old man! Hey, maestro. Throw us some coin! You old shit! Old fart! Get out of here! Casimir! How old are you?! 100! 200! Jesus, you look it!” And they laughed. And continued whenever he passed by. How they knew his name, he could never guess.

When Casimir walked to the post office to mail a parcel to somewhere back in Slovenia, they were there taunting him. If he went a different direction, around a few blocks, they seemed to appear from the shadows. To his other appointments, they followed for a block or so. What they gained from harassing him, Casimir had no idea, for he never gave them any money. In the nicer weather before the rains began, he would take in the sun and feed the pigeons in the huge Piazza Unita d’Italia. The punkabbestia would make their way across the plaza, torment him, sometimes pick up the dried bread morsels he tossed to the birds and throw them back at him. Or eat the morsels themselves. The girls were worse than the boys. When they came too close, he would grunt at them, frightening the girls and incensing the boys. Polizia would come by and run them off. And they would laugh. Just laugh and flip the bird at Casimir and the police.

Casimir wound his way through the darkened streets. He often lurched through the city long into the night. He never liked going back to his small, drab apartment. It felt like returning to a jail cell, sparse of warmth, absent of smiles. Tonight it was well past midnight, approaching 2 A.M. He found himself on Via Settefontane, a hilly section of the city, streets narrower, all cafes long closed. As he carefully pulled himself up a long flight of steps, he crested at the top, and a city park, small but replete with swings for the children and benches for the seniors, opened before him.

He stumbled, step after step, into the park and settled heavily on a bench. The rain had settled to a shimmery patter. Then clouds broke completely, and the moon revealed itself. A yell, accompanied by several laughs, snapped from behind him.

“Casimir!” it called. “You old shit! What are you doing out this late?! Shouldn’t you be home with your mama?” More laughter.

Then he could hear them, moving off the swings, the perches where they cackled like crows. Moving toward him. Scuffling the ground with their black boots and evil words. “Give us some money! Your money! You never give us anything, and now it’s time!” This voice was louder, sterner, more strident. They came around either side of the bench, forming an arc in front of him. He looked at them, considered their faces, like broken glasses on a shelf. There were five, four boys and a girl.

“No,” Casimir responded softly, a whisper disguising a promise.

“What’s that, you ancient shit? Was that No? Do you really think you can say ‘NO’ to us? Here? Now?”

“Go home. Or go to whatever pigsty you call home,” Casimir said, the flatness in his voice betraying finality.

“What did you say? What did you say?! Are you joking, Casimir? We are going to have some fun now. There won’t be much of you left when we’re done, but, fuck, there’s not much of you left now.” He moved closer, and in the moonlight Casimir saw that the punkabbestia, the main one, the talker, carried a blade in his hand.

Casimir spoke. “Stop now. There will be trouble. Bad trouble for you all. Serious, serious trouble.”

“What the fuck! Are you kidding me?” The leader laughed again, as did the taller punk next to him, but the other three were quieted by Casimir’s words. The punk with the blade looked up at the sky and noticed something.

“Casimir, look! Look up! It’s a beautiful full moon. You must be a werewolf, right?! That’s why you’re giving us such trouble. You going to bite us?”

“Yes, that. And more.”

“So you’re a werewolf!” he scoffed.

“No. A vampyr.”

-

The next day the polizia sent three squad cars to the park after a screaming child had run back to his mother.

There were five in all. Punkabbestia. Bodies broken and strewn about the park. Some in pieces, one strung over the bar of the swing set. Another head at the top of the slide. Two arms and a leg buried in the sandbox. But the polizia sent for more investigators, a forensic team and the captain of detectives.

There was no blood. They could find no blood.

*