Halloween Spirits: 11 Tales for the Darkest Night Read online

  As my eyes close and my chin dips to my chest under the cottony weight of the whiskey blanket, I recall the letter I received from my father three years ago. Your mother and I are getting on in years. We’re sorry for what’s happened. Let’s put our differences behind us. We want you to take over the family business. And we miss you. Please come home.

  Manipulative bastard.

  Please come home…

  Hark how the bells

  sweet silver bells

  all seem to say

  throw cares away

  Smoke belching from the cold fireplace steals my breath. I jerk awake as the gun quickly slides out of my hands and smashes against the lamp, leaving the room utterly dark.

  Except for their eyes. My brothers and sisters. Faded grey orbs in the light…

  …and luminous in the night. How else could we see as we worked?

  Christmas is here

  bringing good cheer

  to young and old

  meek and the bold

  Their fishhook claws and teeth gouge my arms, face, legs—barbs in my flesh pinning me to the chair like an insect specimen. The modern rock station has succumbed to Christmas music at the midnight hour and the stereo indicator lights wink. Green. Red.

  Skin cracked and thickened with age, blood vessels bursting under the surface, hair white and tangled. Ruddy lips wet with whiskey as he crouches before me, larger than even I remember. Father.

  “Well, well, well,” his voice rumbles resonantly before he takes another drink of the Jack Daniels. The liquor sloshes in the bottle, and he dangles the bottle neck in his bloated fingers. “If it isn’t my son. My wayward fucking son.”

  My brothers and sisters laugh like squealing rats. Heart pounding, I silently watch him with that childish fear.

  “For years your mother and I looked for you.” Of course he couldn’t find me. I’m the only one besides himself not on The List. He wipes his mouth on a white fur cuff. His eyes have their own luminosity, a subtle fire of contempt for humanity. “Then we found you and thought about visiting, just to check on you. But no,” he says, eyes narrowing, “we decided, Son, that this Christmas you’re coming home for the holidays.”

  One seems to hear

  words of good cheer

  from everywhere

  filling the air…

  Screams from my throat as their hands tear me from the chair. Punctures and scratches raise red, blood welling on my skin as my arms desperately flail through the smoke.

  …On on they send

  on without end

  their joyful tone

  to every home…

  …songs of good cheer…

  Christmas is here.

  Cinders scatter onto the carpet as they force me into the fireplace. My head strikes the mantle as I struggle and I slump, blinded with electric pain under the flue. Soot rains softly over my body and blood from my ear trickles down my neck as small, strong hands heave my limp form to the roof above. Hooves pounding. Clattering.

  And he laughs. That terrible laugh.

  Merry merry merry Christmas…

  Merry merry merry Christmas.

  ALMOST PARADISE

  Jeremy C. Shipp

  The moment the Angels close their eyes and Halloween begins, my husband’s artificial grin depresses into a scowl. Then, stepping over his sleeping Angel, he comes at me with his hands out like talons.

  “You threw away my National Geographic,” he says, his voice and body quaking like crazy. “You didn’t ask if I was finished with it. You just threw it away.” And he tosses an imaginary magazine at my face.

  I cross my arms and say, “I never throw away your magazines without asking you first.”

  “But you did. Before the Fourth of July party. You were running around like a headless chicken, and I’m sure you threw away my National Geographic.”

  “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have, if you’d helped me clean up.”

  “But I did! I tried. You told me I was getting in the way, and you told me to stay in my office.”

  “Really. So I forced you to play World of Warcraft while I altruistically cleaned up the whole house all by myself. Does that really sound like me?”

  “That’s what happened!”

  And I’m sure he’s right. I’m sure he remembers every insignificant detail about the day I wronged him. He’s been holding tight that memory for the past four months, after all.

  “Are you going to apologize or aren’t you?” Steve says, rubbing his face with his hands.

  “No,” I say.

  At this point, Steve takes a step closer to me, and this is his chance to push me or slap me without the usual possibility of his being devoured. But my husband isn’t one of those guys who transforms into a real devil on Halloween. At most, he becomes a half-man, half-beast.

  So Steve makes a sound, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, and he storms into his office.

  I almost feel sorry for the guy. But then again, five months ago, I caught him staring at my friend Selma’s cleavage and that’s why I threw away his stupid magazine in the first place.

  Thirty minutes later, Steve emerges from his hidey-hole, and says, “Let’s get this thing started.”

  So me and Steve drag all the Angels into the living room while the kids search through the costume chest with caramel-covered fingers.

  Samantha dresses up her Angel as a bunny princess. And Steven Junior’s Angel ends up looking like a cross between a soldier, a super hero, and a beetle.

  As for my husband, he starts out by shaving the golden locks from his Angel’s crown. Then the eyebrows. The eyelashes. In the end, he removes all the dead matter from the immortal’s body.

  “Can I throw it?” Samantha says, wriggling her grubby little fingers.

  “It’s daddy’s turn to throw it,” Steve says. And he tosses all the Angel hair into the fireplace, and in no time, the room smells like fresh herbs.

  After a lunch of Snickers and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, I open up a package of permanent markers.

  Steven Junior and Samantha doodle away, and I watch Steve as he draws an orgy of humans and mythical beasts on his Angel’s alabaster stomach. Steve may act like a Neanderthal most of the time, but I have to admit, his illustration skills are quite evolved.

  “What do you think?” Steve says, putting the last raunchy touch on his masterpiece.

  I give him two thumbs up.

  Then, as I’m writing “BITCH” across my Angel’s forehead, a cartoon gerbil on the TV sings that familiar rhyme. “The Angels sleep but once a year. On Halloween laws disappear.”

  All the other cats mew with delight, and Samantha repeats the rhyme in her own cartoonish voice.

  Close to dinner time, Steven Junior shoves another handful of jellybeans into his mouth, and finally succeeds in making himself sick. He spews a rainbow of slimy sugar all over his Angel.

  “I win!” the boy says, and Steve and I applaud.

  Not to be outdone, Samantha kicks her Angel in its cherubic face, over and over. Then she looks at me, imploringly.

  I give her a small, motherly smile, the one that I learned from my own mother.

  That, of course, does the trick, and Samantha continues her little attack.

  A special report interrupts Garfield’s Halloween Adventure. News on Halloween is always good for a laugh, so I turn my attention away from the children, and I grin with the rest of the world as a melodramatic news reporter oozes hope from her collagen-clogged lips. And of course, this is false hope I’m talking about.

  The experts have already tried everything. Nuclear bombs, curses, extreme heat, extreme cold. They’ve even shot the Angels into the sun. But the Angels always survive.

  Today, the so-called top minds are going to open up a wormhole and send as many Angels through as possible. And Steve rocks a little, the way he always does when he’s feeling hopeful, which, obviously, isn’t very often.

  As for me, I’m not so naïve. I know that e
ven if they send the Angels to another dimension, they’ll find their way back. They always do.

  Steve looks at me, imploringly, as if I can make the plan succeed if I just believe. He gives me that same look when the Chargers are behind.

  Of course, when I frown at Steve and say, “They never learn,” what I really mean is, “You never learn.”

  Steve hugs himself and returns his attention to the TV.

  At that point, I head outside, and stretch out on the back porch. I watch as the neighbor boy hangs his Angel from the blue oak and beats the thing with a baseball bat. Then, I stare at the stars. I stare at them until I get the feeling that if I don’t focus on staying where I am, the world will let me go, and I’ll get sucked out into space. I can’t stand feeling this way for very long, so after a while, I close my eyes.

  In the darkness, I think about all the Angelic Laws I’ve already broken this Halloween, and the Laws I want to break.

  There are a few coworkers I wouldn’t mind stabbing, but I’m not feeling particularly ruthless at the moment.

  In truth, I’ll probably just argue with Steve some more, and maybe steal some Cheetos from the gas station.

  My mind wanders, and my thoughts end up where they always end up.

  With my parents.

  I remember that Halloween when my father caught me pissing on my Angel.

  He slapped me, and gave me that same old lecture about why we shouldn’t celebrate the holiday.

  “The Angels were sent here from Heaven to cleanse our world of sin.” And so on.

  As for my mother, she always agreed with my father in public. But every Halloween night, after my father was asleep, and before the Angels were awake, my mother told me the truth. Her truth.

  “These so-called Angels are nothing but self-righteous demons who rationalize their actions by only murdering people who break their Angelic Laws.”

  She didn’t use those words exactly, but I think that’s what she meant.

  My mother also told me that Halloween is not just an opportunity to commit evil, but an opportunity to do good.

  Of course, I thought she was crazy. Thanks to the Angels, I did nothing but good for three hundred sixty-four days of the year.

  But maybe my mother was smarter than I gave her credit for.

  Maybe goodness can’t be forced onto people. Maybe true goodness comes from somewhere deep inside us.

  And so, I search inside myself, and I find a deep vast emptiness filled with dying stars. I stare at the stars. I stare at them until I get the feeling that if I keep focusing on the nothingness inside me, I’ll lose myself forever. I can’t stand feeling this way for very long, so after a while, I open my eyes.

  Later that night, I enter Samantha’s room, and I toss my empty bag of Cheetos into her pink trashcan. I kneel beside her bed.

  I stare at her for a while.

  I think about waking her up and telling her my truth.

  But instead, I make the decision to kiss her forehead, the way my mother used to kiss mine.

  I want this kiss to be special.

  I want this kiss to be about me and Samantha, and nothing else.

  Of course, it’s hard for me to kiss her without thinking of my Angel. After all, my Angel demands that I hug and kiss my children every night, and so my affection has always been more about survival than anything else.

  But tonight, I try to forget my fear.

  I try to kiss Samantha for Samantha’s sake.

  And somewhere, in the deep vast emptiness inside me, I feel a new star blinking to life.

  But hours later, when my Angel opens its eyes and Halloween ends, my tiny star flickers out.

  Then, with my demon watching me, I fall asleep with thoughts like talons.

  THE CONTRIBUTORS

  Maria Alexander is a recovering blond who lives in Los Angeles with three ungrateful cats, a pervasive sense of doom, and a purse named Trog. By day, she writes for Disney. By night, she pursues an advanced degree in snarkiology. You can read more about her published work and other shenanigans at www.mariaalexander.net.

  Kealan Patrick Burke is a Bram Stoker Award-winning author, editor, actor, and photographer who has written a few books, some of them readable. You can find him on the web at www.kealanpatrickburke.com.

  Simon Janus (aka Simon Wood) is an ex-racecar driver, a licensed pilot and an occasional private investigator. His short fiction has garnered him an Anthony Award and a CWA Dagger Award nomination. His titles include Working Stiffs, Accidents Waiting to Happen, Paying the Piper, Terminated and We All Fall Down. As Simon Janus, he’s the author of The Scrubs and Road Rash. His upcoming books are Did Not Finish and The Fall Guy. Curious people can learn more at www.simonwood.net.

  Nate Kenyon is the award-winning author of Bloodstone, The Reach, The Bone Factory, Sparrow Rock, and Prime, as well as dozens of short stories. His novel StarCraft Ghost: Spectres, based upon the bestselling videogame franchise from Blizzard Entertainment, will be released in September 2011 from Pocket Books. Kenyon is a three-time Stoker Award Finalist, and two of his novels have been optioned for film. He is currently working on a new novel based on Blizzard’s Diablo videogame franchise. Visit him online at www.natekenyon.com.

  Joe McKinney is a sergeant in the San Antonio Police Department who has been writing professionally since 2006. He is the Bram Stoker-nominated author of Dead City, Quarantined, Apocalypse of the Dead, Dodging Bullets, Flesh Eaters and Dead Set. His upcoming books include The Zombie King, St. Rage, Lost Girl of the Lake, and The Red Empire. As a police officer, he’s received training in disaster mitigation, forensics, and homicide investigation techniques, some of which finds its way into his stories. He lives in the Texas Hill Country north of San Antonio. Visit him at joemckinney.wordpress.com for news and updates.

  Lisa Morton is the author of four books of non-fiction, two novellas, one novel, six feature films, lots of television you’ve never heard of, and nearly 50 works of short fiction. She is a three-time winner of the Bram Stoker Award, and her first novel (The Castle of Los Angeles) was a Black Quill Award nominee. Lisa is one of the world’s leading experts on Halloween, and has been seen in documentaries on The History Channel and in the pages of The Wall Street Journal. She lives in North Hollywood, California, and can be found online at www.lisamorton.com .

  Joseph Nassise is the author of more than a dozen novels, including the internationally bestselling Templar Chronicles trilogy. He has also written several installments in the Rogue Angel action adventure series from Harlequin/GoldEagle. He’s a former president of the Horror Writers Association and a two-time Bram Stoker Award and International Horror Guild Award nominee.

  Scott Nicholson is author of more than 20 paranormal, suspense, and mystery thrillers, as well as six screenplays, four comics series, and four children’s books. He also writes the Cursed! and Supernatural Selection series with J.R. Rain. His website is www.hauntedcomputer.com.

  John Palisano’s short horror fiction has appeared in places such as Horror Library, Midnight Walk, Darkness on the Edge, and M is for Monster. His first novel, Nerves, is due out from Bad Moon Books this summer. To find out more, you can visit www.johnpalisano.com.

  Rick Pickman’s graphic design work and photography has graced dozens of theater posters and presskits, websites, and books. He’s also unashamed of his only previous fiction appearance, “Dark Delicacies of the Dead”, from the Stoker Award-winning first volume in the Dark Delicacies anthology series. He’s not going to tell you where he lives or how to contact him; he likes it that way.

  Jeremy C. Shipp is the Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of Cursed, Vacation, and Sheep and Wolves. His shorter tales have appeared or are forthcoming in over 60 publications, the likes of Cemetery Dance, ChiZine, Apex Magazine, Withersin, and Shroud Magazine. Jeremy enjoys living in Southern California in a moderately haunted Victorian farmhouse called Rose Cottage. He lives there with his wife, Lisa, a couple of pygmy tigers, and a legion of yard gnomes. The gno
mes like him. The clowns living in his attic—not so much. His online home is jeremycshipp.com and his Twitter handle is @JeremyCShipp.

  If you’ve enjoyed Halloween Spirits and would like to read more from some of the authors, check out these other fine anthologies, now available or coming soon as e-books:

  Dust and Shadow edited by Kealan Patrick Burke

  Possessed edited by Nate Kenyon

  The Predatory Kind edited by Joe McKinney

  Aberrations edited by Jeremy Shipp

  Gravediggers edited by Simon Wood

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION by Lisa Morton. 3

  SOMEONE TO CARVE THE PUMPKINS by Kealan Patrick Burke. 8

  CARRION MAN by Joseph Nassise. 12

  THE DEVIL CAME TO MAMIE’S ON HALLOWE’EN by Lisa Morton. 20

  THE GUNNER’S LOVE SONG by Joe McKinney. 29

  THE OCTOBER GIRLS by Scott Nicholson. 37

  TRICK OR DIE by Rick Pickman. 42

  THURSDAY by Simon Janus. 51

  THE OUTLAWS OF HILL COUNTY by John Palisano. 58

  BONES LIE QUIETLY NOW by Nate Kenyon. 70

  COMING HOME by Maria Alexander 73

  ALMOST PARADISE by Jeremy Shipp. 76

  THE CONTRIBUTORS. 80

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION by Lisa Morton. 3

  SOMEONE TO CARVE THE PUMPKINS by Kealan Patrick Burke. 8

  CARRION MAN by Joseph Nassise. 12

  THE DEVIL CAME TO MAMIE’S ON HALLOWE’EN by Lisa Morton. 20

  THE GUNNER’S LOVE SONG by Joe McKinney. 29

  THE OCTOBER GIRLS by Scott Nicholson. 37

  TRICK OR DIE by Rick Pickman. 42

  THURSDAY by Simon Janus. 51

  THE OUTLAWS OF HILL COUNTY by John Palisano. 58

  BONES LIE QUIETLY NOW by Nate Kenyon. 70

  COMING HOME by Maria Alexander 73

  ALMOST PARADISE by Jeremy Shipp. 76

  THE CONTRIBUTORS. 80