Halloween Spirits: 11 Tales for the Darkest Night Page 6

“Look,” I said, staring at each of them in turn, “I’ve just come back from the war and I’m having a rough time of it. If you don’t get off this land I’m liable to shoot the lot of you and tell the sheriff I thought you was all a bunch of Germans. Now get yourselves gone.”

  I did my best to look insane, and I think more than a few of them bought it. I am Tom Gilley’s son, after all. The apple don’t fall far from the tree. They took a collective step back.

  One of the crowd, I couldn’t tell who, shouted that our house was likely to catch fire one night soon. I looked around for the one who’d dared to say it, but before I could respond, a single rifle shot split the morning air.

  Everybody wheeled around, and there stood Morison, a smoking rifle on his hip, his sleepy eyes shining.

  “There ain’t gonna be no fire,” he said. “You folks get back to your homes.”

  A murmur spread through the crowd, but the rifle shot seemed to have broken their resolve.

  “Go on,” Morison said.

  Slowly, grumbling their frustration, they started to disperse.

  When they were gone, Morison stepped on to the porch, looking with disapproval at my axe handle.

  “Some men,” he said, “they come back from a war and they still got the war in their heads. How about you, Tom? You still got the war in your head?”

  I handed the axe handle to Mike and told him to put it back in the shed.

  We both watched him go.

  “I’m pretty well adjusted,” I said, once Mike was gone.

  Morison spit in the grass. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” he said, his finger in my face. “That’s twice I’ve had to do this, so don’t. You know what I want to know.”

  “He didn’t do it,” I said.

  Morison looked deep into my eyes. “I have your word on that?”

  “You do.”

  “Okay,” he said, his voice softening to a husky grumble. A few minutes later he was gone, a cloud of white dust in his wake.

  ***

  We buried Rosalinda in the backyard, beneath a majestic, moss-covered black elm. No more peach orchard for her.

  Mike went out to the roadside to gather blackberry blossoms for her grave while I sat on the porch, whittling one end of the axe handle to a sharp point with my knife.

  That night, I put Mike to bed and promised him when he woke the next morning, everything would be just fine. Then I went downstairs, opened the back door, the one that looked out on Rosalinda’s grave, dropped down on the couch, and waited.

  It was nearly two o’clock in the morning when I heard footsteps on the back porch.

  Without bothering to get up I said, “Hello, Rosalinda.”

  “Hello,” she said, and smiled wickedly. Two sharp white points poked out from under her upper lip.

  “Come in. You’re invited.”

  Her smile widened.

  “Where is Mike Gilley?”

  “He’s upstairs,” I said. “Sleeping.”

  “I want to see him.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sitting up, “I bet you do.” I reached under the couch and pulled out the axe handle. “But that ain’t gonna happen, Rosalinda.”

  She glared at the pointed end of the stick and then at me. “Fool,” she said. “Who do you think you are?”

  “His guardian angel.”

  “I love him,” she hissed. “And he loves me. I’ve come for him.”

  “I know you loved him,” I said, standing up. “And for that I thank you. But you can’t have him.”

  She ran at me, dagger-like fingernails slashing the air between us. I ducked the blows and plunged the point of the axe handle into her heart. She died, this time for good, with a scream still trying to escape her lips.

  ***

  By sunrise I was done reburying Rosalinda, and as I brushed the dirt from my clothes, I wondered what I would tell Mike. How could I make him understand the murky complexity of superstition when my own mind was stretched to the breaking point trying to take it all in? I could tell him of creatures of the night, how a werewolf killed in her animal form is doomed to return as a vampire, but what would be the point? He was too fragile for that, and it might cause him to snap.

  But then, as I mounted the stairs, it occurred to me that I didn’t need to tell Mike anything. He had all the answers he needed. He’d loved honestly and deeply, and had been loved in his turn. That was a prize few men could ever claim. For hadn’t Rosalinda, of all the possible places she could go, chose three times to return to Mike’s door?

  I imagined her struggles to claw her way out of the ground, and then the long, moonlit walk to Mike’s door, before she ran out of the cover of night and the morning’s light caused her to shut down, to slip into a catatonic state just a few steps short of her destination, and her lover’s neck.

  Mike didn’t need to know any of that. He only needed the assurance that his love had meant more to Rosalinda than death itself. Let him take strength from that.

  And let time cure him of his grief.

  THE OCTOBER GIRLS

  Scott Nicholson

  The evening was Halloween cool, the sun creeping toward the horizon. It would be dark soon, and the games would be over. Margaret could stay out as late as she wanted, but not Ellen. Ellen had a mom and a bed and a life to worry about.

  “Come out,” Ellen called.

  The scraggly shrubbery trembled. Margaret was hiding under the window of the mobile home where Ellen lived. For an invisible person, Margaret wasn’t so good at hide-and-seek, but she loved to play. Maybe you got that way when you were dead.

  The mobile home vibrated with the noise of the vacuum cleaner. Mom was inside, cleaning up. Taking a break from beer and television. Maybe cooking a supper of sliced wieners in cheese noodles.

  “I know you’re in there,” Ellen said.

  She stooped and peered under the lowest brown leaves of the forsythia. Vines snaked through the shrubbery. In the summer, yellow flowers dangled from the tips of the vines. Ellen and Margaret would pull the white tendrils from the flowers, holding them to the sun so the sweet drops of honeysuckle fell on their tongues. They would laugh and hold hands and run into the woods, playing tag until night fell. Then they would follow the fireflies into darkness.

  But only in the summer. Now it was autumn, with the leaves like kites and November rushing toward them from Tennessee. Now Ellen had school five mornings a week, homework, chores if Mom caught her. Not much time for games, so she and Margaret had to make the most of their time together.

  The bushes shook again.

  “Come out, come out,” Ellen called, afraid that Mom would switch off the vacuum cleaner and hear her having fun.

  Margaret’s long blonde hair appeared in a gap between the bushes. A hand emerged, slender and pale and wearing a plastic ring that Ellen had gotten as a Crackerjack prize. The hand was followed by the red sleeve of Margaret’s sweater. At last Ellen’s playmate showed her face with its uneven grin.

  “Peek-a-boo,” Margaret said.

  “Your turn to be ‘it.’ “

  The vacuum cleaner suddenly switched off, and the silence was broken only by the brittle shivering of the trees along the edge of the trailer park. Ellen put her index finger to her lips to shush Margaret, then crawled into the bushes beside her. The trailer door swung open with a rusty creak.

  Mom looked out, shading her eyes against the setting sun. Ellen ducked deeper into the shrubbery, where the dirt smelled of cat pee. Margaret stifled a giggle beside her. Everything was a game to Margaret. But Margaret wasn’t the one who had to worry about getting her hide tanned, and Margaret could disappear if she wanted.

  Mom had that look on her face, the red of anger over the pink of drunkenness. She stood in the doorway and chewed her lip. A greasy strand of hair dangled over one eye. Her fists were balled. The stench of burnt cheese powder and cigarettes drifted from the trailer.

  “Ellen,” Mom c
alled, looking down the row of trailers to the trees. Mom hated Ellen’s staying out late more than anything. Except maybe the special teachers at school.

  Ellen tensed, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “She looks really mad,” Margaret whispered.

  “No, she’s probably just worried.”

  A thin rope of smoke drifted from the trailer door. “She burned supper,” Margaret said.

  “It’s my fault. She’s really going to whip me this time.”

  Mom called once more, then slammed the door closed. Margaret rolled her eyes and stuck her tongue out at the mobile home. Ellen laughed, though her stomach felt full of bugs.

  “Let’s go to my place,” Margaret said.

  “What if Mom sees me? She can see me, even if she can’t see you.”

  Margaret started crawling behind the row of dying shrubbery. “Your mom won’t find you there.”

  “She always finds me anywhere.” Ellen hung her head, near tears.

  Margaret crawled back and poked her in the side. “Don’t be a gloomy Gus.”

  Ellen slapped Margaret’s hand away. “I’m not no gloomy Gus.”

  “Why don’t you let me get her? I can make her hurt like she makes you hurt.”

  Ellen folded her arms and studied Margaret’s brown eyes. Margaret would do it. She was a good friend. And in her eyes, behind the sparkle, was a darkness buried deep. Maybe you looked at things that way when you were dead.

  “No. It’s better if we keep you secret,” Ellen said. “I already got in trouble at school, telling the special teachers about you.”

  Margaret poked her in the ribs again. Ellen smiled this time.

  “Follow me. Hurry,” Margaret said.

  Margaret scrambled ahead, staying low beneath the hedge. Ellen looked at the trailer door, checked for any sign of movement in the windows. Then she crawled after Margaret, the dead twigs sharp against the skin of her palms and knees.

  From the end of the hedge, they dashed for the concealment of the forest. Ellen half expected to hear Mom’s angry shout, telling her to get inside right this minute. But then they were under the trees and lost among the long shadows.

  Margaret laughed with the exhilaration of escape. She ran between the oaks with their orange leaves, the silver birch, the sweet green pine, ignoring the branches and briars that tugged the fabric of her sweater. Ellen followed just as recklessly, her footsteps soft on the rotting loam of the forest floor.

  The girls passed a clearing covered by crisp leaves. Margaret veered away to a path that followed the river. The air smelled of fish and wet stones. Ellen stumbled over a grapevine, and by the time she looked up, Margaret had disappeared.

  Ellen looked around. A bird chittered in a high treetop. The sun had slipped lower in the sky. Purple and pink clouds hung in the west like rags on a clothesline. She was alone.

  Alone.

  The special teachers at school told Ellen it was worse to be alone than have invisible friends. “You can’t keep playing all by yourself,” they told her. “You have to learn to get along with others. You have to let go of the past.”

  When Ellen told the special teachers about what happened at home, the teachers’ eyes got wide. They must have talked to Mom, because when Ellen got home that day, she got her hide tanned harder than ever. Someday Mom was going to lose her temper and do something really bad.

  Ellen thought of Mom, with fists clenched and supper burnt, waiting back at the trailer. Ellen shivered. She didn’t want to be alone.

  She put her hands to her mouth. “Margaret!”

  She heard a giggle from behind a stand of trees. The red sweater flashed and vanished. Margaret was playing another game, trying to make Ellen get lost by leading her deeper into the woods. Well, Ellen wasn’t going to be scared.

  And she wasn’t going to cry. Sometimes the girls at school made her cry. They would stand around her in a circle and say she was in love with Joey Hogwood. Well, she hated Joey Hogwood, and she hated the girls. Ellen wished that Margaret still went to school so that she would have a friend to sit beside.

  Margaret wouldn’t want her to cry. Margaret would just pretend to be bad for a little while, then pop out from behind a tree and tag her and make her “It.”

  Laughter came down from the hill where the pines were thickest. To the left, a sea of kudzu vines choked the trees. A rundown chicken coop had been swallowed by the leaves, with only a few rotten boards showing under the green. That’s where Margaret was hiding.

  Ellen ran across the kudzu, the leaves tickling her calves above her socks. She could read Margaret like a book. That was the best thing about invisible playmates: they did what you wanted them to do.

  Right now, Ellen wanted Margaret to go just over the hill, into the new part of the forest. She reached the pines and started down the slope. Half a dozen houses were sprinkled among the folds of the hill. A highway ran through the darkening valley, the few cars making whispers as they rolled back and forth. The headlights were like giant fireflies in the dusk.

  “Margaret,” Ellen called.

  A giggle floated up from the highway. Margaret was there by the ditch, waving her arm. Ellen smiled to herself. Margaret wouldn’t leave her. Ellen picked her way down the slope, almost slipping on the dewy fallen leaves, until she reached the ditch.

  “Tag, you’re ‘It,’ ” Margaret said, touching Ellen’s shoulder.

  Margaret’s golden-white hair blazed in the lights of an approaching car. She spun and raced across the highway, the roar of the engine drowning out Ellen’s scream. The car passed right through Margaret, not slowing at all. The red eyes of the tail lights faded into darkness. Ellen hurried across the road.

  “You’re a crazy-brain,” Ellen said.

  Margaret shook her head, her hair swaying from side to side. “Am not.”

  “Are, too.”

  “You’re still ‘It,’ ” Margaret said, running away. The darkness was more solid now, the sun fading in slow surrender. Margaret climbed over the low stone wall that bordered the highway.

  “Crazy-brain.” Ellen scrambled over the wall after her, into the graveyard. The alabaster angels and crosses and markers were like ghosts in the night. Margaret had vanished.

  “Margaret?”

  Laughter echoed off the granite.

  Invisible friends didn’t disappear unless you allowed it. They didn’t hurt you or scare you or make you cry, at least not on purpose. They didn’t tease you about Joey Hogwood, or make you sit in a chair and listen to all the reasons why invisible friends couldn’t exist.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” Ellen said. She scrambled between the cold gravestones. The grass was damp and full of autumn, and the air smelled of fall flowers. A sharp curve of moon had sliced its way into the black sky.

  Ellen found Margaret beside a church-white marker.

  “Mom’s going to be mad,” Ellen said.

  “She’s just an old meanie.”

  “She’s really going to kill me.” Ellen sat in the grass beside Margaret and the dew soaked her dress.

  “Don’t go back,” Margaret said.

  “I have to go back.”

  Margaret folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her lower lip. “In the summer, we got to play until way late.”

  “It’s not summer anymore,” Ellen said, looking at the sky. Three stars were out.

  “Is that why the fireflies are gone?”

  Ellen laughed. “You’re such a dummyhead.”

  The moon was higher now, pale on Margaret’s face. Her eyes were dark hollows. “I’m not no dummyhead.”

  “Yes, you are,” Ellen said, her voice sing-songy and shrill. “Margaret is a dummyhead, Margaret is a dummyhead.”

  Margaret leaned back against the marker. Her shoulders trembled and thin lines of tears tracked down her cheeks. Ellen stopped teasing. With invisible playmates, you always felt what they felt.

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen whispered.

&nb
sp; Margaret was bone silent.

  “Hey,” Ellen said. “Now who’s the gloomy Gus?”

  She poked Margaret in the side, feeling the hard ridges of her friend’s ribs. It was funny how invisible friends could be solid, if you thought of them that way.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to remember,” Margaret said, sniffing. “You know. What it was like.”

  Ellen poked again. “It’s not that great.”

  Margaret twitched and tried to hold back her smile. Then the laughter broke and she blinked away the last of her tears. They watched the moon for a while and listened to the rush of the passing cars.

  “I miss summer,” Margaret said.

  “Me, too.”

  “You don’t have to go back.”

  They could play hide-and-seek all night and never have to hide in the same place twice. A few gnarled trees clutched at the ground with their roots, perfect for climbing. Honeysuckle vines covered the walls and gates, waiting for summer when they would again sweeten the air. Best of all was the quiet. Here, no one ever yelled in anger.

  But Ellen didn’t belong here. Not yet.

  “I’d better get home,” Ellen said. “I’m going to get my hide tanned as it is.”

  Margaret tried a pouty face, then gave up. All playtimes had to end. Ellen waved goodbye and started back over the stone wall.

  “See you tomorrow?” Margaret called after her.

  Ellen turned and looked back, but her friend had already vanished.

  Margaret’s voice came from everywhere, nowhere. “It won’t hurt.”

  “Promise?”

  “Even if it did, I would tickle you and make you laugh.”

  “Good night.”

  Ellen paused at the edge of the highway and waited for the next car. She could step out before the driver even saw her. Margaret had promised it wouldn’t hurt. But maybe dead people always said that.

  A car came over the hill, its engine roaring like a great beast, the headlights prowling for prey. Ellen ducked into the ditch and waited. Five seconds away, maybe. One jump, a big bump, and then she could be with Margaret.

  Her lungs grew hard and cold, she couldn’t breathe, and the car was maybe three seconds away. She told herself it was only another game, just hopscotch. She tensed. Two seconds.