Mister October

by Christopher Golden

  “I’m no brain surgeon,” I said, “but I suppose something vital was punctured….”

  “No, no. I comprehend the physical process that led to your death. I just don’t know why it’s still affecting you.”

  Now I was irritated. “Could it be because death is permanent?” Where were the pearly gates? The white light? My grandmother, welcoming me with open arms and a can of Coke and liverwurst sandwiches?

  “You don’t understand, Lewis. Death has never affected you before. But I’ve figured it out. While you were busy thinking angry thoughts...”—and here she paused to give me a sour look—”I scanned the universe and found the culprit: a spectral emanation from a passing meteorite beyond the moon. The trail fell right through your apartment….”

  “Whoa,” I said. “Slow down, sweetie.” I surprised myself. I always call my wife “sweetie.” Foreshadowing?

  The woman smiled at me. “Of course, you don’t understand me do you? You know nothing about your gift. The very nature of your gift erases all knowledge of its existence.”

  “Some gift.” I looked down at my naked dead body.

  “I suppose you might as well know, now that it’s all over. You see, Lewis, you possessed a unique trio of psychic abilities: short-term time travel, telekinesis, and auto-memory erasure. Whenever you accidentally died, you’d simply go back in time a few seconds, steer yourself out of harm’s way, then erase all memory of the incident. Your life would continue, as if the accidents never happened.”

  “Accidents, plural? As if to imply this sort of thing happened more than once?”

  “It’s happened quite a bit,” she said. “You’re not exactly the most… agile person in the world. “

  “When have I died? I mean, before?”

  “Goodness…when haven’t you? Just in the past six months alone….” She breathed heavy. “Okay. Let’s see. Okay, two weeks ago you were helping your landlord carry a heavy piece of machinery into his basement.”

  I remembered that. Damned thing was heavier than an Oldsmobile. And after we were finished dragging it down into the cellar, I’d stepped into a pile of cat shit in the front garden and tracked it through the apartment. Ruined my appetite, but it was nothing life threatening. I told the woman that.

  “Wrong. You tripped on the concrete steps and the machinery fell on top of you, crushing your throat.”

  “Really?” I gulped.

  “Yes. But you traveled back ten seconds, changed your foot position, blanked your own memory, and finished the task with no further difficulty.”

  “Except for the cat shit I stepped in.”

  “Right.”

  “Why didn’t I use my gift to avoid that?”

  The woman sighed and shook her head.

  “Okay, what else?”

  “Do you really want to me to go on?” she asked.

  “Come on. I have to know.”

  “Okay. Two months ago. You. A subway platform. A speeding subway car, entering the station. A really engrossing magazine. You look up—pow. No more Lewis.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Two and a half months ago. You. Playing with one of your cats. Claw swipe. Jugular sliced. Blood jetting ten feet across the room. No more Lewis.”

  “Which cat?” I demanded. “Buddy? Chickenlips?”

  “You see? And I’m just getting started!” the woman cried out, half laughing.

  This was a lot to absorb. I’d always been aware of my basic human frailty—I mean, such a complex machine, so many things that could go wrong. But to find out that my life was this incredibly fucking tenuous, glued together by unconscious psychic abilities? This was too much. Not to mention that my built-in safeguard didn’t even work this time.

  “So what happened this time? Why couldn’t I save myself?”

  “As I was saying, a spectral trail from a passing meteorite seems to have passed through your apartment, negating your psychic abilities. So you actually died this time.”

  “Great. Just fucking great.” The old passing meteorite trick. Gets you every time. I wondered if they were going to mention that in my obituary:

  ANDRESSON, LEWIS. Unconscious telekinetic time-traveler survived by loving wife, Meghan, and two cats, one of whom accidentally sliced open his throat in an erased incident two and a half months ago. Snuffed out by class-D meteorite passing the Earth’s moon.

  The woman looked at me with sad eyes, then turned away. She knelt down beside my dead naked body and touched my chest with her fingers.

  I must have stared at her, staring at me, for close to an hour. There was nothing else to do.

  Finally, I spoke up. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

  The woman looked up. “What do you mean? You’re dead.”

  “I mean, what I am supposed to do? I’ve been standing here for an hour.”

  “Time has no meaning here.”

  “Where is here? Look, I know I been a little delinquent in my duties as a Catholic, but I’m sure something can be worked out. I was a church organist for about four years in college, pulling two, sometimes three Masses every Sunday….”

  The woman’s head jerked up, startling me. “Quiet!” she said.

  I was quiet. The moments passed. Finally, I asked: “What?”

  Her nostrils flared, as if she were sniffing for evidence of smoke. “Shhh!”

  More moments passed. The sun set. Fields of flowers grew and wilted. The Earth shot around the Sun, again and again and again….

  Finally, the woman sighed heavily. “There seems to have been a cosmic reprieve,” she said. “The meteorite passed out of range before expected. Your psychic abilities will be restored in time, as it turns out.”

  “You mean… I’m going to live?” I squealed.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling with a touch of sadness in her eyes. She stood up and reached forward to grasp my arm. “You won’t remember any of th –”

  And suddenly my knee buckled, but my left leg pushed up to support it, and my body righted. I pulled my boxer briefs up over my hips. Snapped the elastic around my waist. Adjusted my crotch.

  I looked at the sharp edge of the dresser and thought, Man would that have been bad if I’d tripped.

  My wife came in from the next room. “You okay?” Her robe was open, revealing the soft curves of her breasts.

  “Fine,” I said, staring. But in that instant I realized I was lying, because it all came rushing back. The death woman. My astral body. Time travel, telekinesis, auto-memory loss….

  Oh no. My grasp on reality was slipping. What mad universe was this where death lurked behind every action and the only escape was unconscious abilities no one believed in? Worse yet, that could be negated by whims of the cosmos? How could I walk through life with this hideous knowledge? How could I ever put underwear on again?

  “My God!” I screamed. I was wigging out, big time. “MY GOD DO YOU REALIZE HOW BADLY WE ARE ALL FUCKED!?”

  Meghan rushed over to me and grabbed my shoulders. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?”

  Goodbye, sanity. Time to wet my pants and start barking like a dog. Ack. Ack. Ninnyferg. I grabbed Meghan’s shoulders and shook her soundly. “WE’RE DOOMED! DEATH SURROUNDS US! THE MIND CONTROLS EVVVVERYTHING!”

  Meghan gasped, then started to cry.

  Instantly, I froze, watching the tears form in her eyes. It killed me.

  Which must have done it, because time slid back. The scene with the woman replayed… then erased.

  My wife came in from the next room. “You okay?” Her robe was open, revealing the soft curves of her breasts.

  “Aside from the fact that I almost killed myself?” I replied. “I’m fine.”

  I shuffled forward, then yanked my boxer briefs up over my hips. I rubbed my temples. God, my mouth was pasty. I needed a can of Coke, bad. I could tell already, this was going to be one of those days. Felt like I was forgetting something important, but the more I tried to recall it, the more it slipped away. Anot
her item lost.

  And I already had a million stupid things to do today, thank you very much.

  AFTER THE ELEPHANT BALLET

  By Gary A. Braunbeck

  “Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.”

  – John Fletcher (1579-1625) An Honest Man’s Fortune, Epilogue

  The little girl might have been pretty once but flames had taken care of that: burned skin hung about her neck in brownish wattles; one yellowed eye was almost completely hidden underneath the drooping scar tissue of her forehead; her mouth twisted downward on both sides with pockets of dead, greasy-looking flesh at the corners; and her cheeks resembled the globs of congealed wax that form at the base of a candle.

  I couldn’t stop staring at her or cursing myself for doing it. She passed by the table where I was sitting, giving me a glimpse of her only normal-looking feature: her left eye was a startling bright green, a jade gemstone. Buried as it was in that ruined face, its vibrance seemed a cruel joke.

  She took a seat in the back.

  Way in the back.

  Mr. Dysart?”

  A woman in her mid-thirties held out a copy of my latest storybook. I smiled as I took it, chancing one last glance at the disfigured little girl in the back, then autographed the title page.

  I have been writing and illustrating children’s books for the last six years, and though I’m far from a household name I do have a Newbery Award proudly displayed on a shelf in my office. One critic, evidently after a few too many Grand Marniers, once wrote: “Dysart’s books are a treasure chest of wonders for children and adults alike. He is part Maurice Sendak, part Hans Christian Andersen, and part Madleine L’engle.” (I always thought of my books as being a cross between Buster Keaton and the Brothers Grimm—what does that tell you about creative objectivity?)

  I handed the book back to the woman as Gina Foster, director of the Cedar Hill Public Library, came up to the table. We had been dating for about two weeks; romance had yet to rear its ugly head, but I was hopeful.

  Well, are we ready?” she asked.

  “‘We’ want to step outside for a cigarette.”

  I thought you were trying to quit.”

  And failing miserably.” I made my way to the special “judge’s chair.” “How many entries are there?”

  Twenty-five. But don’t worry, they can show you only one illustration and the story can’t be longer than four minutes. We still on for coffee and dessert afterward?”

  Unless some eight-year-old Casanova steals your heart away.”

  Hey, you pays your money, you takes your chances.”

  You’re an evil woman.”

  Famous for it.”

  Tell me again: How did you rope me into being the judge for this?”

  When I mentioned that this was National Literacy Month, you assaulted me with a speech about the importance of promoting a love for creativity among children.”

  I must’ve been drunk.” I don’t drink—that’s my mother’s department.

  Gina looked at her watch, took a deep breath as she gave me a “Here-We-Go” look, then turned to face the room. “Good evening,” she said in a sparkling voice that always reminded me of bells. “Welcome to the library’s first annual storybook contest.” Everyone applauded. I tried slinking my way into the woodwork. Crowds make me nervous. Actually, most things make me nervous.

  I’ll just wish all our contestants good luck and introduce our judge, award-winning local children’s’ book author Andrew Dysart.” She began the applause this time, then mouthed You're on your own before gliding to an empty chair.

  Thank you,” I said, the words crawling out of my throat as if they were afraid of the light. “I…uh, I’m sure that all of you have been working very hard, and I want you to know that we’re going to make copies of all your storybooks, bind them, and put them on the shelves here in the library right next to my own.” Unable to add any more dazzle to that stunning speech, I took my seat, consulted the list, and called the first contestant forward.

  A chubby boy with round glasses shuffled up as if he were being led in front of a firing squad. He faced the room, gave a terrified grin, then wiped some sweat from his forehead as he held up a pretty good sketch of a cow riding a tractor.

  My name is Jimmy Campbell and my story is called ‘The Day The Cows Took Over.’” He held the picture higher. “See there? The cow is riding the tractor and the farmer is out grazing in the field.”

  What’s the farmer’s name?” I asked.

  He looked at me and said, “Uh...h-how about Old MacDonald?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’d give him a better name, but I don’t know no farmers.”

  I laughed along with the rest of the room, forgetting all about the odd, damaged little girl who had caught my attention earlier.

  Jimmy did very well—I had to fight to keep my laughter from getting too loud, I didn’t want him to think I was making fun of him but the kid was genuinely funny; his story had an off-kilter sense of humor that reminded me Ernie Kovacs. I decided to give him the maximum fifty points. I’m a pushover for kids. Sue me.

  The next forty minutes went by with nary a tear or panic attack, but after eight stories I could see that several of the children were getting fidgety, so I signaled to Gina that we’d take a break after the next contestant.

  I read: “Lucy Simpkins.”

  There was the soft rustling of movement in the back as the burned girl came forward.

  Everyone stared at her. The cumulative anxiety in the room was squatting on her shoulders like a stone gargoyle, yet she wore an unwavering smile.

  I returned the smile and gestured for her to begin.

  She held up a watercolor painting.

  I think my mouth may have dropped open.

  The painting was excellent, a deftly-rendered portrait of several people—some very tall, others quite short, still others who were deformed—standing in a semi-circle around a statue which marked a grave. All wore the brightly colored costumes of circus performers. Each face had an expression of profound sadness; the nuances were breathtaking. But the thing that really impressed me was the cloud in the sky; it was shaped like an elephant, but not in any obvious way: it reminded you of summer afternoons when you still had enough imagination and wonder to lie on a hillside and dream that you saw giant shapes in the pillowy white above.

  My name is Lucy Simpkins,” she said in a clear, almost musical voice, “and my story is called ‘Old Bet’s Gone Away.’

  One night in Africa, in the secret elephant graveyard, the angels of all the elephants got together to tell stories. Tonight it was Martin’s, the Bull Elephant’s, turn. He wandered around until he found his old bones, then he sat on top of them like they were a throne and said, ‘I want to tell you the story of Old Bet, the one who never found her way back to us.’

  And he said:

  “‘In 1824 a man in Somers, New York, bought an elephant named Old Bet from a traveling circus. He gave her the best hay and always fed her peanuts on the weekends. Children would pet her trunk and take rides on her back in a special saddle that the man made.

  “‘Then one day the Reverend brought his daughter to ride on Old Bet. Old Bet was really tired but she thought the Reverend’s little girl looked nice so she gave her a ride and even sang the elephant song, which went like this:

  I go along, thud-thud,

  I go along.

  And I sing my elephant song.

  I stomp in the grass,

  And I roll in the mud,

  And when I go a-walking, I go along THUD!

  It’s a happy sound, and this is my happy song

  Won’t you sing it with me? It doesn’t take long.

  I go along, thud-thud, I go along.

  “‘Old Bet accidentally tripped over a log and fell, and the Reverend’s daughter broke both of her legs and had to go to the hospital.

  “‘Old Bet was real sorry, but the Reverend yelled at her and smacked her w
ith a horse whip and got her so scared that she ran away into the deep woods.

  “‘The next day the Reverend got all the people of the town together and told them that Old Bet was the Devil in disguise and should be killed before she could hurt other children. So the men-folk took their shotguns and went into the woods. They found Bet by the river. She was looking at her reflection in the water and singing:

  I ran away, uh-oh, I ran away.

  And I hurt my little friend.

  I didn’t mean to fall, but I’m clumsy and old

  I’m big and ugly and the circus didn’t want me anymore.

  I wish they hadn’t sold me.

  I want to go home.

  “‘The Reverend wanted to shoot her, but the man who’d bought her from the circus said, “Best I be the one who does the deed. After all, she’s mine.” But the man wasn’t too young either and his aim was a bit off and when he fired the bullet it hit Old Bet in the rear and it hurt and it scared her so much! She tried to run away, to run back to the circus.

  “‘She didn’t mean to kill anyone, but two men got under her and she crushed them and her heart broke because of that. By now the Judge had come around to see what all the trouble was, and he saw the two dead men and decreed right there on the spot that Old Bet was guilty of murder and sentenced her to hang by the neck until she was dead.

  “‘They took her to the rail yard and strung her up on a railroad crane but she broke it down because she was so heavy. They got a stronger crane and hanged her from that. After three hours, Old Bet finally died while five thousand people watched. She was buried there in Somers and the man who owned her had a statue raised above the grave. Ever since, it has been a shrine for circus people. They travel to her grave and stop to pay their respects and remember that, as long as people laugh at you and smile, they won’t kill you. And they say that if you look in the sky on a bright summer’s day, you can see Old Bet up there in the clouds, smiling down at everyone and singing the elephant song as she tries to find her way back to Africa and the secret elephant graveyard.’