Haunted Nights

by Ellen Datlow

  It happens. You get used to it. But oh, the frustration. I’ll admit to reaching out sometimes, even before they’ve looked back, even before they see me. Reaching, preempting the moment, though it leads to sorrow if they get away. The longing, the sense of what might have been.

  Of missing out on the feeling that overwhelms me afterward: the heat, the glow filling me up. Not a feeding on the soul as such, but a by-product of it. Some kind of reward? I don’t know. All I know is how good it feels. Better than any drink or drugs you people have ever experienced. A euphoria the likes of which—

  But what’s the point of trying to explain; you’ll never understand. It is a process we’re both a part of, playing our parts in, to be precise. Cause and effect, one thing leading to the next.

  And there he is, another. My eye falling inevitably upon him as I silently move from one place to the next. There, wandering around out here, looking like a lost soul already. Looking like prey.

  You. Yes, you! It’s your time.

  It’s your turn now.

  —

  IT WASN’T A PRANK; it wasn’t fairies or demons or anything else tormenting him.

  Tim had rung Saint August’s back and they’d confirmed the truth of it. His gran was dying.

  “She’s not been taking much food for a while now, as you know,” the nurse on duty told him. Not the same woman who’d left the message, this one had a lighter tone. A bit too light, given the nature of the information she was imparting, like she was on the verge of laughter. “We’ve been trying her with fluids, and she did perk up a bit. But tonight…”

  Tonight she was dying. On this day of all days, on this date. She was dying and she was alone—or at least in any way that counted. There were staff present, clearly, but not family; and that was the important thing. The woman, who had brought him up, fed and clothed him for so many years, kept him safe, was slipping away, and he wasn’t there to even hold her hand as she did so.

  “Are you sure?” Tim asked, and realized he sounded like the most heartless person ever. Do I have to come? Can’t someone else deal with it? But it wasn’t that, and if anyone would have understood, it was his gran. It was because of her he was the way he was, for Christ’s sake!

  There was a sigh at the other end of the line, then that laughing voice again: “Yes, we’re sure, Mr. Nolan. If you’re going to come, though, time is a factor.”

  Tim lowered the phone, looked around, as if waiting for someone to make the decision for him. But there was no one else; there hadn’t been for a long time. Just him and—

  If you’re going to come…

  He held the receiver to his ear again. “I’m on my way,” he told the nurse.

  What choice did he have?

  Quickly Tim went around blowing out the candles and switched off his fire—he didn’t want another disaster like the kettle incident—then grabbed his keys. Upon opening the door, he stood there for a moment or two, unable to move, not wanting to cross the threshold. Then he thought again of his gran, sucked up a breath, and ventured out. He almost forgot to close the front door behind him and lock it, in his haste to reach the relative safety of his car. It was only then he let out the breath he’d been holding.

  His hands were shaking as he started the engine; almost pulled out and hit another vehicle, the driver blaring his horn at Tim. Get it together, he told himself. Get it together. You need to do this, for Gran.

  Looking over his shoulder now, checking his blind spot instead of relying on his mirrors, he filtered into the traffic, thankful at least for the fact it wasn’t raining.

  By the time he was approaching town, however, it was clear that was the only thing he could be thankful for. The traffic had practically ground to a halt, a consequence of some kind of carnival going on up ahead; more of those celebrations his grandmother never approved of. After he’d moved about an inch in twenty minutes, Tim decided the best course of action might be to pull over and leave the car by the side of the road, make for the underground, which would take him more or less to the door of Saint August’s.

  …time is a factor.

  So, locking up his car, he headed off in the direction he thought the station lay. But everything looked so different at night, especially tonight. Like the landscape was suddenly shifting around him. He was panicking, which didn’t help: about the fact he was out here in the first place, the first time in as long as he could remember on this date; about the fact he needed to get to his gran. It would be safer there with her; it always had been by her side.

  People dressed in all kinds of outfits, from cheesy movie monsters to media personalities and cartoon characters (what exactly did Marilyn Monroe or Daffy Duck have to do with anything?), kept bumping into him. Tim wanted to get away from them, get to somewhere quiet where he could think—because the noise was incredible! Too much to bear.

  He ended up ducking into a side street he wasn’t familiar with, emerging out the other end in an equally strange location, the lamps covered in bunting, the same bunting covering the street names everywhere, apparently. Tim raced across that road and up another. None of it looked right. And the more he searched for some kind of landmark he recognized, the more lost he became, the more his wish appeared to have been granted. To be away from the crowds, away from everything.

  Tim lit up a cigarette, but even that didn’t taste right, and he soon stamped it out again.

  Station, he needed to be heading toward the nearest station. Tim took out his phone to check his location but promptly dropped it on the ground. He heard the crack of the screen even before he scooped it back up. Pressing the buttons did little good, nor did shaking it as a last resort.

  Tim looked around again, as he had in his home. For someone to help him. But what few people there seemed to be around now were otherwise engaged: laughing, drinking, some brawling, which he steered clear of.

  It was as he floundered around, looking either for a station or someone of sound mind to aid him in his quest, that he heard the sound. Maybe he’d been aware of it a little earlier but hadn’t properly noticed it. Either way, he certainly did now.

  Footsteps.

  He could have sworn that in his bumbling search he’d just looked up the street he was heading down. That there had been no sign of anybody. So how—

  Tim froze, a chill running through him which had nothing to do with the October weather. The sound of the footsteps stopped as well. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, swallowing dryly.

  His mind flashed back to his grandmother, but it wasn’t because he was afraid he’d reach her too late. No, this was a memory of something she’d said a long time ago: one of the things she’d told him when she’d been arming her Timothy against the evil.

  “If, and I do mean if,” she’d said to him, holding up one of her already wizened fingers, “you find yourself outside and alone on that night—for whatever reason—and you hear someone behind you, you hear footsteps, whatever you do, don’t turn.”

  “Why?” the younger version of himself had asked.

  “Because,” his grandmother had said, moistening her lips, something the nurses had had to do for her later on in her life, “because you really don’t want to see what’s behind you.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No, you don’t. And if you happen to do such a thing, young Timothy, death will soon follow.”

  He’d swallowed back then as well, throat as dry as his grandmother’s lips. As dry as it was right now. Tim took a tentative step, then another and another.

  The sound was echoed back at him twofold. A darker twin. But don’t look for a shadow, he reminded himself. That was almost as dangerous. Don’t look at all! Keep your head fixed, looking forward. Keep looking for the station. Remember Gran.

  Fire, that’s what he needed. Protection. And then he remembered his lighter, the one in his pocket. Tim dug into his jeans again and fished it out, flicking it open and sparking a flame. He held it out to the side of him, a warning. Hoping th
e footsteps, which were getting closer by the meter, would die off. Hoping the thing following him would leave him alone.

  It’s just another reveler, he told himself. Tim knew he was being silly, and at any other time of year he might have believed it. But if he did, he would have to admit that everything he’d done all these years had been a waste of time as well. That there had been no need to barricade himself in; no such thing as tricks, as curses. As monsters.

  Things you couldn’t explain. Things like whatever was behind him, whatever he felt sure was stalking him.

  But it can’t do anything, Tim reminded himself. It can’t do a thing unless you—

  —

  TURN, DAMMIT!

  This is getting old. It had been a novelty at first, the lost soul, the wanderer I’d taken for an easy mark, who had actually turned out to be more clued up than I thought. Imagine that.

  He’d resisted, even after he realized I was there. The man in the jacket and jeans, short brown hair; unremarkable in every way. Except one. He knew the traditions, knew what they meant. Even if he didn’t fully believe in them, he was prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt. It’s what has saved him so far, because I cannot act unless he looks. He knows that.

  The lighter had been a nice touch. Fire, to ward away the ghosts, the spirits. Would have worked if I were one of those, which I think we’ve firmly established I’m not. I’m not afraid of fire. The people I hunt could be on fire for all I care. It wouldn’t stop me from doing what I do. What I’ve always done.

  I’m beginning to think this lost soul has always done what he’s doing as well: protected himself. I’ve certainly never seen him out and about on my travels. I wonder.

  Doesn’t matter. What does it matter? All that matters is he sees me. I don’t exist until he does.

  But it doesn’t look like he’s going to bite, however long I follow him. However close I get. No, he has to. He has to. Unless they’re interrupted, they always—

  Come on, come on.

  Bastard! A little peek, that’s all I’m asking. It’s human nature; it’s instinct.

  Well, now it’s become a matter of pride. A principle at stake. A…challenge. That’s right, this is a challenge—and it’s been a long time since that’s happened, let me tell you!

  Right. Get in nice and tight, match those movements, those footfalls of his. As close as I can possibly get without being right on top of him, without actually touching him, as if I can.

  Come on, come on. Just—

  —

  TURN.

  It was killing him. Knowing what was there, what he would never be able to escape this night once it had a fix on him. Even if Tim reached a station, even if he made it to his grandmother’s side, wouldn’t he simply be leading the evil to her?

  He didn’t know what to do.

  …time is a factor.

  The lighter hadn’t achieved anything, apart from burning his fingers, so he’d snapped it closed again. He didn’t need protection from anything else when he had this thing on his tail. Nothing would dare come near him.

  Tim began to imagine what it might look like, the creature, the being his gran wouldn’t even name let alone describe. Fangs, horns? No, too clichéd. Too human, if that made sense. It would be something nobody would be able to imagine, something that came out once a year to…what, feed? Was that what it would do? Eat him, like the wolf in that fairy tale?

  Or something else? Was it going to do another unimaginable thing if he simply—

  No. Don’t focus on that, because it wasn’t going to happen. Tim wasn’t stupid, could keep this up forever if need be.

  However, part of him was desperate to know. Not only what it was, this thing—but also whether all he’d ever been taught, all he’d ever done on this night and the rest of it, had been worthwhile. Had been worth it. The loneliness, keeping people at arm’s length (and what kind of life had that been, when you thought about it?).

  He gritted his teeth as the footsteps grew louder and louder. So loud, he wasn’t even sure if they were real anymore, or in his head. More tricks, another curse.

  Please, no…he said to himself. It was too much. He couldn’t—

  And then, suddenly, as if it was out of his control, it was happening.

  He was looking over his shoulder. He had turned, like he was always going to do. Like he was destined to do, apparently. The same as everyone else.

  Tim let out a whimper when he saw what was behind him. A whimper that soon became a laugh. More of a laugh than the nurse’s breathy tones on the phone: a chuckle even when confronted with his stalker.

  Because there, behind him, was a man. Just a man.

  He had his hood up against the cold, head tilted downward, but Tim could see clearly it was a man’s face underneath. Laughing again, and turning fully around, he let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God!” he said. All that worry, that concern and it had only been—

  Tim paused when he saw the man’s expression. There was something odd about it, something dangerous. More dangerous than imagined terrors, because he was here and they weren’t. But before he could do anything else, like run or defend himself, protect himself, the blade was out and up, into him at a point where the man knew it would do the most damage, and quickly. Two more stabs followed, and his attacker stepped back, leaving Tim confused, clutching his wounds, hands coming away wet and black with blood.

  Tim’s vision was blurring as he too stepped backward, staggering actually as he felt the life draining out of him. And he could have sworn as he did so that he saw something…something else.

  Then he was falling, dropping. Dying. This man had turned him, just as he had turned for the man. Transformed him into…

  Yes, there, now he could see it. More clearly than he had ever seen anything with his old eyes, now practically useless and closing. He saw the streets filled again with people, but these weren’t revelers; they were those who had passed. Those who had been allowed to “visit,” if only for one night. Tim smiled, or at least he thought he did. Because there, not too far away, was his gran—and she wasn’t alone. Two figures stood with her, by her side, beckoning.

  His family.

  Tim moved, though he had no idea how. Toward the shapes, the glowing shapes that had been indistinct at first but were becoming more solid by the second—certainly more solid than anything else around him in what he used to call the real world. Tim beamed again, not frightened anymore. No longer a lost soul.

  He thought briefly about what had happened to him, about what he was leaving behind back there. What he’d seen. But he didn’t look, didn’t actually care anymore. What was in front of him was more important than everything he was leaving behind, so he wouldn’t do that no matter what.

  Tim wasn’t about to turn.

  —

  I TURN AWAY from the body.

  He will be the last one tonight. Time…time to leave; my cue. But as I hurry on my way, tucking my weapon out of sight, head down to avoid being seen by any cameras, I suddenly have regrets. Not about what I’ve done tonight, because that’s what I always do. What I have been doing for so many years, ever since childhood. Ever since I was taught it by my grandfather. No, not that…

  I suddenly regret the act. Pretending to be something I’m not. Something powerful, when I’m far from that. Then I think about the look on the man’s face. Not the fear I usually see in my victims’ eyes as they’re murdered (another crude word, but then, we’re not pretending anymore, are we?), but something else.

  Frightened of something else he’d seen.

  Something I’m curious about, but now terrified of myself. That and the footsteps I can hear behind. And I know I have to look, can’t help myself. I must see whatever he saw. It’s human nature; it’s instinct.

  We always have to turn.

  Jack

  Pat Cadigan

  “DARK TIMES DRAW dark spirits,” my mother says, looking at me significantly. “That’s one of the solid truths
in this world.”

  “Maybe in all worlds,” my grandmother adds, with the same look.

  Being the dutiful seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, I nod patiently, as if I haven’t heard this a hundred times a day for the last two months. I’m trying to cut them some slack—they’re both mothers, and mothers always worry. But they’re like I’ve never gone solo on All Souls’ Day till now. Granted, I’ve never done this job before, but for crying out loud, I’m not a kid in the first flush of talent; I’m thirty-one. Both my mother and grandmother were younger when they did this for the first time—ten years younger, in Mother’s case. I’ve taken over a lot of the family business so Grandma can retire. This is what I signed up for. I’m ready; I’ve got this.

  —

  BY THREE THIRTY in the afternoon, I’m in the cemetery dressed in groundskeeper drag pretending to look for leaves to rake. I hadn’t planned to get there so early, but I had to get away from all the last-minute fussing and instructions before they attracted a jinx.

  It’s such a nice day for all the souls that I’m glad I came early. The sky’s clear, and the afternoon is still alive and well, too early for the shadows to lengthen. The air’s got a chilly bite, but it’s not windy, so there’s not a whole lot to rake. I saunter around in my jacket and overalls, my hat pulled low, rake over my shoulder.

  All Souls’ Day isn’t a busy time here the way it is in more traditional areas. Cemetery traffic is practically nonexistent on the natural world side of the veil. There’s more on the supernatural side, of course—in spots where the trees still have enough leaves to give shade, I catch movement in my peripheral vision, souls flitting from one place to another. They know I’m not a real groundskeeper, but I feign complete unawareness of spirits abroad, partly to show them my business here doesn’t concern them and partly to get well into character. I’m no method actor, but it takes more than five minutes to be credible.