by Ellen Datlow
October 31st dawned cold and foggy, just like any other day in the damp valley. It was so different from Austin. Back home all the houses would have Halloween decorations up and there would be people already wandering around in costume. Lots of kids at school would be dressed up, as would the coolest of the teachers. Even people at various jobs would be in costume. But here it might as well be any other day of the year.
Heather had taken to riding Callisto through the woods, avoiding the village, and she spent the day among the trees. At one point they encountered a deer, which froze, staring, until Callisto stretched up to nibble the few remaining leaves on a nearby tree. The deer startled and was gone in a flick of her tail.
They had both grown more comfortable in what Heather called The Haunted Woods. She supposed she had the village kids to thank for that. Their nastiness was worse than anything she and Callisto were likely to encounter out here. But she was still bothered by what Harry had said about old customs.
Things you have to . . . appease.
She shook her head to banish the memory. Her favorite holiday could come and go without fanfare, but it didn’t matter because next year she and her dad would throw the most awesome party ever. She’d already decided on Callisto’s costume: she would find a pair of huge white-feathered wings for the horse. The idea of riding Pegasus filled her with joy. She left the woods and returned home feeling as though she and Callisto were already flying. They were having dinner when it happened. Someone was pounding hard on the door and there was the sound of raucous laughter outside. Heather looked at her dad with wide eyes and shook her head, silently urging him not to go.
But he frowned in confusion at her and got up from the table. “It’s probably just trick-or-treaters,” he said.
Heather followed him, feeling like a scared kid and wishing she’d told him the whole story, that Halloween wasn’t about fun here.
We have old customs. Maybe you think they’re strange.
Her father flung open the door and boldly walked out onto the step while Heather hid behind him in the porch. A group of people had gathered in front of the farmhouse, and Heather gasped as she saw what they were wearing. It looked like a gathering of demons.
They were dressed in black robes and masks. Horrible, misshapen things that looked like they’d been put together and painted in the dark. A trio at the back held torches. Not flashlights, but actual flaming torches.
“Hey there,” her dad said, sounding uneasy. “I thought you guys didn’t do Halloween.”
That prompted a chorus of laughter and one man started up a chant. At first Heather thought they were saying “nightmare.” But as others took up the chant, she realized it was just the name of the pub. White Mare.
Dave glanced back at Heather, and his expression of concern worried her. He motioned for her to stay back, and that frightened her even more.
“Listen, fellas,” her dad said, “I’m not sure what this is about, but—”
They wouldn’t let him talk. The crowd shouted him down with their strange chant. Dave stepped back inside and took hold of the door, but one of the robed figures jumped across the threshold and kept him from shutting it.
There was a flash of white among the crowd and the jingle of bells. The figure moved quickly, bobbing and weaving between the revelers. Heather covered her mouth with both hands as she caught a glimpse of it. If the people in black looked like demons, this thing looked like a monster. The head was huge and white, and the jaws made a horrible clacking sound as its mouth opened and closed.
At last it broke through and stood at the entrance. It wasn’t a monster. It was worse.
“White Mare! White Mare!”
A white sheet draped the person holding the awful clacking head. At least Heather hoped there was a person under there. What she’d first taken for a monster was only a skull. A horse’s skull, long and gaunt and grinning horribly. Someone had filled the empty eye sockets with gleaming red baubles.
Her dad shouted over the noise. “Go on! Get out of here!”
But the crowd continued to chant, growing louder and louder. The horse-man capered on the step, dancing in a circle. The skull reared back, its mouth open in silent laughter, before jerking down again and appearing to look straight at Heather. She screamed.
That was when the robed people shoved her father aside and forced their way into the house. The horse-man continued its hellish dancing as it followed, with the others standing aside to let it pass. It “galloped” down the corridor and as soon as it passed, Heather ran to her father and clung to him.
“Make them stop,” she sobbed. “Make them go away!”
Dave held her tight as he edged them both into the nearest room and slammed the door behind them. “Don’t worry, Heather. I’m calling the cops.”
An old rotary dial phone stood on the table in the corner and Dave grabbed it and dialed 911. Then he cursed and hung up, remembering to dial 999 when he tried again.
Heather listened in horror to the shouting and chanting as the group marched through the house. Some of them had musical instruments and began playing, the melodies harsh and discordant. Others sang in high screeching voices. But above the chaos, one sound was clearest of all.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
“Yes, hello? I need the police at the Barton farm in Thorpe Morag. Half the village just broke into my house!”
He was silent for a few moments as he listened to the operator. Then his expression turned incredulous.
“What the hell kind of advice is that? And they’re already in, didn’t you hear me? No, I don’t know anything about any custom but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re trespassing. They scared my daughter half to death. Now send someone out here right—” He broke off and held the phone away from his face, staring at it in shock. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “She hung up.”
Heather bit her lip as the party continued their dancing, singing invasion. The skull clacked out of time with the stamping feet and the chanting voices.
“White Mare! White Mare!”
Clack! Clack! Clack!
“What did she say?” Heather asked.
Dave shook his head. “Something about some local custom. She told me to let them in. I said they were already in!”
She’ll find out, though. When they come through.
Heather eyed the door uneasily, but the sounds were growing faint as the group moved deeper into the house. A shudder ran through her and she hurried to her father’s side. They held each other as they listened.
“Maybe they’ll just go,” Dave said. “It’s probably some Halloween prank. The emergency operator didn’t seem to think it was anything to worry about.”
Heather nodded in hopeful agreement, but she couldn’t stop replaying the conversation with the village kids. Were they here now, dressed like demons and dancing around with the others? She imagined pulling off one of those hideous masks only to find the same face underneath.
She hadn’t wanted to tell her dad about the encounter, but now it was weighing on her. This was all her fault. Because she hadn’t listened to them. In their own nasty way, they’d tried to warn her.
“Daddy? There’s something I have to tell you . . .”
Her face burned with humiliation at the memory, but she managed to tell him the whole story without bursting into tears.
Dave listened without interrupting. And when she was done he wrapped his arms around her tightly. “It’s not your fault, Heather. They’re a bunch of insecure yahoos and they were just trying to scare you.”
“Yeah, well, they did a good job.”
“We’ll be back home soon,” Dave said, his voice calm and reassuring. “Another couple of weeks and we’ll be out of here.”
“Yeah.”
The party lasted for almost an hour. More than once Dave reacted to the sound of breaking glass and got angrily to his feet. Heather stopped him each time, begging him not to leave her alone.
“If they’ve d
estroyed anything valuable . . .” But he never finished the threat. What recourse did they have? Sue them? If the police weren’t interested, they’d have no case anyway.
Heather’s fear had given way to exhaustion and she was curled up on the floor when she heard the front door slam. Then all was silent inside. The voices and music and laughter moved like a wave down the drive and out into the night.
“Are they gone?”
Her father went to the door and pressed his ear against it, listening. “I think so.” Then he took a deep breath and turned the knob.
Heather inched toward the doorway, expecting to find the house trashed. They went from room to room, but except for a couple of broken knick-knacks and one picture frame, the place seemed to have been left in one piece, if a little disarranged. They sighed with relief as they moved the furniture back to where it belonged.
Heather stared in dismay at the remains of their interrupted dinner before sweeping it all into the trash. She’d lost her appetite.
Once they’d made sure the doors were locked, they trudged upstairs to bed, hoping sleep would obliterate the awful memory.
Heather slept fitfully, dreaming of monstrous figures dancing around her. They jabbed at her with spikes and called her insulting names, putting on exaggerated American accents.
Less all go tricker-treatin’, y’all!
Gimme some caaandy!
She woke with a cry and bolted upright. Sunrise was just beginning to color the sky, turning the curtains a sickly yellow. A gap in the fabric allowed a pale stripe of light to creep across the floor toward the bed like a pointing finger. She felt singled out, accused. The dream had unnerved her, but she also felt nagged by a strange sense of guilt.
She slipped out of bed and padded downstairs in her pajamas. An eerie silence enveloped the house, and she realized that the same silence extended outside. There were no birds singing, no wind rattling the dead leaves, no sound of any kind.
The front door was closed and locked. But Heather still didn’t feel reassured. Something was wrong. She knew it. Something had happened. Then she saw the note. It hadn’t been there last night. Someone must have slipped it under the door while they slept.
She thought of waking her dad, of letting him see it first. But somehow she knew the note was for her. On the folded slip of paper was a single cryptic phrase.
THE WIGHT MARE TAKES WHEN YOU DON’T GIVE
At first she thought the word had been misspelled. But she could still hear the fanatical chanting in her head, and she realized that was what they’d been saying. Whatever it meant, it must be the name of that awful skull creature. The thing you had to appease.
But what were they supposed to give it? Her stomach fluttered with unease, and then swooped in a dizzying plunge.
She didn’t want to open the door, didn’t want to look. But it felt as if she was caught in some terrible ritual, playing a part they had forced on her. Her hand shook as she reached out to turn the key and unlock the door. The handle was like ice beneath her palm. She took a deep breath and threw it open. And when she saw what was waiting for her, she screamed.
Impaled on a spike was a huge bloody mass. In her delirium it took her a moment to realize that it was a horse’s head. Callisto.
It was a long time before she stopped screaming.
There was no anger, only despair. Heather felt drained of all emotion. Her father expressed enough fury for both of them, but it made no difference. The solitary policeman who had come to the house shook his head sadly and explained that no crime had been committed. It was a local custom to allow the guisers in and offer them food and drink.
“What the hell are guisers?” Dave demanded. “Like ‘disguise’? They were disguised, all right. We couldn’t tell who was who, but I’m pretty sure it was the whole damn village!”
“There’s nothing I can do, sir,” the young constable said calmly.
When Heather showed him the threatening note, he merely explained that appeasing the Wight Mare was an ancient tradition. It was an honor to don the guise of the spirit horse and perform the ritual. The community went from house to house, the Wight Mare and her demon entourage, where offerings would be made to ensure that the door between worlds would close at dawn. If entry was refused . . .
Heather choked back another sob.
“That’s insane,” Dave said, shaking his head in disbelief.
“This is a very ancient part of the world, sir, with ancient traditions.”
The patronizing tone only further antagonized Dave. “We’re not talking about Druids here! We’re talking about a group of juvenile delinquents who bullied my daughter, broke into my house and then murdered her horse! And for what? Because we didn’t hand out treats?”
His hands clenched on Heather’s shoulders as he spoke and she was reminded of the last time her father had confronted policemen, demanding answers to a mystery that was never to be solved. Sometimes people just disappeared and were never found.
“With all due respect, sir, the term ‘murder’ only applies to a person.” The constable shrugged as he pocketed his notepad and made as if to leave. “I’m sorry, but all I can do is repeat that there has been no crime committed here.”
“Well, that’s not good enough!”
The policeman turned back to Dave, his expression hardening. “It’ll have to be,” he said coldly. “Maybe next time you go to another country you’ll make a note of their customs and be more respectful of them.”
Heather could feel the tension in her father’s hands as he struggled not to lose his cool. She knew his rage was about more than the invasion and what the villagers had done to Callisto. She forced herself to take deep, calming breaths, hoping he would do the same.
Together they watched the constable amble back down the lane and drive away. As one, they turned to look at the shrouded thing sticking out of the ground. Dave had thrown a blanket over it so Heather didn’t have to see it anymore, but the shape was unmistakable.
The body was too large to bury, but Heather insisted they dig a grave for the head. They’d never had a funeral for Heather’s mother because they still refused to admit she was dead. But there was no gray area here, no hope that Callisto might return someday. The finality of it turned Heather’s heart to stone and she stared with dry, empty eyes at the little mound of dirt when the grave was filled in.
Ian tried again to slide his hand up under Chloe’s skirt, but she slapped him away. “Get off, perv,” she said, laughing.
“Bloody tease is what you are,” Ian complained, not for the first time. He took a swig from the bottle of lager he’d nicked and peered up into the trees. He could see the moon through the bony limbs, a fiery eye staring down at them. Something about it made him uneasy and he looked away.
Chloe made a pitying face. “Aww, poor thing. Ain’t had enough fun already.”
A grin spread across his features. “Yeah, the other night was brilliant. Only wish I coulda seen her face the next morning.”
Chloe pawed at the bottle and he passed it to her. “Stupid twat,” she sneered. “She totally deserved it.”
Ian laughed, although in truth, he hadn’t enjoyed killing the horse. That had been Chloe’s idea. And Harry hadn’t wanted any part of it, mumbling something about how it wasn’t theirs to take. But it was just some stupid old custom their parents kept alive.
“It’s getting cold,” Ian said. “Let’s go back to your house.”
“Yeah, all right.” Chloe finished the lager and hurled the empty bottle into the woods, where it struck a tree with a satisfying smash. She giggled and staggered to her feet. Then she froze, holding up her hand.
Ian stared at her, still grinning. “What? You about to hurl?”
“Shut up! Listen. I heard something.”
He stood up and cocked his head, listening. “There’s nothing. Just—” His voice trailed away. It couldn’t have been what it sounded like. But one look at Chloe confirmed that she’d heard the same thing
. He shook his head. No. There was no way . . .
Clack! Clack!
They’d heard that sound plenty on Halloween, when they’d gleefully joined in the old custom, eager to teach those stupid foreigners a lesson. But now it sounded different. There was the suggestion of something wet as the jaws slapped together. And the smell . . .
They fumbled for each other, clasping hands as they started backing away. The noise was getting louder, coming nearer. And now it was unmistakable. Hoofbeats.
A cloud must have passed across the moon because it was suddenly too dark to see. Chloe held up her cell phone, but the light from the screen did little to penetrate the deepening black.
“Let’s get out of here,” she said.
Ian didn’t need any convincing. Harry had weirded him out enough with all that talk about how they’d stolen from the Wight Mare, that it would be back. He wanted to believe it was Harry now, just trying to scare them. But there was no faking those sounds. Or that smell. Something was coming toward them through the trees, crunching in the dead, dry leaves. Something that snorted heavily as it got closer.
“Which way do we go?” Ian hissed. “I can’t see a bloody thing!”
Chloe kept her phone up high, shining the light around. “Fuck! I don’t know! Where’s the path?”
“I think it’s—”
He gasped, certain that the light had swept across something.
“What?”
Chloe whirled around, brandishing the phone. A huge pale shape emerged from the gloom, draped in a ragged, filthy sheet. Light and shadow trembled over the jagged contours, gleaming where the bone showed through the strings of muscle and tendon still adhering to the skull. The huge white teeth seemed to be grinning as the jaws opened and closed, dislodging a clump of soil caked inside.
Clack!
One eye was gone. The other hung loosely from the socket, milky and deflated, but its gaze was far from blind. It was staring right at them.
Chloe screamed and dropped her phone. The light shone upward from the ground, giving the skull an even more malevolent expression. It jolted Ian from his paralysis. He tried to pull Chloe away, but she seemed rooted to the spot.
