Go ahead, Wizard, finish it. Read it again. Read the secret. It’s all true.
Annabeth’s eyes rested on the well-read section under the photograph; she took deep breath and read:
And now we come to the strangest item in all the modern canon of Sam sightings, the suicide note of Mabel Genes. By all accounts (and this includes newspaper articles, eyewitness reports, medical records, as well as the testimony of the present author, who knew Ms. Genes and was, in fact, a pupil in her first grade class at Orangefield Elementary at the time) Ms. Genes was gregarious, happy, happily married and well adjusted. Before Halloween of 1981 she showed absolutely no tendency toward depression or self destruction. She was a Presbyterian, and devoutly religious.
But something happened in the second week of October of 1981 to change her personality utterly. Her husband said later that she almost appeared obsessed. (As a sidebar, and perhaps an irrelevant or even comical one, it should be remembered that the novel and movie “The Exorcist” had been released within the previous decade.) During that week, after school, Ms. Genes made her annual visit to Froelich farms to pick pumpkins for her classroom and home. She had been doing this for twenty-two years. While in the field, alone and at the end of the day, she reportedly had an encounter with Samhain – later she told her husband that he had risen up out of the ground like a ‘black whirlpool’ and spoken to her.
The incident was forgotten, except that Ms. Genes began to have strange dreams (again, as told to her husband) and exhibit increasingly bizarre behavior. This behavior – which included night walking and what appeared to be periodic trances as well as talking when no one was there, abruptly ceased the week before Halloween, just when Mr. Genes was about to schedule her for a doctor’s visit. The next week Mrs. Genes, according to her husband and others (including the present author, who had noticed the change in his teacher and then recalled her sudden return to normal – she was known for her wonderful in-class Halloween party, and this party proceeded as planned, two days before the holiday) returned to normal and the matter of medical attention was dropped.
Then, early on the morning of Halloween, which was on a Friday that year, Mabel Genes, was found hanging naked from the family’s apple tree in the back yard.
The incident would have faded in memory if not for the bizarre suicide note that was found nailed to the tree. It was not its length (which was brief) but its enigmatic nature that have made it special in the history of Sam literature. For it opens to discussion the entire question of not only who Sam is, but what he represents. The note read, to begin with:
SAM PROMISES LIFE.
If, indeed, Sam is Samhain, the Celtic Lord of Death, what can this part of the note mean? Was Mabel Genes promised, by Samhain, life after death? Would Samhain have this power? If so, who gives it to him? Who does he serve?
There followed a three page discussion of religious and philosophical issues, which Annabeth had read with interest the first time and then discarded as irrelevent. For there was only one more section in the whole volume which held any interest for her. It was the phrase which Sam had drawn her attention to when she first studied the page proofs of Occult Practices in Orangefield and Chcawa Country, New York, Volume Two.
Annabeth turned to it now.
Do you believe me, Wizard?
Annabeth looked up from the page, looked out the window over her desk down into her backyard, with its own tall elm tree with a sturdy rope ending in a ready noose hanging ready from its strongest limb.
“Yes, I believe you.”
Then nothing else matters, does it?
“No.”
Good, Wizard. You will do well. And you will get what you want.
“I want to see where he is. Where they all are.”
It’s what I promised Mabel Genes, Wizard. She lost a child which no one, not even her husband, knew about. Just like you lost your father. And you shall see it soon. Read, Wizard. Read the rest of it.
Annabeth looked down at the page proofs:
And now we come to the rest of Mabel Genes’s suicide note, and the strangest part of all. For in it she states:
THREE WILL SHOW THE WAY.
These were precisely the words that were found etched by machete into Bedel Mayes’s barn door, and the same words the eleven-year-old attemped suicide had carved into her arm with the end of a paperclip.
Annabeth briefly studied her own left forearm, where crusted-over scabs covered the same words she had recently carved there with an open pair of scissors. Then she returned to the page proofs:
It is obvious that ‘The Three’ refers to the three suicides.
But what will they show the way for?
Or who?
Chapter Forty-Three
It won’t be long. You should be ready.
I hope so. If I were you I’d still be worried about the girl.
The girl will be no problem. I’ve told you that.
If not the girl, then interference with her.
It won’t happen. And I’ve turned any possible interference to our advantage.
Was this the ‘insurance’ you spoke of?
Yes. I’m sure it will work.
You said that the last time. And look what happened.
This time nothing will go wrong. You have only to be prepared.
I hope so – Sam. As I said: I worry about the girl.
Even if the girl becomes a problem, there is another ready to take her place. As I said: insurance.
Ah….
Chapter Forty-Four
The Pumpkin Tender awoke wrapped in his Army blanket, wet, in a furrow in his favorite field. He sat up, and noted that the sky, here in the new morning, was already clearing.
It would be cold and clear later.
His leg ached, and he shivered.
“Do you know what day it is, Aaron?”
He turned to see that the pumpkin with two lobes – now rotting away, the orange furrowed flesh of its face gray and soft – had grown a face again. Its mouth was down-turned, it’s sad eye holes roiling with worms. Its top had completely caved in.
It turned in its muddy nest with a squishing sound and looked straight at him.
“I said: do you know what day it is, Aaron?”
The Pumpkin Tender said nothing.
The pumpkin’s sagging mouth drew up slowly into a smile, bits of rotting fruit and seeds falling from it as it did so.
“It’s Halloween, Aaron.”
The Pumpkin Tender still said nothing, only drew himself up tighter into his blanket.
“And that means: it’s time to remember, Aaron. And forget forever.”
Things were so much easier this way. Now that he knew who he was, and knew what he did – and what he had to do – a kind of calm came over him.
If only he had done this a long time ago…
The day had turned beautiful. The morning mist had completely dissipated, leaving the day as cold and clear as any day in October could be. The sky was painfully blue, and the leaves, still clinging to trees or on the ground, were a gift of colors – gold, bright yellow, russet red. The air smelled of leaves and pine and Halloween itself.
He got what he needed from the little space Mr. Froelich let him use in the farm stand’s storage shed, and started the long walk to the top of the mountain. His leg felt better than it had in years. On the way he saw Froelich stacking gourds for the tourists who would come after Halloween and into Thanksgiving to fill their city homes with a little of the autumn season.
He used to like Thanksgiving a lot.
Froelich stopped his work when he saw The Pumpkin Tender approach. He stretched his back and put his hands into the pockets of his overalls.
“Aaron! Was beginning the think you disappeared.”
The Pumpkin Tender smiled.
“How you feeling these days, son? You did another fine job this year. We’ll all look forward to next year.”
The Pumpkin Tender continued to smile and limped on.
> Froelich pointed at the gunny sack in Aaron’s hand. “Going on a little trip?”
The Pumpkin Tender gave a short nod, and kept moving.
“Well, remember, when the weather gets too cold, you come and bed down here, just like always.”
Aaron waved.
The long climb went slowly. But he savored every step. He thought of Peggy, and what might have been; and of the days of his childhood, which had been ideal. He had played in these hills every day after school, and hadn’t had a care in the world –
Just like now.
He tried to sing out – but only a croak came from his ruined throat.
It would do.
He was no longer Frankenstein.
Or the Pumpkin Tender.
He was just Aaron Peters, who was finally doing what had to be done.
He reached the summit in mid-afternoon. There were no full pumpkin fields to look down on now, no ring of orange fire around Orangefield. In fact, the muddy empty fruit fields that encircled the town would be cold, uninviting places for the rest of the year and well into next. But the view was still a good one, the distant town set like a jewel in the midst of wooded hills, and it was still his favorite place.
And today was Halloween.
He opened his gunny sack on the ground and laid out the contents carefully. There was a small picture of Peggy, which he had carried in his wallet when she was his girl. There was a photo of his mother and father, and another of himself the year before he went to Somalia, standing with his brother next to his Mustang – it was a good color shot, and showed off the car’s interior. And there was a photo of Kip Berger in his uniform, helmet tilted back on his head, smiling broadly as if nothing in the world would ever go wrong.
But of course it had, which was the whole point.
Next to the photos he laid down his Army issue .45, which was already loaded, and the note that the two-lobed pumpkin had told him to write.
Are you ready, Aaron?
He turned to see the figure in black emerge from the edge of the woods behind and to his right. It looked like black smoke in the bright daylight, and stayed to the shadows at the edge of the tree line.
He knew he should be frightened – but for the first time since that moment in Somalia when he had pushed his friend away from the antipersonnel mine, he felt absolute peace and – happiness.
It’s time, Aaron.
The black figure seemed to melt away and then reform, but its words were right next to his ear.
Aaron nodded, and bent down to pick up the .45. The pain in his leg was gone.
Go ahead, Aaron.
He turned away from the writhing black figure, and put the .45 to his head, next to where the voice was speaking to him, and looked down at Orangefield – which was suddenly surrounded by a ring of orange, as if all the pumpkins he had ever tended had sprung back to life, just for him.
He opened his mouth in delight, and made a sound of joy –
And pulled the trigger.
Chapter Forty-Five
In his white cell in Killborne Hospital, Jordie heard what sounded like a distant shot.
It must have been very loud, to get through the inches of padding on the walls. There was no window, except the tiny round one set into the door, above the food slot, and Jordie imagined there was thick concrete behind the padding.
Weird that he could hear a gun shot.
Or anything else that wasn’t in his head.
At least they’d left him his meds.
It was just about the only thing they had left him. He couldn’t remember much about the last month, and they’d tried to stabilize him every which way they could – with shots, electroshock, therapy – but nothing had worked. He knew he had a silly grin on his face, but what else could you have when basically you were a blank? He was as blank, and white as the walls, which was just fine with him. Maybe if they’d given him some vodka and weed, his head would have straightened out.
He had said that to the shrink – one of them, at least – but if he remembered correctly, it hadn’t gone over very well.
But the pills – they’d left him those.
They’d tried every day to get the combination right. But so far nothing had worked. Each day at eight in the morning and six in the evening, a little tray with a different assortment – green and yellow, yellow and white, white and blue, blue and red – was shoved through the slot, while a moony face with a bald head watched him from the little round window set in the door.
And each time he’d shrugged and taken whatever pills they’d given him.
And he stayed a blank, as blank in his head as a white sheet of paper.
Here they came again – which meant it must be eight in the morning – or six at night.
He looked at the tray resting in the slot’s retractable shelf and shrugged. He shuffled in his paper slippers over to the door and took the tray.
The shelf immediately retracted.
He looked for the moony face studying him, but the window was empty.
Then he heard a tinny, shrill voice behind the slot, which opened again. Now he heard the voice more clearly: “Hey nutball, it’s Halloween! Happy holiday!”
He smiled and shrugged. “Whatever,” he answered.
The moony face appeared in the round window, laughing at him. It was a round face for a round window, only now it wasn’t bald but had bright orange hair.
Suddenly the hair was gone and the face was bald again.
The slot pushed open again. “Like my fright wig, nutball?”
The face went away.
Jordie looked at the tray on the floor.
The pills were orange and white.
A faint connection was made: Halloween!
Now he recalled at least that: costumes, pumpkins, cutouts taped to windows, trick-or-treat, candy.
Candy.
Candy corn – it had been his favorite.
He took the three pills – two orange, one white – from the tray and popped them into his mouth.
They didn’t taste like candy corn, but they felt hard against the back of his throat, just like candy corn would.
Those pills will make you right, Jordie.
The voice.
Like a Pavlovian dog hearing its signal, Jordie immediately began to look for his list. But there were no pockets in the orange jumpsuit. He dropped to all fours and began to search the cell, looking behind the toilet, the bolted-in white sink, under the one-piece steel cot with a single sheet covering the foam mattress and the flimsy pillow. He pulled the pillow out of its lining, turning the pillowcase inside out, studying it closely.
It had to be in there, it was the only place the list could be–
No need for lists anymore, Jordie. Don’t worry about it.
There it was again, the Voice. He hadn’t heard it since they’d packed him off to this place after that mess at the police hearing – “schizophrenic delusions, paranoia, violence brought on by medication imbalance, the abuse of narcotics and alcohol.”
He remembered that hearing well enough.
Do you remember what you did, Jordie?
“Not much.”
Would you like to?
“I don’t think so.”
What do you remember?
He sat down cross legged on the floor, and tossed the pillowcase aside. “I remember I stopped taking my meds. Just like you told me.”
That’s right. And what did you do after that?
“I did some bad stuff. That’s what they tell me. But I remember a rockin’ DJ gig in there. Pumpkin Days. Best show I ever put on.” He smiled, letting the beat of his music come into his head.
What about the bad stuff you did, Jordie? Do you recall any of it?
Still hearing a heavy techno thump-thump inside his head, he said, “No way. Don’t remember any of it. But I bet my mom’ll give it to me good, I ever get out of this place.”
Soon you’re going to remember all of it. Every second of it. The pi
lls you took are the ones you need to stabilize you, Jordie. You’ll be as normal as before you met me. I’ve been… shall we say, fiddling with your medications for a couple of weeks. The various combinations made you do some very interesting things.
“Cool,” Jordie said, working his hands like they held drum sticks. “Did I do anything funny? I used to do funny things when I was a kid. Once I jumped off the roof of Josh’s garage, on a dare. And not at the bottom of the roof, but at the top, where it came to a point. Broke my friggin’ ankle. Rode my bike into a wall once, too. That’s when they found out I needed the meds.”
There’s not much funny about what you’ve done lately, Jordie.
“Huh.” A sudden clear image swirled into his head, out again. He stopped his drumming motions. Him pushing a knife into Josh’s belly, in his kitchen. “Weird.”
The music started up again in his head, and again it stopped when another image swirled in, his Aunt begging for her life in front of the fireplace in their house, on her knees in front of him covered in blood, screaming for him not to–
“Whoa.” The music was gone, replaced by nightmares. He went into a fetal position on the cement floor and closed his eyes, willing the images to go away. But they were getting more and more real – him holding a blade up, licking blood from it – a sawing sound as he worked on the body in the chair – the heads lined up on the kitchen counter –
“Make it stop! Make it stop!” he gasped, pulling at his own head.
But the Voice was silent.
The images connected into scenes now, and he saw everything as it became more and more clear: what he had done to his friend Josh, what he had done to his Aunt, what he had done to his mother–
A long hiss of pain escaped him, but still the images became even more distinct: the bodies in the cellar, his propping them up, covered in lime, into poses, his roasting and eating his Aunt’s hand–
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