Halloween

by Paula Guran

  A thin trickle of blood dripped from the corner of Jack’s mouth.

  She closed her eyes, wishing away this friend from her childhood, this dear friend who had been so horribly changed and misshapen—

  —but why?

  She felt the twigs that were his fingers grip her wrists. “I’ve really missed you, Marian. Please don’t be afraid. It’s so cold here, so lonely where everyone is sleeping and you have no friends.”

  She opened her eyes, knowing—praying—that his return to her was just a hallucination brought on from lack of sleep the past three days. Maybe she’d just seen one too many houses where the children had constructed horrible Hallowe’en effigies from straw and old clothes, then set them on the front porch to scare the monsters away.

  One of Jack’s twig-fingers broke through her flesh. She felt the warmth of her blood as it seeped out, staining her blouse’s white sleeve.

  Jack was wearing one of Dad’s old shirts, the one Marian had bought him for Christmas last year.

  “Jack Pumpkinhead is still a fine fellow,” he whispered to in that voice. “The quilt’s almost finished. And we put a light in the window for you.”

  The wind grew stronger. One of the bells in the church steeple swung back, then forth, ringing twice.

  “Please come home now,” said Jack. “You’re needed.”

  Her blood was soaking into the bark of his hand.

  Her legs began to buckle as Jack leaned forward to cover her lips with his crescent mouth in a welcome-home kiss.

  Something moved in the distance; another group of tiny spirits broke through the bushes on their way to claim sugary treasures, singing: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house, a goblin lives in OUR house, all the year round . . . ”

  Marian broke away, slipped, and fell on top of her father’s grave, half expecting his desiccated hands—

  —Let us OUT! Let us OUT!—

  —to break through the soil and grab her.

  The church bell rang once more, a brassy chime, Mom’s voice singing to her when she was young and sick with fever.

  The children’s laughter lingered as the bell fell silent.

  Autumn-dried leaves blew past her, a few clinging to the hem of her dress.

  Jack Pumpkinhead began to fade; color went first, draining away until Jack and everything surrounding him looked like part of an old sepia-toned photograph, disappearing very slowly, an image retained on the inside of the eyelid for an instant, then gone.

  Rising unsteadily to her feet, Marian saw the second set of footprints that followed her own and stopped at the edge of the graves.

  No. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t have been. Someone must have been here before me and I just didn’t notice the prints, that’s all.

  As convincing an argument as it was, it still didn’t stop her from half-sprinting out of the cemetery to her car. She needed to rest but couldn’t until she saw her brother. Maybe seeing Alan after all this time would help to purge her of whatever had made her resurrect Jack.

  She started the car, saw the ghostly effigies resting on the porches of nearby homes, and noticed the small gash on the side of her wrist.

  Some of her blood dripped onto the steering wheel.

  “Goddammit,” she whispered, bandaging the wound with her handkerchief. “Welcome home.” Then, trying to force away the image of Jack’s glowing eyes and the mournful echo of his voice, drove away toward the place she once called home.

  3

  Place two fabrics right sides together, making sure to rotary cut strips the width of the square template you are using; if the strips weren’t compatible when you cut them, do so now, layering them, and making individual alterations as necessary in order to achieve conformity.

  The house of her childhood stank of grief; even from outside, she could smell it. She slipped her key into the front door lock and held her breath, anxiously aware of the sound made by the October leaves as the wind scattered them across the pavement; the dry whisper of sorrow, the crackle of old guilts trying to step out of dank corners and pull her in with the stab of twig-fingers.

  It wasn’t your fault you missed the funeral, she told herself, hoping to believe it. Alan will understand.

  She swallowed, released the breath she had been holding in since pulling up, felt her skin tingle with the bleak cold of descending night, and walked inside. Closing the door, she started slightly at the sound of the gas furnace snapping on, then removed her coat and tossed it into an empty chair.

  Although it was barely seven-fifteen the interior of the house held layers of blackness that deepened with every step she took. She longed to be back in Los Angeles, but she had a responsibility to her brother.

  Responsibility. It seemed like such a corrupt word right now. Alan had given over most of his youth to the responsibility of caring for the family; keeping the house clean, doing the laundry, the cooking, shopping for groceries, never moving out because that would’ve meant having to face the world without the security of a family—something Alan, for all his good intentions, could not live without. He had always been terrified of other people; it was amazing to Marian that he’d ever been married.

  Next to the front door was a table that held three glass bowls filled with goodies for the trick or treaters; two were overflowing with candy, the third contained—

  —she felt a shiver, shook it away—

  —pumpkin seeds. Even now, with Dad less than a week in his grave, Alan still held fast to the family traditions; Dad always gave each beggar a handful of pumpkin seeds so they could plant them and grow their own jack o’ lanterns for next year.

  “Alan?” she called. When there was no answer, she walked into the living room. Ice formed on her spine as she saw what was draped over one of the recliners.

  The stale aroma of a dead woman’s perfume enveloped her as she leaned down toward her mother’s old housecoat. It was arranged in such a way that Marian almost expected to see Mom descend from above, slip neatly into it, and ask that the television be turned on, she’d had a long day and was tired and wanted to see her shows, please.

  Marian’s faded and discolored First Communion dress was arranged on the couch so that it faced the television, Grandpa’s old but well-kept three-piece (what he called his “church suit”) was in the reading chair in the next room, a book on its lap, the light turned squarely on the open page.

  “Alan? It’s me.”

  No response.

  She headed for the kitchen, stepping over innumerable pizza boxes and fast-food bags along the way. Her foot pressed down on something that was either growing brittle and stale or softening in decay; all she could be sure of was that it crunched under her foot and then squirted something thick and warm. She leaned against the wall and shook her foot until the muck fell away from the sole of her shoe, shimmering, landing in the center of long rug in the hallway. Leaning down, Marian saw that what she thought was light playing glissandos across its surface was actually a group of blowflies fighting for a prime location. She pulled in a deep breath, covering her mouth with her hand as she continued to the kitchen.

  The table was cluttered with dishes holding the remnants of meals begun but never finished, now teeming with tiny crawling things she didn’t want to look at. The sink was filled with various pots and pans, their exteriors badly scorched, some of the burnt black flecking away and mixing with the off-white, fungal-looking matter that floated on the surface of the still water, bloating the moldy bits of food that sucked in the water like sponges.

  The Alan she remembered would never have allowed the house to disintegrate like this.

  She thought she heard a muffled sound somewhere nearby, then something small and sticky squirmed up her calf. Marian let out a sharp cry of revulsion and batted it away, then returned to the living room and its collection of familiar outfits waiting for occupants.

  “Alan? Come on, this isn’t funny. Are you here?”

  This was bad enough.

&
nbsp; Upstairs was worse.

  Grandma’s favorite nightgown was spread upon the bed in the guest room, a Bible open next to the emptiness reaching from its right sleeve, a glass of orange soda sitting on the night stand next to the bed so she could have a drink if she was thirsty. That was always Grandma’s nightly routine.

  The bathroom was unspeakable; great smears of what must have been rust covered the inside of the bathtub, the toilet lid was up, the rim of the bowl nearly overflowing with waste, and the sink looked to have been recently vomited in. Underneath everything was a scent of copper. The cumulative stench made her gag, but she managed to open the medicine cabinet above the sink and remove what she needed to clean and dress the wound on her hand, which she did out in the hall.

  But the worst thing, the most terrible thing, was in Alan’s old bedroom.

  On the bed lay his ex-wife Laura’s black silk robe, the sash still around its waist, opened to expose the bright red bra and panties arranged in their proper positions—

  —and the glistening, well-used, wet indentation of the mattress under the crotch of the panties, as if—

  —god, no. Alan would never do something like . . . like that.

  Brother, she thought.

  My brother.

  What’s happened to you? Where are you now?

  Marian shivered.

  All through the house were the garments of the dead, the almost-forgotten, the moved-aways and just-lefts, awaiting someone to wear them, each carrying the scents of those who once did.

  Back downstairs, Marian debated whether to continue searching the house or just grab her coat and cut her losses.

  Something winked at her from the living room.

  She turned toward it. It winked again, bright and fiery.

  “Alan? Alan, please answer me if that’s you.”

  “Over here.” Though barely more than a whisper, his voice nonetheless startled her.

  As her vision adjusted to the darkness, she saw her brother for the first time in what seemed an eternity; not a savior born under Bethlehem’s star, not possessing the greatness that led other men to become leaders and poets and visionaries, not a man who wanted to change the world or even harbored the abilities to do so; just a son, a brother, a fine boy, a decent enough man who’d brought no shame to his family’s good name, who’d studied for passing grades in school, who’d tried to build his own life with a fine woman by his side to love him, but then came the day she didn’t love him anymore and so left, and with her his will to believe himself special in any way.

  He was sitting very still, watching the cigarette between his index and middle finger burn down until the heat threatened to singe his flesh. He was wearing an old baseball cap, its brim turned toward the back of his head like a baseball catcher without the mask. He was a man she barely recognized—hair too gray for his thirty-three years, eyes that were dark and hopeless, blueblack crescents underneath, lines etched so deeply into his skin they looked like cracks in plaster; he looked as if he’d crumble into dust if shaken hard enough.

  From outside came the cries of “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat!”

  Alan turned his head toward the gray of evening that swept in from a wide part between the curtains over the only window in the room. “What? Did you expect to find me holed-up in the john weeping endlessly into a cracked mirror?” He took along drag from the cigarette.

  Marian followed his gaze.

  We put a light in the window for you.

  There was, indeed, a light there; a big, beautiful jack o’ lantern, facing outside, the candle within burning brightly, welcoming lost children home. Why hadn’t she noticed that when she was on the front porch?

  Because it wasn’t there, came the answer.

  “Are you here because you want to be,” asked Alan, “or because Boots called you?”

  “Because Boots called me.” “Boots” was their nickname for Aunt Lucille, their dad’s sister, for as far back as they could remember, though neither of them could have told you why she was called that.

  Alan gave a short, empty laugh. “An honest one. I figured it was either Boots or Laura. God bless ’em both.” He took another deep drag as he stared into the dim of fast-approaching night meandering in from the large window at the front of the house, bringing with it a grayness that did not so much cast shadows as rearrange them to suit the feelings of the thing that looked out from behind his eyes.

  “I killed a man last night.”

  Marian heard the words but did not allow them to register. She took a deep breath and crossed toward her brother. “Alan, listen, I know you haven’t been well, Laura told me, and I—”

  “I really did it, you know. I really did. It helped. It helped a lot.”

  Marian knelt down, took away the cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray, then held Alan’s hand between both of hers. “You look like hell. You need to get some sleep.”

  “Did you say hello to Jack? He’s missed you quite a lot.” Alan adjusted the baseball cap, then turned on a small table lamp, the light revealing Jack slumped on the couch, his legs spread wide and twisted, his arms akimbo, the glow of his inner-candle fire nearly extinguished. He looked no different from a dozen other homemade figures on a dozen other porches tonight.

  Except that he was still wearing Dad’s shirt.

  Marian was too shocked to react right away.

  Between Jack and her First Communion dress lay a thick, neatly-folded coverlet, its patchwork surface a mosaic of colors and shapes.

  The Story Quilt, a family heirloom passed down from nearly a century-and-a-half ago, a perpetual work-in-progress; through various descendants to her great-grandmother to her grandmother to her own mother, the Story Quilt had always been a constant in Marian’s life. Her mother had hoped Marian would continue working on it when the time came. Marian shivered at the thought; Mom had been working on it the day she’d suffered the stroke that would kill her within a few hours. Marian couldn’t bring herself to touch the damn thing after that.

  A click, a hiss and a hum; the distinctive noise of the television coming on, the picture coming into focus, the static fading out of the speaker as the sound of some country music program faded in.

  She looked at her brother. He was not holding a remote control.

  Because the set never had one.

  “Seven-thirty,” said Alan matter-of-factly. “Time for Hee-Haw.”

  Marian balled her hands into fists, feeling her knuckles crack under the pressure. Hee-Haw had been her parents’ favorite program.

  “Come on, Alan. I’m going to take you back to my hotel room, get you cleaned up, then we’re going to get something to eat, and then you’re going to get some sleep. When you wake up we’ll finalize details here, and you’ll come with me to L.A. for a while.”

  “I can’t leave. The family depends on me.”

  Only now did she notice that Alan was wearing Dad’s favorite pajamas, the gray ones with the white and blue diamond pattern. A small bloodstain near the crotch had dried and stiffened.

  Don’t say anything, she thought. Not yet.

  And don’t think about that thing sitting on the couch behind you.

  Alan smiled, a crooked smile that held some residue of the brother she remembered. “I’m sorry, Sis,” he said, sitting down at the table. “I suppose I ought to explain things.” He took hold of her shoulders. “Look at you, so nervous and frightened. Did I do that? I’d apologize for scaring you but, after all, it’s Hallowe’en. Don’t go anywhere, I’ve got something to show you. It was going to be a surprise from Dad, but . . . .” He walked over to the television and pulled the cover off a new VCR perched atop the set. “Dad bought this not too long ago, after you got that national perfume commercial. He taped all of your commercials and those cop shows you did bit parts on. He was really looking forward to your sitcom pilot next month.”

  Marian was silent. For most of her adult life Dad had never said anything about her c
hosen profession, never given the smallest hint that he was proud of her accomplishments. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine her father sitting alone in this room, watching his daughter over and over as she sprayed herself with perfume or ran screaming from make-believe thugs. Would he have done all that if he hadn’t been proud?

  Why didn’t you ever tell me? she wondered.

  The doorbell rang, followed by a children’s chorus: “Trick or treat!”

  Alan raised a finger to his lips, signaling silence, then rolled up the sleeve of the pajama top, revealing the dark-stained bandage around his wrist.

  The bell rang again, followed by insistent knocks. The children giggled.

  “Just a minute,” called Alan, walking over to the slumped figure of Jack Pumpkinhead, whose light was nearly gone. Alan grabbed Jack’s stem and lifted the top off, then ripped the bandage from his arm.

  “W-what’re you doing?” said Marian.

  “Jack needs a recharge. I can’t deny him a drink when he needs one.” Alan bit into his wrist and tore away a large, crusty scab, freeing his blood to drip into Jack’s head.

  The blood ignited Jack’s inner flame, a brilliant flash of orange-red that sent a chill through Marian. She found herself staring at an exposed patch on the quilt, trying to remember when Mom had made it; she stared at it because as long as her gaze was elsewhere, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge what was happening in the periphery, wouldn’t have to admit that she wasn’t imagining it, that Jack Pumpkinhead was rising off the couch, towering almost seven feet, reaching for his stem-cap.