Halloween

by Paula Guran

  The pounding grew frantic though no less rhythmic.

  —thumpity-whump-thump! . . . (Let) . . . thumpity-whump-thump! . . . (Us) . . . thumpity-whump-thump . . . (OUT)!

  Marian turned toward her brother. “W-what are they going to d-do?”

  Alan, took her hands. “This is their night. The important thing is, we’re here for Jack and the whole family tonight. This is the least we can do.” He put his arm around her and began leading her toward the church.

  Marian struggled to get free of him but any movement only doubled the pain in her ribs. After a few seconds more of futile struggle she slumped against her brother and let him guide her.

  As the last jack o’ lantern was placed atop the last grave, Alan set Marian by the sealed oak doors of the church, kissing her bloodied forehead and smiling.

  “I love you, Sis. Please try to remember that. In the end, it’s the only thing that counts, though fuck only knows why.”

  Marian pressed her back against the doors and said nothing as she let herself slide down onto her knees.

  The mourners remained still, eyes fixed on Jack and his wife as they stood at the bottom of the church steps. After giving Marian one last look, Alan moved down to join them, leaving his sister in the shadows.

  From the organ loft above came the powerful opening chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

  From the soil below came the answer of the dead.

  —thumpity-whump-thump! . . . (Let) . . . thumpity-whump-thump! . . . (Us) . . . thumpity-whump-thump . . . (OUT)!

  Marian thought she saw movement beneath the soil at one of the now-deserted graves. Her breath came up short as the pain in her body increased.

  Children broke away from their parents and started building the bonfire, clapping their hands and squealing with joy. A few small flames at first, growing higher, then a whoosh! as the fire roared to life, the children dancing in a circle as each tossed in more wood and branches. From the center of their dance came young, giggling voices: “Beasties on the doorstep, Phantoms in the air/Owls on witches’ gateposts, Giving stare for stare/Jack o’ lanterns grinning, Shadows on a screen/Shrieks and starts and laughter, This is Hallowe’en!”

  The organ music rose beyond a scream, its music of praise becoming the howl of a wolf raging at the moon, shaking loose a few stones from over the doorway.

  The moon seemed to move closer to the Earth, its light so brilliant and silver Marian winced.

  And Jack said: “Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead lived on a vine . . . ”

  The dancing children answered: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house . . . ”

  “ . . . Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead thought it was fine . . . ”

  “ . . . a goblin lives in OUR house, all the year round . . . ”

  —thumpity (Let)-whump (Us)-thump (OUT)!—

  Marian saw that she hadn’t imagined it—something was moving under the graves . . . under the soil . . . shifting, rolling like small waves, rocking the jack o’ lanterns back and forth as each mound rose and fell with ease.

  It’s breathing. The whole goddamn cemetery is breathing.

  The bonfire grew higher and wider, its roar almost equal to that of the church organ, the flames spreading and raging, hissing and popping, scattering sparks that were caught by the nightbreeze and flung across the grounds.

  “ . . . First he was small and green,” said Jack.

  “ . . . He bumps and he jumps and he thumps around midnight . . . ”

  “ . . . Then big and yellow . . . ”

  —thumpity (Let)-whump (Us)-thump (OUT)!—

  “ . . . a goblin lives in OUR house, all the year round!”

  “ . . . Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead is a very fine fellow,” all sang as one.

  Marian struggled to stand again, letting the pain compel her, readying herself to make a run for it—

  —and the organ music grew even louder, tinged at the edges with a dark majesty that soon gave it richer form and deeper feeling as it began “Let There Be Peace On Earth”—

  —and Marian watched as a scene right out of her grainy childhood nightmares unfolded before her.

  As the fiery sparks bounced against the soil, each grave split open and the thin, pale, rotted hands of its tenant reached up to touch the night air.

  Marian felt her legs starting to buckle but she did not—would not—fall. She slowly pushed herself up, the pain pushing her forward, moving along the smooth oak doors, covering her head as bits and pieces of stone and plaster fell from above, steady, old girl, steady, that’s it, keep moving, no one’s looking at you, they all think you’re down for the count so don’t you dare stop moving, that’s good, just . . . a little . . . farther . . . and . . . you . . . can . . . there! You can get through that gap in the gate and sneak back to the house, grab your car keys and drive away from here and—

  —Boots.

  She couldn’t leave Boots, not here, not now.

  She looked over her shoulder and saw the hands from each grave grip the jack o’ lantern left for them and pull it beneath the soil.

  Then came the sounds of tearing and snapping.

  She tried not to imagine what those sounds might mean.

  She pushed away from the doors and edged herself over a section of crumbling wall into the ruins of the church, fell on her chest, and choked as the paroxyms of pain doubled her into a tight ball. She gulped down air and tried to stand, fell on her knees, rose again, half-crouching, and slowly struggled forward. The organ loft stairs were only a few yards away.

  It was the longest trip of her life. Every movement seemed to jar something loose inside. Once, gripping the edge of a pew, she thought she felt a rib dislodge and puncture a lung.

  Outside, the flames were growing so bright it looked like mid-afternoon. She caught glimpses of children running back and forth, carrying more twigs and dried leaves.

  “Marian!” came her Jack’s voice.

  She turned, balancing herself against a marble holy water font, expecting to see him standing behind her.

  Nothing.

  So don’t wait around, she warned herself, moving toward the stairs. Where she was finding the strength to do this, she didn’t know. One slip and she’d collapse, she knew it, she’d fall and be poured from herself like water, all of her bones out of joint and clacking against one another as they were swept away in the stream of her fluids.

  From the loft high above, the organ howled in ecstatic agony.

  An owl perched atop a rotting crucifix spread its wings and soared past Marian. She gripped the railing and pulled herself onto the first stair.

  “Honey?” called Mom-thing’s voice from outside.

  Marian pushed herself up another stair, then two more, finally getting a delayed rush of adrenaline and taking them two at a time, blood dripping into her eyes, the pain spreading from her chest and ribs down to her pelvis. She kept climbing, thinking, Use the pain, use it, use it! She labored to breathe as smoke from the bonfire began rolling into the church and up the stairs, following her, nipping at her heels, then encircling her ankles and slithering up her legs, but then she rounded the first landing and found herself one flight away from the organ loft. The collapsed wall next to her allowed a harsh, cold breeze to cut through, holding back some the curling smoke. She filled her lungs with crisp air, blinking until her eyes cleared—

  —and looked down on the cemetery below.

  The glow from the fire illuminated the grounds, casting everything is a sickly pall of burnt orange.

  From every grave (except her parents’, some part of her brain noted) came its occupant; many were old and feeble with little flesh left on their bones—what skin remained was shriveled, torn, and discolored; some were younger, perhaps her own age, housewives who’d died in accidents or factory workers killed in the riots or by their machines; a few were teenagers, buried in their favorite clothes, nice clothes, trendy clothes, who’d perhaps died drunk behind the wheel of a car or at the prick of
a needle; and, worst of all, there were babies, the small ones, slowly crawling up through the dirt that had lain upon their fragile bodies for so long. Behind them came the descendants, the settlers, the founding citizens of Cedar Hill, all of them only bones now, only bones, clicking, clacking, shuddering. She wondered if the remains of Josiah Comstock were walking amongst them.

  Marian felt the tears in her eyes as she looked straight down and saw one baby that crawled on its arms because where its legs should have been hung a twisted, stumpy tangle of cartilage and skin, a sad trophy from Thalidomide days. Her heart broke at the sight of it; to have been born so horribly misshapen, to die so early, only to be called back like this.

  The sight of the awakened dead was horrible enough; the Thalidomide baby made it worse.

  Who moves in the shadow?

  But what terrified Marian the most, what caused the blood to coagulate in her veins and her throat to contract and her bowls to twist into one excruciating knot of sick, was the sight of what each of these dead carried—

  Who rustles past unseen?

  —their own heads, the ones they had been died with. Some had eyes, others only dark chasms, but all of their mouths were locked in death’s eternal rictus grin.

  With the dark so deep . . .

  And on every set of shoulders sat a new head, one with carved eyes, a three-cornered nose, and a crescent moon mouth, all glowing brightly inside.

  . . . I dare not sleep . . .

  She watched as every member of Jack Pumpkinhead’s lineage was greeted by those who had mourned at their graveside with calls of Mom or Darlin’ or Grampa, then with open arms and loving embraces in the light of the gigantic fire—

  . . . all night this Hallowe’en!

  —the organ stopped screaming.

  Marian turned and saw Boots standing at the top of the stairs. Her eyes were wide and glazed, her hair hung around her face in clumps, caked with blood, and her hands were shaking uncontrollably.

  “He told me he wouldn’t let Mama beat us anymore,” she said to her niece. “He told me that he’d make it better, that I wasn’t ugly because of my scar. That’s why Burt wouldn’t marry me, you know. He said he couldn’t look at my scar, it was too ugly.”

  “Oh Boots . . . .”

  “Don’t worry about them folks down there. Jack’s gonna make everything fine again. All of ’em, see, all of ’em missed someone who was buried here. There ain’t a person in this town who don’t cry inside every day from some kinda loneliness. Even the spirits who live here, they cry, too. Loneliness follows you, hon, it follows you forever. But maybe that’s all over now. You should feel good, having all the family back like this. They all think the world of you. Shame on you for not letting them know their love meant something.”

  “I’ll not have you speaking to her that way, Boots,” came the voice of Jack Pumpkinhead.

  He was only a few feet away from Marian on the stairs. She had nowhere to go, except through the hole in the crumbled wall, and the drop was at least twenty feet. She bit her lower lip and cursed herself for getting trapped like this.

  “I didn’t mean anything,” said Boots to Jack. “I only wanted her to know that—”

  Jack raised a twig-finger as if to scold, then shook his head. “Don’t apologize for anything. We’ve all spent way too much time being sorry for one thing or another.”

  Marian stared at him.

  Something was wrong. He seemed . . . weaker now. The fire behind his eyes was growing dim.

  I can’t deny him a drink when he needs one.

  Her fear suddenly vanished as Jack came up and joined her on the landing.

  “Come along with me,” he said, his voice soft and loving, no longer the horrid croak of before. He held out one of his twig-hands.

  Deep within the human heart there lies a point at which there is no room for fear, no use for pity, and little consequence if old resentments are present or not; it is a place where failures are forgotten and past sins forgiven.

  Looking at the thing she now, at last, recognized, Marian felt something in her change.

  Grow stronger.

  “D-dad?”

  “Present and accounted for,” said Jack. “I hope you can forgive me for all this, honey. I just needed to see you one more time.”

  She took her his hand. He led her down the stairs and through the pews, then across an aisle to a spot on the south side of the church where he pointed toward a small mosaic carved into the wall.

  The Marvelous Land of Oz.

  There was the Scarecrow and the Lion and the Tin Woodsman, along with Tip and the Gump and the Woggle-Bug and the Saw-Horse . . . and Jack Pumpkinhead, his arms spread wide like an old friend who was about to give you the biggest hug you could imagine.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “When I was overseas during the war,” said her father, “it seemed like every church my unit found had been destroyed by the fighting. I thought it was awful. Those places had been so beautiful once. One day we came into this town where the church hadn’t been blown to shit and I decided to go in and light a penny candle, say a prayer that all of us’d get home all right. There was a sniper hiding in the organ loft. I guess he’d completely lost his mind. He shot me twice in the leg and once in my shoulder, then blew his own head off. I laid in there for almost an hour before somebody from my unit found me. I almost died from all the blood I lost.

  “I promised myself that if I made it home alive, I was gonna spend the rest of my life building churches. I know it was that church that kept me alive. It was telling me I had to go on living because my life had a purpose. So I decided I was gonna be a great architect who’d go around the world fixing beautiful churches. I’d maybe even design a couple of them myself. The most beautiful thing I ever built was a tree house for your brother when he was seven.” He doubled over in pain, then fell to the floor. Ignoring her own pain, Marian ran over to him and knelt by his side.

  Marian cradled his head in her arms. “You’re back now. You can build them. You can do anything you want. This place is yours. And you’ve got all those . . . people who have come to help you.”

  Jack’s body hitched. His light was almost gone.

  “You need a drink,” said Marian, exposing her bandaged wrist and starting to tear at it with her teeth.

  He gripped her hand, stopping her. “No. You listen to me. No matter what you think, I never blamed you for anything. You always made me happy. I really enjoyed seeing your commercials and shows on television. I’m sorry I never told what a good actress I think you are. I’ll bet you’ll be famous someday.”

  “I won’t let it end like this,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

  “C’mon, Marian—you’re an actress. You should know that when it’s time to get off stage, you go. And don’t milk your exit.”

  “Yeah,” she said, ripping the remaining dressing from her wounded wrist, “but I’ve been known to demand re-writes.”

  She bit into the tender flesh of her wrist and tore away what little scabbing was there, then removed the stem from Jack’s head and gave him a drink.

  A good, long one.

  And then he told exactly, precisely what needed to be done.

  8

  Once you have reached this step in the process, the base-patches should reveal to you the overall pattern you need to follow in order to complete your quilt. How wide to make it and how many patches should be included is up to you. You’re on your way to having a patchwork quilt! Congratulations! Now, go back, and repeat steps 1-7 as needed.

  Marian and Jack came out with Boots by their side. Alan stood by the Mom-thing’s along with everyone else. Marian walked over and embraced her brother.

  “Okay, Alan. I know the rest of it.”

  “You’ll have to stay here now, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “Can you accept that?”

  “Someday, I think.” Marian then caught sight of a new figure entering the ceme
tery, and smiled when she saw Laura walking toward her. Her sister-in-law’s skin was cadaverous, her eyes blank. She had been torn open from the center of her chest on down. Her stomach, liver, and uterus dangled within shiny loops of gray intestine, caught there as if in a spider’s web. Everything drooped so low it nearly touched the ground.

  She was carrying something that was almost too big for her to handle.

  Walking up to Marian, Laura handed over her Story-Quilt-wrapped burden, then took her place by her husband’s side, draping one cold-dead arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. Alan kissed her cheek and pointed to the spot where they would rest come morning.

  Marian pulled back a corner of the quilt and looked into the baby’s face.

  Its head was so much larger than the rest of its body, semi-round with deep horizontal grooves in the flesh as well as the skull beneath. Its eyes were so abnormally large and round, its mouth deformed, its nose misshapen and dwarfed by the rest of its features.

  Marian wept joy for its hideousness and blessed the night for the pain it was in, a pain that she was now more than willing to share, to savor along with this creature, her nephew, her son, her lover-to-be.

  The Quinlan bloodline would remain pure. She could almost see the faces of the children she would have with this after it grew up. How glorious they would be.

  She checked her watch. It was nearly midnight. At sunrise on All Saints Day the dead would have to return to their graves and wait for next Hallowe’en to come around before they could rise again.

  She studied the pile of stones and human heads.

  “A family cathedral,” she said.

  The thing in her arms cooed and coughed in approval.

  There was a stone quarry not too far away. The lumber mill was even closer. She had the whole town here; young and old, the living and the dead.

  They had until dawn.

  Plenty of time for a good enough start.

  She faced the crowd. “We all know what has to be done. If we don’t finish tonight, we’ll meet here again next year, and the year after that, and the year after that. However long it takes.” She stroked the surface of the Story Quilt, knowing what illustration she’d use for the final patch once this project was completed. She could be patient. She was not alone.