Halloween Screams
A Halloween Short Story Collection
By M.L. Bullock
Text copyright © 2017 Monica L. Bullock
All rights reserved
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the ghosts of autumn.
May you continue to haunt us.
Table of Contents
Maarta’s Baby
The Football Curse
Zoe and the Gray People
The Vampire Selfie
Hide and Creep
Eyes in the Fire
Crazy Man’s Discounts
The Costume Contest
Man’s Best Enemy
Maarta’s Baby
Bergischesland, Germany
1799
Maarta watched through slitted eyes as her daughter climbed into Conrad’s lap. The pair perched in front of a frost-covered window. Enid blasted the thick glass with her breath and drew designs on the foggy surface with her pudgy finger. “Listen, daughter. Listen to the sound of snow,” Maarta’s husband purred to Enid in his deep voice.
Enid closed her eyes and wrinkled her freckled nose, straining to hear the promised sound. “Father, I hear nothing,” she whined.
“That is because to hear the sound of snow, you must listen with your heart, not your ears.”
Maarta snorted under her breath but did not openly challenge Conrad’s statement. Already unhappy at the prospect of being left behind today, Maarta did not approve of Conrad’s filling Enid’s head with such foolish notions. What good would hearing the sound of snow do her? What good would such talk do a woodsman’s daughter?
Conrad and his pretty words.
She shook her head disapprovingly. With a good-natured smile, Conrad waved at Maarta. “Come, wife. You listen too.” Maarta did not obey him. She continued setting the table for their supper and quickly turned her attention back to the root stew.
Enid closed her eyes again, waited a few seconds and then opened them wide. Her face was the picture of joy. “I can hear it, father! I can hear the snow! Mother, come listen.”
Maarta had no time to answer, for the baby began to cry his high-pitched, ear-piercing complaint. She continued to stir the thick stew, hoping her husband would move to help her with baby Kristof, but as usual, he was not in a hurry to assist her with her duties.
Well, he will just have to help. Conrad has built the fire too hot, and I cannot abandon the pot without scorching it.
“Hush now,” she said to Kristof, but the boy continued to cry, refusing to be appeased with her mere words. No, it was her breast he wanted. Her poor, sore, aching breasts that even now cracked and bled and leaked all the time. Giving him more milk would hurt her, but the alternative was much worse.
If they couldn’t pacify him, if they allowed the baby to cry for too long, the sound would fill the forest around them and attract unwanted attention. Wolves were heavy here in this part of the forest, so heavy that Conrad made a good living killing the beasts and selling their pelts. But it was a dangerous occupation.
And there were other things in the dark too, especially on ancient festival nights like this. Long before Martinmas became a Christian celebration, the People of the Wood walked this land, searching for offerings, collecting their curse-prices. Although she could not speak of such things openly, Maarta believed the old stories. Regardless of her husband’s beliefs, Maarta believed there were creatures that hid in the thick clumps of trees and the tangled underbrush of the Black Forest. She was not allowed to voice such opinions, though fear filled her stomach. Conrad would not allow such thoughts to be spoken aloud. He believed in the Christ and his Saint Martin, the saint who banished the hidden beings, including the People of the Wood, with his holy staff. Banished them to the depths of the lower valley and forbade them to return, or so the story went. But they had returned, even though they were fewer in number. Her mother, a wise woman, told her this. And she believed her mother over all others.
Her husband patted Enid’s shoulder, and the little girl quickly hopped off her father’s leg. He picked Kristof up awkwardly just as he had done when Enid was that age. Conrad nestled the baby in his muscular arm like he was a log to carry. Conrad sang to the boy, a song Maarta had never heard.
“One, two. One for me and one for you,” he rumbled. “Three, four. You drink now and pour some more.”
Enid clapped her hands and danced around him, but Conrad’s son was having none of it. The child had one thing on his mind, supping at his mother’s breast. With a thick cloth, Maarta removed the cast iron pot from the flames and set it on the rough-hewn table. Tossing the cloth over her shoulder, she raised her hands to accept the squirming child. “Here, give him to me.” Upon hearing her voice, the baby wailed all the more as his frustrated father handed him to Maarta. With an expert arm, she held the child to her breast with one hand and scooped the stew into wooden bowls with the other.
“Smells delicious, wife.” Conrad attempted to coax a smile from her. Maarta knew what it was that he attempted to do and offered him no bridge into her heart. Neither did she thank him for the compliment. Anger burned within her—anger that he would leave her behind tonight of all nights!
People rich and poor would gather in churches tonight, all over the Black Forest. Some churches were nothing more than trees, others dilapidated buildings with no ceilings, but the faithful would come. They would watch the children make their procession to the altar with their lanterns. Christians would offer prayers to Saint Martin, the man who cut his cloak in half to share with a beggar. The place would be full of men donning red half-cloaks, a further honor to Christ and the unbaptized Saint Martin.
Maarta remembered last year’s event fondly even though she did not believe the many stories. I will always believe in the old stories, she thought with a wild rebellious surge that almost smothered her. No, better to keep quiet now. Conrad did not share her beliefs or her love of the Old Ways. She wondered again why her mother had sent her here. She did not belong here.
Mother! Why did you cast me aside and trade me like a milk cow for a few deer and coats? And now I have become a milk cow to this man’s children!
At first, it was easy to forget about the past, forget her mother’s stories, forget who she was. And for a time, she tried to embrace her husband’s beliefs, all of them, at least at first. But then he changed, and so did she. He no longer celebrated his wife or proudly paraded her before his friends. She was kept away, held here with the children and surrounded by wolves.
Even though she was not a Christ-worshiper, she looked forward to watching the children walk with their lanterns hanging from the crafted wooden poles. She enjoyed smelling the burning of bitter incense. In former years, she thought it all very moving, mostly because she knew the truth behind the children’s parade of lights. This tradition had not originally belonged to Saint Martin, yet it had been such a beautiful sight to see. And despite her lack of piety, she had encouraged her daughter to participate. Little Enid had practiced daily, carrying her lantern on the pole that her father had carved for her. But in the end, it was all for nothing.
Everyone would be there, everyone except Maarta and her daughter! Conrad made it clear that he did not want his son outside in the changing weather. Maarta had objected, of course. They had wolf pelts and rabbit hides, didn’t they? And hadn’t they taken Enid to the same celebration when she was Kristof’s age? Why then could she not go tonight?
His answer had been, “He is a sickly child, Maarta, too sick for long hours in the cold weather. And his crying might disturb the procession.” She had objected repeatedly, but he would not be moved. In a voice he reserved for Maarta only, he warned her, “Speak of this no mo
re.” She noticed with some remorse that he never spoke in such a manner to Enid or to anyone else.
But Maarta knew the real reason for her being left behind.
The real reason that Conrad wanted her to remain at home had everything to do with a certain yellow-haired woman in the village of Détentes. Melina. Maarta saw the way Conrad and Melina looked at one another during their last visit, and Conrad made no attempt to hide his appreciation for the other woman’s youth and beauty. It had been last spring, when Maarta and Conrad traveled to the village to purchase fabric for a dress for Enid. They had stayed a single night at the Raging Boar Lodge, owned by the girl’s father. Maarta had cried herself to sleep that night and felt sullen the entire trip home. How ironic that she would leave the lodge with a baby in her belly.
Whenever Conrad’s hunts stretched into days, she imagined him in Melina’s arms, lost in them, never to return to her. And tonight, he would leave Maarta behind and undoubtedly seek Melina’s company. Maarta pulled her lips tight and clenched her jaw, unwilling to beg again to be included. No, she would not beg again. And she would no longer keep her stories, family traditions and treasures a secret from Enid.
She would tell the girl everything.
Yes, Enid would know about the Old Ways. She would know and make her own choice in the matter. And Maarta would never allow her daughter to be sold like a milk cow. Enid would be a wise woman with skills of her own.
***
Maarta watched from the window as her husband’s short red cloak disappeared into the dark green forest. Yes, he cut a fine figure. Maarta had felt very fortunate to have Conrad as a husband; she had been the envy of her village when they married. But the joy of marriage quickly dissipated after the birth of their first child and then much more after their second. It wasn’t that Maarta no longer loved Conrad, but that she believed he no longer loved her. Yes, her waist was thicker and her hair had lost its luster, but who had time for tending to her hair when she had children to care for and a household to clean?
“He will be back soon, Mother, and he promised to bring me a present. I will share it with you.”
Maarta looked down into Enid’s pinched face, unwilling to scold her for her hopefulness. She wanted more than anything to tell her the truth right now about her father, to warn her not to believe his lies, but Enid was too small to hear such things. She could learn the Old Ways, even at just six summers. Maarta would teach her all about them, whatever the price!
This morning Maarta had braided the girl’s silky hair as Enid chattered about Martinmas and how she wanted to see the other children and carry her lantern in honor of the saint. She cried when Maarta told her the news that they would not travel to the village, that she would not walk in the procession. It had taken only a kiss and a hug from Conrad to ease the girl’s mind, along with a promise of a sweet or some such treat.
How easily he breaks his promises to both his wife and his daughter. Who can trust such a man?
With new vigor, Kristof began to wail again, the infant’s loud voice filling the cabin. Without thinking, Maarta barked at him, “What is it now, greedy child? Must you always be at my breast?” She hovered near his crib and quickly detected the reason for his discomfort. “Oh, but you are a foul-smelling creature, just like your father,” she complained. Enid giggled beside her, thinking her mother quite silly.
“Phew! He does smell, Mother.” And so it was with children. When they were young, the house always smelled of urine and other unpleasant things, but why should she complain? Who would listen? Maarta again missed her mother this night; the distance between them might as well have been as deep as the distance between heaven and earth or heaven and hell if one believed in such places. Maarta wondered if her parents were well and if they missed her at all. When she and Conrad first married, he promised her trips home to see her parents, but so far she had not seen them even once. After changing the child and returning him to his crib, Maarta set about stoking the dwindling fire. She skillfully banked coals and added a few small logs. To think, just an hour ago this fire was too hot. Now it was dying.
“Mother, tell me again about Martinmas.”
“I have no heart to talk about Martinmas tonight, Enid. Let us sit quietly for a little while.” Maarta sat in her rocking chair by the fire as Enid laid her head in her lap. She thanked her lucky stars that for a few moments at least Kristof was finally quiet. She hummed absently, an old song that she could no longer remember the words to, as she toyed with a loose strand of Enid’s hair. The braid had come loose now; her silky child’s tresses never stayed in place. Enid closed her eyes, and Maarta felt the girl’s body relax. At least with Conrad gone, the children could sleep. He had a way of keeping them stirred up at all times as if he were a child too. Maarta felt as if she had just crept into slumber when Kristof’s piercing shriek woke her with a start. How long had she slept? Enid had drooled in her lap; the child also slept, and the fire had dimmed.
“Enid, wake up. Tend to your brother while I rebuild the fire.”
“Yes, mother.” Enid quickly went to her brother’s crib and lifted the bundle obediently. She held Kristof lovingly in her folded arms and gently swung him back and forth as she had seen her mother do many times before. With a grimace, she held her hand up. “Oh, he is wet again. Such a naughty little brother.”
“You change him, Enid, as I finish this.” Maarta blinked her sticky eyes as she moved the coals around. With a nervous eye on the dwindling firewood bundle in the basket, she calculated quietly. It was late; they must’ve slept for hours. Her stiff back testified to that truth. Yes, it must be very late now. Midnight would be approaching soon.
When Conrad was at home, she did not worry about the dark hours, but she suddenly felt very vulnerable. How ironic that she would feel safe with a man who did not believe in her fears! Maarta couldn’t explain it, but it was as if she could feel the woods come alive and hear the creatures lurking, hoping and searching for their unholy offerings. No, she did not worry when Conrad was with her, for his faith protected her. But now Maarta was alone and deeply afraid. Her husband would have laughed at such a notion, but a growing sense of dread washed over her like melted wax poured out on a piece of glass. She must keep the fire burning and the lights lit, no matter what. It was the fire that kept them away. The light. They hated the light.
And if Conrad did not return soon, she would have to go outside herself to collect firewood. She clucked her tongue and shook her head.
In so many ways, you have been a poor choice of husband, Conrad.
Beyond a fair face and strong physique, Conrad lacked many things. But for all his shortcomings, Maarta longed for him still. She had not wanted a second child, but Conrad had desired nothing more than a son to help him hunt and care for their home. Now that she’d given him one, she expected something in return—his faithfulness—and she would take nothing less.
When she completed her task, Enid handed the baby to her mother. Maarta stared down into her son’s face and saw no trace of herself at all. Yes, he was her husband’s child. He had Conrad’s dark hair, not her own reddish-brown locks, and his eyes were as blue as summer skies. How ironic that Conrad had wanted a son so badly but spent very little time with him. Grabbing a piece of bread and popping it in her mouth to build her strength, Maarta sat in the rocking chair with the baby in her arms.
“Enid, put the lantern in the window. Let us celebrate Martinmas by ourselves,” she said, smiling at her daughter as the girl yawned. “It must be close to midnight now.” As if to agree, a wolf howled in the not-too-far distance. Maarta shivered at the sound.
Enid’s dark eyes showed her fear at hearing the animal. “Father will need a light to find his way home.” She scrambled to place her lantern in the window and carefully lit it.
With an exasperated sigh, Maarta said, “Who knows when your father will return? That is not why we put a lantern in the window, Enid.” For good measure, she added, “And th
ere are far more dangerous things in these woods than wolves tonight.”
Enid’s eyes were wide as she scurried back to her mother’s side. She stared up into her face, and Maarta smiled, feeling a bit of pride in scaring Enid with just the beginning of a story. Conrad would never permit these types of stories to be told in his presence, but he wasn’t here now, was he? She could tell her daughter whatever she liked. Why shouldn’t she share the traditions of her own family?
“Pull the blanket around us, Enid. It is cold tonight; even with the fire burning, it is cold. And do you know why? No, you don’t, because I have never told you. But you are a big girl now, Enid. I can tell you the truth about Martinmas and the reason why we must keep the fire burning bright. But you must promise me if I tell you, you won’t have nightmares or tell your father. He must never know, daughter.”
She felt Enid tense, and her small hands gripped the edge of the quilt as she pulled it up to her chest. “Please, tell me, mother. Tell me what you know.”
With a triumphant smile, Maarta nodded. “Very well. Hush now and listen.”
She took a deep breath and continued, “In the age before the black-haired men, men like your father, there were others. There were the People of the Vale, the People of the Red Trees, and the Yellow-Haired Men of the Northlands. All these people lived here before Saint Martin came, and they were not the only ones.”
“Of which are we, mother?”
Maarta smiled sadly at her daughter. “My family hails from the People of the Red Trees, of which you also have some blood.” Enid smiled back with wide-eyed wonder. “But as I said, we were not the only ones that lived in Bergischesland. The People of the Vale lived in harmony with the Almas, wild man-like creatures that gifted the Vale folk with herbs and medicines. The Yellow-Haired Men lived in the land of the Kobolds, creatures that gave them candles and guarded their homes. As for the People of the Red Trees, we held a treaty with the Erlking himself, the King of the Goblins.”
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