HALLOWEEN: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre

by Paula Guran [editor]

  “It’s a vampire, though,” said Donny hoarsely.

  “Yeah,” said Jim. “I think so. Some . . . kind of vampire. Something I haven’t seen before. Something bad.”

  Donny turned and looked toward the road. “And it wants to kill Pine Deep.”

  “It doesn’t care about the town. It just wants the people.”

  “No,” said Donny. He wiped at the tears on his face. The wetness was cold on the back of his hand. As cold as ice. “I didn’t fight and . . . ”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say the rest.

  Fight and die.

  “I didn’t come home . . . come back . . . just to see terrorists destroy my town.”

  “Terrorists?” Jim almost laughed. “They’re not terrorists, man, they’re . . . ”

  But his words trailed off, and it was clear from his expression that he was reevaluating the word “terrorists.”

  “Donny?” he asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t have any inside track on this shit,” Jim began, “but I wonder if that’s why you’re back.”

  Donny said nothing.

  “What if the town needed you and you were . . . I don’t know . . . available?”

  Donny said nothing, but inside his head something went click.

  “You said that you can die,” he murmured.

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you tell me . . . how?”

  Jim only paused for a single second. “Yeah,” he said.

  The scream tore the air again. Deep in the woods, hidden by the rain. But coming closer, angling through the darkened forest and the pounding storm, toward Pine Deep.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Donny. And as he said those words he felt a smile force its way onto his mouth. He couldn’t see it, but he knew that it wouldn’t be a nice smile. Not pleasant, not comforting.

  He turned to Jim.

  “All bullshit aside, Jim, we both signed up to serve. To protect our homes and our folks and our town, right?”

  Jim nodded.

  “So . . . let’s serve. Let’s be soldiers,” said Donny. “You tell me how to kill them, and I’ll bring the fight right to them. Right fucking to them.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Jim.

  A third scream slashed at the air.

  Donny touched the dead places on his chest.

  “Yeah,” he said, and he could feel a small, cold smile form on his mouth. “Dead serious.”

  Jim looked at him and his eyes filled with fresh tears. Not of pain, nor of fear. There was love there. And joy. And something else, some indefinable quality that Donny could not label.

  “Okay,” said Jim. “Dead serious.”

  The scream came again, louder and closer than before.

  Donny stared in the direction of the approaching monster.

  And he smiled.

  A soldier’s smile.

  Jonathan Maberry is a Bram Stoker Award-winning author, writing teacher, and motivational speaker. Among his novels are Ghost Road Blues, Dead Man’s Song, Bad Moon Rising, and Patient Zero. His most recent novel for adults, Fire & Ash, fourth in the Benny Imura series, was published earlier this year. Maberry’s nonfiction works include Vampire Universe, The Cryptopedia, Zombie CSU: The Forensics of the Living Dead, and They Bite! His work for Marvel Comics includes writing for series such as The Punisher, Wolverine, DoomWar, Marvel Zombie Return, and Black Panther.

  BLACK DOG

  Laird Barron

  While waiting at the table and watching the door he found himself humming “Love Will Tear Us Apart” under his breath.

  She walked into the restaurant two minutes late. She dusted cigarette ashes off the sleeve of her coat and hugged him and accepted the rose he’d brought. First date and the rose was the nicest of the bunch, wrapped in baby’s breath and pink tissue paper. He’d destroyed some other pretty nice flowers to get this sucker out of the refrigerated cabinet at the store. He’d also gotten stabbed by a thorn, and it made him wonder if this might be a sign from whatever gods watch over the chariot races of the Hippodrome of Romance.

  They sat across from one another for a few moments without speaking. Her eyes were brown. No, her eyes were green. The glow from the lamps changed them moment by moment. Looking into their depths disoriented him as if the building might be rotating upon the crest of a wave. He noticed two things: the top button of her blouse was undone and his collar felt a little tight. Also, the room seemed warm. He gulped some water, but the ice had melted and the water went down his throat like blood.

  “Your eyes change color,” she said.

  “I get lizard eye. When I’m tired. Or in a mood.”

  “In the mood?”

  “A mood.”

  She raised her brow and tried her water. Her throat moved and he regarded the patterns in the canopy overhanging the walkway.

  Dusk was upon the world again. It was All Hallows Eve. The sky glowed as softly as the belly of a wine bottle. Street lights and lights in shop fronts were flickering to life along the slope of the avenue. The breeze through an open window tasted of wildflowers and moss and dying leaves. Her scent was lilac in his nose.

  He’d been drinking. Scotch on the rocks. Probably not enough of it, though. When she removed her coat, he noted that the flesh of her arms was bruised purple. He breathed in the smell of her and observed how her skin shone, how her breast rose and fell, how her lips curved enigmatically, and nope, definitely not enough with the drinking for him.

  “Wasn’t something there a minute ago?” She pointed to the sidewalk and the sandwich board sign that advertised the restaurant.

  “A big fucking black dog,” he said. He’d seen the dog all right—huge and shaggy, black as the heart of night. Foam curdled its muzzle. Its tongue had lolled as it grinned at him from where it reclined at the foot of the sign. “Red eyes. Kinda spooky.”

  “Red eyes like in a photograph, or red eyes like the wolves in a Disney cartoon?”

  “Red eyes like a vampire in a motherfucking Hammer flick.” Wow fucking, then motherfucking, no less, and in under the first twenty seconds. A personal best. He finished his scotch and loosened his collar and stared at the patch of sidewalk where the enormous black dog had lain moments ago. Had there been a leash? A master? He couldn’t picture the scene anymore. He remembered the last of the sunlight in its eyes, however. Those eyes were suddenly coals ignited by a breath, and its wide, friendly smile hinted at a sort of knowingness.

  “That’s not good,” she said.

  “It’s gone now. I’ve got no problem with dogs. Seemed friendly. Just odd, is all.”

  “No, no, it’s bad luck. Or, wait. Not bad luck—a bad omen. To see the black hound means death for you or someone close to you.”

  “Oh. Where do you get that?”

  “Britain. A legend from over there. My dad went and lived on the moors when he graduated from school. He photographed mounds and menhirs, pillaged tombs. That sort of thing.”

  “He’s an archeologist?”

  “Dad?” She laughed. Soft and lovely. “Hell no.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “May I have another?” He quickly raised his empty glass to the passing server. “I’m sorry.”

  “Makes one of us.”

  “Ma’am, a double on that scotch, eh?” Yeah, his collar just kept cinching in like a noose.

  “What about you?” She studied him now. Focused upon him with an intensity that caused his heart to flutter.

  “My old man is alive and well and living in Lincoln, Montana. He races huskies. We don’t talk.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Trust me, it ain’t luck. Years and years of effort.”

  “Any kids? Wife? Girlfriend?”

  “One dog, an ex, my work. Back at you.”

  “A cavalier King Charles spaniel. I’ve never been married. What kind of dog is yours?”

  “A pit bull. I rescued her. She’s sweet and gentle
.”

  She nodded. “That’s what everybody says right before their darling takes off an arm.”

  “Don’t care for them, eh?”

  “I had a bad experience. Where did you grow up?”

  “Alaska,” he said. “My dad was a hunter.”

  “Yes . . . and so the huskies. I think it’s cruel to put a harness on an animal.”

  “How about a saddle?”

  “Ha. Screw the Kentucky Derby. Horse racing should be abolished. Don’t you agree?”

  “Nice weather, isn’t it?” He studied his place setting.

  “Totally. I spent the day looking at houses for my mom. She’s in Florida.”

  “She’s moving back north. How nice for you.”

  “Nah. She just likes to shop online. Takes one of those video tours and convinces me to see the joint in person and report. She put in a bid on a place last month and then canceled it. Decided the staircase was too narrow to lug her king-sized bed up to the second floor. Jesus Christ. No way she’s coming back to New York. She’d freeze.”

  “Why does she send you around to recon then?”

  “She’s a sweet old bird. Who the hell knows why she does what she does?”

  The server came with another scotch for him and more ice water for her. They ordered dinner. She requested noodles and something else. He chose the fried rice without giving a damn.

  “You’re divorced, huh? What went wrong?”

  “I was a neglectful bastard.”

  “Really? You seem different.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you seeing anyone?” he said because she’d deflected the question earlier. It seemed impossible that she wasn’t. For the love of God, just look at her. He’d already decided not to involve himself in any triangles, had resolved to get up and walk out depending upon the answer. A brief, early sting was easiest in his estimation.

  “Am I seeing anyone . . . Huh. Two months ago, my boyfriend left me for his ex. That one broke my heart.” She glanced at her hands, toying with the rings, then swung back to meet his gaze. “At the moment it’s you, only you.”

  He still wasn’t certain whether that was a yes or a no. Another sip, another moment spent lingering upon the lines of her jaw and neck, the sweep of her clavicle, and the strength to move drained from him. He wished like hell that he enjoyed mysteries.

  What did he know, then? She was in her thirties. She clerked at the library. She was a karate instructor at a local school—thus the bruised arms from being thrown down on a mat. That’s where they’d first met a couple of years back. He’d flown into town to visit friends, a whistle-stop before driving down to his book signing at a literary bar in the city. His friends, who also attended the school, dragged him to their dojo to meet the gang. She arrived on the scene, knotting her second degree black belt and wham, he was smitten. He’d been married at the time, so he shook her hand and smiled and ignored the sparks that shot out of their fingers and into each other.

  A lot had changed in three years. But not her.

  His pulse thrilled and that worried him. Married forever and a day, then suddenly alone again, and absorbed in his writing, he’d almost forgotten the rush that accompanied the new and the unknown. He felt a curious and unwelcome sense of vulnerability that reminded him of his youth, of plowing headlong into a towering blizzard. Since the divorce he’d spoken to many women. Here was the first one to get his heart beating faster.

  So, he tasted his drink and gloomily acknowledged that the tremor in his hand, the faint sickness in his soul, meant she was getting under his skin in a big way. He sighed and smiled at her and vowed, for the umpteenth time so far, not to say anything stupid, or misanthropic, or inane.

  The angel on his shoulder laughed and laughed at that one.

  Full darkness arrived. They migrated outdoors.

  She took a pack of Camel No. 9s from her coat and lighted one. She smoked and watched him from the corner of her eye. He stood on the sidewalk and breathed heavily. He felt as winded as a prizefighter who’d survived into the later rounds. A cold breeze dried the sweat on his brow. The moon drifted over the black curve of the horizon. Full and radiant as a searchlight, the moon smoldered in the void, frozen as close to them as it would be for another million years.

  The couple moved on after a while, stepping through bands of shadow cast by the interlaced branches of lithe potted magnolias and oaks. Many of the shops were locking up. The watchmaker and the baker hunched behind cold display cases, counting tills. A girl in an apron pushed a broom and smiled wistfully. Small groups of college kids drifted between the soft neon oases of bars and restaurants. There were fairy wings, a toga, some glitter and face paint, but few had bothered to get dressed for Halloween. A man played a violin in a second floor window over a darkened bookstore. The musician was a brawny, shirtless lad. Sweat wisped from his glistening shoulders. He nodded gravely and sawed with vigor as they passed.

  “Love it,” she said. “My brother plays the cello. Damned good. Make you cry.” Her shoulder bumped his. “Ah, now check it. This used to be a swell art gallery.” She indicated a deserted shop front. The placard promised the impending advent of a chain Irish pub. “Alas, the poor Krams. I knew them, Horatio. Lived here their entire lives, had local artists and poets in all the time. Robert Creeley read here, once. The Robert fucking Creeley. Nobody wants art, though. Nobody wants poetry. What they want is another bloody pub the same as every other cookie cutter pub. I hear the Irish mob had a hand in running my friends out.”

  “Where’d the owners go?” he said, thanking God she’d taken the pressure off him by cursing. He put his hands into his pockets, then took them out again. He wished he’d remembered to bring gum. His bum knee hurt. A panel van rolled by, slow as a shark on the cruise. Its plates were splattered in black mud.

  “Yonder.” She waved in the direction of the Catskills.

  “That reminds me. There are caves nearby.”

  “Caves everywhere around these parts. Why do you ask?”

  “Something about the mafia or Prohibition I overheard. Maybe the War of Independence. My memory is shot.”

  “Hm. There’s also the Iron Mountain facility. They store all kinds of documents in some limestone caves in Rosendale. Hush-hush stuff.”

  “Aha.” He watched the van’s taillights dwindle. “I also heard some murders happened here in town. Gruesome was the word.”

  “Sure. Those are still going on, though. Have been since the ‘70s. Cops never bagged anybody. Never will.”

  “Serial killer?”

  She stopped. Her face was luminous as if animated by the prospect of blood. He fell in love, just a little bit, then and there. “Uh, huh. Creepo snatches hikers and joggers and street people. Leaves them in the woods. Maybe seven, eight years ago, a Boy Scout troop stumbled upon eleven decomposed corpses in a cavern along the Wallkill. What kinda merit badge do you get for that, I wonder?”

  “Hold up a sec. The seventies? Forty years, give or take. That seems like a long time for one guy to be about this sort of business.”

  “I bet it’s a family thing,” she said. “Pop passes it down to the eldest son the way tradesmen did during the agrarian era. Some kind of whacked traditionalist.”

  “Lurid as lurid can be, yet, it never made the national news . . . ”

  “It made the news. Twenty-four hour cycle is the problem. Today it’s a mass grave, tomorrow it’s back to celebrity meltdowns and the peccadilloes of the rich and the beautiful.”

  He stared at the moon and thought about her explanation.

  “Are you here to research the case?” she said.

  “No. My book is about an ornithologist. He dies in a valley in the mountains. Birds eat him.”

  “Ah, you’re researching birds.”

  “I’m here for you.”

  Her turn to scrutinize the moon and not say anything.

  They kept on. Residential houses now—old, Gothic
models that he’d noticed were common here in the Hudson Valley. Iron fences and lushly neglected yards. Televisions flickered blue in certain windows, projecting phantom lovemaking, train wrecks, explosions, murder. Fires glowed inside jack-o’-lanterns. Lawn gnomes crouched with feral aspects in the long, wet grass.

  He loved how she walked. Somewhere between a sway and a shuffle, arms swinging loose, head turning on a swivel in the manner of every professional fighter he’d ever known. She possessed a sort of animal grace that wasn’t conscious of itself, but alert to everything occurring within its environment. Heat emanated from her in waves.

  He shivered. “Do you go armed, considering the situation?”

  “Yeah, sometimes. When I’m not sure of where I’m headed or who I’m meeting. Then I carry a blade.”

  “Got it on you now?”

  “Nope.” She kind of smiled and patted his arm. “Didn’t figure I needed it. Besides, I’m a weapon. You’re safe as houses with me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Ask me where I got the knife.”

  “The knife you should be packing, but aren’t?”

  “Yep. Haha, I did carry it this afternoon when I met the realtor.”

  “Okay. Where did you get the knife?”

  “From the Sneaky Fucking Russian.”

  “Let me guess—he’s a karate guy.”

  She grinned. “Right on. Speaking of the mob, this dude’s got the swagger. Broken nose and gin blossoms, wears heavy jewelry and a track suit. Thick accent. Eyes like pennies. A scowl mean enough to make a Spetsnaz drop his AK. Kinda skulks around. He asked me out about a hundred times when he first arrived at the dojo. He got more and more belligerent about the whole thing. Finally he exploded and demanded to know what was wrong with me that I wouldn’t date him. Shouting and stomping his foot, the whole routine. I told him this was unacceptable behavior and to piss off before he got kicked out onto the street. Very tedious.”

  “Ah, an old school eastern gentleman. I like those guys all right.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah. They tend to be tough, loyal, no nonsense types. I got a soft spot for that. He’d probably make a great boyfriend after you slap him around a little.”