Halloween Carnival Volume 1

by Brian James Freeman (ed)

  The pilot stared at the woman, and Halle could almost feel a laser beam strike her down dead. Nothing of the sort happened, but she was convinced it could.

  “If we can continue without interruption…”

  One of the flight attendants had moved to the drunk woman and glared at her. She no longer looked like she wanted another drink.

  “You are some of the fortunate few to ever fly Demon Air. Of course it’s because you’re pathetically cheap and refused to fly a more, shall we say, conventional airline. Diamond Air is about the bottom of the barrel. But on Halloween we come alive, and now we’re going to show you a flight you’ll never forget.”

  The copilot went to the cockpit and came out carrying a large green bowl. In other circumstances, it might have been a salad bowl. Halle had no desire to see what was in it, but he started walking down the aisle beside her. She wanted to hide under her seat, but she was trapped.

  He stopped by a passenger two seats in front of her.

  “One of my favorite Halloween traditions is to bob for apples.”

  The passenger shook his head when he looked in the bowl.

  “Do it.”

  “No, it’s not…”

  “I don’t like to keep asking.”

  The passenger lowered his head, but then shook it and pulled himself back.

  “No. You can’t make me.”

  Bobbing for apples didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world to Halle.

  The copilot thrust his arm forward and grabbed the man by the throat, squeezing tightly. He fought, but it looked like he was trapped by a vise grip. The man struggled for a moment but then collapsed in his seat.

  “Who’s next?”

  The copilot stared at Halle.

  “Ahh. You.”

  He brought the green bowl toward her, and she could see water sloshing. When she looked down, she saw that the water was tan-colored and had patches of fuzz floating in it.

  The apples were rotten.

  Not just a little. They were mostly brown patches with worms squirming in and out. There were so many worms that she couldn’t see any spot on any of the apples that was clear.

  How am I supposed to get one?

  “Bob for the fucking apple, lady.”

  Halle glanced ahead of her but couldn’t see the passenger who had refused.

  Is he dead?

  The copilot leaned over to her. “NOW!”

  She stared into his face, not believing what she was seeing. It wasn’t a mask, at least not like any mask she’d ever seen. It was too perfect. She’d swear the demon face was real. His tongue was forked, and his breath smelled like rotten eggs.

  “Last chance.”

  His eyes were yellow orbs filled with black bits. Real.

  Halle lowered her head, trying not to smell the putrid water and disgusting apples. She closed her eyes and took a long breath. Finally, she found the courage to lower her head even farther, and her chin touched an apple. Before losing her courage, she bit into it and pulled her head back. She opened her eyes and resisted spitting the apple out, even when she felt a worm crawling inside her mouth.

  She nodded quickly, asking if she was done.

  The demon smiled. “Good job.”

  Then he moved back past her and she spit the apple out to the floor.

  She wanted water to clean her mouth but she didn’t have any, and there was no way she was going to ask.

  The other demons were walking around the cabin, but she tried to ignore them.

  They’re real.

  “Carter?”

  He looked over to her, his mouth clenched. He was afraid.

  From the front of the plane, she heard, “What other kind of Halloween fun can we have?” It was one of the flight attendants. She was waving her arm to get all the passengers’ attention, and all Halle could concentrate on was the burnt-red hand with daggerlike nails swinging back and forth.

  “Anybody remember having razor blades hidden in apples?” She grinned. “We can have fun with that.”

  Halle closed her eyes and wished she’d never started on the quest for her roots. Suddenly, it didn’t seem the least bit important who her ancestors were.

  After all, would an Aborigine do anything different in this situation? She didn’t know enough to answer that question.

  Or did she?

  The flight attendant was walking down the far aisle, carrying a box cutter in one hand, staring at each passenger in turn as she walked by.

  “Who’s the lucky one?” she asked, as she laughed her way forward.

  “You can’t do this,” said a passenger to Halle’s left. She hadn’t really noticed the woman before. She had her arms crossed and seemed to want to pick a fight. She was only in her early twenties, but her courage shone through.

  It seemed to Halle that Aborigines had strong and deep character. It was one of the first thoughts she had when she found out she was at least partly one of them.

  They wouldn’t stand for this.

  And neither would she.

  Halle took a deep breath, holding it in to give herself courage before shifting out of her seat and standing in the aisle.

  “Everybody!” she called.

  She looked around to get her fellow passengers’ attention.

  “That woman is right.” She pointed at the girl who had spoken up. “They can’t do this if we don’t let them!”

  The pilot called from the front of the plane, “Sit down, you stupid bitch.”

  “I will not sit down.”

  “Looks like we have our volunteer after all.”

  Halle turned and looked to the majority of the passengers behind her.

  “What are they going to do? Kill us all? How could they possibly explain that?”

  She shrugged.

  “They can’t,” called the girl who had spoken up earlier.

  The pilot hurried down the aisle and grabbed Halle by the arm. He squeezed tightly, and it felt like her arm was being gripped by a mountain.

  The flight attendant who’d been carrying the box cutter came close and grinned. Halle could smell her rancid breath and see what looked like vomit mixed with beetles crawling around her mouth. She wanted to throw up.

  “Leave her alone!”

  This was a new voice, a man shuffling up the aisle. He was older, maybe in his sixties, and pudgy. The demons could swat him away without noticing, but he came to help, anyway.

  Then a whole group of passengers were on their feet, all moving toward Halle and the demons.

  “Let her go!” somebody called.

  The flight attendant glanced back and Halle took the opportunity to grab the box cutter from her hand. She tossed it under one of the middle seats.

  The pilot was distracted, too, and Halle pulled her arm free.

  “Leave us alone!” she yelled. She felt confidence in her voice, something she’d rarely felt before.

  All the demons seemed uncertain, and they moved toward the cockpit, not knowing what to do.

  As the passengers crowded closer, the demons turned and moved into the cockpit, locking the door behind them.

  Halle realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out and looked to her fellow passengers.

  “Thank you all,” she said.

  Some of them mumbled, and they all continued to stare at the cockpit.

  “What happens now?”

  “It’s almost midnight,” said Halle. “Halloween will be over. I think we’ll have our crew back.”

  She stared and wondered what a true Aborigine would say.

  “At least I hope that’s the case.”

  She looked at her watch as the minutes crawled close to midnight.

  La Hacienda de los Muertos

  Lisa Morton

  It was just before the start of the Days of the Dead in 1958 when Trick McGrew arrived in Mexico.

  Of course, Trick knew nothing about that as he stepped out of his plane and onto the tarmac of the Mexico City airport, and
if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. He was only concerned with the way his lungs burned from the city’s smoggy air (even worse than goddamn L.A., Trick inwardly groused) and with locating his ride.

  Fortunately, the latter proved easy. Trick had barely set foot in the terminal when a tall, handsome man in his forties with a tailored modern suit and slicked-back hair approached.

  “Mr. Trick McGrew?” he asked, only a hint of accent in his mellifluous voice.

  “That’d be me, okeydoke,” Trick said.

  The man grinned and thrust a hand forward. “It’s a great pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Armando Silvestre.”

  Trick took the man’s hand and was unimpressed by the nonaggressive grip.

  He may be a suave sonuvabitch and ten years younger than me, but I could take him.

  But Trick had been in the biz for too many years to show that he thought the other man was weak. “Mr. Silvestre…aren’t you the producer?”

  Silvestre nodded enthusiastically. “Sí…yes.”

  Trick paused to tilt his Stetson back. “I didn’t expect to be met by you at the airport.”

  “I wanted to be sure you understood how happy we are to have you here,” Silvestre said, with a strange, small bow.

  Trick made a clumsy attempt to return the motion. “Happy to be here, Mr. Silvestre.”

  “Armando, please.”

  —

  Twenty minutes later they’d collected Trick’s single duffel, found Silvestre’s car—a 1957 Caddy that made Trick appreciate his new boss all the more—and were speeding through the crowded streets of Mexico City.

  Despite thirty years of making cowboy movies, Trick had never been south of Tijuana, and he drank in the sights as Silvestre deftly maneuvered past cathedrals, pre-Columbian ruins, museums, and slums.

  “We’re going to the Churubusco Studios, is that right?” Trick asked, trying not to mangle his pronunciation of the name too badly.

  “Ahh…no. There has been a slight change.”

  Trick frowned. This wasn’t exactly what he’d been told. His agent, Marty, had set the deal up. “It’s a horror picture, Trick, a Mexican horror picture.”

  Seated in Marty’s stifling, small office, Trick had leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “I didn’t know the Mexicans had horror movies. What’s it called—Montezuma’s Revenge?”

  Marty hadn’t laughed; Trick wasn’t sure he was even capable of it. “Who cares what it’s called? All that matters is that they’ve got a potential American distributor who says he’ll give their picture a stateside release if they’ve got an American name in it, and they wanted you. The first ones who have wanted you since…well, you know.”

  Trick had looked away, irritated. He did know—since Blazer died, six years ago. Hell, you’d think folks were more interested in that damn horse than me.

  “The producer’s a guy named Armando Silvestre. Used to be a comedy star down there, until he started producing these monster movies two years ago; now the audiences can’t get enough. You should like him—I talked to him on the phone, and his English was great. And they’re offering twice what you got on your last Hollywood job.”

  Fortunately, Marty hadn’t added that that’d been four years ago. And Trick hadn’t told him he would’ve taken a walk-on in Siberia at this point.

  “How long’s the gig?” Trick had asked.

  “Two weeks. All at the Churubusco Studios right in Mexico City. And they’re offering a good per diem.”

  Of course Trick had taken the job. The movie was called La Hacienda de los Muertos, which Marty had told him translated to The Ranch of the Dead. Apparently, it was kind of a combination Western and horror.

  Trick truthfully hadn’t been thrilled with the idea of working with Mexicans. He didn’t like Mexicans, just as his father before him hadn’t liked Mexicans (or anyone else who wasn’t white, for that matter). Trick’s father had owned a ranch in the San Fernando Valley, just north of Los Angeles; they’d grown oranges and raised cattle. Trick’s father had refused to hire the cheaper and more skilled Mexican labor, claiming that he was “a good American” and would only hire “all-American boys” on his ranch.

  Unfortunately, that philosophy had led to the failure of the ranch by the time Trick was fifteen.

  But at least the McGrew spread had lasted long enough for Trick to learn how to ride, rope, shoot, and swear. He had a pleasant manner and could perform his own stunts, so when the ranch went under, Trick had surfaced in Hollywood as a bit player in Westerns. In a few years he was a minor star; when he’d partnered with Blazer, he’d gotten his own Republic serial.

  But then the war had hit, Westerns had fallen from favor, Blazer had finally died, and Trick had to sell his house and move into a one-bedroom apartment on Yucca Street just to survive.

  So although he wasn’t happy that Armando Silvestre already seemed to be changing the deal (Daddy always said you couldn’t trust non-American folks!), Trick tried to be diplomatic.

  “Changed how?” he asked.

  Armando offered a cigarillo to Trick and they both lit up. “We are going to shoot the picture entirely on location. I think you will like this: We have a real hacienda, down on the Tecpan River, about a six-hour drive. It is an old place, deserted, very scary. We are getting it for almost nothing, because…” He trailed off uncertainly.

  “Because…?”

  Armando laughed dismissively. “Well, the people in the area are afraid of the place, if you can believe it. They think it is…the word is…haunted.”

  Trick barked a laugh, and a cloud of smoke shot from his mouth. “You don’t say.”

  “Anyway, it is very big and very old, and the owner is quite reasonable. The hacienda will give the picture more production value.”

  Trick turned to look out the window just then, as they idled at an intersection, and saw a strange sight: There seemed to be a cemetery located right in the middle of the city, with a large and intricate time-darkened church looming over it. The graves had been decorated with a profusion of yellow-gold flowers, and the headstones and crosses all looked bizarrely cheap, as if they were made from cardboard and papier-mâché. At one end of the cemetery stood a tall stone tower that had been covered with paper cutouts of skulls.

  “You put your boneyards right in the middle of your cities down here?”

  Armando turned to follow Trick’s gaze, then laughed. “No, no, that is the Plaza de la Constitución, decorated with a pretend graveyard in celebration of Días de los Muertos.”

  “Días what?”

  “Días de los Muertos—Days of the Dead. Today is October Thirty-first, and the holiday starts at sundown, then goes through All Souls’ Day, November second. The flowers are called zempaschuitl, very traditional, maybe even all the way back to the Aztecs. See that cart?”

  Armando pointed at a street vendor’s mule-drawn cart also covered in the same bright flowers and offering tiny white skulls, hundreds of them, each no bigger than a softball, all adorned with glittering spangles and strips of color.

  “The little calaveras—skulls—are made from candy. Children love them. And of course adults as well.”

  “Huh. So this whole thing’s kind of what we up north of the border call Hallowe’en,” Trick said.

  “Yes,” Armando said around puffs of the cigarillo, “but our Halloween is about acknowledging death in life.”

  Trick smoked silently, and thought: I’ll take some sawed-off little shit in a sheet banging on my door, thank you.

  —

  An hour after they left Mexico City and the potholed road began to weave around green semitropical hillsides, Trick fell asleep.

  When he opened his eyes again, the sun was setting and the landscape had changed to chaparral, with groves of scrub pine and cedar interspersed with cactus and the occasional adobe shack. Once they passed a cluster of spiky blue agave plants, where laborers wielded machetes and hacked out the hearts of the succulents to turn into tequila (which Trick thought was pro
bably Mexico’s finest export).

  Once or twice Trick glimpsed water not far from the well-worn mud road they drove on. “Is that our river?” he asked.

  Armando nodded. “Sí. The Tecpan. We will be at our location in just a few minutes.”

  Finally, Armando guided the dust-covered Cadillac down a side road lined with trees, many of them dying from lack of care, and Trick’s gaze was greeted with the familiar sight of production trucks, lights, generators, and smaller cars.

  When the hacienda itself came into view, Trick had to admit it was impressive.

  Built in the eighteenth century, the main house was a massive two-story structure surrounded by high walls. In many places the stucco was falling away in big chunks, revealing the bare red brick underneath; support beams poked out at intervals, their wood weathered and splintering. Set into the walls were wooden gates, big enough to admit horse-drawn carriages; the gates were open, and Trick glimpsed a spacious courtyard just inside, with silent mud-caked fountains and more dying trees. Nearby were a number of outbuildings—barns, storage sheds, servants’ quarters, even a small church—and they all appeared equally tumbledown.

  As first seen in the shadows cast by the fading sun, the hacienda looked impossibly gloomy and dangerous, and Trick was reluctant to leave the comfortable interior of the Cadillac. Finally, though, Armando opened the passenger door and Trick climbed out. He heard the gurgling of the river somewhere nearby, but there was no fresh smell of growth; instead, there was a miasma of decay about the whole place.

  “It’s actually quite sturdy,” Armando said, sensing Trick’s dislike.

  Trick grabbed his duffel bag from the back seat and turned to peer up at the second-floor windows, seeing lights glowing in some of them. “We staying here, too?”

  “Yes. You will have your own room, and our cook will make whatever you like.”

  “Armando! ¡Aquí está!”

  It was a feminine voice, young, and when Trick got a look at the voice’s owner he suddenly liked the hacienda’s prospects a whole lot more. The woman was gorgeous, no more than twenty-three or -four, with a slender build, fair skin, and lovely dark eyes. She wore a dress with a full-length skirt, which Trick found somewhat odd until he realized it was a costume.