FSF, December 2007

by Spilogale, Inc

  But this couldn't be for real—he saw at least fifteen different state names on this two-page spread alone. He rubbed his chin. “You're telling me that tourists flock here every year for Hallowe'en?"

  "We don't advertise. We like our peace and quiet. No souvenir shops—just a few postcards, ‘cause people kept asking for something they could buy and take home.” He shrugged. “We don't mind a little company, if folks know how to conduct themselves. Somehow, they turn up.” He grinned at Conlin. “Like you did."

  "I didn't know about the ... I'm just on my way through."

  "Yeah. I hear that a lot."

  Conlin actually felt his scalp prickle. He glanced at the window, imagining the town filling up with people—hungry, like he'd been, or lost, or with car trouble, or just needing a tank of gas. He thought of the two sober-faced men who'd been in here. Were they out-of-towners?

  Mmm-hmm, sure. This was all part of the story, the mood-setting for the parade. What else did old guys like this have to do all day but get very, very good at spinning the tale? It probably got better every year. The best explanation was that someone from town had been down to Mexico and thought the Day of the Dead was really cool. Most likely, five or six locals had gone hog-wild with a pack of markers and made this whole scrapbook on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

  "This is a new book, you see,” Billy said. “It starts in ‘98. Stacy's got boxfuls of them in back—older ones. And this isn't the only place in town that keeps a Bone Man book. The Parade goes ‘way back, and he's always been part of it.” With a yellowed fingernail, Billy tapped an entry in purple ink. “Here's one that couldn't see him."

  Been here, done this, didn't see SQUAT!—Jim, Nebraska, Nov. ‘99.

  "Another here,” Billy said.

  VENI, NON VIDI! BONE MAN IS A WE'ENIE! That one wasn't signed.

  Conlin nodded. “You give nonbelievers their fair say."

  "Yep.” Billy sucked his lips inward around his teeth and released them with a smack. “Now we come to the first picture."

  He flipped back the next page for Conlin, revealing, amid the almost dizzying sprawl of words and little sketched skulls a single photograph, glued to the right-hand page in about the middle, near the outside edge. One photo in a sea of Technicolor inscriptions.

  Conlin bent closer.

  The picture showed a wooden fence across half its length; a house behind the fence; people in costumes on the street in the foreground, kids and adults. A bicycle just going out of the frame on the left.

  "You see him?” asked Billy.

  Conlin saw no skeleton. He felt a twinge of disappointment. What had he been expecting?

  "Don't worry. He's hard to see in this one.” Billy moved a finger toward the page with dramatic slowness, letting its tip hover over the people in masks, the bicycle wheel, the branches of a dusky tree in the yard. “He's right ... there."

  At the top of the wooden fence, where the pickets ended in points, like a stockade fort, was a grayish shadow. A curve, like the bottom of an upturned bowl.

  "He's hiding behind that fence. That's the top of his head."

  Without moving his face, Conlin raised his eyes to stare back at Billy from under his brows. So the whole thing was a joke, like showing someone a piece of blank white paper and saying it was a picture of three white dogs in a snowstorm. But still the old man's expression showed not the slightest hint of leg-pulling.

  "Now, I know, this one wouldn't convince anyone,” Billy said. “It's just in here to get you ready for what you're about to see.” He glanced at Conlin with the tip of his tongue poised between his teeth, an expectant glitter in his eyes. Conlin wondered how many times the old man had said these exact same words to others, here in this lunchroom, right here at this table. “And it's also included,” Billy went on, “to show how the Bone Man is always a part of our landscape, whether you see him or not."

  Conlin gnawed his lip. This was sounding more and more like a religion.

  "Now, see how you like these apples."

  Billy flipped over one more page. It half-folded and then flopped wide under its weight of photographs.

  One of Conlin's most useful skills was a mastery over his nerves. He'd stared unruffled into a Tanfoglio nine-millimeter bore; had squinted into cops’ flashlight beams with a mark in his trunk and talked his way past. But something about this two-page spread in a cluttered scrapbook hit him like a cold shovel-blade in the gut. Prickles ran across the back of his neck, and his eyes darted from picture to picture.

  These were all fairly recent photos, taken with different cameras—most in color, standard-sized, but a couple were black-and-white “artsy” shots, playing up the stark shadows. Parade stills. Lines of costumed people walking, riding truckbeds, leering through makeup and masks. They clutched broomsticks and steadied pointed hats against the wind, trailed dirty bandages, cradled plastic machine guns and axes, sported dagger headbands and bloody sheets. Relatively few of the store-bought, media tie-in costumes—and as many adults were present as children, maybe more.

  And somewhere in every picture, usually quite prominent, was a capering human skeleton.

  A bone man.

  Conlin felt himself frown. However the town's spectral hero was created, it was good. First, Conlin searched for the wires, the rigging boom on some nearby tractor or float. But no, the skeleton clearly wasn't something just dangling. It was in too many poses, arms and legs in all manner of articulate positions ... and it was all over the place, now in a lawn, now in the parade's center, now balancing on a fence. In one eerie, half-comical shot, it crouched on a rooftop, playing a violin.

  Conlin brushed his fingertips across the emulsion. He could see no incongruity, no difference in quality between the figure and its surroundings. These prints were nothing like the bogus images of gigantic fish in flatbed trucks, of farmers sitting atop mammoth pumpkins. Most of the photos were too old to be digital. In some, the Bone Man cast a shadow consistent with those of other figures. In many, the gruesome phantom was interacting with people—stretching knobby digits hungrily toward a kid dressed as a bunch of grapes, tap-dancing beside a tap-dancer in a top hat and tails, saluting a teenager in military camouflage. Nobody in any photo was actually touching the Bone Man, though they obviously saw and made space for him. In the faces not covered by masks, Conlin read a somber respect—and in some cases, what looked like fear.

  "What you don't see,” said Billy, his sudden voice making Conlin's hand jump, ever so slightly, “is anyone in a skeleton costume. You just don't see them around here. No one wants to step on the Bone Man's toes."

  Conlin drew a long breath and scratched his ear. “This is good. I've got to tell you, I can't see how it's done. It's a real figure of some kind, not a lab trick."

  "Yep,” Billy said, smiling placidly as he surveyed the photos himself. “He's real, all right."

  Rubbing a palm over his mouth and jaw, Conlin examined the scribbled entries on these pages, trying to piece it all together. Thou Unbelievers! shouted one inscription, a scrawled arrow pointing from the margin directly at the Bone Man. He's right there!

  The pictures convinced Conlin that, whatever the Bone Man was, he was neither a mass hallucination nor anything as simple as a local tall tale. The folk around Loch Ness didn't have dozens of perfectly clear pictures of their Monster—yet Nessie was world-famous. “Why haven't I heard of the Bone Man?” Conlin asked. “All these people who've seen him.... Why doesn't the word get out?"

  "Now, there's a real good question.” Billy leaned back in his chair and stretched his old frame, lacing his fingers behind his head. “I used to wonder about that myself. Folks turn up in droves to see the Parade, and there's no ban on cameras. Thing is, I think the Bone Man likes to keep himself quiet."

  "How can he do that?"

  "Tell you a story. I know a guy from upstate. I used to bowl with him. He lived down here for a couple years—worked with us out at the elevator. He could see the Bone Man—came to the Parade
at least twice that I recall, back in the early eighties. Well, he moved back up there—had property, I think, in that place that has the nuke'ular power plant."

  "Clinton,” offered Conlin.

  "Yep, that's it. Anyway, just happened I ran into him at the state fair about seven or eight years ago. He knew me real well, asked about all his old buddies, and we got to talking.” Billy slid forward on his elbows, his shirt making a dry rustle across the Formica. Again, his eyes riveted Conlin's. “I don't know what brought it up, but when we started reminiscing about the Parade, he didn't remember the Bone Man."

  Conlin felt another chill. “What do you mean, didn't remember? This parade is all about the—"

  "Just plain didn't remember, like he had this big blank in his memory, like those black hole things out in space.” Billy's finger returned to a photo, and he touched the Bone Man. “Like the people who can't see him. They look at this picture, and they see all these other folks standing around nothing, looking at nothing. I said to this guy, ‘You know, the Bone Man,’ and he says, ‘Oh, was there something like that?’ I said, ‘You took about a million pictures,’ and he said, ‘I don't remember any pictures of anything like that.’”

  Now Conlin couldn't stifle a laugh. “So all these people come here and see him, and when they drive away, they don't remember a Bone Man, and their pictures don't show him?"

  Billy nodded. “I think that's how it works. Maybe some don't even remember that they were here. I think the Bone Man likes his privacy."

  "Yeah.” Conlin rocked his head, popping his neck. “What about all these postcards you sell? Do they go blank at the edge of town?"

  Billy shrugged. “I never tried sending one."

  Conlin checked his watch. Already going on three. It had been years since he'd spent this long over lunch. “Well, it's been fascinating. I appreciate it."

  "Seen enough?” asked Billy, indicating the open scrapbook.

  "Not nearly enough.” Conlin pulled out his wallet. “I can hardly wait for seven o'clock."

  Billy smiled. “You'll want to come a little early and find a good spot."

  Conlin left a generous tip for Peg. He'd been well-supplied with coffee, not to mention the entertainment. This whole town was just the sort of diversion he'd been looking for. He might as well enjoy it to the fullest—soak in all the creepy charm the parade had to offer, then get a good night's sleep. “Is there a motel?” he asked Billy, who'd begun paging through The Book of the Bone Man for himself.

  "Two. The Nite-Lite and Metzger's, both out on Lueders. It's the last road running north and south at the west edge of town."

  "Think they'll have a vacancy, with all the crowds for the parade?"

  Billy seemed absorbed in the album. “Oh, they can probably find you something."

  Conlin pushed back his chair and, in an uncharacteristic gesture, stuck out his hand for Billy to shake. “Thanks again for the....” He wasn't sure what to call it. Local color?

  Billy shook. His old hand felt like twigs dipped in wax.

  Halfway to the cash register, Conlin paused, on a sudden inspiration examining the check, then pulling a laminated, finger-smudged menu from another table. He wasn't worried about Peg's math—he was looking for an address. No luck. “By the way,” he said, turning back toward Billy, “what's the name of this town?"

  Billy glanced up and answered matter-of-factly, saying a name that satisfied Conlin's curiosity—some perfectly natural name for a little burg lost in the beanfields—but by the time Conlin had gotten to the register, he'd forgotten it. He blinked and opened his mouth, but would feel like an idiot asking again.

  That's how it works. The thought rolled over him like an icy wave from an open freezer. Drive out of here, and a mile down the road you've forgotten the whole town. No, Conlin didn't think so. He used the restroom—clean and dim, but the doorknob seemed about to fall off—then looked at Bone Man postcards as Peg approached from the kitchen.

  "Everything okay?” she asked, receiving the check with a pudgy hand.

  "Everything perfect.” Conlin opened his wallet and paid with small, unremarkable bills.

  "That guy didn't put you to sleep?” She shot a grin at Billy and impaled the check on the spindle.

  "Not at all. He's got me stoked, actually."

  "The Parade? You'll love it."

  Conlin normally didn't linger in such situations, didn't give cashiers or store clerks any reason to look twice at him. But he couldn't resist browsing through the postcards.

  A few were an artist's rendition of the dancing skeleton, done in a quirky, old-time Hallowe'en style that appealed to Conlin. One was a close-up photo of an ad poster for the parade—taken in a different year, since in the picture Hallowe'en wasn't on a Friday, but a Wednesday. Apparently it didn't matter if the parade came on a school night, a work night, whenever: it was always on the thirty-first. The cards in the top few pockets of the wire rack were photographs of the actual Bone Man, much like the pictures in the album. Conlin ended up buying one of every card. Peg put them into a small, white paper sack, no logo, and Conlin slid them into the side pocket of his sportcoat.

  * * * *

  The silver pickup was gone from behind his car, and no other vehicle had replaced it. Instead of returning to the car, Conlin strolled for a couple blocks along Grand Avenue, breathing the autumnal air. He caught the faint smell of a bonfire, probably someone burning leaves in a backyard, carrying them to a smoky pile with a gloved hand clamping them against a broom rake. Conlin imagined the pile crackling as the flames burst through from below. The smell reminded him of football games, jack-o'-lanterns, evenings of deepening shadow, the taste of candy corn....

  Three blocks from Stacy's Kitchen, he found what he was looking for: a drive-through bank with a phone booth in one corner of the lot, next to the ATM. Public phones were getting harder to find these days—and of those that remained, fewer and fewer actually worked. But Conlin despised cellulars. He preferred to do the calling, when calling was absolutely necessary, on his own terms. There was something satisfying—something almost romantic—about finding a phone and making a call when the job was done. Also, not being able to reach him made his clients nervous. That was a plus, too.

  He dialed the number, listened for instructions, and dropped in the coins. Two rings, and the sound of the receiver being lifted halfway through the third.

  Silence on the other end, a silence that demanded the caller to do the talking.

  "Mr. Kline?"

  "No,” said a cold, refined voice. “This is Mr. Cyrus. Who is calling, please?"

  Fine. Cyrus was Kline's assistant, fully authorized to take this message. Conlin spoke clearly, smoothly, watching his surroundings through the booth's glass walls. “This is Jack, calling from the house in Arlington Heights. I just wanted Mr. Kline to know that the remodeling is finished. It's all done the way he wanted it."

  There was a brief pause. “He'll be delighted to hear that."

  "Yes.” Without another word, Conlin hung up.

  He left the phone booth and stretched in the lazy sunlight. Such a call was like the cherry on top of the service he provided; it meant a lot to clients to know they'd gotten what they paid for, without having to wait and scan newspapers. For someone of Conlin's caliber, payment was all up front. Clients knew he'd do the job. He had a reputation to uphold, and if he ever failed to deliver—well, Conlin of all people knew that no one could run far enough or fast enough.

  * * * *

  He was sure that by the time he found one of the motels, it would be late enough in the day to check in. Back inside the Malibu, it felt like midsummer. He could barely grasp the steering wheel, and the smell of new-car upholstery seemed stronger after a baking. Conlin started the engine, opened his window, and cruised slowly until he hit the parade route. Recalling the map on the orange flyers, he followed its north side—Thatcher Street—and worked his way west. He saw a sign for the V.F.W. and glimpsed the building down a street
to his left—no problem to find.

  The inner, residential streets of the town were thick with sights he remembered from his childhood in a similar place. Camper-trailers, doghouses, tire swings on rusty chains with bare patches in the sere lawns beneath them ... and everywhere, decorations. Even here, miles from nowhere, families poured hundreds of dollars into the vast industry that All Hallows Eve had become; and what they couldn't buy, they made. No—he had that backward. The preference here was making, stuffing old clothes, digging out time-yellowed sheets, raiding attic trunks for hats and duster coats—and all these offerings placed on the altar of Hallowe'en. Strings of lights festooned the trees, some already on in the daylight, orange and winking, the wilder cousins of the Christmas lights that would go up in another month. Conlin wondered if Christmas were anywhere near the big deal here that Hallowe'en was.

  Bats and ghosts bobbed and fluttered, suspended from branches. Plastic gargoyles crouched on the balcony of a three-story mansion. Whole families of ghouls stood propped in yards, scarecrow hillbillies with jugs of moonshine and blood-spattered shirts. Tombstones sprouted like toadstools around porches, and Conlin had an impulse to stop the car and see if he could make out inscriptions on them. Would they have a generic R.I.P., nothing at all, or maybe funny little poem epitaphs? But he drove on, following the lowering sun.

  People were on the move: cars pulled out of some driveways and into others; adults lingered in open doorways, talking to listeners unseen within. Sometimes eager children tugged at the grownups’ hands. Groups clustered on porches, baskets and bundles in their arms. Already they were setting up lawnchairs along Thatcher, four hours early. At dusk, the childhood wonderland would be waking up, coming alive. Suddenly Conlin couldn't wait to be out in it, haunting it, reexperiencing a time long dead.

  Thatcher dead-ended at Lueders Road, beyond which empty fields rolled away, dotted with dark islands of forest. A soybean processing mill rose purple and faint on the horizon like a medieval castle protecting these lands. Conlin peered both ways and decided to turn left, which was wrong: in that direction, the road only took him past more homes, a trailer court, a picturesque cemetery, and a chained-off driveway leading into a pine grove, beside which a hand-lettered sign declared Place of Crows. Conlin couldn't tell if it was something rigged up for Hallowe'en, or whether it was the crow place year-round. Fitting, since it was right across from the cemetery.