by Mark Parker
DARK HALLOWS
Copyright © 2015 by Mark Parker
Published by Scarlet Galleon Publications, LLC
FIRST EDITION - eBook
Edited by Mark Parker, Cover design by David Mickolas, Interior artwork by Aaron Dries.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, not by recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author(s) and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown by the author(s), and all incidents are pure invention.
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the original works as follows:
“Mister Parker” copyright © 2015 by Richard Chizmar
“The Maze” copyright © 2015 by Lisa Morton
“Monster Night” copyright © 2015 by Brian James Freeman
First appeared as an eBook original in “13 Days of Halloween”, Cemetery Dance
Publications, 2012
“Johnny Halloween” copyright © 2015 by Norman Partridge
First appeared in Cemetery Dance #14, 1992
“All Souls’ Day” copyright © 2015 by Al Sarrantonio
First appeared online at Horror Drive-In, 2009
“Starting Early” copyright © 2015 by Adam Cesare
“Freight Train Tommy” copyright © 2015 by Aaron Dries
“There Are Corners in the World Where Lost Things Gather” copyright © 2015 by Robert Morrish
First appeared in Octoberland, edited by Jack Fisher, Flesh and Blood Press, 2002.
“Under the Tutelage of Mr. Trueheart” copyright © 2015 by Ronald Malfi
“The Darkest Night of the Year” copyright © 2015 by Mark Parker
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sincere thanks go out to:
Richard Chizmar and Brian James Freeman of Cemetery Dance Publications for their kind support and guidance in bringing this publication to fruition.
David Mickolas for yet another wonderful cover design.
Brian Moreland for the interior layout of both digital and print editions of the manuscript.
Aaron Dries for creating original artwork to accompany the stories in Dark Hallows.
Each of the authors who so graciously gave of their time and talent to make this a truly eerie celebration of the Dark Holiday.
For my dear friends Gloria, David, and Laura Settle—
Who make every day a celebration.
And, as always, for my family—
Without whose support none of this would be possible.
CONTENTS
Foreword
Mister Parker – Richard Chizmar
The Maze – Lisa Morton
Monster Night – Brian James Freeman
Johnny Halloween – Norman Partridge
All Souls’ Day – Al Sarrantonio
Starting Early – Adam Cesare
Freight Train Tommy – Aaron Dries
There Are Corners in the World Where Lost Things Gather – Robert Morrish
Under the Tutelage of Mr. Trueheart – Ronald Malfi
The Darkest Night of the Year – Mark Parker
About the Authors
FOREWORD
I don’t know about you, but as far back as I can remember autumn has always held a special place in my heart—especially Halloween—the darkest night of the year. It wasn’t dressing up as my favorite superhero or ghoulish creature that had me most excited growing up, or even a matter of seeing how full I could get my trick-or-treat sack by the end of the night, scampering around the neighborhood like the sugar-addicted zombie I was. Rather, it was more about how the time of year itself made me feel, as if I was somehow stepping into a season of secrets. And, perhaps, I was.
Inevitably when the days would begin to grow shorter and the nights longer (even with dreaded school back in full swing), I would gradually feel a kind of insular warmth come over me. It was the bit about the secrets, I suspect, that mostly had me hooked. That notion that with the coming darkness, I was being treated to something truly special; an experience designed only for me.
But as I grew older, I quickly learned I wasn’t the only one who’d been ‘invited’ into the secret season of autumn. Or, more specifically, the dark celebration that was Halloween. That singular night, where dark wonders are commonplace, and each one of us is held in a kind of disparaging, rapturous embrace.
This is why when I was first contacted by Richard Chizmar, asking if I would be interested in having the exclusive to his story “Mister Parker”, I simply couldn’t refuse. I mean, who could? This was, after all, the Richard Chizmar—founder and publisher of the highly acclaimed and very well respected Cemetery Dance Publications, whose books and magazines I’d been reading since I was a teenager.
By some feat of divine intervention, or sheer dumb luck, in less than a week I was able to interest eight more fantastic authors to sign onto the project; commission a beautiful cover by David Mickolas (who also created the artwork for last year’s Dead Harvest anthology); entice the talented Aaron Dries to create original artwork to accompany each story; and even write a story of my own. Well, actually, to completely overhaul an earlier piece I’d written several years ago (Halloween Night), which now appears in this collection in its new form as “The Darkest Night of the Year”.
The book you now hold in your hands, whether in print or eBook, is the result of that surprise conversation with Mr. Chizmar. It is my sincere hope that Dark Hallows: 10 Halloween Haunts brings you as much pleasure as it brought me in bringing it to you. If you come away with chills, that’s hopefully to be expected. But what would really be cool, is if you were left with that same warm, insular feeling I experienced as a young boy. That feeling that is filled with as much fright as it is wonder.
—Mark Parker
MISTER PARKER
Richard Chizmar
Benjamin Parker—Mr. Parker or Bulldog Parker, behind his back, to his eighth grade English students—lived a simple life.
By choice, he had no wife, no children, and no pets. He lived in a practical two-story house in the suburb of Forest Hill. The house was practical because it was located three miles from the middle school at which he taught—close enough to save on fuel costs, but far enough so that he didn’t have to live amidst his pupils—and because it was a perfect fit for his daily needs and extensive library.
Parker mostly kept to himself, although he attended a weekly book club every Thursday night and a monthly Friday night poker game with five other teachers from nearby schools. He spent most afternoons reading student papers and grading tests; most evenings in the library or in the back yard with his telescope.
Parker had two great loves in his life: books and astronomy. Naturally, his library featured many volumes that focused on his lifelong obsession with the night sky, but it was hardly limited to that subject.
Classic literature. Poetry. History. Biographies. Folklore. True crime. Photography. Cooking. Pop culture. Even modern fiction.
It was all there. Each volume categorized by genre; each author alphabetized; each book protected within carefully applied Mylar sleeves.
When Parker was a younger man, he often spent his weekends driving to various rare or used bookshops, searching for hard-to-find titles to fill out his collection. Of course, he could have done much of this buying via the telephone or mail order catalog
, but he enjoyed his treasure hunts, as he referred to them. He never felt lonely on these road trips; quite the contrary. He enjoyed driving the winding back roads and listening to music while the wind whipped through his hair and cooled his cheeks.
But, as the years passed and the internet forced many booksellers out of business, these trips dwindled from weekly to monthly to every other month until finally, Parker barely managed two or three road trips a year.
Now most of his book purchases were completed through numerous online websites and occasional slumming on eBay—which is precisely what Parker was doing when Kelly Rutherford walked into his classroom after the final bell on Friday and interrupted him.
***
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Parker.”
Parker started and looked up from his computer screen in surprise; he hadn’t heard anyone come in. He closed the laptop and put on his best English teacher smile.
“No bother at all, Miss Rutherford. How can I help you?”
“I was wondering…” The girl started shuffling papers out of a bright pink notebook.
“…if you wouldn’t mind reading my paper this weekend if you’re not too busy." She dropped one of the pages onto the desk, quickly grabbed it and almost knocked over Parker's coffee mug. "I know it’s not due until next Friday, but I finished early and I’m a little worried if I’m on the right track or not.”
Kelly Rutherford was a straight “A” student, class president, and always worried if she was on the right track or not.
Parker stood up and walked around his desk. Took the outstretched pages.
The girl shrugged apologetically. “I understand if you’re too busy, I just thought—”
“It’s fine, Miss Rutherford. I’d be happy to give it an early read.” He opened the briefcase on his desk, placed the paper inside, and clicked it shut again.
The girl beamed in relief and squeezed her hands together in a gesture Parker found both odd and charming. “Thank you so much, Mr. Parker. I really appreciate it.”
Parker, for reasons he couldn’t have explained if he tried, steepled his own hands together and gave a polite, little bow.
The girl looked momentarily confused, then broke out in a giggle. “Well, thanks again, Mr. Parker.”
She practically skipped out of the classroom before pausing by the door and looking back over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, and Happy Halloween.” She flipped him a wave and was gone.
The smile faded from Parker’s face, his eyes troubled. He picked up the mug from his desk and took a long swallow of lukewarm coffee. “Happy Halloween, indeed.”
***
Benjamin Parker lived a simple life. He was a strict and respected teacher. A quiet and courteous, if not overly friendly, neighbor. And a kind and trustworthy friend within his small circle; even if they all tended to tease him about his eccentricities and overly private nature.
Parker was a man of moderate taste, temperament, and behavior. He was, as the self-help gurus liked to say, very comfortable in his own skin. In fact, he often thought to himself: I have my stars and my books and my peace of mind; that is more than enough for any man.
Most people would have been shocked to learn that there were indeed two matters Parker despised with enough passion to upset his calm exterior: drunks and Halloween.
His father had been a drunk—a violent one—and Parker had suffered at his hands. A broken arm one night after the old man had lost yet another job. Three broken fingers when Parker had made the mistake of sticking up for his mother after she burned a pot roast dinner. Permanent scars on his back and buttocks after Parker had accidentally knocked his father's beer off a TV tray or left his bicycle in the front yard overnight. More black eyes and bruises than he could count or remember. Parker eventually learned to antagonize his father when he had been drinking, to invite his aggressions, in an effort to spare his mother. All this by the time Parker was eleven years old.
The nightmare lasted until his father's death in a hit-and-run accident shortly after Parker's fifteenth birthday. The old man had been drunk, of course, staggering home from a bar in the middle of the night—and the middle of the road. Someone simply came tearing around the bend on old Route 22, drove him down like a stray cat, and kept right on going.
Two days later, they buried him on a rainy Sunday morning. Only three people stood at the gravesite: Parker, his mother, and the preacher. His mother had a black eye. There were no tears that day.
***
Parker took a left on Hanson Road and drove slowly down his street. It was too early for trick-or-treaters, but he was by nature a careful man. The speed limit was 25 miles per hour, so he drove 25 miles per hour.
He focused on the road ahead of him, doing his best to avoid looking at the garish Halloween decorations adorning his neighbors' houses. He was particularly grateful that it was still light out and none of the fat orange pumpkins sitting on front porches were smiling their jagged, glowing grins.
Parker signaled a right hand turn, slowed, and pulled into his driveway. He turned off the ignition and sat behind the wheel for a moment. He didn't feel quite right. At first, he had thought it was the usual trepidation he felt toward the final night of October, but now he was starting to believe he was coming down with something. His heart was beating too hard and his head felt swimmy and unfocused.
He grabbed his briefcase from the seat next to him and got out of the car. As he was walking up the front walk, a voice called out to him from across the street.
"Happy Halloween, Benjamin!"
He turned and saw his neighbor, Carol Perkins, raking leaves into narrow, makeshift burial mounds, each one centered in front of a fake, Styrofoam tombstone.
Parker gave her a half-hearted wave and continued onto his front porch and into the house. His briefcase felt heavier than usual. He needed to rest.
***
If Parker were ever forced to acknowledge and then explain his loathing of Halloween, he probably would have opted for the simplest explanation: it was a frivolous tradition that bordered on the sacrilegious; a greedy retailer-manipulated holiday based on cheesy decorations and cavity-inducing sweets.
But Parker knew that day would never come. Only two people in the world knew about his true feelings toward Halloween. He was the first (and he wasn't talking), and his mother was the second (and she wasn't either; Parker had buried her two decades earlier in a cemetery far away from where his father's corpse lay rotting).
The truth of the matter was Parker hated Halloween because of his father. No surprise there.
Parker's father wasn't big on holidays. Most Christmases he was solidly in the bag by the time presents had been opened and the smell of ham was just beginning to waft out of the kitchen. Thanksgiving was a blurred nightmare of football blaring on the television and loud, drunken complaints about food preparation. The fourth of July was more than likely a fistfight at the neighborhood picnic and an early exit, thus guaranteeing that Parker would once again miss the fireworks display after dark.
But Halloween was the worst of all…because Parker's father actually liked it. He would start decorating the house and planning his costume by mid-October—paying little attention to Parker's own costume or excitement—and by the time the thirty-first rolled around, their house was a gaudy mess of fake spider webs and ghosts hanging from trees; plastic tombstones scattered across the front yard; and nearly a dozen glowing jack o' lanterns lining the porch and front walk.
As dusk darkened the October sky on Halloween night, Parker's father would appear in full costume—the most memorable being an incredibly life-like Frankenstein, complete with stitched, green skin and nuts and bolts in his skull—and inevitably he would be reeking of liquor.
When Parker would come downstairs dressed in his own costume—a hobo or a clown or a fighter pilot; usually something his mother helped him make—his father would make merciless fun of him, calling him "fag" or "sissy" or "homo."
Then he would spend th
e rest of Halloween night sneaking sips of whiskey and jumping out from behind the tall shrubs that bordered the front porch and terrifying unsuspecting trick-or-treaters. Many of the children would scream in terror and run crying back to their parents waiting on the sidewalk—but very few of those parents would complain; Parker's father was a very large man.
Eventually, as the years passed, fewer and fewer children came trick-or-treating to Parker's house, and he knew his sadistic father was to blame.
