The Chevy loomed before him. He made its hood by scrambling up on hands and knees, and then he jumped to the roof. He felt something tug at him, but he jerked loose, didn’t stop moving. He sprang off the car-top, grabbed at the fence, latching his arms over it. The fence cut into the undersides of his arms, but he couldn’t let that stop him, so he kept pulling himself forward, and the next thing he knew, he was over the fence, dropping to the ground.
It seemed as if a bullet had gone up through his right foot, which he now realized was bare, and that the tug he had felt was the folding man grabbing at his foot, only to come away with a shoe. But of more immediate concern was his foot, the pain. There hadn’t been any bullet. He had landed crooked coming over the fence, and his foot had broken. It felt like hell, but he moved on it anyway, and within a few steps he had a limp, a bad limp.
He could see the highway ahead, and he could hear the fence coming down behind him, and he knew it was over, all over, because he was out of gas and had blown a tire and his engine was about to blow too. His breath came in chops and blood was pounding in his skull like a thug wanting out.
He saw lights. They were moving very quickly down the highway. A big truck, a Mac, was balling the jack in his direction. If he could get it to stop, maybe there would be help, maybe.
Jim stumbled to the middle of the highway, directly into the lights, waved his arms, glanced to his left—
—and there it was. The folding man. It was only six feet away.
The truck was only a little farther away, but moving faster, and then the folding man was reaching for him, and the truck was a sure hit, and Jim, pushing off his good foot, leaped sideways and there was a sound like a box of dishes falling downstairs.
Jim felt the wind from the truck, but he had moved just in time. The folding man had not. As Jim had leaped aside, his body turned, through no plan of his own, and he saw the folding man take the hit.
Wood and springs and hinges went everywhere.
The truck bumped right over the folding man and started sliding as the driver tried to put on brakes that weren’t designed for fast stops. Tires smoked, brakes squealed, the truck fishtailed.
Jim fell to the side of the highway, got up and limped into the brush there, and tripped on something and went down. He rolled onto his back. His butt was in a ditch and his back was against one side of it, and he could see above it on the other side, and through some little bushes that grew there. The highway had a few lights on either side of it, so it was lit-up good, and Jim could see the folding man lying in the highway, or rather he could see parts of it everywhere. It looked like a dirty hardware store had come to pieces. William, Gordon, and Chomps, lay in the middle of the highway.
The folding man’s big torso, which had somehow survived the impact of the truck, vibrated and burst open, and Jim saw the bird-like thing rise up with a squawk. It snatched up the body of Mr. Gordon and William, one in either claw, used its beak to nab the dog, and ignoring the fact that its size was not enough to lift all that weight, it did just that, took hold of them and went up into the night sky, abruptly became one with the dark.
Jim turned his head. He could see down the highway, could see the driver of the truck getting out, walking briskly toward the scene of the accident. He walked faster as he got closer, and when he arrived, he bent over the pieces of the folding man. He picked up a spring, examined it, tossed it aside. He looked out where Jim lay in the ditch, but Jim figured, lying as he was, brush in front of him, he couldn’t be seen.
He was about to call out to the driver when, the truck driver yelled, “You nearly got me killed. You nearly got you killed. Maybe you are killed. I catch you, might as well be, you stupid shit. I’ll beat the hell out of you.”
Jim didn’t move.
“Come on out so I can finish you off.”
Great, Jim thought, first the folding man, and now a truck driver wants to kill me. To hell with him, to hell with everything, and he laid his head back against the ditch and closed his eyes and went to sleep.
The truck driver didn’t come out and find him, and when he awoke the truck was gone and the sky was starting to lighten. His ankle hurt like hell. He bent over and looked at it. He couldn’t tell much in the dark, but it looked as big as a sewer pipe. He thought when he got some strength back, he might be able to limp, or crawl out to the edge of the highway, flag down some help. Surely, someone would stop. But for the moment, he was too weak. He laid back again, and was about to close his eyes, when he heard a humming sound.
Looking out at the highway, he saw lights coming from the same direction the trucker had come from. Fear crawled up his back like a spider. It was the black car.
The car pulled to the side of the road and stopped. The nuns got out. They sniffed and extended long tongues and licked at the fading night. With speed and agility that seemed impossible, they gathered up the parts of the folding man and put them in a sack they had placed in the middle of the highway.
When the sack was full of parts, one nun stuck a long leg into the sack and stomped about, then jerked her leg out, pulled the sack together at the top and swung it over her head and slammed it onto the road a few times. Then she dropped the sack and moved back, and one of the nuns kicked it. Another nun opened it up and reached inside the sack and took out the folding man. Jim lost a breath. It appeared to be put back together. The nun didn’t unfold the folding man. She opened the trunk of the car and flung it inside.
And then she turned and looked in his direction, held out one arm and waited. The bird-thing came flapping out of the last of the dark and landed on her arm. The bodies of William and Gordon were still in its talons, the dog in its beak, the three of them hanging as if they were nothing heavier than rags.
The nun took hold of the bird’s legs and tossed it and what it held into the trunk as well. She closed the lid of the trunk. She looked directly where Jim lay. She looked up at the sky, turned to face the rising sun. She turned quickly back in Jim’s direction and stuck out her long arm, the robe folding back from it. She pointed a stick-like finger right at him, leaned slightly forward. She held that pose until the others joined her and pointed in Jim’s direction.
My God, Jim thought, they know I’m here. They see me. Or smell me. Or sense me. But they know I’m here.
The sky brightened and outlined them like that for a moment and they stopped pointing.
They got quickly into the car. The last of the darkness seemed to seep into the ground and give way to a rising pink—Halloween night had ended. The car gunned and went away fast. Jim watched it go a few feet, and then it wasn’t there anymore. It faded like fog.
All that was left now was the sunrise and the day turning bright.
I WAIT FOR YOU
EYGLÓ KARLSDÓTTIR
Eygló Karlsdóttir is the author of the short story collection Things the Devil Wouldn’t Dream Of and Other Stories and All the Dark Places: A Novella. She is also the creator of the experimental zine The Chestnut, where she publishes one short story each month.
“I had in my head the silhouette image of a woman walking up a hill toward a house that looked rather spooky,” explains the author, “and I attempted to write about her several times before a little bird whispered to me that her story might be related to Halloween.
“After that it all fell into place.”
“IS THERE LIFE after death?”
The words echoed constantly in her head, a never-ending repetition that always took center stage. His thin face looking up at her, with his big, blue, questioning eyes. “Is there life after death, Mom?”
The sky was quietly on fire, bejeweled with an intense orange color. The hollow oak could be seen as a dark silhouette up on the hill beside the house. It had been such a long time since she visited. She brushed dust off her jeans before she continued, careful not to step in the horse manure on the road.
There was smoke in the air, quietly ascending from the chimneys, whisked away in the easy breeze. The sme
ll of yew wood so familiar that she halted again, putting her burlap knapsack down. She pulled out a water bottle and drank from it. Then she took a deep breath, inhaling old memories with the familiar smell before she moved forward again.
When she got up to the top of the hill, she walked toward the tree and slapped the bark lightly with the palm of her hand. The sound of the dead wood echoed back at her. She found the hole and looked inside. An old fire truck lay on its side inside the tree trunk, a beheaded Barbie doll lay beside it, indicating the atrocious incident that had transpired in the children’s games earlier in the day.
She smiled and walked up to the house. There was a glowing pumpkin in front of the porch. The demon carved in its flesh startled her at first. The light inside flickering madly as a gust of wind blew past her. She held her hand momentarily above the pumpkin and instantly the demon died as the light flickered out.
She sighed with relief and walked up the wooden steps.
There was nothing but an old rocking chair on the porch. A wool quilt had been carelessly thrown over it and the chair swayed as if someone had been sitting there, but decided moments ago to get up and go inside. There was light in the kitchen and the wind chimes hanging beside the window played a soft melody. It made her feel at home.
She sighed, put her knapsack on the chair and went to the door, hesitating before knocking.
“Trick-or-treat,” she whispered and smiled to herself.
She heard the footsteps inside, the floorboards creaking. A man opened the door. He was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. There was a tattoo of a mean-looking skull on his shoulder. She wished she could flick that off as easily as the demon. It made her ill at ease.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, trying hard to remain calm. “I used to live here, long ago, and I was wondering if I could take a look. I haven’t been in the neighborhood for ages.” She didn’t really know why she was lying to him, it just came naturally and the truth was far more difficult.
“You used to live here? Really?” he asked, but opened the door wide so she could enter.
She stood still, hesitating on the threshold.
“Oh damn,” the man suddenly exclaimed. “The light’s gone out.” He went inside and came back almost instantly with something in his hand. Then he ran down the steps and opened the lid on the pumpkin, lighting the candle quickly before he replaced the lid and ran back up the steps again. “Come on in,” he said.
She walked inside, closing the door behind her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it. Have you lived here long? Do you know what happened to the family that lived here before? There was a little boy—” her voice faded away as she realized she wasn’t sure what the facts were.
The man looked at her and shrugged. “I’ve lived here all my life, actually. When did you say you lived here?”
She sat down on a chair in the hallway and tried desperately to still her hands. She looked up at the man and sighed. “It was a while ago. How old are you?”
“Not quite as old as I look, I hope,” he said. “You can’t be much older though,” he smiled. “Are you sure you have the right house?”
She didn’t have an answer to that. Instead she stood up and walked into the kitchen.
It was just as she remembered it, except the stove had been replaced with something modern. She put her finger on the countertop and stroked it lightly. The dent in the wood was still there. She remembered that day vividly.
The autumn winds had been howling about the roof. It always made her ill at ease that sound, especially around this time of the year. It had frozen early, ruined the remainder of the crops that they hadn’t managed to get inside. Winter would be harsh.
The boy had been particularly difficult that day. She had given him some pancakes, but that hadn’t helped much. When the knock came on the door she had been so deep in thought that the knife slipped in her hand, slicing her finger and chipping the wood. She hissed and started sucking on her finger while rushing to the door to greet whoever was there.
The woman at the door had been the bearer of bad news.
She looked back at the man who had been observing her tour of the kitchen. His hair was light brown; vigilant, steel-gray eyes, and he bore a striking resemblance to her father she realized. She staggered when she understood who the man was.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked calmly.
“Well,” he hesitated and looked to the floor as if the answer was standing there, staring at him. Meanwhile, she examined the skull on his shoulder and a shiver ran through her.
“The kids are out trick-or-treating with their mom somewhere,” he mumbled.
“With your wife?” she asked.
He nodded his head and looked at her. “Well, we’re not actually married,” he added.
“You’re not?” she walked toward him, felt like stroking the lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes, but refrained.
“Nah. Do you want the grand tour?” he said, changing the subject.
“I sure would,” she said. “Is the old bed still in the master bedroom? The one with the iron frame?”
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I painted it white, bought a new mattress too. Come on, I’ll show you,” he said.
She noticed his hands were trembling.
“You know,” he said. “My mother loved that bed. She said it was an heirloom, that it had seen countless births and countless deaths and that it was sacred. That it was the one thing in the family that always survived.”
“Sounds like a wise woman your mother,” she mused.
He opened the master bedroom door and pointed toward the bed.
It was the same one, but he had painted the frame and, to her surprise, it was properly made with beautiful pillows and a fluffy quilt. She had never been able to get him to make his bed when he was a child. His wife had to be a neat woman.
“That’s beautiful,” she said.
“Thank you,” he smiled. “I’m glad you’re here to see it,” he added in a low voice.
“So you do recognize me?” she asked, suddenly on the verge of tears.
“Of course, Mom,” he whispered. “I always do.”
She took his hand and drew him to her, hugged him tightly, the way she used to do when he was a boy, then she held her hands on his cheeks and kissed him lightly. He was so different, her baby boy.
“It’s so good to see you,” she said. “I just wanted to know how you were doing. I came to—”
He didn’t let her finish. “I know, Mom,” he replied. “You’ve come to let me know that there really is an afterlife,” he sighed. “I know.”
She looked at him, hands falling to her sides. “You do?” she whispered.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said. His eyes shifting.
She followed him down the stairs, wondering what his words meant. It had been so hard to make the journey, and now that she was here he looked nothing like she had expected. In fact, none of this was anything like she had expected. It wasn’t exactly disappointment that she felt, but the lack of enthusiasm puzzled her.
“Can we go to the living room? I’d like to see the portraits before I have to go,” she whispered.
“Of course,” he said and led the way.
The living room was different from what she recalled. The old couch was gone and instead there was a giant leather sofa filling a corner of the room. A big television took up an entire wall, and her mother’s chair was gone. The carpet was also missing, and instead there was a wooden floor that had seen better days.
The picture wall was still untouched, although she could see that a few portraits had been added. She walked to the wall and stared at them. In the sea of family photos she found the one she was looking for. Her husband, standing in the back wearing his worker’s overalls. She remembered how angry she had been at him that day, because he didn’t have the time to change before the photographer came.
She had told him how important it was to her, but he had sneered and told her that she was old-fashioned: “What would be more perfect than having a photograph of me in the overalls I wear all day, every day?” he had asked her.
Now she understood what he meant. He wouldn’t have looked right wearing the suit he only wore to weddings and funerals. And then there were the children, looking clean and well-dressed, all except Johnny who had spilled jam over himself and hid it from her so that she only realized when she saw the stain in the photograph.
“Johnny,” she said. “You don’t seem too happy to see me.” She turned to face him, “I thought you—”
“I am happy to see you, Mom,” he smiled, but it was weak and didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just that I never know what to expect,” he added.
“What do you mean?” she asked. She walked to the window. The crescent moon was wading in clouds, showing itself for just a moment before it hid behind the veil again. There were new houses in the valley now, houses halfway up the hill. It had all been farmland when she lived here.
He was silent.
“What do you mean?” she repeated and turned around again to face him. “I don’t understand.”
“You are a bit unpredictable,” he said.
She saw him blushing and wondered why her little boy was so awkward around her. Her boy that had stuck with her through thick and thin when the others had turned and left because her illness had been too hard to deal with.
“You don’t remember?” he asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You come here every year, Mom,” he told her. “Every Halloween I wait for you.” He looked her directly in the eyes as if that would somehow confirm that he was telling her the truth.
“Every year? But I only just made the journey, I only just made it… .” she whispered.
The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories Page 25
