The Samhanach

by Lisa Morton

It certainly made him laugh, if not openly: That he would be dressed as an Ob-Gyn practitioner, mixing drinks and teasing the ladies…and all the while trying not to think solely of Joey Simonetti.

  Joey was the newest salesman Rick had hired to work at North Valley Toyota. At twenty-five, Joey had the features and build of a Roman god. He was a decent salesman (he could almost always close a deal with any female customer), had an easy, gleaming smile, and there was no wife or girlfriend in his life. Once or twice Joey had thrown Rick a look that’d made the middle-aged manager’s head spin, and fantasies Rick thought he’d outgrown in college had manifested again, leaving him avoiding Shirl and taking long showers masturbating to thoughts of Joey’s hands on his body.

  He’d invited Joey tonight, of course, and Joey had promised to come; every knock at the door snapped Rick’s head up, but it was invariably just another group of trick-or-treaters, or more neighbors coming for the party, neighbors who thought of Rick as their local flirt and jokester, the guy who always had a wink for their wives. They thought he was Rick Joosten, successful general manager of a car dealership, devoted husband and father (of two grown kids, now off at college), good Republican and Protestant, a stand-up guy.

  Which was why he knew it’d been slightly dangerous to invite Joey tonight. He’d have to remind himself to exercise caution. He knew Shirl would basically have to catch him sucking dick before she’d believe it…

  …but at this point in his life, with more of it unhappily behind him than ahead, he wasn’t sure he’d mind being found with his lips wrapped around Joey’s rod.

  He just wasn’t sure how Joey would feel about that.

  There was another knock on the door, and Rick waited, breathless, as Shirl opened the door – to reveal someone dressed in a very realistic Grim Reaper outfit, complete with a cowl that completely obscured their face and an authentic-looking scythe, with skeletal fingers wrapped around it.

  Skeletal?

  Rick smiled to himself at the success of the illusion; they’d obviously glued a real skeleton hand to the handle of the scythe, and were holding the other end of the arm bones, hidden by the folds of the draped sleeve.

  Shirl gaped for a second, then stepped back. “Oh, hello… let’s see, is that Pete Lavesh in there?”

  The Reaper didn’t respond, except to step past Shirl soundlessly. She caught Rick’s eye, shrugged, and closed the door.

  Christ, that isn’t…?

  Rick almost went up to ask the new arrival’s identity, to make sure it wasn’t Joey hidden under there…but somehow he couldn’t see the beautiful young man hiding himself beneath all that black cloth.

  Can’t be him.

  Just then Shirl edged past, whispering a reminder that he should be bartending. He nodded, pushed through the crowded living room to the wet bar, and lost track of the Grim Reaper as he began mixing cocktails.

  Several martinis and Cosmopolitans later, he heard a shrill cry from the kitchen, loud enough to pierce the hum of party conversation. He couldn’t place the voice’s owner, and considered trying to sidle through the mob to investigate, but just then he heard a rich baritone ask, “How ya doin’, boss?”

  He looked up – and dropped the cocktail shaker. It hit the floor with a loud clatter and the two halves separated, spilling ice and booze. But Rick didn’t notice.

  Joey was there – dressed as a gladiator. He wore a tight leather tunic that left his arms and legs bare, boots with shin guards, and a sheathed sword strapped to a belt. He’d moussed his hair to give it the proper sweaty Roman curl, and the leather bands strapped around his biceps flexed and shifted with his muscles.

  “Hey, whoops – let me help you with that…”

  Before Rick could protest, Joey had joined him behind the bar and was retrieving the parts of the shaker, bending over, exposing his defined upper thighs, and Rick actually had to grasp the edge of the metal sink to stay upright.

  He forced out “thanks” as Joey handed him the shaker, then the young man backed away, eyeing the party.

  “Looks like you’re the hit of the neighborhood.”

  Rick cleared his throat, feeling suddenly clumsy and exposed, and asked, “Did you come alone?”

  Joey lifted his shoulders, and even that simple gesture sent a wave of desire roaring through Rick. “Yeah. I’ll probably meet up with some friends later.”

  Rick wanted to ask about those friends, if they were female or male, gay or straight, platonic or…instead, what he said was, “What can I get you to drink?”

  “A beer’s fine. Whatever you’ve got.”

  Rick found a bottle, opened it, and handed it to Joey, trying to keep his eyes from settling on the outlines of Joey’s chest beneath the leather.

  “Hey, Shirl looked great,” Joey said, leaning over to be heard above some insipid dance tune that was now drowning out the sounds of conversation.

  Rick just nodded. He felt neither like fighting with the music nor lying. Instead, he leaned over to Joey and said, “I can’t hear a thing in here. Can we go outside to talk?”

  He felt shock well up as the words left his mouth; he felt as if someone else, surely not Rick Joosten, had spoken through him, even though they’d said exactly what he most wanted to say. Even more to his surprise, Joey nodded, smiled, and started to push through the crowd.

  Rick followed, energized by an adrenaline rush of equal part exhilaration and terror. What was he going to say? What else might come rushing past his lips once they were outside, away from the throng, out in the romance of a cool autumn night?

  He moved past Joey to the sliding glass doors at the rear of the living room. They were already open and the party had spilled out onto the patio, but the backyard was still empty on the far side of the pool. His heart hammering, mouth dry, Rick led the way to two lounge chairs. “Take a seat,” he said, gesturing.

  Joey dropped into the low chair, drank from his beer, then turned that smile on Rick, and it made Rick weak as he sat.

  “So what’s up, Mister Rick? Or should I say…Doctor Rick?”

  Rick feigned a laugh. “God, this was a bad choice. It was kind of a last minute thing…”

  Joey tilted his bottle to Rick in a toast. “No way. You look very dashing.”

  Sweat exploded on Rick’s face.

  He blinked as some trickled into one eye, then he wiped a coat sleeve over his brow. Joey noticed, and leaned forward in concern. “You okay?”

  “I don’t know. That’s actually part of what I wanted to ask you…”

  “Anything, boss. You know that.”

  I want you, thought Rick, staring unhappily at this feet, I want you so goddamn bad I can’t even stand up when I’m around you, I want you so bad I’m willing to risk everything, a marriage, a career, forty-six years of a life that’s been a lie, I want you so bad I’d die for just a single touch…

  “I may be coming down with something. Can you work for me tomorrow if I can’t make it?”

  In that moment Rick hated himself, especially when Joey leaned over and rested a hand on his shoulder in concern, and Rick had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from taking that hand in his own.

  “You know it. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  Rick nodded, feeling sick over his own cowardice.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “Uh…yes…”

  Joey waited, and finally Rick inhaled and turned to him. “Joey, are you gay?”

  The young man blinked in surprise, and a wry, slightly bitter smile formed on his rugged face. Rick rushed out more words: “It’s not – you know, a job thing, but – well, it’s just something Shirl was wondering, and I…”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Ah…because…well, frankly, Shirl and I haven’t been happy for quite a while…”

  Joey hesitated, then said, “Are you…coming out to me?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  Then Rick was grinning. He felt delirious, feather-light, and he realized that h
e’d only needed to say that much, that the rest – how Joey made him feel – didn’t matter anymore, not after admitting a truth he’d hidden for forty-six years. Joey grinned as well –

  Screams erupted from the living room.

  Rick’s head swam for an instant as he was yanked from euphoria to alarm, then he was on his feet and running around the pool toward the house. Before he reached the door, Emmy Kazanian staggered towards him – and then crimson gushed from her neck, which he realized was slit ear to ear. They shared an absurdly surprised look, then she collapsed and fell at his feet, spraying blood on his white lab coat.

  “Holy shit,” Joey said, beside him. The last thing Rick ever thought was that he could face anything now that he was free of his dreadful burden and had Joey beside him.

  Then the scythe whistled through the Halloween night and buried itself in Rick’s chest. There was a flash of incandescent pain, followed by intense cold, and a shift in his vision as his body sank, unfeeling.

  The last thing he saw was Joey’s blood-splattered face hitting the ground next to him.

  Danse Macabre

  Luke Ehrens had slowed to a walk, winded from a three-mile jog, as he reached the street where Merran Alstead lived. He turned the corner, started forward – and stopped.

  Something was wrong.

  He was briefly puzzled by his own behavior. Nothing was obvious. The lights were on in the houses; jack-o’-lanterns flickered on porches; bad dance music echoed from Rick and Shirl’s house.

  But there was no one on the street. No groups of trick-or-treaters. No adults heading for the party. No parents waiting in doorways. There wasn’t even the sound of laughter coming from the party; in fact, there were no human voices at all.

  Luke almost turned and headed for his own house, a few blocks away. He could lock himself up, in his bedroom. Hide in a corner, with his baseball bat. But he’d been charged with a task, something that he knew no mere cheap toy would keep at bay. After tonight, he believed in demons, absolutely, and he believed that one would come after him, if he failed to deliver the message he’d been given. If he hid, it would find him; if he ran, it would catch him.

  So he took a deep breath and started down the street, senses stretched taut, eyes darting from side to side.

  He passed one silent house…two…Rick and Shirl’s was next…

  The music coming from their house changed. Without any segue, it transformed from 21st century pop to something far older, but with an even faster rhythm. The music reverberated in him somehow, as if he’d secretly known it all his life but forgotten it, because it was only supposed to be recalled at life’s end.

  Luke froze as the door to the house burst open, and a line of people stepped – no, danced – out. Leading them was a tall figure in black, clutching a blood-stained blade that somehow Luke identified as a scythe. The figure moved in an awkward, jerky way, and Luke thought he made out the clatter of bones along with the music.

  Then he saw the line following the black-cloaked leader – and he began to shake badly.

  He knew some of the people in the line – there was the widow Kazanian, there were the Nichols from his own street, there was Rick, clutching the hand of a man dressed as a Roman gladiator – but they were all covered in blood, and some dangled their own intestines, as they danced to the maniacal tarantella.

  Luke saw their ghastly wounds and pale skin and unseeing eyes, and he knew they were all dead.

  Then the thing in the lead stopped fifty feet away, and he saw its hooded head turn his way. Bony fingers pushed the cowl back, revealing a perfect white skull, eyeless sockets fixed on Luke. It pointed a bony finger down the street – towards Merran – and then returned to leading the horrific dance.

  For an instant, Luke thought he’d seen an image of the girl from Jay’s backyard superimposed over the skull, and he realized they were one and the same.

  He stood, waiting, as the abominable line of nearly thirty dead danced behind the Samhanach, until they curved around past a fence and were finally lost from view.

  When his senses returned, Luke felt something warm and wet on his legs, only now aware that his bladder had released itself. But none of that mattered now.

  All that did was getting to Merran McCafferty.

  Merran

  Merran looked up from the book, distracted by a sound:

  She thought she’d heard screaming. Not the childish shriek of Halloween glee, but adult voices – many of them – raised in terror, coming from down the street.

  For some reason she thought of Rick and Shirl’s party, and was glad she hadn’t gone. After a few seconds, the sounds stopped, and she shrugged off her unease.

  Seeing that there were still no approaching trick-or-treaters (strange, she thought), she returned to the journal.

  The Journal of Connell McCafferty - 1910

  And now we come to my part of this history.

  After his wee Ceana was stolen, Brian McCafferty was a changed man. He no longer saw to his businesses. The McCafferty clan, that had been well on its way to becoming one of Scotland’s wealthiest families, fell into ruin and misfortune. The famines at mid-century didn’t help; nor did the McCaffertys’ insistence on staying in Inverness when so many others were fleeing to America.

  By 1900, the McCaffertys were reduced to peat collecting. Which is where I found myself, in 1910.

  It hasn’t been a terrible life. My family has a small house out on the moors, near a peat bog. We spend our days digging great blocks of the stuff out of the earth, loading them onto the backs of carts, and taking them to market. A lifetime of hard labor took both my parents from me at a young age, but I have my beloved wife, Gillian, and we have…had…our two wee ones – Ewan, twelve, and Aileen, six. We had happy times with the bad; we had holidays and gatherings.

  And then there was Hallowe’en.

  I knew Brian and Michael’s history, just as I’ve set it down here, and I believed. I saw how the curse had struck once in 1710, and again in 1810, and I knew that if the pattern continued, it would surely return in 1910. By October of this year I was the oldest surviving member of the McCafferty clan, so I knew the demon would come for me. Or rather…

  For my darling little Aileen.

  Now Ewan and Aileen held Hallowe’en in great esteem. Last year, for the first time, Aileen had been allowed to join the house-to-house festivities. Ewan had taught her what she’d need to know, and on the 31st the two of them had taken a cork from a bottle of wine, blackened it, then smeared the soot about their faces, until they looked barely human. They’d dressed in tattered castoffs kept just for this day, and joined with four of their friends, going to neighboring houses and presenting their own version of “The Old Horse," a play guysers had put on in this area as long as anyone had memory. At the conclusion of the play the house’s residents had applauded and filled their bags with nuts and fruit, and they’d returned home at the end of the evening, happy and excited, with stories about the evening.

  But that had been 1909. Now it was 1910. October 31st, to be precise. And there would be no Hallowe’en celebration this year.

  I’d told Gillian, of course, the stories of the curse and the demon, and even though she had her doubts, she stood by me when I told the children we couldn’t hold All Hallows’ this year, that I’d already made plans to send Ewan to his aunt and uncle’s two parishes over.

  Aileen would be staying, though. Because I knew it would be her who the Samhanach came after, and I wouldn’t imperil another. Besides, I wanted to do what I could to protect her.

  I’d spent the first nine months of that year talking to all the oldest locals, asking for any tales about the sidhe, the mischievous fairy people, and their realm. I heard the tale of Tam Lin, who was rescued from the fairy queen by his lady love Janet; I heard of the young man in the fairy knoll, who’d watched a foolish friend be seduced by fairy enchantment until he danced himself to death. I heard of the host of the dead, who came forth with the fairies
only on November Eve, and I heard of mighty heroes of auld who’d fought the “good neighbors."

  What I didn’t hear was any way to kill a fairy demon.

  Still, come the day of the 31st, we prepared as best we could:

  We laid branches of rowan across the doorway. We tied kale stems over the doorway. We made sure to throw out any water well before sundown.

  I cleaned and loaded my shotgun.

  Then we bolted the doors, shuttered the windows, tried to make merry with a feast of fuarag and barm brack, and waited by the hearth with Aileen, clasped tightly in Gillian’s arms.

  All light left the sky, and the evening wore on. Gillian and I jumped at every creak of board, or scratching of mice. Aileen, thankfully, dozed off, disappointed at missing the main Hallowe’en activities, but blissfully unaware of the state her parents were in.

  The clock had just passed eleven when it began.

  First there was a light outside, too strong to be a lantern carried by man or carriage. Its rays penetrated through the shutters, striping us with a vivid amber glow that made Gillian and I blink. My wife clutched our little one tighter, and I rose, cradling the ready shotgun.

  After hearing from my granddad of Brian’s account, I moved to the front door, bracing myself a short distance from it…but then one of the front windows exploded, glass and splinters of wood shutters blowing inward, causing Gillian to scream and instinctively shield Aileen, who blinked in sleepy incomprehension.

  I ran to the window, but before I could so much as lift the gun something hit me in the chest, hard enough to send me reeling back into the nearest wall. I rebounded, and saw something huge and dark bent over Gillian, who screamed and struggled. I raised the shotgun, but feared hitting my wife or child, so instead I ran forward, ready to swing the gun as club –

  Suddenly the thing turned to me, and the face was as terrible as Michael McCafferty’s recollection: A vicious smile, lit from within by a fearsome light, with skin like a rotted vegetable rind.

  And it had Aileen in its arms.