Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour

by Mark Parker

***

  She sat on the couch with her legs folded to one side, her steaming, herbal tea on the coffee table in front her. She’d dressed for the occasion—a black knee-length dress with frilly sleeves and purple-gray striped thigh-high socks and black shoes with silver buckles.

  “How do I perform the ritual if I don't have anything that belongs to them?” she asked and took her cup. She blew on it several times before taking a sip.

  “Think, Tina. Perhaps you already do.”

  “It's not like I get to cut their hair and fingernails and save the clippings.”

  The cat jumped from the braided rug to the coffee table and sat on a small pile of manila folders.

  “Get off the table!” she demanded.

  A hellish fire flashed in his eyes and all the curtains whipped upon their rods throughout the windless room. “Excuse me?”

  She swallowed hard. “I don't like when you sit on the table. You shed,” she said, much softer.

  The curtains lowered and the room was calm once more.

  He yawned. “Well, then. I'll just lay here until you figure it out.”

  He sprawled out on the folders and closed his eyes. While she looked at him half in anger and half in fear, an eye opened. He waited for her to speak.

  “You're sitting on their homework,” she said.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, you are. And I have to grade—”

  He closed his eye.

  “The homework,” she said, a hellish spark in her own eyes.

  “What about the homework?”

  “It has their writing on it. Their names. Is that enough to perform the ritual?”

  “You're getting closer. What else might there be?”

  She thought a moment. “Nothing. Just a few spelling tests and an artwork assignment.”

  “And?” he asked, opening his eyes again.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tina, what do you know of expression?”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “Melody, prose, the portrayal of positive and negative in any medium.”

  “Artistic expression?”

  “It is as much a part of their being as their flesh...and blood,” he said, his eyes dilating when he said the word.

  She touched the folders. “May I?” she asked.

  He stood on all fours and arched his back. After another yawn he leaped onto the floor and returned to the braided rug.

  She sifted through the folders until she found the collection of crayon drawings. She fanned the stack of pages, noticing her students' name on each corner.

  “They're all in here,” she said with a wicked giggle.

  “Good. Let us begin.”

  ***

  In the flickering light of the black candle, Tina tied the stack of drawings together with a coarse strand of grapevine. Her familiar sat on his hind legs atop the couch just behind her left shoulder. His titanic shadow stretched across the living room wall; it seemed an entity itself.

  At her feet, between the couch and coffee table, lay a steel tub half full of water.

  She took the stack of drawings from the coffee table and lowered it into the tub. The water parted to receive its victims, and just as quickly enveloped them. Then, quite oddly, the drawings became remarkably buoyant, so much so that Tina had to lean the majority of her weight into it.

  The edges of paper folded up around her hands and rose above the water's surface.

  “It's not sinking,” she complained.

  “Tina, what are you holding beneath you?” he asked.

  “A pile of drawings.”

  “They're souls, Tina! Human souls. Did you think they were just going to lie down and die?”

  She fought to keep the drawings submerged. “They're too strong. I can't keep them down,” her voice broke.

  “You are stronger, Tina! You are their mistress! You will not be outdone by a brood of unbaptized children!”

  She looked at the topmost drawing—happy stick-people of varied sizes played in a field of green grass and smiling violets beneath a corner-mounted sun, with its visible rays emanating as squiggled lines.

  Tears streamed down her face.

  “I can't do it…” she cried.

  “You can't or won't?”

  “I want to. I just can't.”

  “Be stronger, Tina. Stronger!”

  Her quivering lips tightened over clenched teeth. Still pressing the drawings under the water, she dried the tears from her eyes with each shoulder. Her frown became a scowl, and then with a grunt it turned into an insane smile with wide, matching eyes.

  There was a scream. A child's scream. Was it her fragile state of mind that caused her to imagine it? Too many things had happened for her to second-guess herself anymore. Another child's scream joined it. And another. More and more screams followed.

  The small curves that formed smiles upon the faces of the happy stick-people slowly inverted into frowns. Crayon clouds in dark gray floated onto the paper left and right until they filled the sky and eclipsed the lemon-yellow sun. A wavy, blue line spanning the width of the drawing floated from the bottom to the top and disappeared again.

  Bubbles erupted from the bottom of the steel tub and floated on the water's surface. The tub shook violently. Water sloshed over the sides onto the hardwood floor. Finally, the last bubble surfaced, floated about for but a moment, and popped.

  ***

  The children stood in line by the white charter bus. The driver, a black man with freckled, beige skin, stood by the open door in blue pants and silver company windbreaker, welcoming his pint-sized passengers. The rectangular, plastic name tag over his heart read James Gerard.

  Parents bid their sons and daughters farewell with a kiss or a loving pat. Boys' hair was tousled, and backpacks were checked for necessities and secured. Children slowly boarded the bus and with waves from anxious parents they departed for Cornerstone National Park.

  Within the hour, groups of girls were chatting, some boys played games of Hot Hands, while others stared serenely through windows at the diminishing city that turned to rolling countryside.

  Mrs. Brillo, the plump white woman in her fifties with graying hair and red cheeks, knee-high dress and hat, sat in the front right seat, occasionally glancing in the mirror or turning around in order to catch some unruly child in an unacceptable act.

  The bus soon approached the quarter-mile bridge that spanned Minch Lake.

  “Not so hard, Wiwwiam!” said Landon, shaking both of his hands, one much redder than the other.

  “Don't be such a girl,” said William.

  “Landon, William, I saw that,” said Mrs. Brillo. “No Hot Hands!”

  The boys sank silently in their seats to avoid her burning stare.

  The bus neared the peak of the bridge when a loud blast sounded, like the firing of a shotgun. James gripped the spinning steering wheel with both hands and stomped the brake. The bus veered into the left lane and toward the concrete railing, causing the children to scream.

  Mrs. Brillo took hold of the pole by the door to avoid falling into the aisle. Those seated on the left side of the bus were thrown into closed windows. Those on the right attempted to mimic their substitute teacher, but their tiny hands slid off slippery, leather seats, sending them into the aisle and on top of one another.

  James fought to gain control of the steering wheel, turning hard right. He released the brake but the overcompensation brought the bus back to the right lane and into the bridge's opposite concrete rail.

  Children were flung to the right of the bus, screaming as concrete met steel in a screeching display of sparks.

  “It's okay children! Be calm!” the scared teacher pleaded.

  With a grunt, James turned the wheel to the left, bringing the bus out of the concrete rail. The flashing sparks ceased but the terrified children were again thrown into the aisle.

  The bus straightened, yet continued to bounce like a runaway horse galloping madly away, the children's
voices rising and falling with each leaping motion.

  James depressed the brake again until the bus decelerated to nearly 10 miles an hour. The tempo of his heartbeat matched every pounding jolt.

  “Is it over?” Mrs. Brillo asked.

  “I think so,” he answered, with his hands still tight on the wheel.

  Several children were crying. Others looked about the bus as if some attacker lay in waiting to strike again.

  “It's all right, children,” said Mrs. Brillo. “Everyone is safe. Now get back into your seats.”

  The bus continued to bounce ahead as it neared the end of the bridge. The teacher stood to walk toward the children, but could only take a step or two before falling into a nearby seat.

  “Can't you stop now?” she asked James.

  “Not in the middle of the bridge. I need to find a spot to pull over,” he said.

  The bus cleared the bridge, still rattling as if driving on square wheels.

  “Okay. We're off the bridge. Pull over, already,” she insisted.

  “Do you see that guardrail?”

  He pointed to the metal railing out of habit, but immediately returned his hand to the wheel.

  “Okay. I just hope we don't all end up with rattle-head syndrome,” she said.

  “Your head got rattled a long time ago,” he mumbled and turned the wheel left.

  The quaking bus left the hard asphalt and pulled onto the soft, grassy shoulder, just past the guard railing. It slowed to a halt and ceased from its violent trembling. James put the bus in PARK, removed his seatbelt and opened the door.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “A blowout. I have to change the tire.”

  “Should we get the children off the bus?” Mrs. Brillo asked.

  “They can't stand in the middle of the street. They'll just have to stay seated,” he said, exiting the bus.

  “Okay, class. Mr. Gerard is going to change the tire so we can continue our trip to the park. While he is doing so, you must remain absolutely still. No moving about. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Brillo,” came the relieved children's chorus.

  “Very good. Now I'm going to step off the bus so I can assist Mr. Gerard, so please be on your best behavior. If I have to come back and speak to any of you, then no one will be going to the park gift shop. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Brillo,” they said, not nearly in unison as before.

  “Very good. Remember, I'll be watching and listening.”

  As she stepped off the bus, the more obedient students turned a watchful eye on the lesser. Mrs. Brillo didn't have to see their interaction for a malicious smile to creep across her face.

  “You can't be getting on and off the whole time I'm doing this,” said James.

  “That's why I'm out here,” she said, half offended.

  “They better not be squirming about either.”

  “I've given them reason enough to stay put,” she assured.

  “I sure hope so,” he said, kneeling onto his silver windbreaker atop the damp grass. He placed the jack beneath the axle by the blown-out tire.

  “Come on,” said William.

  “We can't. Not untiw we start dwiving again,” said Landon.

  “Not untiw we start dwiving again,” William mocked him.

  Landon scowled at his cruel friend. “Okay, but me first,” he said, holding his hands palm’s up.

  William placed his palms flat against Landon's. He noticed the anger still seething in the boy's face. His fear of retaliation made him flinch with every pulse of blood through Landon's hands.

  “Scawed?” Landon asked.

  “No,” William lied, flinching again as he stared at their hands.

  “Aw you suwe?”

  “Yeah I'm—OW!”

  Landon swatted with a viscous speed William was unprepared for. Before William could start shaking the sting out of his right hand, Landon struck his left with even more intent.

  “OW! Stop it!” William shouted and jumped to his feet, out of harm's way.

  “That's what you get!” said Landon.

  “Be quiet in there!” Mrs. Brillo yelled and swatted the side of the bus.

  The tinny thud echoed through the valley and the jack fell flat.

  “Don't!” James shouted, jumping back to avoid the crushing tires.

  He dropped the iron and leaped to his feet to take hold of the open door but it slipped out of his grasp. He fell flat on the ground but quickly scrambled to his feet, grass stains across the knees and chest of his uniform.

  The children, oblivious for all but a moment, observed Mrs. Brillo's angry countenance turn into pure horror as they rolled down the slick, grassy hill. James ran alongside the bus, trying to grab the door. He managed to lay his right foot on the first step of the entrance while hopping on the other. He proceeded to pull himself halfway inside with the handrail when the bus came to the steeper part of the hill.

  The children watched his face twist into terror as Mrs. Brillo's had, when he fell out of the door and landed on his back. They were thrown from their seats and down the aisle to the back of the accelerating bus.

  Their screams escaped through the open door all the way down the hill until the bus broke the glassy surface of Minch Lake. The door swung shut of its own accord, trapping the children inside, as the bus began to sink beneath the cold, blue water.

  Fingers, palms, and cheeks turned bloodless white as hands and faces pressed against glass. Boys and girls struggled to open stubborn windows that would not budge.

  James slid down the hill, half way on his butt and half on his belly, to catch up with the runaway bus, while Mrs. Brillo babbled and screamed from the roadside above. She waved her arms at passing cars, which began to gather along the slippery shoulder.

  James found a small earthen landing where the grass ceased and dirt turned into mountainside. It was from this limbo he heard the muffled cries of children beneath and the reverberating lament of adults above; a halfway hell where neither side offered refuge or escape.

  He broke into a numbness—a hopeless inaction. The children were lost. There was no salvation, no rescue. He watched the water swallow the vehicle up to its very rooftop. A chilling wind began to blow. It stirred the lake until small waves lapped against the metal roof. The doomed children trapped inside were drowning in the frigid waters that flooded through every crack and crevice of the vehicle's structure.

  Two men had slid down the hill to join James on the dirt ledge. One was selfless enough to disregard his own physical limitations in the form of age and excess weight. The moment their feet touched the flat bit of earth, they felt the same sudden despair overcome them, that any effort to save the children was futile.

  The three strangers cried and pleaded for mercy, for divine deliverance. But there would be none.

  ***

  “It's like a crystal ball,” she said, gazing at the delightfully horrible incident in the steel tub. “Or a magic mirror.”

  “Choose,” said the cat, peering over her shoulder from atop the couch.

  The image portrayed on the surface of the water looked as if cast by a movie projector. She saw the blue faces, the gaping mouths and bulging eyes, their bloated bodies. Some had already begun to float. Like bobbing apples, they rolled along the ceiling of the bus. Others, like balloons running out of air, bumped into each other when their weight occasionally shifted. One boy's arms flailed in slow-motion, an aquatic marionette.

  To Tina he appeared to fondle every girl who floated nearby.

  “Him,” she said, pointing at the dead body of Landon Larson, his brown hair flickering like wet flames.

  “Take him,” said her familiar.

  She looked at the cat over her shoulder. He nodded at her.

  She reached into the watery image inside the steel tub and strained to take hold of the boy.

  “He's heavy,” she said.

  “He's full of water, like a sponge,” said the cat.<
br />
  She got on her knees to give herself leverage, and then struggled to stand. Slowly, she rose to her feed and pulled the waterlogged body from the image out of the steel tub. She held Landon Larson's dripping corpse over her hardwood floor. Water pooled beneath his feet.

  “Are you ready to fly?” asked the cat.

  “Yes?” she intoned, as if a question.

  The water inside the steel tub began to boil, until steam rose. It filled the room.

  “Lower him into the tub,” said the cat, hidden in the steamy mist.

  She obeyed.

  ***

  From high above the bridge, it resembled a white metal raft floating atop the lake's choppy surface. Tina hovered among the graying clouds with the broom between her thighs and the black cat nestled in her lap.

  “Today was the perfect day,” she said.

  He craned his neck to behold the site without moving from his comfortable spot.

  “Indeed,” he said. “I think it should be commemorated.”

  “I think you're right. What is today?”

  “It's the Sabbath.”

  Her eyes raised and lips puckered in thought. “I think I found your name,” she said.

  He waited quietly with the sort of curious smile only a cat can express.

  “You shall be called Saturday,” she said.

  His eyes flashed, save the black pupils that narrowed to a hairline.

  “You have named me well—mother, daughter, sister, lover—” he said, purring while he bunted her waist. “Now let us together rule the air.”

  Leaving the disaster and anguish far beneath them, the two soared over treetop and steeple, until the small town and all its little people they despised were nothing but a distant memory.

  THROUGH THE VEIL

  M.L. Roos

  Mama wandered around the house lighting candles and laying sprigs of mugwort on the windowsills. The ritual started every October 30th and ended on November 1st. By that time, the cloying scent of dried mugwort filled the rooms, and any article of clothing you had lying around.

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, Sweet Pea?”

  “What happens if we miss a window, or don’t put out any herbs? I mean, isn't this just an old wives’ tale about mugwort keeping the evil away?”

  I looked up from my drawing because I wanted to see if she actually told me the truth. I could tell when she was saying something just to get me to be quiet, and when she really meant it. It was one of my gifts. I could read anyone and know what the truth was.