by Paul Finch
MARROWVALE
Kurt Fawver
From the unpublished manuscript of The Candle-Lit World: A Travelogue of Unusual Halloween Traditions by Charlotte Halloran
Entry: Marrowvale, Pennsylvania, U.S.
Deep in the forgotten foothills of central Pennsylvania lies the impoverished, weather-beaten town of Marrowvale. It's a speck on the map-little more than one nameless bar and a dozen enfeebled, paint-stripped houses wheezing toward demolition. Barely what you could even call a 'town'. Surrounded by dark, rolling forests and tattooed with fallow cornfields, Marrowvale impresses passers-through-if it impresses them at all-only as a fleeting image of exploded dreams and withered hopes. It's the sort of place where America has worn itself to a nub, the sort of place where 'living' and 'dying' are the same word, the sort of place that the future has stopped visiting.
Within this decrepit hamlet reside thirty-three men, women, and children-each and every one a crumbling watchtower standing sentinel over the remains of a savaged kingdom, each and every one refusing to accept that the battle for their tiny hometown was lost decades before they were even born. These are people the outside world might call 'rustics', 'yokels', or 'sons and daughters of the soil'. They wear wrinkled, sweat-stained flannel shirts with crusted jeans and speak in a slow, distant manner. Many struggle with the bottle. Even more struggle with obesity. They are people who hunt deer and squirrels and even groundhogs for food and work themselves into early graves. Their industries are the industries of sawdust and grease and heavy lifting. They express little concern for the world beyond their valley because the world certainly expresses no concern for them.
On its surface, Marrowvale doesn't seem the sort of place that I would have visited for this book. As small and relatively remote as it is, it doesn't seem like the sort of place anyone would visit for any reason. But Marrowvale conceals an inexplicable and, if I'm being honest, terrifying Halloween tradition that few outsiders ever witness.
In my last book, Burying Ourselves: Funeral Practices Across the World, I'd mentioned in my epilogue that I was thinking about writing a future volume on the topic of Halloween. As it so happened, a fifteen year-old girl who lived in Marrowvale-one Kristina Taylor Pittlebach-had read that book and decided to email me about her hometown, a tiny nowhereville with what she claimed was "a super weird and freaky thing that we all do at Halloween." She said that I absolutely had to come and see it; she said no one but the people of Marrowvale knew it happened.
Of course my curiosity was piqued. I responded to Kristina and asked if she could provide any more details, stressing that if the tradition really was out of the ordinary, I'd be happy to swing by her town and check it out. To my query, she sent a grainy black and white photo of two dozen people posed in graduated rows, as though they were taking a class picture. Everyone in the photo wore strange cylindrical helmets that entirely engulfed their heads. A chaos of jagged lines lay engraved about the circumference of each helmet. Where one would have expected eyeholes, a pair of spiked, elongated pyramids protruded from every face. I wasn't sure how anyone could see out of the things. Considering that there were no visible nose or mouth apertures, I wasn't sure how anyone could breathe in them, either.
To accompany her photo, Kristina wrote only one cryptic line: "We all have to wear them to the meeting place every year."
As I stared at the picture and imagined an entire town wearing headgear that resembled 1950s sci-fi robots by way of a medieval torture device, a deep sense of unease washed over me. I couldn't quite pinpoint what it was about the helmets or masks or whatever they were that set my nerves on edge; I could only say that they didn't feel right. They didn't give the impression of objects any sane human would ever design, let alone want to wear. It was exactly the kind of weirdness I was in search of, and it convinced me to include Marrowvale in my Halloween itinerary.
****
To reach Marrowvale, I had to fly into Harrisburg and then drive a rental car northwest from the city for almost two hours. Along my route, I encountered a profusion of nameless villages without so much as a single working stoplight or chain convenience store. I passed farmhouses and barns that, while still clearly operational, were flaking and splintering into nothingness. I drove over surprisingly steep hills cowering in the shadow of even more surprisingly steep mountains. And everywhere, everywhere I was met with autumnal foliage not bright and inflamed like the leaves in more northerly climes but the same withered brown as rotting fruit and ancient parchment.
When I finally rolled into Marrowvale the day before Halloween, I was greeted by two sights: one, the town bar-a sagging two-storey gable-front house which was only distinguishable as a bar because of the neon Coors and Budweiser signs that hung in its dusty windows- and two, a shirtless old man riding a lawn mower on the berm of the road.
As I neared him, the old man pulled his mower into the gravel parking lot that fronted the bar to let me pass. But I had no interest in passing. I, too, needed to visit the bar. I swerved in behind him and collected my thoughts. Curious as to the people of the town, I sat in the car and stared at the man. He turned in his seat and stared back. His right eye was entirely missing and he made no attempt to cover over the injury with a patch or a glittering prosthetic. His gaze split my attention in equal halves. On one side, a hollow gaped wide and deep and beckoned its viewer to crawl inside and explore a vacancy that might easily extend far beyond the reaches of the old man's skull. On the other, an electric blue eye shot forth concentrated, penetrating scrutiny that felt as though it could carve through any length of time and space. I wasn't sure which side I should meet.
As I stared in fascination, the old man's cracked, blistered lips tightened and quivered. It seemed he was about to break into either tears or a murderous rage. He shook his head once, slowly, then swivelled forward, threw open the mower's throttle, and motored away.
Clearly, Marrowvale wasn't in the business of tourism. I jumped from the car and hurried into the bar.
In Kristina's first email, she mentioned that the bar's owner-a Mr. Dale Schwartz-kept a collection of what she termed 'Halloween Meeting Treats' in one of the bar's upstairs rooms. I wanted to check out this collection before I visited the Pittlebachs, so that I wouldn't arrive on their doorstep entirely ignorant of their traditions. So the bar was my first stop.
Most likely due to the fact that it was only three o'clock in the afternoon, the rustic watering hole sat empty. The hardwood floor of the place was scuffed and cracked and its boards groaned under my every step. I counted eight tables set up around the main bar area, but I doubted they were ever all filled at the same time. Behind the bar slouched a doughy man with a shaggy walrus moustache and heavy circles draped beneath his eyes. He glanced up from the magazine in his hands-a yellowed Reader's Digest-and asked, slowly, as if uncertain how to approach someone who wasn't a regular, "What can I getcha?"
I asked the man if he was the owner of the bar and, when he hesitantly nodded, I launched into my journalism routine. I explained that I was a writer from Chicago and that I was writing a piece on Marrowvale and its unique Halloween rituals for an upcoming book. I said I needed to talk to people around town, to glean a sense of who they were, what they believed, why they did what they did. When you tell people you're writing about them or their homes, most crack wide open like clams in a steamer, ready to regale you with embellished anecdotes and personal details that you wouldn't otherwise be able to touch. But Mr. Schwartz didn't spill his mind. He simply closed the Reader's Digest and stared at me in much the same way the old man on the lawn mower had.
"So you want to see the museum then?" he asked. I nodded and, trying another tactic, slid a twenty onto the bar.
He stared at the bill, eyes narrowed, then pushed it back toward me.
"Money doesn't have much value here," he said. "But let me show you what does."
He hobbled out from his post and beckoned me to follow. I patted the switchblade in my pocket-a gift from my father
on my fourteenth birthday and a precautionary tool I always carry when I'm in unfamiliar territory-and fell in behind Mr. Schwartz. I didn't sense any menace from the barkeep, but I've read too many police blotters to simply accept invitations from strange men without reservation.
Mr. Schwartz led me up a flight of rickety stairs to a darkened hallway and, from there, shuffled into a small adjoining room lit by a single dingy lamp. Dust motes swirled in his wake like minuscule galaxies. I burst through them, into the room, and was instantly mesmerized by the assortment of objects laid out before me. On three long tables covered in white crushed velvet and set up in a 'U' formation rested things for which I had no name. Here, a thing that looked like a leaf, but with a holographic sheen and a thickness closer to cardboard. There, a thing that resembled a butcher knife but pulsed like a still-living heart. Here, a dull blue sphere cut in half, with hundreds of glittering, black needle-like shards protruding from its core. There, a metal square scoured with jagged lines similar to those etched upon the helmets in Kristina's picture. Here, an inverted pyramid with drooping points that, defying gravity and physics, somehow stood upon its bottom vertex. There, a thing that mixed equal parts dollbaby and viral microbe, limbs contorting into spirals and wavy ropes.
The room was filled with craftsmanship and artistry, certainly, but it was craftsmanship and artistry of a completely unknown form. Each and every object in the room looked out of place, felt out of place, and caused my stomach to clench with an anxiety I'd never experienced in my entire life. It was like suddenly waking up in a room you've never been inside in a building you've never visited in a city inhabited only by the machinery of a long-forgotten people.
I stood gaping for several minutes, then finally asked, "What are these?"
Mr. Schwartz's eyes narrowed. "You don't know? They're treats from the meetings."
"Treats, yes," I said. "But what are each of them supposed to represent? What are they used for?"
Mr. Schwartz shrugged. "I try not to find out. It's for the best."
"And why is that?" I asked.
"Because," Mr. Schwartz said, fingers gently tracing the outline of one of the objects, "people who find out tend to end up in a bad way."
"A bad way?" I pressed, though my imagination supplied plenty of horrifying imagery. I pictured my head locked inside one of the bizarre helmets from Kristina's photo.
Mr. Schwartz nodded and tapped his forehead. "Up here."
I murmured an assent and let the subject drop. I didn't want to talk about the objects anymore, and I certainly didn't want to be in the same room as them any longer. I was a journalist, a professional writer. I should have been overcome with curiosity. Yet, ridiculous though it may sound, I was beginning to feel disconnected from my own time and place, from my own thoughts and feelings. Terror rose up in my chest and I pinched the back of my hand to make sure I was still corporeal. I had a fleeting suspicion that somehow I might not be, even though I could feel the softness of my flesh twist in my fingers.
I hurriedly thanked Mr. Schwartz for the opportunity to view the collection and ran to my car. I sped away from Marrowvale and refused to glance in the rear-view mirror. Thirty miles and a separate world later, I parked at the shabby motel where I'd made a reservation. I checked in as quickly as possible and, forsaking my luggage, dashed inside my room. I bolted the door and collapsed on the bed-a bed that, while foreign and hard and tinged with the unmistakable scent of mildew, still reflected something crucially human, something that had been utterly absent in Mr. Schwartz's 'museum'.
Before long, sprawled on the bed, I fell into a deep slumber and dreamed.
In my dreams, I found myself in a stately edifice crammed full of glass display cases that housed two distinct types of artefacts: broken, twisted mirrors of ornate design and tiny human beings pinned to foam boards like so many insects. I wandered among those cases for the rest of the night, half frightened to examine their contents but compelled to see the entire exhibit.
I also felt another presence in the edifice-a distant, ever vigilant thing, like a night watchman at a bank of security cameras. I worried that I might be as broken and twisted as the mirrors, as pinned and skewered as the tiny people; I worried that the vigilant thing might see fit to include me in the displays. And so I tried to run from the edifice. I fled through thousands of rows of display cases, but encountered no end, no exit. I couldn't escape the exhibit. I could examine the mirrors and take notes on the characteristics of the little people forever, but I could never leave. It appeared that I was inextricably trapped in my own curiosity. I threw myself to the floor, pounded the hard surface beneath me, and screamed myself into the morning.
****
The next afternoon found me in a better state of mind. Although it had taken a morning's worth of writing, two hot showers, and a perfectly grilled hamburger at a quaint roadside diner called The Country Kettle to expunge my previous night's dreams, I was prepared to return to Marrowvale to witness its Halloween festivities. I'd arranged to meet Kristina Pittlebach and her family before the celebration began and to accompany them to the mysterious 'meeting' that Kristina refused to discuss in any detail. In the course of our exchanges, Kristina had also promised to let me examine 'the heads'-her term for the bizarre helmets in the old photograph-and to interview any member of her family if I so desired.
As I drove toward Marrowvale, enthusiasm leaped beneath my skin. Something about the chill in the air shouted promise. I felt close to a discovery of monumental proportions, even though I wasn't quite sure what that discovery might be. By the time I reached the Pittlebach homestead, a ranch-style house missing half its siding, my heart was racing.
I parked in the Pittlebachs' driveway, which was gravel stained black by used motor oils, and made my way to their door. Innumerable rusted yard tools and shards of broken lawn statuary littered the path between driveway and door. I had to step carefully so as to not trip and impale myself on an ancient blade or the point of an eroded jockey. When I finally arrived on the Pittlebachs' doorstep, a short, preternaturally pale girl with fiery red hair was hanging out over the threshold. I thought perhaps I'd stumbled across a wayward fey princess.
"Ms. Halloran," the girl said, voice surprisingly grave. "I'm Kristina. I've been waiting." She ushered me inside and slammed the door behind me.
We exchanged pleasantries-the usual "Oh, it's so good to finally meet yous"-and she introduced me to the rest of her family, none of whom seemed pleased at my visit. Her father, a wisp of a man with a long, straggly beard, stared at me without speaking. Her mother, a buxom lady with a pronounced harelip, smiled and nodded. Puffy red rings beneath her eyes told of either seasonal allergies or a story of recent sadness. Kristina's grandmother, a squat woman with uncontrollable tremors, was the only one to actually greet me with words.
"Hello," the old woman said, "I hear you're a writer. You know, writers have to be careful. Some things don't want to be written. And some things simply can't be written. You don't want to end up lost forever, dear."
Kristina pulled me away, clearly embarrassed, and whispered, "Everyone around here is like grandma. Especially this time of year." She hurried me into the basement-a space that looked as though a flea market had exploded within it-and drew my attention to a gun safe that stood against one wall. Kristina fiddled with its dial and, after a few spins, its door squeaked open. She stepped back to let me peer inside. There, sitting on makeshift shelves, were four of the helmets I'd seen in Kristina's photo. For no reason I could have possibly explained, my stomach twisted in knots.
Struggling to maintain my composure, I leaned in and examined the headpieces. None of them had any forging marks or soldered seams or any other signs of metallurgy. Instead, they seemed almost organic, like an insect's carapace, only composed of a material more rigid than chitin. In colour, they were a shade I'd never seen, a hue that shifted from bronze to grey and grey to bronze depending on the angle at which it reflected light. I didn't want to touch on
e, but I knew I had no choice. I ran a finger along the inscrutable etchings-which, up close, reminded me of seismograph readings or the EKGs of heart attack victims-and felt a bolt of panic crash through my chest.
I flinched away and, desperate to remain objective, asked Kristina what the helmets were supposed to represent.
She laughed. "They're not supposed to represent anything."
"Then why wear them?" I asked, breathing hard, pulse pounding.
She shrugged. "Because we have to."
"Did you make them?"
Again she laughed, as if what I'd asked was the most infantile question ever uttered.
"Of course not."
The room began to spin and sway. I stepped away from the helmets and asked if I could sit down.
Kristina nodded and led me back upstairs. Somehow, I managed to navigate my way to a chair, where I vomited and collapsed. Every nerve in my body twitched and screamed. Some atavistic code in my chromosomes told me to run, to hide. But from what? Some bizarre Halloween masks? I was too professional to allow primordial fears to erase a potential chapter in my book.
Kristina brought me a glass of water and patted my shoulder. "I guess trying one on is probably a bad idea, then," she said. "Grandma said it would be."
I shuddered at the thought of the helmet being placed upon my head, my every perception being encased in a device of such indescribable foreignness. What would the world look like from inside? I wondered. Would it even still be this world, or would it be some other place? Would the sun or the moon or the stars be recognisable inside those helmets or would they be radically contorted variations of themselves? I sat and stared at the Pittlebachs' chipped wooden floors, contemplating both these questions and nothing at all.
