Demon Harvest

by Patrick C. Greene

“Strike down the pestilence!” said Ysabella/Candace/Stella/Brinke.

  The first strike turned the autumn night to a brief green day.

  The living pumpkins skittered back, but quickly regrouped, congregating and mingling in a way that suggested a hive-mind.

  * * * *

  The pumpkin things swarming around the witches’ circle numbered well into the dozens. Ranging in size from normal to the diameter of a delivery truck, the Halloween hellions crawled between and over one another to get to the border. But they could not cross.

  They voiced their frustration with crusty croaks that scratched at the witches’ ears like broken glass.

  Candace understood why Ysabella had suggested it be her hand that Candace held as they performed the ritual. Her mom, Stella, was as brave they came, but as a novice witch, she was probably trembling hard enough to shake teeth loose by now.

  Ysabella’s hand was soft, strong, loving, determined and unwavering. The predatory shrieking and scrabbling taking place just a few yards away was impossible to ignore. But thanks to the crone, it was manageable for Candace.

  Ysabella thrust her hands out in a command to stop.

  The brisk, chaotic winds that blew from the south as part of Violina’s maelstrom went dead still, like a wall of thickened air.

  In this quiet, the song of the witches was distinct, its harmony both soothing and enervating.

  Distracted by this sudden shift, the demonic pumpkins went still.

  Ysabella began a new chant. As before, all the enchantresses joined without hesitation.

  By the third repetition, a new wind, steady and smooth, began to blow from the north. It smelled like a clean mountain stream.

  The monsters raised a collective roar of rage, jostling one another as they surged against the invisible barrier of the circle.

  Behind the witches, the theater’s entry doors exploded. Vein-severing shards rocketed at the witches. The spell had not accounted for the intrusion of such a mundane material.

  Candace felt the glass missiles punch into her back and legs like a coordinated hornet attack.

  Flying fragments cut across the chalk and salt, opening the circle. Demonic, demented faces bobbed from the shattered doors.

  Stella eyed the crone with defeated horror. “They came through the th—”

  “Do not stop the chant!” Ysabella called, to Stella and everyone, as she turned her diminutive body to face the cinema entrance. She directed her hands at the demons and issued an incantation that blew the monster mob back into the building.

  It took a second before the women fell back into their rhythm. With the circle broken, they spoke now with less assurance. Brinke gasped at seeing one of the things doing its best to wipe away a section of the salt and chalk to create a weakness.

  “Broma Hasha!” she exclaimed. The invading tentacle burst into sparks like a fuse that traveled back toward the pumpkin demon. Squalling, it dashed its tendril on the ground, trying to extinguish it before it traveled to the thing’s misshapen body.

  It was unsuccessful. The thing became essentially an enormous smoke bomb, fizzing away to nothingness the same way Everett Geelens had when Matilda Saxon’s powdery mix met his skin. Lacking the time to designate a destination for the unwilling time traveler, Brinke could only hope it emerged into the ocean or desert, somewhere it could not hurt anyone.

  It was not the best spell for the job. She had panicked. The execution was taxing for someone who had just given up twenty years of her life less than an hour earlier. Brinke dropped painfully to her knees, her head spinning.

  Yet she did not stop chanting.

  From the right of the circle, one of the monsters ejected a stream of seeds and hate. It passed over the circle but immediately steamed away to nothingness.

  Ysabella leaned down to Candace. “Imagine the strongest, most powerful and loudest lightning you can!” she commanded. “Not red but green.”

  Ysabella patted the girl on the head and returned to the chant.

  Candace whispered, pointing at the nearest of the demons. “That one!”

  The fierce green streak fell with a deafening crack, blasting the creature to bloody pieces.

  The other monsters recoiled from the ruins of their comrade.

  Candace pointed at one that was opening its mouth to try to vomit over the circle.

  It was disintegrated in an instant.

  The other witches placed hands on Candace to transfer courage and power.

  Lightning bolts fell like the rain itself, vaporizing the assailants every split second, then several at a time.

  They scuttled away like frightened crabs but could not avoid the focused imagination of the little girls and their adult batteries.

  * * * *

  Settlement era

  Gregor and Theodore quietly maneuvered their horses in the forest far from the main street, careful not to alert the already-addled townies.

  Conal had gone over the procedures for this eventuality carefully and frequently, hammering home every detail for his loyal followers. The plan was to ride around the back of the hill at the end of town and come up behind Conal’s house for secrecy. They would use the secret entrance into Conal’s underground chamber, make preparations, then begin the tactical assault that would place the town under their control, killing Bennington and his loyalists along the way.

  They had not expected to have to break their leader out of jail, but the Celt had them well prepared. It was only a minor contingency.

  The three candles that were their signal burned low up on the hill, discernible only to anyone searching for their glow. Seeing it, Gregor and Theodore exchanged a nod of determination.

  Theodore, riding in front, had just turned to face forward when his horse stopped dead in its tracks so abruptly, Gregor’s steed ran into it.

  “Ho!” Theodore whispered harshly, whipping the beast across the neck with the reins. “Move along, girl.”

  Gregor’s horse tensed as well, backing up until its hindquarters met a hickory.

  “What’s the matter with these godforsaken—”

  Theodore’s complaint was severed by the crashing patter of footfalls—someone coming toward them, fast.

  Theodore reached for the weapon on his saddle. His horse threw him, before he could grab it, and bolted away at full gallop, leaving the dazed rider on his back.

  Gregor’s horse was clearly of the same mind. Gregor hopped off and threw its tether around a sapling, then went to help Theodore.

  “I heard someone,” whispered Theodore.

  “Some…one?”

  “One pair of feet only.”

  Then it emerged into the moonlight, its black robes flowing, its sickle arcing back and forth, its gleaming white-and-scarlet face reflecting moonlight at the men like some cursed mirror.

  The Death Angel.

  “God!” Gregor tried to help his friend to his feet, right up until the instant the long blade sunk into his torso.

  As he fell to his knees, the Reaper wrenched the blade free, shouting “Tricks and treats!”

  Blood pumped onto Theodore’s face, into his eyes. It was like a splash of cold water, shocking him awake.

  Everett arced the harvesting blade into Gregor’s side.

  Theodore sat up, ignoring the pain of his fall, and ran toward the low signal light, as he heard the meaty thunk of the third and final cut for Gregor—the one that removed his head.

  Chapter 36

  Dream Forever

  As he stopped his horse alongside the two dozen or so others already tied to the trees behind Conal’s home, Friedrich Schroeder briefly considered turning around and going home. That was before he saw Beaufort Grandy step out from behind his horse. “Have you checked your horse’s shoes, Friedrich?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Schroeder lied, as h
e eased off his horse and patted it.

  “Come tomorrow,” the blacksmith said, “you’ll likely have a good spare mount or two.”

  Schroeder grimaced at the remark’s implication—that men would die tonight and leave behind spoils.

  “Shall I check your weapon?” asked the blacksmith.

  “I haven’t loaded it yet.”

  “We’re to be loaded and ready every minute,” Grandy rebuked. “Conal made it plain.”

  “Yes, I…it’s been such a hectic night. I was lazy.”

  “Let’s have it, then.” Grandy held out his hand. “I’ll make it ready.”

  Schroeder went to his saddle, as if he expected to find his matchlock pistol tucked into it. “God help me. I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Good God.” Grandy was disappointed but did not seem suspicious. He pointed at the wagon hitched to Schroeder’s horse. “Well, what did you remember?”

  “It’s…wine. For preparation and celebration.”

  “You think we’ll go on the attack with a headful of fire?” Now Grandy seemed suspicious.

  “No, but…I’ll just need a small measure first.” He held out his hands, making them shake. “To steady my nerves. Thought others might need the same.”

  Grandy cocked his head to regard Schroeder, appearing ruthlessly judgmental. “Let’s tote it in then.”

  * * * *

  Kemlin Farrady immediately came to meet Schroeder and Grandy as they carried in the crates of booze. “What useless clutter do you bring us, Friedrich?”

  Farrady whipped away the cloth covering and glowered at the clinking jars. “We have serious business tonight, men. Take your swill out of here.”

  Schroeder was searching for excuses to stall when the sounds of breakneck galloping sifted through the door. The men hurried outside to see Theodore arrive, his horse’s hooves tearing up the ground to stop.

  “You’ll rouse the town, you fool!” Farrady hissed.

  “The Angel of Death!” exclaimed Theodore, as he dismounted. “It’s come!”

  Theodore dashed inside without tying his horse, leaving Farrady to do it.

  “Get inside here and shut that door!” Theodore demanded. “Damn the horses!”

  “You’ve taken leave of your senses, sir.”

  “No! It took Gregor!” Theodore broke into a coughing fit, bending to put his hands on his knees. His gaze fell upon the liquor. “Give me that!”

  “No! Not yet…” said Schroeder. “We have to…”

  “What?” asked Farrady.

  “If you had seen it, Friedrich. Its face…” said Theodore, worry lines filling with shadow.

  “You’ve already drunk tonight, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve never had a drop!” Theodore lunged past them to close the door.

  “Stop this now, damn you!” Farrady tried to restrain him, but his fear-born strength was too much.

  “It’s coming!”

  Farrady ordered two of his men to go to the edge of the woods on horseback and have a look.

  “No!” Theodore grabbed one of the men and tried to wrestle him to the ground. “You will die!”

  Farrady turned Theodore around and slugged him hard, sending the younger man to his back on the stone floor. He took a matchlock from one of the men and pointed it at Theodore, inches from his face. “I’ll go myself. Keep this coward from moving.”

  “Don’t go, Kemlin! Shut that door, and let’s all stay here till dawn.”

  “You’ve joined with Bennington, haven’t you, son?”

  “I don’t care about that any longer! I am not ready to die!”

  Farrady arced the butt of the rifle into Theodore’s forehead, knocking him unconscious. “It’ll be sheer luck if you don’t, idiot.”

  * * * *

  “We can’t go!” Theodore repeated, hurrying to close the underground chamber’s door as a new arrival entered. “We’ll die!”

  “If you won’t be silent, I’ll throttle you myself, Theodore!” threatened Farrady.

  “It’s waiting out there to claim us all!” Theodore said.

  “For God’s sake. Give him some of your accursed wine, Friedrich,” Farrady ordered.

  Schroder stood frozen. His grandmother’s prophecy was coming true.

  “Friedrich!”

  “Wha…? It’s…not time yet.”

  “You are both trying my patience. If you don’t give him the drink and calm him down, our plan will be compromised. And Conal himself will hold you accountable.”

  Even in the candlelight, Friedrich could see suspicion forming on the faces of the men. He found a loose, fist-sized stone on the floor, picked it up and bashed the whimpering Theodore over the head with it, sending him to his knees, then to his face.

  “Heaven above!” stage-whispered Farrady. “Have you killed him?”

  A trio of the crew knelt to check on Theodore.

  Farrady pointed at Schroeder. “You are as mad as he!”

  “I…won’t waste my hard labor on a madman” was Friedrich’s excuse.

  “We need every man, you miscreant,” Farrady chided. “Are you trying to sabotage us?”

  “No!” Friedrich said. “It’s just…my nerves…”

  “Why should we chance it?” asked someone behind Friedrich as he grabbed the Dutchman’s shoulder.

  A knock came, neither in their secret, coded rhythm nor at a discreet volume.

  Farrady stared at the door as he reached for his rifle. He motioned for the nearest man to open the door.

  Remembering when he had found Hezekiah Hardison hanging in the stead of his crow-repelling effigy, Friedrich wanted to back away, to get behind every man he could. In that instant, he became convinced that Theodore had indeed seen the very personage of Death.

  Someone swung the door open and lunged backward. Farrady tensed as stiff as his weapon.

  There was only darkness—and the sound of disturbed horses.

  “Go and look,” ordered Farrady.

  The opener regarded Farrady as if he was insane.

  “I’ll be with you,” Farrady promised. “Just behind.”

  The man drew a deep breath, his countenance still doubtful, as he took up his own rifle. The other men began to follow suit. Friedrich took the opportunity to distance himself from the entrance.

  With Farrady pointing his rifle over the opener’s right shoulder and holding the candle lamp high, the duo crept out into the silent darkness.

  Three yards out, a flash, a boom and a truncated cry loosened the bladders and bowels of the heartiest settlers present.

  Farrady’s groping hands and tan shirt were the first things to break through the dark, as his body ran back through the door and fell forward, squirting blood from his neck stump onto the stone floor and the nearest feet.

  The clamor of panic had barely begun before a loose pattern of bangs and powder flashes filled the room; guns discharged pointlessly. Amid the yelling and stumbling, someone thought to close the door.

  “Shoulders to!” cried the man, and four complied, smashing into one another and the door to keep it from being opened by whatever it was that…

  Death.

  It was the Angel of Death.

  “God’s punishment!” called Schroeder. “For our chicanery!”

  If anyone heard and believed, they did not resign themselves to their fate. Survival was the one and only consideration.

  “Wait!” shouted Benjamin Gaffney. “There’s a knock!”

  Dead silence fell like fast fog. Then, barely muffled by the all-too-flimsy door: “Triiiiiick or treeeeat, you funny men!”

  The voice was at once that of a child and a demon.

  “Don’t let it in!” cried Gaffney, just before the point of a two-foot scythe blade stabbed through the wood—and into his for
ehead.

  The other men at the door swarmed backward, crushing each other and Schroeder into the rear wall.

  “Trick it is!” Everett Geelens/the Grim Reaper excitedly announced through the bloody hole he had made. He yanked the scythe out fast and hard, smashing Gaffney’s head against the door hard enough to crack the wood.

  A pale fist crashed through the weakened spot. The hand opened to give a “howdy” wave, then withdrew.

  An eternal instant later, a face was framed in the splintered hole, and they all knew Theodore was right.

  A blood-slick skull, to which bits of leaves, dirt and flesh stuck, grinned at them, hanging gristle dancing in the candlelight.

  Its maddened eyes provided no suggestion of life. “Heeeere’s Evvie!”

  The hole went black. A residual negative image of a skull remained, stamped on every mind’s eye.

  “Out of my way!” Schroeder knew what he had to do. He wrestled past the men to get to the crate of liquor he’d left terrifyingly close to the failing door, sparing an instant to reflect on the irony that in his original plan, Schroeder was to be the only one not to imbibe the poisoned spirits.

  The others stood silent as he uncorked a jug and drank mightily from it.

  Schroeder gave them no thought, hoping against hope that it would be only oblivion, and not yet another unearthly angel, that met him in the coming minutes.

  Chapter 37

  Under Saturn’s Shadow

  Modern day

  “They’re clear!” Pedro called, holding a spotlight toward the wreckage of the hearse and gate.

  “Hit it with the gas,” Hudson told Deputy Astin.

  With a thunk and a whoosh, a gas grenade flew from Astin’s M4A1 into the growling jack-o’-lantern terror’s mouth and ignited with a flash.

  The monster issued a cry of pain as it leaped eight feet in the air and came down on its back, scuttling and slashing helplessly at the air with its bizarre appendages. Light and smoke emerged from its mouth, making for the most horrific jack-o’-lantern ever.

  “Good job.” Hudson brought his Famas bullpup to his shoulder and let loose a strafing line of rounds, tearing open the damned thing. “Go, Pete.”

  Pedro got a few feet closer and took a knee, raising his sawed-off shotgun. “Stay down, Denny!”