All Hallows

by W. Sheridan Bradford

  “If I am to… move… would my soul—?”

  “It won’t skip away to harps and sandals. What we can call a soul will enter a receivership. This releases when your service ends, just as it will today if I do not intervene.”

  “Releases when… the child dies?”

  “We want them to grow up and old, but yes. Use common sense. Don’t overthink it. Is there anything diabolical about encouraging a junkie to stay clean? Is it evil to divert the lonely thoughts that lead to yet another school shooting?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. Think of the worst moments in your life, Dot. Imagine how differently those episodes might have gone, had you been given a counsellor; a friend of total confidence. Wouldn’t you like to be that voice? That resource?”

  “I could try, but… press the button, Maren. My hip is—”

  “—Your hip is pulp. I’ve seen the film. You are palliative. Press the button if you must. It will be the last thing you know, or know for sure, and then… well, then comes whatever is next, if anything. Will you so selfishly throw yourself at the hope of heaven?”

  “I have… my faith.”

  “Have I challenged it? Death is easy. Do nothing and you will accomplish it effortlessly, and soon. I am asking if you accept the harder task. Will you help another in need? Can you sacrifice the unknown reward to live another imperfect, human life? Do you have the faith to live again as a child—a life to which you would bring the benefit of wisdom, of experience? Would you withhold that from a child?”

  “I don’t… don’t want to be selfish,” Dorothy mumbled. She opened her mouth to say more, but the bed, true to her word, began to hiss and squirm. Maren tapped long, thick nails on a brushed aluminum rail until the mattress fell silent.

  Dorothy’s head rolled on her neck; Maren pulled her necklace free and drummed a pair of spoons vigorously on the rails.

  “Eyes to the sky, Dottie. I need a minute more. We need your reply. Would you like to be reborn? Do you accept the terms? Will you guide another? Will you sacrifice the immediacy of afterlife for a life relived in the here and now?”

  Withered hands jangled, pulling against tubing as if clumsy strings were affixed to a marionette.

  “Yes,” Dorothy whispered. “You’ve been a good friend to me, Maren. I trust you. Press the button, if you would.”

  “Bear with me, Dot. I must work my ways. You will sneer at opioids when I’m done.”

  “Broke my hip.”

  “Like pumice under a hammer,” Maren said cheerfully, lost in her large purse again. “Fractured your pelvis, too. Smashed it like… I have a creature here to hold the charge, and I have a friend as a charm. Bessie makes a good witness. Are you tired, Dot?”

  “I’m… I’m awake.”

  “Your body is sleepy, but your spirit is alight. The soul bemoans the pending loss of its partner. It mourns your useless flesh and ruptured bones—but your spirit is unbent, Dot. The body alone shrivels and dies.”

  “Forgot to use my walker.”

  “And a good thing, too. This is Hecksbesen,” Maren said, rapping the skull a short knock. “I’m not sure if you can see her. Bessie was a fine advisor. She still is, if only by being silent. You’ll be a more potent edition, but Bessie was a kind-hearted bird. Outspoken. I didn’t listen to her as much as I could have.”

  “It’s dirty.”

  “Bessie is not dirty. Not in a way that matters. Mind that you are sporting a catheter. Pots and kettles, yes? There we are… she just fits on your sternum.”

  “I don’t want the lemon chicken,” Dorothy mumbled. “Gives me heartburn.”

  “Hecksbesen is no chicken. The Linzers are fading, Dot, and you are fading with them. We will only manage if we nick from time.”

  Maren shook her arm at the elbow, loosening the grip of a stubby, strikingly purple worm wrapped around her fingers.

  “Is that alive?”

  “Naturally. You’ll ride in this vessel until you are placed with a child. Look at the bright side—there are no legs or hips to break.” Maren smiled, her teeth as orange as any soft drink.

  “Is it a snake?”

  “Of course not. Well, a drop. What you see here began as an earthworm from my garden. It’s upgraded: a dash of reptile for muscle; a splice of centipede for flexible armor; a groatsworth of other arthropods to retain moisture—the list is long. What you see before you is a night worm, and it is more than any one thing from which it was created: night worms are legend made real.”

  “It reminds me of a… push the button, Maren. My hip is more than I can… it hurts.”

  “There comes a time to embrace anguish, Dot. It’s keeping you conscious, isn’t it? You’ll be reborn within this being. You’ll become one with it. Everything remains as I have said.”

  “But that—”

  “—Is only a vehicle. I’ll designate a young person, and then it—you—will do your duty. You’ll advise as you see fit. Work alongside your host. You will be both separate and at one with them, and to the betterment of both.”

  “I can’t reach it, Maren. Press the—”

  “—Yes, yes, the famous button. Bite the sour apple, Dottie. Show some faith. I would appreciate silence while I… May I say a few words over you?”

  “Yes, I—yes. A prayer would be good.”

  “Would it? Eyes open, Dot—I’ll keep it short. Ready? Mindre er mere.”

  Dorothy gasped several times, her body twitching, her left leg wadding the sheets. Maren watched impassively.

  “Was that it?”

  “That’s it. There are times when one must choose the right words, Dot, not the most. Be calm, old friend. Hear my voice. Follow it.” Maren tapped carefully at the button that would deliver the drug, and Dorothy’s ears twitched like a playful cat. “Can you hear me?”

  “I can.”

  “Interviews with the deceased are unreliable, but I’ll supply what instruction I can. These are tips learned from my time with Rennie and Liza. Listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. When you see a spark—any point of light—gather yourself around it. Bring the best of you. Leave anything ugly behind.”

  Maren wiggled the night worm under Dorothy’s nose until the creature flared, flattening its cylindrical body with what looked suspiciously like ribs (Maren tossed this as ridiculous, the worm being an invertebrate).

  “Don’t be afraid, Dot. You are in control. Choose your destination. Become who you are, and who you can be. Tap the strength of what you have already been: the mother, the wife, the matriarch. Bring the patience and discipline you used to withstand those roles. Take your memories, good and bad. Take what you have seen and done; take what you have seen done to others.”

  Dorothy’s body shuddered in a long exhalation that produced a digital spike on various monitors and readouts. Maren dipped the night worm until it squeezed her fingers in warning.

  “Hear me, Dot. This is Maren; your friend and keeper. I will not leave your side until you are safely through. You are not alone. Collect yourself. Gather what you can. Then release; rise. Flee your ruined body. Escape it. Become the spark. Expel your spirit. Begin again.”

  “Light…” Dorothy said, a low sound resonating from deep within her throat. Her toothless maw buckled inwards, and Maren thought of a disastrous encounter she’d had with a microwave and a disposable foam plate, which had rapidly melted into something shapeless, shrinking, and on the verge of disintegration.

  Maren waited with the worm in her hand, holding it securely behind the head—she hoped it was the head. It would be simultaneously dangerous and embarrassing to have ahold of the other end, similar though they were.

  She would know which end did what once the creature was sufficiently stimulated. Seconds passed, and a scan of the monitors—blood pressure, oxygenation, other such signs—informed Maren of no more than she already knew: Dorothy clung to life.

  The cluster of machines beeped on, but even accounting for her impat
ience, Maren could identify a lengthening to the cyclical sounds, as though time itself had begun to stretch.

  The electronic symphony continued, but several panels turned amber in warning as vitals faltered, moving beyond acceptable ranges.

  Maren inhaled deeply. She counted to seventeen, then began again, counting to twenty-three. Maren breathed, a muscle low in her back protesting as she held the worm in position.

  A machine cheeped.

  Hecksbesen’s skull twitched—or perhaps Dorothy did. Maren tapped a pinkie against Bessie’s flaking beak, maintaining a network of symmetrical lines and angles that, while not strictly required for her current purposes, was a good habit to keep.

  Maren adjusted her posture, relieving the knot growing in her lower back.

  She bounced the worm to ensure it was awake and aware, having learned the importance of timing from her recent dealings with the previously departed. Namely, from Lisbeth Toksen and Renata Belleki, Dorothy’s friends and predecessors at the facility.

  “Be at peace, Dot. Help your host find satisfaction and freedom as you know it. Set them at ease. Stunt the common desire to please the prying eyes of others. Above all the rest, remember your purpose.”

  “To navigate,” Dorothy whispered.

  Maren swallowed a lump in her throat. “I thought you were past interaction. I’m pleased to hear you say that on your own, Dot. Yes—to navigate. Exactly that.”

  Another screen went amber, and the cheeping machine was joined by an offset partner.

  Maren watched Bessie’s skull with concentration, trusting her advisor more than a stack of meaningless machines. When Hecksbesen twitched a second time, Maren stroked the sides of the night worm and swore at her lower back.

  The end was unexpected, considering. Dorothy’s eyes snapped open in unseeing horror, her hands clanging powerlessly on the railing, jagged needles tearing sideways through tape and vein.

  “Rise,” Maren enthused. Dorothy’s final breath was weaker than her arms, and her lips did not escape her open mouth.

  A miniscule spark lifted with the last of her respiration, a floating speck that matched the color of Maren’s eyes.

  The spark could be be explained as attributable to overhead lighting, dust motes, or to a reflection of the lime green wall.

  The worm was no skeptic, however, and it squirmed in a violent barrel roll, turning with the slippery torque of a greased axle—Maren scowled to find that she’d been holding the tail. She would have cursed aloud as the worm transformed, but she didn’t dare move the air in the room.

  Her hands moved over the worm’s talcum-dry surface, sliding as though she were collecting a cast lariat. Maren arched her back as the head opened; subdermal contours and bony shapes buckled and shook.

  The worm produced a sound of holiday wrapping paper in the hands of excited children. Its head crackled like a toddler falling down a long, hardwood staircase.

  Outlines of a rounded cranium formed below the worm’s exterior, ridges and contours approaching rubbery skin from the inside, the face of a drowned man surfacing in a gentle pond. Hints of hideous features lollopped in and out—visible, but not breaking the barrier.

  Maren extended her arm as the dented swirl of flesh opened like the spiral shutter of a camera’s lens, twisting to reveal a circular mouth of glass-sharp teeth that snapped individually into position.

  Her head canted, silver hair cascading down her back, Maren tried to make an unlikely target of her face as the worm coiled, shortening its body by half as the muscles tensed.

  The night worm struck without further ceremony, the movement a plastic blur, too fast for Maren’s reflexes to follow in crisp detail.

  The spark disappeared.

  Maren breathed with a slight flutter, listening as tooth and bone subsided, the worm flattening like boiling starch removed from the source of heat, structures bubbling and breaking-down beneath its wax-stiff dermis.

  Maren shook the worm softly, and it snugged against her finger. “You are a saucy example of the breed. Tell me you caught that,” she commanded. Maren anticipated a long wait—the worm had no power of speech.

  She glanced briefly at Dorothy’s corpse to regain her sense of reality: she’d briefly envisioned the chest cavity broken apart, the ribs burst wide, pink bone shivering through entrails.

  Dorothy Tommaso was merely deceased, and if her expression fit her greatest fear… well, that could be amended.

  “There wasn’t a bugbear,” Maren said to the worm. “If she did see one, it didn’t come from under the bed. I watched for that.”

  The worm tightened with the curling handshake of an octopus, and Maren noted a less-textured segment banding its middle. The segment swelled and steamed, rutilant and engorged.

  “Don’t you split on me. I’ll take it you’re full.” Maren held the worm overhead in both hands. The unusual segment glowed as if a powerful flashlight had been held to a child’s thin hand, red and vital.

  “Welcome to the afterlife, Dot,” Maren said. “Few are the reborn. Do right by your privilege.”

  Whether responding to her words or an unknown chemical reaction, the segment lost some of its color, fading like a billet of quenched steel.

  As the worm cooled, the row of machines did the opposite, warming to a uniform and angry red, bleating in constant tones, signaling their outrage at the soul’s transplant—or maybe the body’s lack of a pulse.

  The bed hissed and crunched; the room’s sentinels began to scream.

  “We’ve missed our easy escape,” Maren said to the worm, fitting it with a chain. “It’s never easy, hmm?”

  Maren shot a look at the peace lily against the wall of lime. Had it moved? She’d put nothing past a plant so inaccurately named.

  Swearing with good humor and wiggling her nose against the spicy, licorice scent of her own sweat, Maren sought to convince the night worm to relocate to the third pocket of her waistcoat.

  “I promise we won’t go to the vet,” she implored, but the worm renewed its refusal of cooperation.

  Her ears attuned for the sound, Maren heard a cherubic orderly stand, the pneumatic three-count of an ergonomic chair wheezing as the plump man found his feet. Plastic shoes began squeaking down the hard tile hallway.

  The corpulent young man would not be surprised to find Dorothy dead, nor would he hurry down the hall. He would want to silence the mechanical overseers, to note the time of death and other terminal metrics that would never be consulted again.

  With the worm stowed and Bessie’s skull back in the bag, Maren searched her purse as she began an incantation over Dottie’s remains.

  Maren ran her free hand along the terrified rictus of the fear-formed face, smoothing what wrinkles could be moved.

  By the time the orderly arrived, plastic shoes shuffling, his jaws working at whatever lunch he’d had on a napkin at his desk, Maren had spritzed a glamour into the air with her atomizer.

  As with Liza and Rennie, a few slaps around the mouth did for the rest. The veil of smiles was a recipe Maren had stolen from Uriah Lee centuries ago.

  “Works, too,” she said to the worm, though it was now in her pocket with the others.

  Maren studied her work, seeking flaws. The promised look of grateful, enduring peace would hold until the morticians and make-up artists took charge, filling Dorothy’s face with fiber and gum and injections of malleable plastics, powdering and airbrushing the furrows and wrinkles, suggesting the presence of teeth, plumping sunken eyes…

  “Oh, you’re still here. I have to… sorry about this,” the orderly said as he began muting the machines, a large drip of yellow oil on his collar. Cubes of red onion decorated the creases of his pastel gown.

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m sorry about… I’m just… Mrs. Tommaso?”

  “You aren’t her. That’s our Dottie, dead on the cot.”

  “I’m not… what I mean is, I… I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Oh. That. Don’t be,�
� Maren said. “Dot’s in a better place. As for me, I’ve lost nothing and gained much. It was dicey there at the end, but she was a good investment.”

  “Right, gotcha,” the orderly said, turning his back to her with an unconcealed yawn, a brown clipboard, and a yellow pencil that scratched as he transcribed numbers from the machines to a sheet of paper. “That’s weird. She didn’t use the morphine. She was hurting real bad when she came in, too.” He pressed the button as a test; a bubble moved as liquid shot into the line. “Huh.”

  “She didn’t ride the button,” Maren said. “Dot was tougher than she knew. Worth grooming, as I said.”

  “Grooming? Oh… yeah, no, I get it. Double shift—sorry. Yeah, she was… she lived a long time. Real full life. Talked my ear off about the good old days whenever I had to… you must be her… sister?”

  “Caretaker. Her family isn’t worth a tinker’s damn.”

  “Good on you. Insurance covers just about anything at her age, but it won’t pay for company. You can’t buy friends, right? If you can, they aren’t covered by a policy.”

  Maren noticed the thick-bodied man was blocking the doorway. “Should I leave you to… your routine?”

  “Oh, sure, yeah. Let me get out of your… I should make a note that you were here when… Eh, who hecking cares? Way I see it, you deserve—you know, rings, or… anything missing. Not that I would know.”

  “She had little left to steal. Her daughter is handling the estate.”

  “Now her I know. It’d be a miracle if there was anything left to… have. Nobody else came by today. Not in my whole shift. The daughter called, but that was the size of it. I hit the clock just as Mrs. Tommaso was given this room.”

  “You’ve certainly been here long enough to… what will happen to that cedar box?”

  “Family’ll get it. If you want to poke around in there, I mean, hey—I’m real busy, you know? Got to do my scribbles.”