The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories: Terrifying Tales Set on the Scariest Night of the Year!

by Stephen Jones

  Moving quickly, Craig came to an open doorway in the wall, the wooden door long since rotted away. He’d brought a small flashlight and flicked it on. Inside, the barn appeared to be immense, a series of rooms, or stables.

  Beyond one of the walls, he thought he heard soft movement, a twig snapping. A low growl. He flattened himself against the wall and dipped his flashlight beam. If there was a dog in here, it could be chained up. It was unlikely it would have remained here, especially if it had seen the cat.

  He noticed an old stone stairway leading upwards and climbed it very slowly. On the floor above, he tested the wooden floor gingerly. If these floorboards were rotten, he could crash through them all too easily. There were gaps in them. He crawled along on his hands and knees and peered through, but below him was only darkness, like a thick, oily pit.

  Something moved in it, and again he heard the low growl.

  He felt his cell phone vibrate and he sat back, the dust swirling around him. He looked at the phone’s screen. Text message. From Hawkins. Typically he’d been working late, his personal world centered on his lab and its mysteries.

  Word back from the experts. That saliva-stuff. It deteriorated and dissolved. They managed a few tests first, but can’t identify it. Except they think it’s partly human. Not the victim’s. Drop in tomorrow.

  Craig stared at the words, reading and re-reading them. Partly human? What in hell did that mean?

  And where were those cars? He tried to call the station, but he couldn’t get a signal. Below him there was another, very distinct growl, as though whatever was down there had heard him.

  He crawled over to a gap in the boards and shone the flashlight downwards. Something snarled, shifting out of the light—a humped shape, its size indefinable. Craig tried to find it with the flashlight beam, but it had taken cover. He told himself it must be chained, otherwise it would have come up here after him.

  I hope to God Maud and her pals haven’t ignored my warning. As long as they stay indoors, they’ll be okay. He decided to try and ring her. No reason to think he’d get a signal over this side of the barn, given his failure with the station, but he had to try. He pressed the shortcut key on his phone and waited.

  Something in the nearby darkness chimed, the sound crystal clear. It made him start. He swung around, probing with the flashlight. The chiming repeated. A cell phone. There were several shapes against the far wall, thick, blurred shadow-forms. He eased forward, avoiding the worst of the floorboards, realizing some of them had rotted through.

  The shapes resolved themselves into clothing. Coats, five of them. Below them, on a bench, five sets of clothes had been neatly folded, with five pairs of shoes under the bench below each set of garments. Craig shone the flashlight on them, examining them. Four of the coats were women’s coats, in good condition. Christ, had these people changed into costumes for the Halloween Festival and left their clothes here?

  He realized his cell phone was still trying to contact Maud. The chiming came from one of the coats. It was only now that he recognized it.

  It was one of Maud’s. The chiming came from inside it. Her phone. Maud was here? After he’d warned her?

  He studied the other coats. The last of them made him draw back in shock. It was a heavy-duty police coat. The clothing on the bench beneath it was a policewoman’s uniform. That could only be Anders. But surely she knew how dangerous this place would be?

  Behind him he heard a low growl, from the far wall, where the stone stairs emerged. He swung around, face bathed in the chilling sweat of fear.

  For a moment there was only a misshapen cloud of sheer darkness—it shuddered and there was a big dog standing at the top of the stairs, partially cloaked in writhing shadows. Big? No, it was huge. A hound. He directed the flashlight beam at it, revealing a distorted snout, sharp teeth gleaming, strings of saliva dripping. The thing was monstrous, its eyes fixed on him, unblinking and savage. There was something about those eyes, their color, their bizarre expression.

  He had nowhere to run. The hound blocked his only retreat. It came forward, almost in slow motion, then crouched. He felt his throat drying up. If he tried to shout, nothing would come out. Christ, but it was so big! Like a small horse. Its breath hovered around it in a white steam and he heard the continuing growl deep in its throat. He wanted to look for something, anything, to use in his defense, but he couldn’t take his eyes off that face. This thing had ripped open Roger Poulter-Evans’s neck as if it had been wet paper.

  Without warning, it leapt, its spring powerful. Sliding backwards, Craig felt himself strike the bench and he floundered among the clothes, both arms raised against the attack. The beast landed a few feet in front of him, and as it struck the floor there was a dull snapping sound, wood breaking apart. A cloud of dust billowed around the hound as the floorboards collapsed under its weight. Its rear end disappeared as its front paws clawed at the floor in front of it, trying to gain purchase. Several lengths of floorboard had sprung loose, the end of one jutting up in front of Craig.

  He acted from instinct. No time to think. He bent down and tried to twist the board loose. Nails groaned, but the wooden plank remained stubbornly fixed. Its far end, where the collapse had taken place, was wormy and crumbling like a biscuit. As the hound frantically dragged itself up from the drop, Craig used both feet to kick his end of the floorboard, which had remained solid, unaffected by the rot. The ferocity of his desperate kick tore it loose and its far end rammed into the face of the hound, partially disintegrating in another cloud of dust. But it was enough to dislodge the grip of the beast. It snarled, tossing its head this way and that, flinging out a shower of spittle and blood.

  Craig watched as it made one final effort to avoid being swallowed by the drop. Then it was gone. He heard it hit the ground below. Quickly, but very carefully, he stood up and made his way to the edge of the hole, keeping off any damaged boards. He pointed his flashlight downward. The inert form of the hound was lying there, twelve feet below.

  He skirted the hole and made for the stairs, descending as quietly as he could. At ground level he paused, listening, his flashlight off for a moment. In the darkness he could barely discern the fallen shape of the hound. It seemed smaller now, still motionless. Had he killed it? The chances were it was injured, dazed, but dead? Probably not.

  He had to get out of here, and fast. If that thing came to, there’d be no second chance. He was about to dash for the doorway, when other shapes moved in the deep shadows around the chamber.

  My God, it’s the women! They don’t realize. He flicked on the flashlight and used its beam in a brief sweep. He was right—four figures were converging on the fallen hound. He was about to shout a warning, but something stopped him.

  He gaped at them. They ignored him, their attentions fixed on the beast. It was four women and he saw Maud’s face—and that of Anders—as they studied the hound. All of them were wearing some sort of shaggy coats, part of their paraphernalia for the Festival. Witches, or servants of Hecate, whatever it was Maud had told him earlier.

  Maud crouched down and actually touched the hound. She lifted her head and gave a cry. An animal cry. And yet he recognized in it the sound of mourning. The fallen hound was dead.

  Then all four women turned, looking directly at Craig. He dropped his flashlight in horror. They were partially obscured by the darkness, but he could see they’d dropped to all fours. Now they seemed somehow larger than they should have been.

  He sprang for the door and out into the colder air. His sweat felt like ice on his face. He ran along the hedgerow to the opening into the field. Behind him he heard the baying of the pack, for that’s what it had become, he knew for sure.

  Desperately he ran on toward the gate, flinging himself over it, almost crashing to his knees as he landed. He got to the car and fumbled with the keys. He could hear the pursuit coming across the field, the sound like the pounding of hooves. Christ, how many of them were there?

  Finally he got
the door open and swung into the seat, slamming the door and jabbing the key into the starter, twisting it and yanking the gear stick. The engine revved obligingly and, as the first huge shapes swarmed over the gate, he accelerated away. Something thumped on the roof, although his velocity must have quickly flung it off. The hedgerows closed in as he buffeted his way down the confines of the lane. Nearer to town, the road widened and the hedges dropped lower. He was aware of something, a cloud of shapes, pouring along behind him. There was a din, a horn, and the beating of huge wings.

  He glanced out of the side window and almost swerved off the road in terror. A huge figure had appeared, astride a beast that was impossible to define; an armored warrior, the face distorted with fury, a fiery resolve to bring the car to a shuddering halt. A woman’s face, distorted with hellish fury. Craig had seen it before. In that painting of Maud’s. Hecate, Queen of the Wild Hunt.

  He crouched over the steering wheel and fixed his eyes on the road ahead, ignoring the frightful baying of the hounds, the shriek of a hundred wild voices, and the thundering of the hooves as whatever nightmare the darkness had spewed forth boiled after him. Miraculously, he reached the outskirts of town. Apart from a few parked cars, the streets were quiet, so his erratic, high-speed driving got him through. The lights brightened, and he knew he was finally outpacing the tide of horrors.

  With a jolt, he realized he had dropped his cell phone as well as his flashlight. His home was a lot closer than the station, so he made for that. As he pulled in to the drive, he heard a distant baying, fading. Maybe they’d been called off? What in the name of hell had they been?

  He crashed open his front door as he stumbled in, shutting it behind him and sliding two sets of bolts. As quickly as he could, he checked the back door and did a brief tour of the windows. They were all closed, of course they were. It was October. They weren’t opened at this time of year. He switched on every light in the place and looked around for a weapon, his chest heaving. Finally he sat in an armchair, realizing his entire body was shaking.

  The station—I must ring the station, he thought and got up. As he did so, his eyes were drawn by the small painting opposite him on the wall. The Wild Hunt, led by the towering figure of Hecate. Her face was now turned, her eyes looking directly at him. He staggered back as if he had been punched by a fist.

  Must phone! Behind him, he heard the sound of footsteps. He gripped the back of the armchair for support.

  Maud stood in the doorway. She had discarded her Festival coat and looked quite serene in her usual clothes, as though she’d never left the house.

  “What are you?” he gasped.

  She smiled. “Darling, what on earth do you mean? I’m your wife, what else?”

  He’d bolted the front door. How had she got in? “Keep back,” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I need to phone the station.”

  She shook her head. “No. Not now. Later this morning, when they find Phoebe’s body.”

  How could she possibly be so calm?

  “Another tragedy,” she said. “Her husband’s death was too much for her. So she committed suicide, out there in that deserted barn. They’ll find her, hanging up, her neck broken.”

  “No—I saw what happened—”

  “Don’t be a fool, David. No one’s going to believe that.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but realized she was right. Supernatural hounds? The Wild Hunt? Hecate?

  “Well, it’s been a harrowing night. I’m going to bed.” She turned away insouciantly, then back, saying, as an afterthought. “Are you coming?”

  For a moment he was tempted, oh how he was tempted. He shook his head. “No. Tonight I’ll sleep down here.”

  Outside, the wind gusted, a momentary howl of capitulation.

  THE OCTOBER WIDOW

  ANGELA SLATTER

  Angela Slatter is the author of the urban fantasy trilogy Vigil, Corpselight, and Restoration, as well as eight short story collections, including Sourdough and Other Stories, The Bitterwood Bible and Other Recountings, Winter Children and Other Chilling Tales, and A Feast of Sorrows: Stories.

  She has won a World Fantasy Award, a British Fantasy Award, a Ditmar Award, and six Aurealis Awards. A graduate of Clarion South and the Tin House Summer Writers Workshop, her work has been adapted for the screen, and translated into Japanese, Russian, Chinese, French, Spanish, and Bulgarian.

  “I’d been thinking about how Halloween today is very different to Halloween of times past,” recalls the author. “How the idea of ‘soul cakes’ is maintained in the echo of ‘candy.’ I was thinking sacrifices—who makes them, what they are worth, how much we take out of the world, and how little we put back.

  “And I began to think of the cyclical nature of life, of how someone like the October Widow might be fighting to keep balance even though what she does could seem horrific to some.”

  MIRABEL MORGAN SUSPECTED herself hunted, though she’d caught no trace of whoever pursued her.

  She was careful when she left the house, keeping a weather eye on the rearview mirror, but able to discern no particular vehicle standing out from those sharing the road with her. At night, she made sure to close the curtains well before darkness fell, when lights might pick her out as a target against the evening gloom. Yet no one appeared on the pavement or stoop, there were no raps at the door, no envelopes in the mailbox. No sign that she should flee. She watched the calendar tick over with inexorable certainty and, as the day paced closer, the grid of nerves inside her chest tightened like wires pulled by circus strongmen.

  Tendrils of white had appeared at her temples regular as clockwork, and her face, though still handsome, had crow’s feet radiating from the corners of her eyes, and lines formed parentheses from nose to mouth. The chin was less firm than it had been, but her cheekbones still soared high, kept her profile patrician. Her knuckles were swollen, like dough sewn with yeast and carelessly kneaded, furrows left embedded. They’d been aching since the temperatures had lowered, the same gnawing pain that afflicted her at this time. Made it harder to do things when she most needed to be agile if not sprightly. Every cycle she told herself that the next would be different, that she’d be better prepared. Yet each turning she did the bare minimum, ensuring the new abode was livable, then went off to enjoy her annual youth while it lasted.

  In the garden, the leaves changed colors, swapped out their green for amber and yellow, ochre, and sepia. Those so inclined fell and were carried off on the biting breeze. The sky, perpetually iron-gray at this point, was occasionally lightened by white clouds, however more often darkened to thunderous black. The vegetables and flowers had died, turned dry and shriveled. She didn’t plant fruit trees anymore for she moved so often, and hated to watch them wither prematurely as they inevitably synched with her eternal, truncated rhythm. The small town of Ashdown had served her well, and she in turn had served it, bringing all the boons attendant upon the October Widow’s tenure. The secret tithes she took seemed, to her, rather insignificant. The tiny offerings that staved off the moment when a larger one had to be made.

  Henry did as he usually did and went straight around the back of the house, to the little shed where Mrs. Morgan kept her hand mower. He was late, but he knew the older woman wouldn’t mind. “As long as it’s done by nightfall on Friday, Henry, I don’t care what part of Friday you do it!” she’d said. But he liked to be reliable. He liked her to know that she could count on him. This morning his pickup had a punctured tire; it looked as though a knife had been stuck into the tread, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out who want to do him an ill-turn. He’d taken his brother’s battered VW instead of wasting time changing the flat.

  He began where he always did, out the front, with its tiny patches of grass broken up by flowerbeds filled with dead plants. The rosebushes looked especially sad, bare but for their thorns and the crinkled brown remains of red and pink blooms. The mower was stubborn, though he’d oiled
it only last week, and took more than a few enthusiastic shoves before the blades loosened and did their job. He hated the thing, but enjoyed the workout it gave. If it were a bit warmer he’d have his hoodie and T-shirt off, so the three teenage girls who lived next door could peek out and watch him sweat and glisten in the afternoon sun. But that time was done, the season passed. Too cold now for such exhibitionism; he had to keep his peacock preening to the public bar in the evenings until next summer.

  He moved into the back, which was the easier spot, the vegetable beds running along the side-fences, out of the way, leaving the rest a clear run right up to the edge of the property where lawn met woods in a hard line. The garden did not gradually grow wild and blend into a creeping foliage that led to full-blown forest. Just ended in a stern demarcation line between the tame and the uncultivated. A creak and a tumbling sound snapped his head up to see three crows flapping and finding new perches; their previous branch had broken and hit the ground just as he looked. Black eyes regarded him, curiously, somehow fondly. There must have been something dead in the undergrowth he decided, or dying. They were waiting until it was weak enough.

  He reached the boundary and turned the recalcitrant machine. The curtains on the kitchen window twitched aside. Mrs. Morgan stood at the sink, giving him a wide smile. She made the usual hand gestures: Come inside when you’re finished, I’ll make you a hot drink. And there’d be buns too, freshly baked, warm enough to melt the butter and run the thick raspberry jam thin. She’d put a little whiskey in his coffee: Irish it up, she’d say like she always did. And she’d smile and he’d smile back, watch her as she moved around the small kitchen, never still, but never hurried, always assured, seemingly always in the spot where she was meant to be. And he’d watch how her hips swayed, how her breath made the breasts covered by her lilac blouse shift up and down, how shapely her calves were beneath the hem of the black skirt. How her face was shaped just like a sweetheart, her lips full, her skin creamy, her eyes not quite blue and not quite green but caught somewhere between. How any wrinkles were shallow and made by laughter not loss. How graceful her hands, her wrists, her fingers were as they reached toward him to lead him upstairs so he might see to Mirabel Morgan’s other needs.