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

by Stephen Jones

  And a slightly more raucous Norah Littleton chimed in, “And that goes for yours truly—truly! I told you—I’m only fifty-six!” Then, hiking up the skirt of her floral-patterned sundress, she climbed onto the back of a throbbing Harley Davidson behind a multiple murderer (and eventual murderee) in a Nazi helmet named Elroy P. James.

  “At first, it all seemed pretty disconcerting,” Death confessed to his former girlfriend, Cherie, at the all-you-could-eat lunchtime buffet at Round Table, where they had spent the rosier days of their romance before everything had gone sour. “But then I looked twice, and for a bunch of dead people, they didn’t look much worse than they originally did. So everybody went buzzing off to their new non-lives, and at least I didn’t have much cleaning up to do. I sublet the empty space as artist lofts, and then some jewelry-makers showed up, and a few falafel stands, and some vintage LP merchants, and before I knew it, the place was kind of like London’s Camden Market, except for the smell. You definitely don’t get that kind of smell out of the carpets with a steam-clean; believe me, I’ve tried. I even put Dad to work in the guardhouse, where he carries on doing the same things he did when he was still alive—shouting abuse at CNN, and falling asleep to Wheel of Fortune. So at the end of the day, I guess life has really been looking up, and I’m going to enjoy it while I still can. Anyway, I’m glad we could get together like this, Cherie, and sorry if I monopolized the conversation. Maybe next time you can tell me how things are working out with your new boyfriend, Bacchus. I know he drinks heavily, and finds it hard settling down with one woman, but he’s got a good soul, and that’s something you never saw very often in my business. A good soul, I mean.”

  Cherie looked puffy and slightly red-faced from either too little sleep or too much pressure at work. Against Death’s advice, she had taken the position of chief administrative secretary at Mother Nature’s latest start-up (it had something to do with building a pollution-free ecosphere for super-rich people on the Moon) and she was now so thin and lifeless that she resembled one of her old dresses hanging in a closet.

  “That’s good news, hon,” Cherie said softly, addressing her half-finished slice of pepperoni. “But I’ve got a conference call at twelve-thirty. Maybe I should pay and get us out of here, okay?”

  And sitting there on a friendly basis with his ex-partner after what had not been a very satisfactory relationship for either of them, Death couldn’t help feeling that sometimes, if you keep your head up and your heart confident, life could get better, and often did. It might seem like this insurmountable series of obstacles, but if you persevered, and enjoyed a little luck, you could often find your way to the end of the race. You might not win the race or anything, but winning wasn’t the important part. Surviving was the important part. And surviving long enough to enjoy the time you had left when you didn’t have to run any races at all.

  “Sounds like a plan, Cherie,” Death said, placing his crumpled paper napkin on the middle of his tomato-sauce stained paper plate like a small tombstone memorializing several slices of veggie supreme. “But I gotta insist on one thing. You bought me enough meals in the past. This time, for once, let me pick up the check.”

  WHITE MARE

  THANA NIVEAU

  Thana Niveau is a Halloween bride. Originally from the United States, she now lives in the UK, in a Victorian seaside town between Bristol and Wales, where she writes horror and science fiction.

  She is the author of the mini-collection Unquiet Waters, and her short fiction has appeared in such anthologies and magazines as Best New Horror; Best British Horror; Darker Companions: A Tribute to Ramsey Campbell; Whispers in the Dark; Zombie Apocalypse!: Endgame; Steampunk Cthulhu; Terror Tales of Cornwall; Terror Tales of Wales; The Black Book of Horror; Love, Lust, and Zombies; Magic: An Anthology of the Esoteric and Arcane; Interzone; and Black Static.

  Her first novel is forthcoming from Horrific Tales, and her second short story collection is due from PS Publishing.

  “The origin stories of Halloween are fascinating,” observes the author, “even if no one seems to agree exactly how the modern customs evolved from their pagan Samhain roots. I’ve always loved the idea that the worlds of the living and dead merge on that one night, and that we must honor the demons to make them go back to their own realm.

  “‘Guising’ is believed to have evolved from a tradition of impersonating the dead, and requesting offerings of food on their behalf. Disguising yourself as an evil spirit would supposedly hide or protect you from them. Certain other ancient customs are performed at Midwinter, and you might recognize elements of one I twisted into something far less benign.

  “I wasn’t stuck for ideas, but I did initially have a hard time trying to scare myself because, for me, Halloween doesn’t conjure thoughts of horror. Rather, it triggers nostalgic Bradbury-ish reminiscence—in America, all those gruesome pagan traditions have evolved into what’s basically just a giant cosplay party. So I approached it from a fish-out-of-water angle, to contrast the loathing so many Brits have for the holiday with my own rose-tinted memories.”

  APRIL WAS THE cruelest month for grown-ups, but for kids it was definitely September. The wild ride of summer came crashing to an end and the return to school was like being dragged back to prison after weeks of freedom.

  Heather had never minded, though, because September gave way to October. And October was her favorite month. The air turned crisp and the leaves were at their most vibrant and colorful. And best of all, there was Halloween. It was a magical time, a time when the world transformed, putting on one last show before the long cold winter set in.

  Heather had turned fourteen the month before, and her dad was letting her throw her first party, to celebrate both holidays. Together they spent a week transforming their boring little house in the Austin suburbs into a haunted palace.

  They decorated it with orange and black streamers and stuck rubber blood spatters on all the windows and mirrors. They turned the kitchen into a gruesome abattoir, with peeled grape eyeballs and pasta intestines lying in dishes under low lights. A cauldron filled with dry ice bubbled ominously on the stove. The bathrooms were crawling with plastic spiders while glow-in-the-dark skulls and ghosts grinned from every shadowy nook and corner. Outside, a hideous animatronic scarecrow rose up to scream at anyone who came near enough to wake him.

  It was total overkill, but it was totally worth it. Sam and Mia said it was the sickest party they’d ever seen. Word got out on Twitter and soon the house was full. You knew a party was a success when kids you didn’t even know started showing up.

  They gleefully drank blood punch from plastic goblets and ate zombie cake off black paper plates. And even though they were technically too old for it, the costumed teenagers went trick-or-treating up and down the block, then gorged themselves on candy and pumpkin pie when they got back to the party. Heather had dressed as Wednesday Addams (her dad’s idea), but she was having such a blast it was impossible to stay in character. Her deadpan demeanor gave way to shrieking and giggling along with her friends at every manufactured scare.

  Of course they also took great delight in terrifying any kids brave enough to come knocking. Heather’s dad jumped out from his hiding place dressed like a medieval executioner, swinging a huge headsman’s axe. One younger group of trick-or-treaters ran screaming back to their mother’s car and were too afraid to return for their treats. Heather and her friends had laughed themselves into hysterical tears over that and declared that Dave Barton was the Coolest Dad Ever.

  It was the best night Heather could remember in a long time. It was almost enough to make her forget that her mother had vanished without a trace the year before.

  “Night, Mom,” Heather whispered to the creased photo she kept tucked under her pillow. “You would have loved it.”

  But even as she said it, she realized that the raw, aching wound in her heart had finally begun to heal. A year ago she’d never have imagined herself capable of smiling again. Her dad either for
that matter. But if the trauma had brought the two of them closer, the party had made them best friends.

  She’d always secretly believed it was a magical time of year. Now she knew it for a fact. So of course she began counting down the days until they could do it all again.

  “We’re going where?”

  She could remember the moment like it was yesterday. Her father had sighed and looked down at the table, where loads of important-looking papers were strewn out in front of him. “England. Just for a while. Just to get things settled.”

  England. The other side of the world. Where she didn’t know anybody.

  “But why do we have to go now?”

  “Because otherwise the farmhouse is just sitting there abandoned. It’s already been broken into twice. We can’t afford to leave it and let it get trashed.”

  Heather hadn’t been able to stop herself resenting Ruth, her dad’s recently deceased maiden aunt. She’d never even met the woman who’d surfaced from the distant past just to dump her creepy old farm on them.

  “Besides,” her father added sheepishly, “we need the money we’ll get from the sale of whatever’s inside. She apparently had a lot of antiques.”

  “So why can’t we go over Christmas?” Heather persisted. Missing out on Christmas was vastly preferable to being deprived of another awesome Halloween.

  “Because it’s too expensive. Everyone flies over Christmas.”

  “But our party—”

  “Heather.” For long moments her father stared down at the scattered papers, shaking his head sadly. Suddenly he wasn’t Dave Barton her BFF anymore; he was just “Dad.”

  When he finally met her eyes again, he seemed profoundly weary. Heather knew that look. He’d worn it every day until the police told them they’d abandoned the search for her mom. And then every day after that. There had been no evidence of foul play, no suggestion that she’d run off with another man, no … nothing. It had broken her father.

  Heather’s face burned as she realized how selfish she was being. Last year’s Halloween/birthday bash had been the first time they’d had fun since the nightmare began, the first time they’d been able to cut loose. But love wasn’t just about the fun times. What had the school counselor told her? Two steps forward, one step back?

  Her dad hadn’t known his aunt well. Hadn’t even seen her in twenty years. The death of a virtual stranger was nothing compared to what they’d gone through over Heather’s mom. But it was still awful. Aunt Ruth was dead. Not missing. Not vanished without a trace. Stone-cold factually dead. And she’d left them her farm.

  “Hey,” Heather said, her voice catching. She moved to her father’s side and flopped down on the floor, resting her head on his knee. “It’s okay. I understand.” It was all she could say without breaking down.

  She felt her father’s hand in her hair, ruffling the pixie cut. “Thanks, kiddo. I knew I could count on you. And you never know—we might actually like it there.”

  She’d forced a brave smile at the time, even though she knew there was no way she would.

  It was raining when they landed at Heathrow, and it rained during the long drive that followed. Heather’s first impression of England was that it was very green and very wet. Presumably one because of the other. Thorpe Morag was a small Somerset village nestled in a valley in the middle of wet green nowhere. It was near places with even weirder names, like Middlezoy and Huish Champflower.

  Her second impression was that everything was old. Like straight-out-of-a-history-book old. The roads, the houses, even the trees all seemed impossibly ancient. America was all shopping malls and Starbucks and nail salons and car dealerships, all of it new and shiny and clean. Here, Heather wouldn’t be surprised to see medieval peasants plowing the fields.

  A battered sign finally told them they’d reached Thorpe Morag, and a winding road led them into the village. Two rows of cottages faced each other across a wide patch of grass with a little duck pond and a couple of rotting park benches. The “village green” apparently. There was a pub, the White Mare, and a shop that looked like something from an old black-and-white movie. As far as Heather could tell, its name was just “The Shop.”

  At the far end of the green, a cluster of trees sheltered a narrow track that led to the Barton farm. The house was a blocky stone structure that looked more like a storage building than a home. It was almost hidden in the shadows of the foliage surrounding it. The trees looked intent on consuming the upper story, and the view from at least one window was entirely obscured. Heather shuddered at the thought of branches scraping her bedroom window like bony fingers before breaking the glass and reaching in for her.

  “It’s, um … nice,” she said, staring in dismay at the farmhouse. The photos emailed by the solicitor had clearly been taken on some enchanted spring morning when sunlight had conquered the gloom. Heather glanced at her father, but his expression was unreadable. They were really going to stay here? Live here? A glance back at the sparse village didn’t reveal any alternatives. It wasn’t like there was a hotel down the road or anything. But there had to be a city nearby. How far away was London? Surely they could find somewhere else to stay, anywhere else …

  Her dad took the first step toward the farmhouse and Heather had her answer. She heaved a morose sigh as she trudged after him, resigned to her fate. That was when she saw it.

  Her gasp must have sounded like one of pain because her dad whirled around. “Heather! Are you okay?”

  “Oh my god,” she breathed. She didn’t so much walk as float toward the fence, where a beautiful horse stood gazing at her with huge dark eyes. Its coat was a rich deep red, its mane and tail long and black.

  Without hesitation Heather reached out to stroke the animal’s sleek neck, and the horse nickered softly and tossed its head. It seemed to be laughing. When Heather pulled her hand back, the horse thrust its nose underneath her palm, nudging her. It felt like velvet.

  “I think she likes you,” her dad said. “Or he likes you.”

  “You were right the first time,” came a voice from behind them.

  They both jumped and turned to see a man standing there. Wisps of white hair framed a thin but rugged face and his bright blue eyes shone with friendliness.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you folks,” he said. His accent made him sound like Hagrid in the Harry Potter movies. “I’m Chester.” He stuck out his hand for each of them to shake. His grip was so firm it made Heather wince. “You must be the new owners.”

  “Yes. I’m Dave Barton and this is my daughter, Heather. Ruth was my aunt.”

  Chester bowed his head, revealing a bald patch he made no effort to hide. “Damn shame,” he said. “She was a fine woman. Always good to me, was your Ruth. I take care of her animals for her. That is, I took care. Still will if you’ll have me.”

  “Well, I think …” Dave glanced at Heather, who could only offer a shrug. Behind her, the horse was nudging her roughly in the back, demanding attention. Dave laughed. “I’m sure that would be just fine. Just tell me what your arrangement was and I’ll continue to honor it. For as long as we’re here, that is.”

  “Fair enough,” Chester said, nodding with satisfaction. He turned his attention back to the horse. “Her name’s Callisto.”

  Heather stood on tiptoe and pressed her forehead to the horse’s. “Hi, Callisto,” she said softly. “I’m Heather. And I think you just made things a whole lot better for me here.”

  From that moment on, Heather and Callisto were inseparable. Heather had never ridden a horse before, but Callisto didn’t seem to mind her inexperience. She would stand patiently while Heather clambered up onto her back from the fence. Chester had shown her how to put the saddle on, but Heather preferred the intimacy of riding without it. She loved the feel of Callisto’s warm flanks beneath her and the rich animal smell she left on Heather’s clothes.

  Ruth had clearly loved Callisto and spoiled her with treats and attention, a responsibility Heather was happy to
assume. The horse shared the pasture with a flock of six sheep, who seemed to be terrified of absolutely everything. They allowed Chester to get close, but they scattered whenever Heather went near them. The noises they made sounded like the voices of angry old men.

  The farmhouse itself wasn’t actually as awful as Heather had imagined, but she still spent as little time inside as possible. There was nothing good on TV and her phone wasn’t set up to work overseas. And, of course, reclusive old Aunt Ruth didn’t have a computer. Heather felt like she’d gone back in time. But because of Callisto, she found that wasn’t so bad after all. By the end of the first week she was hardly even missing her friends back home. Sam and Mia and the others would be stuck at school while Heather had a month-long pass.

  While her dad sorted out the legal headache of unloading the house and all its dusty antiques, Heather explored the outside world with Callisto. Occasionally her father went too, walking along beside them. And sometimes they both walked and took turns leading the horse.

  But she was by herself the day she found out just how cut off she was from the world that she knew.

  Callisto hadn’t wanted to come out of her stall that morning, so Heather walked down to The Shop to see if they sold sugar lumps. Dave and Heather did all their food shopping at a supermarket on the outskirts of town and had never even been inside the little village shop.

  The sugar lumps were easy enough to find, but getting a treat for herself proved more difficult.

  “Hi,” she said, approaching the ancient lady behind the counter. “Do you have candy bars?”

  The woman blinked slowly at her, like a tortoise. She didn’t speak for so long Heather began to wonder if she was deaf.

  “Candy?” the woman repeated, dragging out the word as though she’d never heard of such a thing.