Fell Beasts and Fair

by C. J. Brightley

  “Oh is that how it is, among you? Even if your lover is faithless? Among my kind, a pledge of love is forever. Your kind are changeable as the weather.”

  Tears stung Joan’s eyes. “Even if your lover is false, I think, so long as there is love in your own heart, then you, you…” but she couldn’t continue. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes, but the tears kept streaming down.

  “Poor John William,” she whispered. The tears in Joan’s eyes made the world swim; were there answering tears in the crow girl’s eyes? Joan could not have seen, and when she wiped her own again and looked up, the crow girl was already walking away, up the hill. She turned back once, halfway to the top.

  “You have a way of helping him, if you want,” she called, a catch in her voice. “The key I gave you is the master for the cells below the town hall.” Then she turned away again.

  A wild surge of hope swept through Joan, and she would have rushed after the crow girl to thank her, but the girl had vanished. Joan let her powerful hope speed her down the hill and along the path to home.

  It was several days later, after several evenings when John William’s mother would come upon her remaining children huddled in tense conversation by the paddock gate, or at the kitchen table, conversation that ceased abruptly as she approached, that a fire broke out at dawn in the town hall. No one saw who first gave the cry of “fire!” but when the jailer and his men rushed to investigate, it was already blazing in strength, and they had to call up and down the street for others to come to their aid. It was only then that they remembered the prisoners down below, and when they made their way back down the stairs, holding their coats over their heads to shield them from the heat, they discovered the doors to the cells unlocked already, and all the prisoners gone.

  John William ran to the stables of the White Hart and grabbed the first horse he came upon, for now he must flee as fast and far away as possible. As he led the horse, a nervous dapple gray mare, who tossed her head and balked as John William tried to get her quickly and quietly to the street, a crow landed before him, and when John William looked again, it was the crow girl who was standing there.

  “Move aside and don’t follow me,” he said roughly.

  “The key I gave your sister is the key that freed you from the jail, you know,” she said, as he struggled to mount the horse.

  “Yes, and the locket you gave me is what put me there to begin with, and now it has made a true outlaw of me,” he responded bitterly, at last seated on the dancing horse and struggling to keep his balance.

  “That horse is going to throw you, John William. Don’t take it, or all the efforts of your sister and brothers will be in vain, and you’ll be dead as surely as if you had been hanged on the gallows hill.”

  “Just spare me your tender concern,” cried John William, and spurred the horse, who tore away up the cobbled street and from there onto a lane that led into the countryside. It didn’t slow, and when John William tugged at the reins it turned abruptly and jumped straight over a hedge and pounded through the field on the other side, and over another hedge, and on, and all the while overhead the crow pursued them.

  It was at the upper reaches of the mill river that it happened as the crow girl predicted: the mare shied rather than jump the stream, and John William went flying, landing hard among the rocks and pebbles over which the waters chattered, and now ribbons of red unfurled along the length of the clear shallows, more and more of them, until further down the stream, passersby might have thought some miracle had occurred, and the water turned to wine.

  Up where John William had fallen, the crow girl knelt in the water and held his head in her lap and wept and wept, hoarse sobs like the a crow’s call, and her tears and black feathers fell into the water, but he was gone, it was not she who could determine who lived or died; he was gone, and no powers could bring him back.

  About the Author

  Francesca Forrest has lived in the United States, England, and Japan. When not working at her day job as a copy editor, she does volunteer writing tutoring and works on her own writing projects. She’s had short stories and poems published both online and in print, along with one novel, Pen Pal. She likes that Solzhenitsyn quote about the line between good and evil running through the human heart.

  The Boy Who Didn’t Believe in Halloween

  Tom Howard

  Jack Pumpkinhead opened the door and looked down at the boy standing on his porch. He was surprised he’d heard the knock with the party in full swing. It was Halloween, and all his friends were inside enjoying themselves.

  “I’m sorry, little boy. We don’t give out treats at this house.” His eyes flickered from the small candle he’d placed inside the pumpkin he’d carved earlier. He’d tried not to make the smile quite so wide as usual. Someone commented that it made him look like a simpleton. With all the pumpkin seeds rattling around in his brain, he was hardly simple.

  The boy appeared to be around ten years old. He was dressed in a black robe and wore taped up glasses. He looked up at Jack Pumpkinhead with big brown eyes that regarded Jack as if he was just another resident of the small town. The fact Jack towered over him with wooden limbs and had a giant pumpkin head didn’t seem to bother the child.

  “I know,” said the boy. “The older kids dared me to come up to the haunted house. They think I might see something horrible and run away.”

  “You’re not afraid?” asked Jack.

  “Never,” said the boy. “That’s why they always try to scare me. They know Mace Bigelow isn’t afraid of anything.”

  Jack nodded, careful not to lean too far forward. He’d hate for his fresh head to fall off. “Shouldn’t you be out collecting candy with your friends? This is a private party. We’re celebrating having the night off.”

  “Monsters need a vacation?” asked Mace, peering around spindly Jack.

  “Yes, from little monsters dressed up as us. We figure there’s enough scary stuff going on for one night. So, we have our own Halloween party.”

  Mace shrugged. “I don’t believe in Halloween.”

  “Would you like to come in?” asked Jack. He’d convince the boy otherwise. “It might be too scary for a little boy like you.”

  “I told you, I’m not afraid of nothing. My mom says that when they made me, they forgot to put in my fear bone.”

  Jack chuckled. “Fear bone, eh? Is that like a funny bone?” He opened the door and stood back.

  Mace entered and stood inside the door. Jack expected him to run screaming from the dilapidated house when he saw the ghosts, skeletons, and goblins dancing around the room. Mr. Porter, a giant spider, worked behind the bar, a cocktail shaker in each of his arms. Two of the ghosts had decided the floor was too crowded for dancing and moved to the ceiling.

  “Welcome to our Halloween party,” said Jack. “We do know how to have a good time.”

  A green witch, hairy warts and all, stared down at Mace. “What is this, Jack? An hors d'oeuvre?”

  “No children shall be eaten here tonight, Goodwife Gooch,” said Jack. “Young Mr. Bigelow is my guest. He’s come in search of his fear bone.”

  The old woman with gray hair bent to peer at Mace. “Fear bone, eh? I may have a potion for that.” She dug into the pockets of her black robes and pulled out a cat, which she handed to Mace, a bedraggled bat, and a desiccated monkey’s paw. “I must have left it in my other robe.”

  Mace stroked the black cat, and it purred in his arms.

  Goodwife Gooch frowned and snatched the feline back. “If you let me put the boy in the oven for a few moments, I bet you that would put a yellow streak up his back.”

  Jack rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder and guided him to the table and away from the muttering witch as she tried to stuff the complaining cat back into her pocket. “Cider?”

  “No pumpkin juice?” asked Mace, staring at a zombie trying to retrieve his eye from the punch bowl.

  “Indeed not,” replied Jack, mortified at the thought. “W
e’re not cannibals here.” He looked down at the end of the table where a werewolf was chewing on a human leg. “Well, most of us aren’t, anyway. Still not afraid?”

  Mace shook his head. “It looks like the party at my parents’ house but with fewer Kardashian costumes.”

  “Now that would be scary,” said Jack. “If you’re a lad looking to get in touch with his fear, you’ve come to the right—”

  The front door flew open, and two large bats fluttered into the room. In a puff of smoke, the animals transformed into a man and a woman, pasty white and in fancy dress.

  “The vampires always like to make a dramatic entrance,” said Jack. “Don’t worry about them. Mr. Porter keeps a fresh bottle behind the counter.”

  The vampires bowed to the scattered applause, and the man escorted the woman to the bar where Mr. Porter was already pouring.

  “As I was saying, we have some of the scariest creatures in history in this room. If they can’t scare you, nothing will.” Jack’s chest swelled with pride at the thought of his ghoulish comrades.

  Mace took a cup of cider from the mummy standing behind the table and carefully removed the soggy bandage hanging over the lip. “Where is the music coming from?”

  “Look closer at the instruments, Mr. Bigelow.”

  Mace moved toward the fireplace where the bandstand was set up. Flames raced up and down the violins, oboes, and drums.

  The tune was quite catchy, and Jack’s head bobbed up and down in time to the music. “Fire demons. They love to play, and as you can tell, they can set the place on fire.” He chuckled at his own joke, but Mace continued to watch the tiny men and women of flame as they flew around the instruments.

  “Cool,” the boy said.

  “We’ve got zombies, witches, mummies, and skeletons,” said Jack. “Don’t any of them cause you the tiniest bit of apprehension?”

  “I can give oral book reports on books I haven’t read,” said Mace. “I’ve seen worse on television.”

  “Scary movies?”

  “Nightly news,” replied Mace. “Where’s Frankenstein? Shouldn’t he be here?”

  “Frankenstein’s Monster, you mean. He married a plastic surgeon, and they live in California someplace. He has a prime-time police show. Too bad. I miss him. He had a wonderful singing voice.”

  As if on cue, a wispy woman flew through the wall of the room, screeching so loudly that several glasses shattered.

  “Bavmorda the Banshee,” explained Jack. “I really don’t mind her screaming, but she drips water all over the place. As soon as she has a few cocktails in her and a kiddie pool to stand in, she’ll be fine. Not scary?”

  “No,” said Mace, finishing his cider. “I guess I better be going. I didn’t mean to interrupt your party.” He sighed so deeply Jack expected the boy to break into tears.

  Jack’s calico heart swelled, and he feared his stitches might rip. “But you haven’t found your fear bone yet. Let’s talk to one of the skeletons. Maybe they know where it is and how to fix yours.”

  “No,” said Mace. “I’ll just have to go through life never knowing what it feels like to have my heart in my throat or break out in a cold sweat.”

  “You are an enigma, young man,” said Jack. “If you have lost your fear, it could happen to other children. Without fear, we monsters have no reason to exist.”

  “I blame it on Hollywood,” said a standing lamp nearby. “Kids today have no imagination. They don’t need it. They can see all the blood and guts they want in a video game.”

  “Please, Mr. Wiggins,” said Jack. “Have you been a lamp all night?”

  The lamp wavered, growing wider and taller as it turned into a stiff-backed old man with a large nose. Of course, he kept the lampshade as a hat. “Yes. We shape-shifters aren’t social creatures like you scarecrows.”

  “Spend your life talking to crows and ears of corn,” said Jack, “and it makes you appreciate good conversation.”

  “What are you?” asked Mace.

  “A changeling,” said Mr. Wiggins. He removed the lampshade to reveal a shock of white hair and glittering green eyes. “Usually we change into living creatures, but some of us can become inanimate objects.”

  A waltzing creature from the black lagoon bumped into them as he swung his Medusian partner. “Sorry, mate,” he said, gathering his giggling companion into his arms. “Nice costume.”

  Jack watched them go. “Mr. Bigelow is here in search of his fear bone, Mr. Wiggins. The lad is human but seems unafraid of anything.”

  “Yes, I heard,” said the old man. “Radio was so much better. You could always imagine the most horrifying things. Now you don’t have to. It’s all presented to you. No imagination required.”

  “I have an imagination,” insisted Mace.

  “Really?” asked Mr. Wiggins. “When’s the last time you piloted a spaceship from your desk? Went on an adventure in a cavern under your bed? Defended your treehouse from pirates?”

  Mace grimaced. “I’ve never done any of those things.”

  “Used a stick for a ray gun? Tied a towel around your neck and jumped off the roof? Built a labyrinth out of books for your hamster?”

  “I don’t have a hamster.”

  Mr. Wiggins snorted. “I rest my case. Kids today sit in front of the television or on their phones and let their brains petrify.”

  “I bet they play their music too loud and won’t stay off your lawn, too,” said Jack with a chuckle. “Every generation says the same thing about their kids. If it’s not television, it’s books. If it’s not books, it’s newfangled jitterbug. You need to step into this generation, Mr. Wiggins, and help poor Mace out. Imagine what he’s missing in life by never being afraid of anything.”

  Mr. Wiggins rubbed his chin and stared down at Mace. “I guess you’re right. Without fear, there can’t be the other side of the coin.”

  “Happiness?” asked Mace. “I’m happy.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Jack patted him on the back. “I think Mr. Wiggins means escape from fear—security and safety. Without fear, you never feel the comfort of knowing you’ve faced it and come out the other side.”

  “Are you three going to stand here gabbing all night?” asked a goblin with green skin and orange hair. He limped over to join them. “We don’t get a night off too often.”

  Mace stared at him. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “Not unless you hang around with a lot of goblins, kid.” He took an eyeball from the bowl he carried and popped it into his mouth. “You don’t look like the kind to hang out in the lost woods reservation with the rest of us goblins and trolls.”

  “Please, Bixby,” said Jack. “You know you were isolated for your own safety. Our guest is trying to discover where he lost his fear bone. He’s come to us for help. Mr. Wiggins is afraid Mace is a symptom of something larger—a world where we aren’t scary anymore.”

  “Kick him out or eat him,” suggested Bixby. “Haven’t these humans done enough damage to us?” He rubbed his thigh as if an old injury was bothering him.

  Mace’s eyes opened wide. “You were my boogeyman!”

  Bixby frowned. “No way, kid. I’m a woods goblin through and through. You won’t find me hanging out in a closet somewhere.”

  “Who said anything about a closet?” asked Mr. Wiggins.

  Jack scratched his head. “And weren’t there rumors a couple years back about boogeymen sub-contracting goblins to terrify children?”

  “I think that pretty snake lady is trying to catch my eye,” said Bixby. “I’ll see you all later.”

  Jack snatched the squat green man by the collar and lifted him off his feet. “What did you do, Bixby?”

  “He jumped out of my closet every night after my parents put me to bed,” said Mace. “I thought it was just a nightmare.”

  “I never touched the kid,” swore Bixby. “I just made creepy noises and scared him.”

  “Until I got fed up and stabbed him with something,” sa
id Mace. “I thought I’d either hurt him bad enough to leave me alone or else my folks would find him.”

  “You almost took my leg off!” Bixby wiggled in Jack’s grasp, but the pumpkinhead’s frame was made a seasoned hardwood and masterfully articulated by the farmer who had built him. “I barely made it out the window. My leg still hurts. Lousy kid. I say we eats him.”

  “I’ll go look for the mad scientist,” offered Mr. Wiggins. “We’ll need him and his scalpel.”

  Mace looked worried. “Are you going to cut me up for stabbing Bixby in the leg?”

  “No.” Jack gave the squirming goblin another rough shake. “I think we’ve located your missing fear bone. I’m sure Bixby won’t mind getting rid of it after all these years.”

  “No!” shouted Bixby. “You can’t let the doc cut off my leg!”

  A man in a dirty lab coat and glasses with soda bottle lenses appeared. “Whose leg am I cutting off?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Doc,” said Jack. “Mr. Bixby here was stabbed by a bone several years ago and needs it removed.”

  “Anesthesia?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary either,” said Jack. “Perhaps Mr. Bixby will think twice next time before posing as a boogeyman. Mr. Wiggins, if you’d get one of the skeletons to tell you where the fear bone should go, I think we can help young Mace.”

  The music continued, and the dancers and revelers ignored screaming Bixby as the doctor cut into his thigh. Jack held him down with help from Mr. Wiggins in the form of a set of wooden stocks. The incision was small and quickly patched with a dirty rag from the doctor’s little black bag.

  “I think we have it.” The doc held a splinter of white bone in his bloody fingers.

  Jack released Bixby, who was moaning dramatically and cursing them all for his rough handling. He swore he’d never attend another party at Jack’s house. Jack only hoped it was true.

  “Are you ready?” Jack asked Mace. “Are you sure you want it to be returned? You’ll be afraid again.”