“‘I can’t deny him a drink when he needs one.’”
“That’s right.”
Marian got up and put her arms around Boots, holding her as tightly as she could.
“I’m fine, honey,” said Boots, “thank you. I’m always fine. Don’t know why I had to go and blubber like this. Not my way. Let’s put ourselves back together now, whatta you say?”
Marian kissed Boots’s cheek. “You were always my favorite aunt.”
“Glad to know someone in this family was born with good taste. Listen, now; I’m gonna get myself freshened up. Why don’t you go on and stick your head in the guest room down here and wake Laura? She’d throw a fit if she knew you’d been here and I didn’t let you wake her to say hello. You go do that, I’ll make myself presentable, then I’ll drive us back over to the house. I want to see this thing your brother made.”
Boots went upstairs and Marian— after another shot of doctored tea— went to the door of the guest room and knocked. “Laura? Laura, it’s me. Can I come in?”
“M-Marian?” She sounded half-asleep still. “Hell, yes...come in.”
For a while there were no words exchanged between them, there was no need. Marian sat next to her ex-sister-in-law’s bed, holding her hand and trying not to give in to the fear that was clawing at the lining of her stomach.
Laura was pregnant and—judging from her size—in the last month.
Marian wished she could smile and make herself believe that Laura had found someone new, a man who loved and cared for her and wanted a family, but the look of helplessness on Laura’s face, one composed of fear and more than a little hatred, kept her nailed in the moment.
“I don’t feel very good,” said Laura, her voice thin, hollow, “so please j-just listen to what I have to say.” As she spoke the color drained from her face until she looked ashen, a bloated greying corpse. Marian felt herself shaking as she watched the sweat pour down Laura’s face.
“I left your brother over nine months ago, and I haven’t slept with any man since then. I’ve been tested, Marian, and I there’s a...baby in me. I feel it kicking, I feel its hunger...it’s there. And its Alan’s. I don’t know how or why he did this to me, but I know.
“Early on, I tried three times to have an abortion, but when they got inside me there was... there was nothing there.”
The sweating was worse now and she was shaking badly— as was Marian.
“I never really wanted kids,” said Laura. “All I ever wanted was a man who would love me, who would support me, and who knew that I came first once he’d left the family. But Alan could never leave your family behind. Was that so much to ask? Was it? To have a home all my own? A home that had no trace of whatever it was that happened to him when you guys were kids? I still love him, Marian, but this thing in me is moving and I don’t want it! I just want to... to have my job and my husband back, I want to read in bed at night and feel him beside me, I want to go to movies and drive him crazy because I insist on sitting through all the credits, I want him to wake me up and send me to bed because I feel asleep watching some late night talk show again, I want him to crack bad jokes when our friends come over....” She leaned back and started taking deep breaths.
Marian looked at Laura’s middle.
It rippled.
A quick movement, a thin hissing sound, and Laura’s water broke.
Marian jumped to her feet and called out for Boots.
“Press the ‘O’ key on the phone,” called her aunt from upstairs. “That’s 911.”
Marian snatched up the phone and made the call. Four minutes later she and Boots watched as the EMTs loaded Laura into the ambulance. Boots kissed Laura’s forehead and told her they’d follow in her car. The ambulance pulled away and Marian followed her aunt into the garage.
The garage was dark but Boots was able to guide Marian to the car without either of them banging a shin. Once inside the car, under the harsh glow of the dome light, the strain on Boots was evident; she suddenly looked much older than her years. She caught Marian staring at her and smiled. “You are a pretty thing. Won’t be much longer now and I’ll be paying good money to see your face up on a movie screen.”
“That’s right. You’re sharing space with the next Katherine Hepburn, so show the proper respect.”
“And humble, to boot,” said Boots, laughing, then closed the car door, plunging them both into darkness. “Lord, I hope they take 21st Street to the hospital, it’s the quickest way.”
Marian suddenly did not want to leave. Out there, Alan was waiting. And maybe something else. But behind her, just through the door, was a warm and bright house, a place of safety where two women could sit down with a cup of nasty-ass tea and have a good cry over a death in the family, a place where grief would eventually ease, not grow to become so strong it walked on two spindly legs and spoke in a voice teeming with coffin beetles.
“...all right,” said Boots.
“H-huh?”
“I said you shouldn’t worry, things’ll be all right. One disaster at a time. Laura and the baby first, then your brother.”
“Laura told me—”
“I know what she told you. She’s been telling me the same thing for weeks.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I don’t know what to believe half the time anymore.” Boots started the car, raised the garage door, turned on the headlights, and slowly backed out into the street. “Can’t say I’m much looking forward to this.”
“I don’t think Alan’s really dangerous. Besides, he cut himself worse than I did. He must be pretty weak by now and there’s two of us.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Boots. “I’m probably gonna come back to find that the neighborhood kids have soaped every last one of my goddamn windows.”
The two women looked at each other and laughed. Marian promised herself to take the time to get to know Aunt Boots better.
Wasted time. Lost opportunities. Regrets.
Nothing was ever accomplished by dwelling on them.
“You know, don’t you, that we’re gonna have to drive by the cemetery on the way from the hospital back to your folks’s house, right? It’s the quickest way.”
Marian glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure nothing was following them. Going paranoid’s good.
Nothing but shadows and the glowing faces of pumpkins in windows, a few groups of costumed children heading home, stomachs ready for sweet treats.
Only these things.
And the wind. Blowing harder. Whistling. Drawing the tree branches down like arms reaching—
She blinked, forcing the chill away. Boots reached over and snapped on the heat. “Not gonna have you catch your death on top of everything else.”
“Thanks. I guess I’m just tired.”
They rounded a corner. Then another. And one more.
The taillights of the ambulance—as well as its whirling visibar lights—came into view. Boots accelerated slightly in order to keep it in sight. Marian sat up straight, her heart suddenly pounding so hard and fast she expected to blink and see it lying there on the dashboard, pumping blood all over the windshield, blinding her, panicking her, sending her off the road and into a guardrail, over the side and —
— the ambulance’s siren cut off as it began to weave; only slightly at first, then much more erratic and violently.
Dear God, thought Marian.
It’s happening.
Though the car was a good quarter-mile from the ambulance, Marian could clearly see what was going on. The ambulance tried slowing to a normal speed, couldn’t, then veered right and ran up on the curve, crashing into and then plowing over a mailbox before slamming into the side of brick building, shattering the windshield and popping open one of the rear doors, fumes from the engine obscuring everything in smoke and steam.
Boots yelled, “Oh, Holy Mother!” and braked quickly, throwing both herself and Marian forward into the dash. Once they’d recovered, Marian pus
hed open her door and jumped out of the car just as one of the attendants came out of the back, his uniform covered in blood, and collapsed to the ground.
Marian felt her legs go weak as she ran toward the ambulance.
The windows were smeared with dripping darkness from inside.
The driver scrambled out, his back drenched in blood, and dropped to his knees, softly laughing.
Boots was now beside Marian. “Oh, Dear God—Laura!” She ran from Marian, who quickly followed her aunt to the opened door in back and looked inside and saw—
—blood, a lot of blood and tissue, but no Laura and no baby, only the blood and tissue and something that looked like deep scratch marks on the inside roof—
“—do now?” shouted Boots.
Marian ran over to the driver and tried to bring him back, but his laugh and the hollowed look of his eyes told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t coming home for a while, so she ran to the other EMT and rolled him over—
—a deep gash along the side of neck was still spurting blood, albeit slowly now, the artery severed, his life gone, gone, gone.
Keep it together, for chrissakes!
She jumped in the front seat of the ambulance and grabbed the mic from the radio unit, pressed down on the button, and said, “Hello? Hello? Listen, I’m calling from inside the ambulance that was dispatched about ten minutes ago. There’s been a wreck and—” Her thumb slipped off the button. “—shit!”
The radio hissed and crackled, and buried somewhere in the noise she heard the sound of singing: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house...”
“Hello!” she shouted into the mic once again.
“...goblin lives in OUR house, all the year ‘round!”
Then Boots was there, grabbing her arm and pulling her from the ambulance. “C’mon, hon, let’s get back in the car and get to a phone, okay? There’s nothing we can do here.”
She didn’t so much guide as almost toss Marian toward the car. In moments both were in and doors were closed and Boots was turning around and then they were moving again.
Too much, Marian thought, pressing closed her eyes as if wishing alone would make it all a dream. Too much, too fast, dearGod make it slow down, make it stop, anything!
“Hang in there with me, hon,” said Boots, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “We’ll get through this somehow.”
Marian opened her eyes as Boots tore around the next corner and accelerated.
Marian saw it first. The street was blocked, filled with dozens, maybe hundreds of people; children, adults, old folks, all of them carrying pumpkins that glowed with a deep, otherwordly light.
Boots jerked the steering wheel to the left and stood on the brake but it was too late; the car fishtailed over the curb, spun sideways, and smashed into a section of Cedar Hill Cemetery’s iron gate, slamming Marian against the dashboard as the windshield exploded.
It took less than five seconds.
Later—she had no idea how much later, but it was later, nonetheless—Marian pulled herself up and wiped the blood out of her eyes. A low pressure in the back of her head swam forward. She felt like she was going to pass out again. She hoped she didn’t have a concussion.
Her door was wrenched open.
She turned and saw Jack Pumpkinhead.
And next to him, wearing her favorite old housecoat, his pumpkinhead wife.
Marian began tumbling back toward darkness.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” said Jack, reaching for her.
“Just fine,” said Mom.
Then darkness took her.
7
You still need to go back and cut off the corners to eliminate bulk!
* * *
“I’m so glad you came home.”
Mom’s voice. So near, so warm. For a moment, Marian thought she was back home in bed, eight years old again, with a fever. She grinned, hoping that Mom would fix her a cup of hot cocoa and read to her from her favorite book.
The touch of brittle twig-fingers against her cheek tore her from her reverie. She opened her eyes and saw, at first, only the bright harvest moon above, then a twig-finger touched her face again and a pumpkinhead eclipsed the moon.
“I missed you, hon,” said the thing with her mother’s voice.
Marian swallowed a shriek and kicked back, trying to get away. A sharp pain stabbed her in the ribs as something inside of her shifted. Her chest hitched and she fell backwards, realizing that some of her ribs were broken.
The Mom-thing was next to her then, cradling her head in dry branch-arms. “You’ll be all better soon, hon. I promise.”
“Get a-w-w-way from me.”
The thing froze, then lowered its face. A thin trickle of blood ran out of its rounded, glowing eye. “I’m so sorry I made you ashamed of me,” it said, its voice cracking just like Mom’s used to. Before Marian could try to move again, Alan was next to the Mom-thing, laying a hand on its shoulder. He’d put his baseball cap back on.
“She’s just scared, Mom, that’s all. She loves you, she told me so. Isn’t that right, Sis?” He looked at Marian with pleading in his eyes.
Marian said, “Where’s Aunt Boots?”
Alan pointed toward the church. “She’s over there, talking to Dad.”
Boots, her blouse torn and bloodied, her hair matted with dark splotches, was standing next to Jack Pumpkinhead. He had one of his arms around her shoulders and was leading her toward one of the church’s collapsed walls. Marian could see a staircase inside the church, through the rubble. Jack leaned over and covered Boots’s lips with his crescent mouth, then sent her on her way.
Limping and shuddering, Boots began climbing the stairs which, Marian now saw, led to the exposed organ loft.
“Isn’t that sweet?” said the Mom-thing. “He’s gonna have her play a song for our anniversary.” It leaned close to Marian, its breath the reek of rotting vegetables mixed with dirt. “I always used to kid your daddy about how I knew he was gonna forget our anniversary, but he never did. He’s a charmer. And he invited the whole family, did you know that? What a thoughtful fellow.”
“That’s why you married me,” said Jack Pumpkinhead, taking one of Mom-thing’s hands and pulling her to her feet. Two corners of the Story Quilt were tied together under his neck, the rest of it flowing behind him like a grand cape. Jack pulled the Mom-thing toward an open patch in the cemetery. They stared at one another for a moment, then embraced. The brittle sound of wood scraping against wood filled the air. They pulled back, still looking at one another, as a low, deep, throbbing hum crept from the organ loft and unfurled over the cemetery; softly, at first, then steadily louder, the pained cacophony became progressively more structured and only slightly prettier as a tune struggled to break the surface of the chaos.
A tune that Marian recognized.
“The Anniversary Waltz.”
Jack Pumpkinhead and the Mom-thing tossed back their heads and laughed the laughter of Marian’s parents; younger, happier, stronger, a couple in love long before the world had beaten them down. They danced away, gliding and twirling through the tombstones. Mom-thing’s housecoat flowed in the nightbreeze like the grandest and most elegant of gowns; Jack’s Story-Quilt cape flew up and out like the wings of some giant, majestic nightbird. Their laughter cut through the whistling wind.
A black mass the size of a truck bled out from the ruins of the organ loft, then exploded into dozens of bats who squealed, screeched, and swooped down toward the dancers, not to attack, but to join in the celebration, encircling them in a fluttering wind-ballet that flowed up and down, round and round, rippling in time with the music.
Marian looked around, trying not to meet her brother’s stare. The smashed heap that once had been Boots’s car sat under a section of fallen gate. Someone must have seen the accident, so where in hell were the police and ambulance and fire trucks?
“Everyone’s already here,” said Alan. “Look around.”
The cemetery was filled with people, each standing at a grave, either alone or with others, holding their jack-o’-lanterns, looking at the headstone that bore the name of a lost loved one.
It was overpowering.
Though she could not say what exactly it was, Marian could nonetheless feel it all around her; above and under, in the air, in the trees and soil, in the beams of moonlight: thick, sentient, and all-powerful.
The music played on, the organ rasping, crackling, and singing.
Alan removed the stone bottle from his pocket and pulled out the cork. “Party time.” He tilted the neck of the bottle and a thin slow stream of blood dribbled from it onto the soil of the cemetery. He emptied the bottle and then knelt down, using his hands to spread the blood right to left, forward and back, regulating the stream to flow. Marian could almost see the blood mixing down into the soil and mud beneath, blending in, spreading wider, then breaking through the last layer and staining the lids of all the coffins underneath.
The throbbing in Marian’s ribs gave way to something stronger. At first she thought the pounding was only in her head but as she pulled herself to her feet she realized that the noise, the thumping—
—deargod—
—was coming from underneath the ground.
The little girl in her drew a picture of the dead beating their fists against the inside of their coffin lids.
(Let-Us-OUT!...Let-Us-OUT!)
From the grave nearest her the pounding increased, its desperate strength spreading to the grave next to it, then to the next grave, then on and on across the grounds, the rhythmic beating of a thousand dead hearts becoming one.
Cages & Those Who Hold the Keys Page 40