Harvest Moon

by James A. Moore

  Through the pain of the injury, he managed a desperate grin and called out at the top of his lungs while pointing at Old Bones. “In the name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord, get thee behind me!” He thought he’d heard that in a movie, but wasn’t completely sure.

  Old Bones stepped back for a second, his arms lifted to cover his jigsaw puzzle face. Alex felt his heart flutter with a surge of triumph. Then Old Bones lifted his arms higher above his head, until they were lifted all the way into the sky.

  From behind him Alex heard the sound of the Pumpkin Man speaking with a mocking, amused tone in his sepulchral voice. “You have to have faith, lad. Faith is required before you can expect any sort of miracles.”

  The massive bone-encrusted arms of Old Bones dropped like the blade of a guillotine and crashed down into Alex’s shoulders, shattering the arms, the ribcage, and half of his internal organs in one massive blow. Happily for Alex, the pain made him pass out.

  David, still in a fugue of agony from the bone harpoon that pinned him to the ground, whimpered and cried silently as his brother fell. Old Bones hoisted the broken form of Alex over one massive shoulder and started toward David.

  David cried silent tears, hope fading away to leave a bitter taste on his soul. This was a nightmare, it had to be. He couldn’t accept that he was going to be killed by a fairy tale.

  Mister Sticks—he could not deny the sight of the creature coming his way—walked over to him and nodded his head with what looked like satisfaction. “Don’t worry, lad. You’re not dead yet. We have plans for you.”

  “Wha-what are you goh-hunna do-hoo?” He was hyperventilating and the words were hard to form.

  “Why, we’re going to use you to help our mother come back. She’s very important to us, and you and your friend are two of the main ingredients we need to see her back safely.” The thing leaned in closer, the hellish flames from within his hollow gourd head burning with less savagery as he spoke now. “Your parents may as well have tailor-made you for us.”

  “But why us?” He was crying harder now, and though he wasn’t sure, he thought maybe he’d crapped in his pants. “What did we do?”

  “You’re out after dark and your parents thoughtfully never got around to getting you baptized.” The nearly skeletal pumpkin face leaned in closer, yellow pulp from the inside glowing a faint green, and the features shifted as Mister Sticks sniffed his skin. “I can smell an un-baptized boy a hundred yards away, even if he fails to wear enough deodorant.”

  Old Bones reached out and lifted David almost gently from the ground, pulling the massive bone spike out of the hard soil in the same gesture. David screamed and felt the world go gray.

  Mister Sticks patted his sweating head with mock affection. “Hard to desecrate a church with a pious body, lad. You need a good and proper sinner to ruin a holy place.” Old Bones shambled off, and all that David could see when he came back to semi-consciousness was the ground far below him and the bone-sculptures that made up the monster’s body.

  II

  The Watersford Academy for Advanced Children sat on well over one hundred acres of private land riddled with ponds, clusters of trees, and a very, very long nature trail. For most of the year the trail was used by students in science classes who were learning about the ecology in one way or another. Now and then, however, normally around Halloween and Christmas, the trail was illuminated for the enjoyment of everyone. In December it became a wonderland of lights and luminaries, and for a small fee—which, in all honesty, covered the cost of nothing more than the actual decorations—the people of Beldam Woods could take a sleigh ride through the area. It was a favorite locally and big enough that the academy sometimes had to hire a small fleet of local kids to drive the sleighs.

  In October, however, the place became a darker, haunted place. There were still lights, to be sure, but they were muted and sinister in their placement. They did not light the way so much as they highlighted the darkest places, where the monsters might dwell. The trees were festooned not with winter’s delights but with reminders that lives can end abruptly, and sometimes not destined for a long and happy life.

  There had been a trend a few years back to put moral signatures on the haunted houses and rides that ran through the country. Watersford was never a part of that particular routine. There were no warnings about the dangers of premarital sex, nor about the hell that sinners would suffer if they sinned. Instead there were ghosts, witches, zombies, and a myriad of well-crafted sets designed to generate a good, healthy scare.

  Several of the locals worked at the academy, and they were the first ones offered the chance to work the Haunted Hayride for extra money. Most of them gladly took the opportunity. Half of the groundskeepers wandered around in the night dressed in latex masks and fake blood. A handful of them drank like fishes while they were at it, and as long as they behaved themselves, George Burgess turned a blind eye to it. Three of the previous groundskeepers hadn’t been careful enough and had lost their jobs. The rest took the hint. As long as they did their part and behaved themselves around the locals and the kids, all was well.

  Ben Harper understood the rules. He didn’t get drunk while he was working. He chose to get stoned instead. A few hits from a joint and he could have as much fun as the teens throughout the entire night. The worst problem that ever came his way was a hardcore case of the munchies that refused to leave him alone until it was satisfied. Nothing that couldn’t be handled with a little careful application of Tastee Kakes and a bag or two of Groff’s potato chips. They were easily stashed away in the hollow of the tree right near where he posted himself to wait for the next wagon to come along. There were seven horse-drawn buggies used at the academy for the hayrides. Most of them were loaned out by local farmers and all of them came with competent drivers. Unless you really tried hard, you couldn’t help but see them coming, either. The big damned lanterns hanging off the front were used to light the coachmen’s way and to warn the different monsters of when they should leap out and offer their scares. As long as he saw the coaches, he was in good shape. Ben was buzzing and had a nearly perfect high, but was able to handle the task of chasing after the wagons that came down the path. At thirty-two years of age he’d learned all about that sort of stupid by watching those around him who fell victim to alcohol and drug abuse. Nothing stronger than a little Mary Jane was his first rule and so far it had kept him in good shape.

  He set down his mostly empty bag of Salt and Vinegar chips as he saw the lights for the coach coming down the way. It was still too early to actually hear the coach, and one of the lights had gone out, but he could see the other lantern just fine. The werewolf mask slid over his head with ease and after only a few seconds he was set, his body moving with the low crouch he felt best suited to a werewolf’s lope and his clawed gloves back over his hands.

  He moved next to the tree and into the shadows, waiting patiently for the sound of the wagon coming closer. He could already hear the sounds of the children in the hay-filled back of the ancient Conestoga as it rumbled closer. He grinned and prepared himself.

  “Just a little closer guys, come on…” He had to stop himself from giggling. Werewolves weren’t supposed to giggle, they were supposed to growl, but it wasn’t easy when the pot in his system was so damned good.

  They came closer, just as he’d asked, and Ben leaped out from behind the tree, roaring and charging toward the side of the wagon. The kids all screamed, which was exactly the right sound to hear on a chilly October night when the moon was full and the werewolves were out. The moon had even accommodated any potential lycanthropes this year, being so close to full as to make it impossible to know the difference.

  Ben hammed it up properly, grabbing the side of the wagon and roaring into the startled, terrified face of a ten-year-old girl. Even through the fear there was excitement, and that was what he really lived for as far as Halloween was concerned. He liked Halloween, always had, and always would. Good clean fun and a little fear,
like a roller coaster without the serious risks. Ben’s hand grazed the little girl’s foot and she shrieked obligingly.

  And then the wagon was moving past, the horses trotting on as if nothing had happened and the families in the hay laughing at their close call. A fatherly arm pulled a frightened little girl closer and she smiled warmly up at her father as the werewolf faded from view.

  And Ben smiled in his latex mask, wishing they’d had as cool a setup when he was a kid. The monsters back then had all been cheap and the closest thing they had to a real Halloween attraction had been the house on Halvert Lane where it adjoined the cemetery. The freaky people who’d lived there had always had a few props for scaring kids, and had always given out the best candy. They’d been busted for dealing drugs when he was ten and that was the end of that particular fond memory.

  He turned to look back at his stash of munchies and saw the shape standing next to his Peanut Butter Kandy Kakes. He blinked, taken completely by surprise, and clutched at his own chest as his heart stuttered in his breast.

  “Jesus!”

  “Not quite.” The voice was almost familiar, someone he felt he should have known but couldn’t place. Ben pulled the mask off his face, looking more closely at the figure standing nearby. The man was massive, heavy with muscle or wearing a costume that mimicked it pretty damned well.

  The moon was up enough that it illuminated the area pretty well. He stepped closer and studied the details the luminescence offered. Somebody had way too much time to spend on Halloween to make a costume that convincingly disturbing. The skin on the thing was thick and fell in rolls not unlike the heavy hide of a rhinoceros. It almost looked armored. But the hide was uneven in both thickness and coloration. There were areas where the flesh looked blackened with decay and others where the skin looked fresh and new. Most of it was somewhere between the two extremes, pale and rotting, but not fully ruined as yet.

  From within the folds of skin on the face—which resembled the heavily wrinkled flesh of a vulture more than anything else—teeth were bared in a feral snarl and eyes a deep, rich brown stared back at him, taking his measure.

  Massive hands and legs as thick as Ben’s chest flexed and the thing walked closer with an unsettlingly wet noise. The costume squelched when it moved.

  “I don’t know what you’re supposed to be, but that is a seriously scary costume.”

  The figure stepped closer, head tilted slightly as if listening to something going on elsewhere. “Thanks. It’s homemade.” It tilted its head as it looked him over. “Is that Ben Harper under the raccoon makeup?”

  It took Ben a second to remember the black makeup around his eyes, but when he did he nodded. “Yeah. Who’s under the leather?”

  “Patrick Winter.”

  “Pat? Where have you been hiding out?” Ben let out a mental sigh of relief. He’d heard about Patrick Winter disappearing on Denny Halloran and been a little worried. Patrick was hardly a close friend, but he was a nice guy who was always ready to lend a helping hand. “Denny said you’d fallen off the face of the earth, man.”

  “Denny exaggerates, what else is new.” Patrick shrugged and stepped closer. He smelled like he’d lost a fight with a skunk a while back and his costume was just recovering, but still held the old factory memory close at hand. “I just had to take care of some stuff. Family coming into town.”

  Up close Patrick’s eyes burned with intensity and Ben had to wonder if he’d been dealing himself a few drugs on the side. To the best of his knowledge Patrick didn’t actually drink anything stronger than a Pepsi, but you could never tell.

  “What brings you out here, man?” Patrick’s stare was unsettling him, even through the haze of pot smoke that still had his senses muted and altered.

  Patrick looked him in the eyes and shook his head. “You still dating Liz Hardy, Ben?”

  “Hunh? Oh, yeah.” He smiled at the thought of Liz. She had the greatest smile and tended to make every day an adventure in mood swings. Sometimes she was an angel and sometimes she could be a perfect bitch, but he loved her. He couldn’t imagine anyone else he would want to spend his life with. “We’re engaged. Happened last week.”

  Patrick shook his head, his eyes looking down at the ground. “That’s great.”

  “Liz send you out here? Is everything okay?”

  “Liz didn’t send me.”

  That was good. Liz was independent. She wouldn’t have called on anyone to call on Ben unless there was a problem. “Oh. So, you just felt like coming out here in that costume? Or are you supposed to give me my break?”

  “Something like that.” Patrick’s hands clenched tightly in the leathery costume. His whole body trembled.

  “Which one?” Ben smiled. “Just felt like coming out or the taking my place?”

  “More like the latter, I’m afraid.”

  Something about the tone of Patrick’s voice was wrong and Ben tried to put his finger on it. “Patrick, is everything okay?”

  “No, Ben. I’m afraid not.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “Probably better if I just get it done, Ben. Don’t you think?”

  “Get what done, man?” Patrick wasn’t making a whole lot of sense and Ben was leaning toward the man dabbling in drugs more by the second.

  Patrick looked back at him, and in the light of the moon Ben could see the teeth flash from within the dark, shadowy face in front of him. The teeth were the only part of Patrick that looked the same. It was not a grin, so much as a baring of those teeth; a feral, wild thing.

  Patrick’s hand flashed toward him and seemed almost to explode as it came closer. The fingers stretched impossibly far apart and wrapped around Ben’s head like a bag over a kitten. Ben tried to struggle, tried to escape, but the pressure in those warped, flattening fingers was like the constriction of a boa hugging fresh prey.

  Through the pressure that crushed his head, blinded him and made breathing impossible, Ben still heard Patrick’s words. “Killing you, Ben. I’m sorry, I truly am, but there’s a list you see. There are certain people who have certain things that my mother needs. You? You have a strong heart and she needs that. And I need new flesh, Ben.”

  The true pain started a second later. A feeling like a thousand ants sliding under his skin and tearing it from the muscle and bone beneath erupted across Ben’s scalp and from there spread across his face, his entire head, and down into his neck and shoulders.

  Ben screamed and kept screaming for the next several minutes as the skin was pulled away from his body and drawn into Patrick Winter’s form. He screamed and screamed and screamed some more right up until the time that Patches pulled open his rib cage and carefully removed his heart.

  “I’m sorry, Ben. And I’m sorry for Liz, for what that’s worth.” Patrick Winter stared down at the ruin he’d created and almost looked like he expected an answer. Being dead, Ben Harper did not provide one.

  There were seven more people he needed to kill before the night was finished. Patches didn’t wait very long. Time was almost running out and his mother still demanded sacrifices.

  III

  The fair was not excessive. There were no real rides beyond the hayride, but there were a few games of chance and there were concession stands all over the place. Most of the people who were there had already hit the hayride a couple of times since it opened for the season and were glad to do it again. It was something different to do and it was a chance to actually mingle with their friends and neighbors outside of the normal environments.

  Beldam Woods, like most small towns, had its share of troubles, but there weren’t that many skirmishes between neighbors and for the most part the sense of community lost to the larger urban areas still existed. So for the people in town who felt the need, the Haunted Hayride and Autumn Festival were just the thing.

  Erika Carmichael couldn’t have given a damn if her life depended on it. She was bored and frustrated and wanted nothing more than to escape from working at the h
amburger stand. That wasn’t going to happen. Georgie Porgie was watching her like a hawk, and there wasn’t the remotest chance in hell that she was going to get away with anything at all.

  She smiled dutifully at the creepy guy who delivered milk to the school, doing her best to ignore the fact that he was speaking to her tits. If she’d thought it would help her out of her current dilemma, she probably would have let him play with them for a while, but she doubted he had any pull with George Burgess.

  The people around the clearing where the festival took place were all having a good time and she wanted nothing more than to join in, but ever since Burgess’s car got trashed, he’d been riding her like a kite rides a good breeze.

  The milk creep licked his lips as he took the cheap burgers from her and put down his money. She gave him exact change, not trying to slide so much as a penny on the side. She didn’t need to take money from people. She had plenty. But now and then it was fun for the thrill.

  Georgie was making sure that fun didn’t happen.

  She hated the headmaster. She hated him a lot. Something about him just pissed her off and she couldn’t have even said exactly what it was. He gave her the creeps. It was like, though she’d never actually seen him looking at any of the girls on the campus, she could sense that he wanted to do things to her that she had no desire to do with a middle-aged creepazoid. She got that vibe from him all the time and it bugged her. Even when he was angry as hell at her for whatever she had done—and to be honest, she normally had done something—she got the impression he wanted to just tear her clothes off and fuck her as hard as he could. Not have sex, not make love, but fuck. Like animals.

  Just for fun, she dropped a few coins and bent over, taking her time and letting him get an eyeful of what she would never, ever let him touch. The idea of teasing the old bastard got her excited. The idea of ever letting it go beyond teasing made her want to puke.