“Sure, it isn’t you he’s trying to feel up when you’re sparring.”
“Fair enough. Does he know you call him the Sneaky Fucking Russian?”
She snorted and laughed. “Uh, no. Are you going to listen to the rest of the story? I’m not finished.”
“Tell me.”
“So, right. A couple of months go by. The Sneaky Fucking Russian keeps training, but he avoids me like the plague. Won’t so much as glance in my direction. One night he comes over to me with flowers and a small box wrapped in a bow. I’m thinking, oh shit, here we go again, but he holds up his hand and says, ‘No, no, I was wrong to speak to you in that manner. You are strong American woman and I am the dirt under your shoes. I am not fit to kiss your foot.’ Then he gives me the box . . . ”
“Thus the knife.”
“Yep!”
“What kind is it?”
She shrugged. “What do you mean? It’s a knife.”
“I mean is it a Randall, a Gerber, a Ka-Bar . . . ?”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know. It folds.”
“You should get a fixed blade and keep it on you.”
“Thanks, Dad. I told you, I’m a weapon.” She was quiet for a long moment. “Death doesn’t frighten me. I’ve died plenty of times.”
“How does that work?” He squeezed her hand and let it go. “You feel warm enough.”
“Everybody has died. When I was six I went sledding and hit a concrete retaining wall under the snow. Felt my neck crack and everything faded to white. When the world came back into focus I was right as rain, but . . . ”
“I understand,” he said. The booze made him a bit giddy. He remembered a long ago storm on Norton Sound, the rasp of diamond-bright snow scouring the ice, a universe of white; his hands were blurred shadows groping for purchase, and all around him, inside him, a constant dull roar. “And for a few hours after you came to, everything was in too sharp focus. Everything was too real.”
“Yes! Too shiny, too present. I felt like a ghost floating through a world that had materialized just to accommodate me. By the next day I’d forgotten. Sometimes it comes back when I dream, or at odd moments.”
“Like tonight.”
“Maybe a little.” She gave him a sidelong glance. Her eyes were ringed like a raccoon’s and they shone with wary innocence. “The portal opens on All Hallows. Tonight is the night to do a séance or summon a spirit, if that’s what floats your boat. All possibilities are viable.”
“How many times has it happened? The return from the dead bit?”
“Three. You?”
He considered. “Eleven or twelve.”
“Jeez, dude! What the hell were you doing before you started writing?”
“Misspending my youth. Drinking, fighting, whoring around. Tramping across ice packs and climbing mountains. The usual for where I grew up.”
“Can’t leave it there. Tell me a story.”
“Oh, how about I do that on our next date? Give you something to look forward to.”
“What makes you think there’s going to be another date?” She smiled. “Come along, tell.”
“I drowned once when I was a kid,” he said. “Fell in the creek. Dad had to press the water out of my lungs and get me going again. Another time, very late in the winter, I was training a string of huskies on the Susitna River. The ice gave way under my sled and I went into the black water as deep as my chest before the team somehow dragged me free. There wasn’t any bottom to that river. That current is strong and it’ll just plain suck you under. Basically a miracle I survived. Got shanked in a bar fight in Dutch Harbor. A deckhand stuck me with a big ass filet knife. Except that’s not quite what happened—damned if the point didn’t bounce off my chest. Not even a bruise, but I saw my life go pouring out onto the sawdust floor anyhow. There you go. Three stories for the price of one.”
She chewed her thumbnail and kept walking, half a stride ahead. She said, “I’m a bitch after you get to know me.”
“How many dates in is that, would you say?”
“Usually halfway through the first one. I like my space. Everything tends to be about me, me, me.”
“Everything?”
“I’m all I’ve got.”
“You’ve been fucked over. That’s coming through loud and clear.”
“With a vengeance,” she said.
“Okay,” he said.
“Thought it might be useful information. I’d hate to disappoint you down the road.”
“That doesn’t sound so selfish.”
“I like to make people smile, but I hate them too. Ah, the essential dichotomy of me. It might drive you crazy. You’ll love me, but you’ll be a mad dog.”
He chuckled. “The damage was done long before we met. Are you happy?”
“I’m happy and I’m never bored. I’ve always thought I was meant for great things. But, all that happens is I keep getting older.”
“You’re in a rut. Press your face to the grindstone and that’s all you can see. Same friends, same colleagues, same scenery. The years roll over into one another. Happiness and misery become intertwined.”
“I like my rut,” she said.
“People always think they do. It’s either that or slit your wrists.”
Streetlights stretched farther and farther apart. The night deepened. They came to a bridge with rusty girders. The water below gleamed in moonlit streaks.
“I’ve lived in this town for twenty years and never walked across this bridge,” she said.
“Tonight is the night?” he said. “For séances and a bridge crossing?”
“Yeah. Watch out for the ghost of the Hessian.” She pulled her collar tight and winked.
He counted sixty-six steps, measuring each stride with the precision his father, a Marine, had instilled within him. Being slightly drunk concentrated his mind, oddly enough. Seventy-six steps saw them atop a gravel embankment that functioned as a turnout for cars. A heavily trodden path began just off the white line of the road and immediately forked. One path descended to the river; the other climbed a hillock toward a copse of gaunt trees and a jumble of rocks. She plucked his sleeve and led the way upward.
The largest, flattest stone shone white. She brushed aside a litter of dead leaves and primly seated herself upon its surface and beckoned him. For a time they sat, shoulder to shoulder; she smoking, he watching the lights of the town and the headlights sparkling along the road. The wind rose in brief gusts and branches moaned in the surrounding woods.
“This is romantic,” he said, putting his arm around her. She didn’t move one way or another.
“They say there was a grove here once,” she said. “During colonial times those white settlers who followed the Old Gods cultivated this hillside, planted oak and sage and conducted rituals. Naturally, the Christians eventually squashed them. Hanged the ‘witches’ from the trees, or drowned them in the river. The grove was razed to ash and this stone became known as the White Spot.”
He raised his head to examine the few scraggly trees that poked from the dense soil, claws raking free of a grave. “Nothing good grows here, I take it.”
“Stunted, emaciated shadows of the grand oaks of days gone by. The ground is supposedly cursed, but I come here all the same. I feel drawn like a flake of metal hurtling toward a giant magnet. There’s a current in the earth, a conduit. It speaks to my blood.”
The moon floated across the near pane of sky, visibly traveling like a golden sail on the night sea. She inclined her head toward him and they gazed into each other’s eyes. A charge arced from her and into him. His vision doubled. He beheld himself kneeling before her naked form, lips pressed to her sweet hip while the great and deathly blizzard that nearly killed him once raged against the walls of a landlocked cabin. He had the sense of the moon plunging toward the earth, the dissolution of himself within the following shockwave. As he dissolved, the lilac taste of her was the last artifact of his being to go into that good night. A dog or a wolf how
led.
She touched his neck and her hand was cool. She said, “What’s wrong?”
“Must be the Great Conjunction, or too heavy on the booze,” he said, shuddering free of the illusion.
“No conjunctions tonight. Plenty of single malt, though.” She laughed and kneaded his arm. Her fingers were very strong.
“I like your bruises,” he said. “Sexy as hell.”
“You are a little nuts, aren’t you?” she said and kissed him on the mouth. She was sweet with lip gloss and smoke and spearmint gum.
His toes curled. He thought of the Stevens poem about the wind in the hemlocks and the tails of the peacocks and the dead leaves turning in the fire as the planets aligned and turned outside the window. Fear and exultation turned within him. The wind and the cold in his chest receded, growling.
She separated from him slightly and said, “And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.” She licked her lips. “Sometimes I can read minds. Ever since that sledding accident.”
He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Precognition. Usually during dreams, but occasionally when I’m walking down the street or chatting on the phone . . . Zaps me like a bolt from the blue. Too unpredictable or else I’d hop a plane to Vegas and rake it in. Eerie, though.”
“That explains your perspicacity.”
He kissed her again.
Finally, she said, “All night I’ve had a feeling of impending doom.”
“I’d say everything has turned up aces so far.”
“Maybe, maybe. Can’t last. Romance with me is fraught with peril. Consider yourself duly warned.”
Clouds rolled across the stars and covered the moon.
“Hm, the gods agree,” he said, noticing the abrupt and precipitous chill that slithered over his flesh and into his bones. He felt her breath against his face, but could barely see the shine of her eyes.
She trembled and tightened her grip on his arms. “All the lights are out. Everywhere.”
The chill intensified as he realized that she was indeed correct. While they’d been distracted, a vast, cosmic hand had erased the town below them with a sweep of darkness. Fog and cloud covered the world. The rock vibrated beneath them and small stones cascaded away toward the water. In the near distance a metallic shriek rent the silence. Its echoes died quickly and the land stilled.
“What the hell?” he said.
“Earthquake,” she said. “We get them now and again.”
He stood and smiled with faint reassurance. “The witching hour is upon us. Let’s start back. I can see pretty well in the dark.”
They inched along the path, and gradually were able to discern just enough of the landscape to make out the road and approach the bridge.
“You’ve probably already written a story about this while we walked down the hill,” she said.
“Of course,” he said. “Although, I don’t have an ending.”
She took his hand and led him onward.
The shadowy lines of the bridge materialized amid the bank of fog that boiled up from the river. As they stepped onto the partitioned walkway, his heart began to drum. He imagined the previous tremor had sheared the bridge in twain and that in a few more paces he’d swing his foot over murky nothingness and fall. There wouldn’t be a cold river awaiting his plunge; only the endless void between stars.
Behind them and on a steep grade in the road, a pair of headlights clicked on and pierced the gloom. He understood this was the panel van he’d seen cruising town. He knew with absolute infallibility who inhabited the idling vehicle and what they intended to do with their ropes and machetes and plastic bags. The dog, or wolf, howled again. Its cry bounced from the fog and could’ve originated anywhere.
She turned to him and her expression was hidden. “We’re not going to die tonight. I promise.” Then she released him and stepped backward and vanished. Somewhere in the town ahead, a distant solitary porch light winked into existence.
“What about your sense of impending doom?”
“Melted away by the power of love. Come on.”
A pair of red eyes flashed low to the ground and were gone. If they’d ever been.
“I felt afraid,” he said, meaning it in every sense of the phrase.
“We’re not going to die. Trust me, trust me.” Her voice was faint and fading. She laughed a ghostly laugh. “Probably something worse.”
He waited for a time, standing on the bridge, listening to the night and preparing for the inevitable. But nothing happened.
In a while he squared his shoulders and began to walk toward the light that flickered and receded with each heartbeat.
Laird Barron was born and raised in Alaska, did time in the wilderness, and raced in several Iditarods. Later, he migrated to Washington State where he devoted himself to American Combato and reading authors like Robert B. Parker, James Ellroy, and Cormac McCarthy. At night he wrote tales that combined noir, crime, and horror. He was a 2007 and 2010 Shirley Jackson Award winner for his collections The Imago Sequence and Other Stories and Occultation and Other Stories and a 2009 nominee for his novelette “Catch Hell.” Other award nominations include the Crawford Award, Sturgeon Award, International Horror Guild Award, World Fantasy Award, Bram Stoker Award, and the Locus Award. His first novel, The Croning, was published in 2012; his latest collection, The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All, is due out soon. Barron currently resides in Upstate New York and is writing a novel about the evil that men do.
THE HALLOWEEN MEN
Maria V. Snyder
Two Halloween Men paused in front of our shop. Crouched in the dark window display, I froze, hoping they wouldn’t notice me among the merchandise. My navy blue merchant’s robe blended in with the black velvet mannequin heads, my simple mask was unremarkable in the midst of the elegant and colorful masks on display.
Despite the Closed sign hanging on the door, the Halloween man on the left twisted the knob. My heart crawled up my throat as metal rattled. I’d just locked it. His partner held a box in his gloved hands. They both wore wide-brimmed leather hats to keep the rain off their full-face Bauta masks. Drops of water beaded on their black robes, resembling little globs of molten glass as they reflected the weak yellow light from the street lanterns.
Go away. Please go away.
But he knocked. Each bang of his fist sent a spike of fear right through my chest.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I huddled in my dark corner. Go away. Please go away. But the knocking turned into a pounding that reverberated throughout the building.
They’ll break the door down. Memories from childhood flashed—being jerked from a sound sleep by boots hammering up our staircase, voices shouting, my mother screaming as she disappeared in a sea of black hats.
Opening my eyes, I banished the nightmarish images. Only two stood outside. How bad could it be?
“Antonella, answer the door,” my father roared from the back room unaware of the importance of our visitors. “Tell them to return tomorrow during business hours.”
My body refused to obey even though the half-face, Columbina mask I wore met all the legal requirements.
My father shouted again as the thumping continued. The curtains parted and he stomped into the showroom, drew in a deep breath—to unleash a tirade on either the offending customer or me—and threw open the door.
The tirade failed to erupt. Not even my father would dare speak harshly to the Halloween Men.
“Master Salvatori, may we have a moment of your time?” the Halloween Man holding the box asked.
My father stepped back, allowing the men inside the showroom. Masks for every occasion hung from the walls and were stacked on the shelves. A few of the more expensive ones graced smooth-headed velvet mannequin heads to best display them. Beads and sequins sparkled even in the dim light.
The men dripped on the floor, making a puddle while Father lit a couple more lanterns on the counter. Trapped and uncertain, I remained in my crouched position.
&n
bsp; The Halloween Man placed the box on the counter and opened it. He removed a bright glittering heart-shaped Columbina party mask cut from leather and decorated with red feathers. “Do you recognize this?”
Daggers of fear pumped through my body.
“No,” my father said.
“How about this one?” He pulled another Columbina from the box. This one had been cut to resemble a butterfly.
“No.”
“Are you sure?” the Halloween Man asked.
Father wore his usual navy Bauta with the small silver beads, but a hardness shone from his eyes. “Yes.”
They stared at each other. My heart tapped a fast rhythm, drowning out the rain pelting the windows. I stifled the desire to bolt.
The Halloween Man looked away first. “What can you tell us about these masks?” he asked.
Father picked up the green and purple butterfly and examined it. Sequins outlined the wings and it had small peacock feathers for antennae. He measured the length and width and checked the back. He did the same for the red one.
I held my breath.
“Aside from their unconventional shapes and overly ornate embellishments, they are legal,” Father said, setting it down.
The man huffed in disgust. “They make a mockery of the law! Proper masks are essential to societal order, not—”
His partner put a hand on his arm. “Tell us something we don’t know.”
“Have you checked—” my father said.
“Yes, we talked to the other mascherari. They believe the quality of the craftsmanship points to you.”
Father waited. I bit my lip. Would they arrest him?
“And you, of all people know this is how it starts.” The man stabbed a finger at the box. “We want to stop it before it begins. Before we have to teach another young mascheraro a lesson.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” Father said.
His words seemed to satisfy them. They returned the masks to the box and left. Father re-locked the door.
“Antonella,” he said.
I jumped as Father focused his hard gaze on me. Did he suspect?
“What happens when the Halloween Men come for you?” he asked.
HALLOWEEN: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre Page 14