HALLOWEEN: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre

by Paula Guran [editor]

  Yes, he did. “They arrest you?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” he demanded.

  “They take you into custody.”

  “And then what happens?”

  Depending on the severity of the crime, punishment could be a public whipping, being locked in the stocks for a few hours or many days, being forced to wear a metal Bauta mask, and many more things I did not want to think about. Getting caught in public without wearing a mask had the worst consequences. So horrible, no one spoke of them. My father never told me for fear of giving me nightmares.

  Father saw the answer in my eyes. “Don’t give the Halloween Men a reason to suspect you of wrongdoing. Understand?”

  I longed to ask what reason Mother had given them, but he never talked about her. Instead, I nodded.

  “Good. The deliveries are ready, get moving or you’ll be out after curfew.”

  “Curfew?” I hadn’t had one since I turned eighteen last year.

  “Yes, curfew. And tell Bianca that you will not be able to attend her Halloween party. You have work to do.”

  “But—” I clamped my mouth shut. There was no arguing with my father. Even the Halloween Men had backed down. They appeared to be satisfied with his answer. I’ll keep an eye out. Was he spying for them? That would confirm the rumors about him, which just increased my desire to move out.

  And as long as I lived in his house, I had to follow his rules. My masks didn’t sell as well as Father’s, and my recent attempt to supplement my income had just brought the Halloween Men to our door. I shuddered at the memory. “Yes, sir.”

  I hurried to the back room to load the cart with the boxes.

  Father followed me. “Mister Bellini gets two and Mistress Fiore ordered four party masks for her daughters.” He handed me the list and their corresponding addresses.

  I scanned the sheet, memorized it, slid it in a pocket of my robe before pulling the two-wheeled cart behind me. Rain continued to pound the windows so I paused to draw my hood up, tucking my long black hair underneath. Then I strode out into the wet streets. Raindrops struck my chin and drummed on the waterproof boxes. Everything had to be sealed against the frequent rains. Even my robe resisted soaking in the water. But in this downpour, it wouldn’t last long.

  The wheels of the cart splashed through puddles and sprayed against my boots. Tied up for the night, the boats in the canals bobbed in tune with the choppy water. No one else walked the streets, only the Halloween Men stood in their dark corners, watching for law-breakers. I yanked my hood lower even though my navy Columbina with the sedate silver trim met all government regulations. My back burned as I imagined their gazes piercing my skin and searching the depths of my soul for guilt.

  Normally my forays into the city were a welcome break, but not tonight. I hustled through the city, delivering the special-ordered masks. On my return trip, I took a shortcut through the food district. At the bakery, a lantern glowed behind the closed curtains.

  I pushed opened the door.

  Bianca yelped in surprise and reached for her Columbina sitting on the counter. But then she relaxed. “Don’t scare me like that, Nella! I thought you were a Halloween Man. Your soaked robe looks black.”

  “You wouldn’t have to worry if you wore your mask.” I averted my gaze from her exposed face. Nineteen like me, we’d been friends since I delivered a mask for her mother two years ago.

  “I don’t have to wear it, we’re closed for the day.” She leaned on her mop.

  But this was a public area. And the image of the Halloween Men still burned in my mind.

  “Besides,” she said. “It was digging into my temple.”

  I crossed to the counter, leaving behind puddles that Bianca mopped up without comment. Her half-mask matched the color of her buttery yellow robes, marking her as a member of the confectionery class. Brown, orange, and red beads outlined the edges and around her eyes. I turned it over. The velvet had worn off along the one side, exposing the leather underneath. I dug into my pockets and found a patch, fixing the problem.

  “Here.” I held it out to her. “You can put it back on.”

  She laughed and waved me off. “Put it on the counter.”

  When I didn’t move, she strode to the door, locked it, and drew the shades. “Better?”

  A little. I set it down.

  “Relax,” she said. “Your stodgy father isn’t here. Master-follow-the-rules-to-the-extreme Salvatori.” She huffed with derision. “Not letting you take off your mask in your very own home is a form of abuse.”

  Not bothering to correct her for the hundredth time, I settled on the stool behind the counter. I was allowed to remove my mask in the privacy of my bedroom, but she never remembered that detail. Plus I suspected I resembled my mother and seeing me was painful for my father. At least I hoped that was the real reason, otherwise Bianca might be correct.

  Unaffected by my silence, she continued, “Once you have your own home, you can do whatever you want. Oh! I almost forgot.” She handed me an envelope stuffed full with money. “They loved your masks, Nella. I sold every one.”

  Fear mixed with pride—a strange combination. “You didn’t!”

  She waved away my concern. “No, I didn’t tell anyone you made them. They bought them because they’re fabulous, not because of your family name. I’ve orders for a dozen more!”

  Overwhelmed, I said, “I can’t . . . ”

  But she didn’t hear me. She prattled on about our future shop—a place that would provide all your party needs: cakes, confections, food, decorations, and themed masks to match. Even though parties were held inside homes, the Halloween Men considered them public events and all guests had to wear masks. Wealthy hosts provided masks for their guests as a party favor.

  Unless it was Halloween, of course. The only day the citizens could go out in public without their masks on. The day the Halloween Men retreated to . . . no one quite knew where. Rumors speculated they disappear back to hell where they’d come from. Who else but demons would conquer our city and force us to wear masks as a punishment? Others claimed they ascend to heaven. That they were angels sent to discipline us for our vanity and shallow nature. And a few people were certain the Halloween Men took off their masks and enjoyed the day among us.

  It was the biggest day of the year with the grandest parties, parades, and entertainment on every street corner. Which reminded me . . .

  I interrupted Bianca’s dreaming to tell her about the Halloween Men’s visit. “And since I have a curfew again, I can’t stay and make more masks.”

  “They are legal, Nella. They can’t arrest you because they don’t like your designs.”

  Guess her father hadn’t terrified her with stories about the Halloween Men since she was little. Mine did. All because of my mother. Had she broken the strictest law?

  “Bianca, do you know what happens if you’re caught without a mask on?”

  She plopped the mop into the bucket. “I’ve heard they drown you in the Grand Canal, but Mister Cavella says they lock you in the dungeons forever.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No one does. No one has ever returned. Now stop fretting, Nella. You of all people will never be caught without a mask on, plus no one but me knows you made those masks. And they’ll only be worn at private parties. Besides, I’ve already bought the material and supplies for you. They’re in the icing room.”

  “My father knows.” And that was more than enough.

  “Oh, Nella, don’t let your father ruin your life.”

  “He’s—”

  “Lonely and doesn’t want you to leave him like your mother.”

  I understood why she’d think that—the rumors claimed she left him. The truth was too hard to explain. And if I could just move out on my own, the pressure of those past sins would no longer haunt me.

  “I’ll find a way to make them.” I promised.

  “Yay.” She ran to the back and returned with a box.

&
nbsp; When I returned to the shop, my father was already upstairs in our apartment. I stashed the box of supplies in the workroom and then joined him for a late supper on the second story that housed our living area. Our bedrooms were on the third floor, and an attic occupied the entire fourth floor.

  After Father retired for the evening, I snuck back downstairs and carried the box and a lantern to the attic. Careful not to make any noise, I cleared an area in the far corner—the one over my bedroom and as far away from my father’s ceiling as possible. I set up a work area.

  As sleet tapped on the roof, I cut leather into butterflies, snails, cat faces, and diamond shapes. I let my imagination run for hours.

  Finished for the night, I considered. My father never came up here—the boxes were full of Mother’s belongings, but just in case . . . I remembered putting a box of old sheets up here . . . somewhere. I dug around and opened one promising box.

  Instead of sheets, I found clothes, then cookware, and then a box full of bright colorful masks. Odd. I examined one in the lantern light. Not my father’s elegant conservative style, more brassy and bold. More like my true style. Mother’s?

  I sat back on my heels in shock. She had been a mascherara, too.

  The glass bead rolled across the table. I bit back a curse and lunged for the escaping purple bauble before it fell. The sound of a bead hitting the floor would be enough to cause Father to look up from his work and with a single glance convey his extreme irritation over my clumsiness. The bead clung to my sticky fingers. I fumbled in an effort to glue a line of them along the edges of a basic black funerary Bauta. Most customers purchased the traditional somber color for their deceased loved ones.

  Tired from working late the last three nights, I struggled to concentrate on the task at hand.

  The bell jingled, signaling a customer. Father stood, smoothed the few wrinkles that dared to crease his midnight blue robe, and parted the curtains separating the back workroom with the rest of the shop.

  No longer feeling as if under a microscope, I relaxed and concentrated on the pesky beads. I’d wanted to use the bigger size, but Father refused to let me add expensive materials to my masks. Very few customers purchased my creations when they sat beside a master craftsman’s. Which was another reason why I decided to keep making those other designs. The Halloween Man’s words, before we have to teach another young mascheraro a lesson replayed in mind.

  I banished those thoughts—they wouldn’t find out—and held my newest creation at arm’s length, examining it with a critical eye. Not nearly as edgy as my masks for Bianca, it met all the government requirements for a funeral mask, but it had my own personal . . . flair.

  The curtains parted with a snap of fabric. “You have a customer,” Father said from the threshold.

  I stared at him. Did he just make a joke? No. Standing, I wiped my hands along my robes, earning a stern glare. I adjusted the Columbina on my face, checking to ensure it hadn’t moved while I worked.

  “Hurry up,” Father said. “They’re waiting.”

  I slipped pass him and entered the storefront.

  Sleet pelted the big display windows and the wind howled outside. Two men wearing the gray robes of the manufacturing class stood in the center of our showroom. They wore charcoal-colored business Columbinas trimmed in gray and red. The man on the right examined one of my funeral masks.

  Aware that Father remained in the doorway, I asked, “May I help you, sirs?”

  The man holding the mask said, “Master Salvatori tells us you designed this?”

  Was he a spy for the Halloween Men? “Yes, sir.”

  “We’d like to order one just like it except trimmed with our family’s colors.”

  Shocked, it took me a moment to find the proper words. “I’m sorry for you loss, sir.”

  He nodded and although he kept his lips pressed in a thin line, amusement sparked in his deep blue eyes. Odd.

  I retrieved the order sheet from the desk. “What colors, sir?”

  “Red and gray, miss. And we’d like them on a white base.”

  White? I glanced up. While still within regulations, the color was . . . unconventional for a funeral mask. “When do you need this by?”

  “Two days. Will that be a problem, miss?”

  “No, sir.” I’d finish it by tomorrow. “Where should it be delivered?”

  “One forty-two Canal Street.”

  In the heart of the factory district—no surprise. I noted it on the sheet.

  “How much?” the man asked.

  “Oh, my father . . . er . . . Master Salvatori will assist you with the price.”

  The men glanced at each other as if I’d said something significant. My slip earned me another stern glare from Father before he turned cordial for the paying customers. Well as cordial as my father managed. He had a reputation of being gruff, but his masks were sought after by all the elite. Of course these men would get a discount since they chose one of my designs. Still, every bit helped.

  Father shot me a look and I hurried to the back room. I abandoned my current project to work on the special order, pulling a piece of white velvet from the shelf.

  When Father joined me, he said, “I expect that mask for Mister Cattaneo to be your very best.”

  I glanced at him. Did he purposely steer the customers to one of my masks? Was this his way to lessen the blow of trying to prevent me from making more masks for Bianca? Hard to tell.

  The row of homes along Canal Street fronted a narrow waterway and even narrower sidewalk. Water sloshed over the edge. My cart’s wheels barely fit as I navigated the broken pavement and dodged the waves.

  The four-story-high houses appeared to have been squashed together by a giant. One forty-two no exception. However, its windows remained dark unlike its neighbors. I knocked on the door. Gray paint peeled off the thick wood and the bottom third was bloated and warped by the constant soaking from the canal.

  After banging again, this time with more force, the door swung open, revealing a young man with short black hair and deep blue eyes. I started at him a moment, taken aback by his sharp nose, handsome features and welcoming smile. Realizing too late he wore neither mask nor robe over his clothes, I glanced down at the box in my hands. Heat spread down my back.

  “Your order, sir,” I said although he had to be only a few years older than me.

  “Ah yes, Miss Salvatori. Do come in.” He cupped my elbow and drew me inside, closing the door behind me with a thud.

  Panicked, I raised my head. Lanterns blazed in a sitting room to my left. The scents of pine oil and wet muck dominated.

  “This way.” He headed down a hallway.

  Clutching the box to my chest, I hesitated. This was unusual.

  He returned. Amusement glinted in his eyes, but he remained polite. “My mother wishes to inspect the mask before we pay the balance. She’s waiting in the back parlor.”

  Understandable. I didn’t have my father’s reputation for quality. Not yet, but someday I will.

  As we walked down a tight corridor, the wood squeaked and flexed under our boots.

  “The water is intent on reclaiming its territory,” he said. “Most of the neighbors have moved all their furniture up to the higher levels because of the frequent flooding.”

  The reason they hadn’t retreated to the upper floors sat in an oversized chair. The woman’s large girth and misshapen legs were a bad combination for walking, let alone climbing stairs.

  The young man handed the box to his mother. When she pulled out the mask to examine it, I glanced around the room. Two ladies who resembled the young man—probably his older sisters—sat on a lumpy couch. His father sat in the wooden rocking chair. The runners had warped and it moved in fits and starts. Thump, thump, thud, bang.

  None of the family wore masks. I stared at the floor feeling almost scandalized even though this was their home. Bang, thud, thump, thump.

  “Excellent work, Miss Salvatori,” Mistress Cattaneo said in a
high-pitched musical voice.

  “Thank you,” I said, uncertain.

  Thump, thump, thud, bang.

  “She’s the one, right?” her son asked.

  “Yes, Enzo. You did well.” She set the mask on a nearby table and reached for another box by her chair, setting it in her lap.

  Enzo smirked at the ladies on the couch. They scowled back at him.

  Bang, thud, thump, thump.

  Unease swirled in my chest. Abandoning politeness, I said, “The balance is due on delivery, Mistress.”

  “Of course. Enzo, pay her.”

  He strode to a desk and yanked on a drawer. It squealed and then stuck tight.

  Thump, thump, thud, bang.

  “We’d like to place another order,” she said.

  “Certainly, just stop by the shop—”

  “Not for those masks.” She tsked. Opening the box, she held up one of my butterfly-shaped Columbinas. “I need two dozen more of these.”

  Expecting the Halloween Men to jump out of the shadows, I backed away. “I . . . they’re not . . . I don’t . . . Eep!”

  Enzo blocked the doorway. Was he this muscular and tall before?

  “Relax, we’ll keep your secret,” he said.

  “I . . . ”

  Bang, thud, thump, thump.

  “I didn’t want to work through your agent, who refused to name you. We have a big New Year’s party planned,” Mistress Cattaneo said. “We’ll pay you three times what your father charges.”

  “How did . . . ?”

  “Each of the mascherari has a distinctive style,” Enzo said. “We checked every shop in town, looking for yours. Imagine our surprise when you turned out to be Master Salvatori’s daughter.”

  And imagine mine. If he found me so easily, so could . . . “The Halloween Men won’t—”

  “Let us worry about them,” she said, waving away my concern. “We’ve invited all our clients, including the Medico Della Peste and once he sees your unique creations, the whole city will be clamoring for them. Your anonymity will only add to the allure.”

  Thump, thump, thud, bang.

  I paused. The Medico Della Peste ruled over the city. If he was a client, it meant this family didn’t work in the factories, but owned them. This meeting was a setup. Did they even live here?