HALLOWEEN: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre

by Paula Guran [editor]

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used that line. You’re the first one who’s ever recognized it,” he said. “A group of us are planning a trip to the Winchester House tomorrow, before the conference starts. I think you’d like it. Want to join us?”

  Just like that, before they even knew each other’s names, a friendship was born. Long distance, as so many friendships were these days, what with Richard in Atlanta most of the time, and Debra in Vancouver. They kept up via e-mail and text, sending each other links to weird and wonderful news stories. She sent congratulations when his eldest daughter was named valedictorian of her graduating class; he sent condolences when her father had a heart attack. Each twelve months they met up in whatever city the annual conference was held, picking up their friendship as if they’d seen each other last week, not last year.

  “There was a haunted house on the street my grandparents lived on in Toronto,” she’d said at the Winchester House, as they both gazed up a stairway that led to nowhere, and he reminded her of that now.

  “I’d love to see it, if there’s time,” his e-mail read. “After all, how many chances do you get to see a real live (no pun intended) haunted house?” She’d replied that it wasn’t much to see: “It was a very ordinary house, not at all the Charles Addams-style mansion I’d half-expected. I think I was a bit disappointed when I first saw it. Besides, I don’t even know if it’s still there. It must be thirty years since I was in Toronto.”

  She wasn’t trying to put him off, not really, and he knew that; which was why they found themselves, some months later, purring down Bloor Street in Richard’s rental car. Debra had a map spread out in front of her, just in case. “It’s not that I don’t trust GPS,” she said, “just that . . . ”

  “ . . . you don’t trust GPS,” said Richard. “I hear you. It looks a pretty straightforward route, though.”

  And it was. Debra gazed out the window as they drove, searching for anything that looked familiar. For a time there was nothing, merely shop front after shop front, the same mix of chain stores and coffee bars to be seen in any urban centre of North America. As they left the CN Tower behind, however, the mix of shops grew less homogenized, more eccentric, and the buildings gave way from hard-edged steel and glass to softer brick, mellowed with age and softened round the edges.

  The first thing she recognized with certainty was High Park, and soon after that they crossed the Humber River. Then buildings began to come into focus, one after another, little islands of familiarity. A green sweep of trees and grass appeared beside them, and Debra said “Next left,” folding up the map as she spoke.

  “What’s this, another park?” asked Richard, flicking on the turn signal. “I didn’t know Toronto had so many.”

  “Not a park,” said Debra with a grin, and Richard took a better look.

  “Holy crap! A haunted house and a cemetery! Is there an abandoned crypt too? That would just about complete the set.”

  “Not unless they’ve added one in the last thirty years or so,” said Debra, as they turned. “Oh,” she whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s—well, nothing’s changed. Nothing. It looks exactly the way it did in my mind, picturing it from when I was a child.” Now that they were out of the traffic on Bloor Street, Richard had slowed down, and she gazed round her. “Except the trees,” she said finally. “It was always summer when we visited. I’m not used to seeing them bare.”

  The cemetery was on their left, and neat brick houses set back from the road were on their right. The lawns and gardens were uniformly tidy, trees and bushes neatly pruned, the paths clear of leaves. Everything was peaceful and quiet, and Debra could almost believe that nothing had changed since the last time she had been there.

  Until, that is, she asked Richard to stop the car, and peered at the house directly to their left. It was the first house beside the south fence line of the cemetery, and Richard looked at her inquiringly.

  “My grandparents’ house,” she said. “My dad grew up there.” She shook her head. “Now that has changed. That whole addition next to the driveway is new, and the siding is different. I wouldn’t have recognized it if it wasn’t for the location.” She laughed. “I guess the old saying is right. You can’t go home again.”

  Richard pulled round a corner and parked the car. “So where’s this haunted house of yours?” he asked, pulling his top-of-the-line Nikon from the back seat. “I’ve come a long way to see it.”

  “This side of the street, up about four blocks,” replied Debra. She glanced up at the sky. “I hope the rain holds off. It’s not looking very promising.”

  “Adds to the atmosphere,” said Richard, locking the car. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  They strolled along the sidewalk, sidestepping the occasional pile of soggy leaves huddled against the grass border. Apart from the odd car passing them, all was silent, and there were no signs of life in any of the houses they passed.

  “You Canadians are trusting souls,” Richard said as they crossed another side street. Debra looked at him quizzically. “Look at all the houses we’re passing. Notice anything?”

  “No, not really. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. What do you mean?”

  “I mean if people on our street had left their Halloween pumpkins out after Halloween night, they wouldn’t still be sitting on front porches. They’d be smashed all over the road.”

  Debra looked again, and realized he was right. Every house they passed had at least one pumpkin on the front porch, their bright orange faces one of the few notes of color to be seen. “I wonder why they’re still out,” she said, puzzled.

  “Canadian custom?”

  “If it is, it’s one I’ve never heard of. Most people clear them away as soon as Halloween night is over. So they won’t end up smashed all over the road. We’re not as polite as people make us out to be.”

  Richard shrugged. “Maybe it’s some neighborhood street party thing,” he suggested. “Or someone’s filming here and they’ve asked for the Halloween stuff to stay out. Looks nice, whatever the reason.”

  “You think so?” said Debra, and Richard glanced at her. “I think it’s a bit depressing, now that Halloween’s over. The same way the Christmas tree just doesn’t look the same after the twenty-fifth of December. Kind of—deflated, somehow. Like it’s lost its reason to be there.”

  They were halfway along the block, and Richard stopped. “Look,” he said, pointing to a house that was in the process of being torn down. The yard was ringed with a temporary fence of chain wire, and what was left of the yard was a torn-up mass of dirt and rocks and bits of brick. There had obviously been a small peaked roof over the front door, but it had been pulled away, exposing fresh-looking brickwork behind it. Yet even this house had a carved pumpkin on the front step, incongruously perched beside a pile of bricks.

  “That makes a change,” said Richard. “Builders with a sense of the season. Usually they just leave empty pop cans lying around.” He took a few pictures.

  “You’re obviously still into photography in a big way.”

  “When I get the opportunity. I’m trying to put together enough for an exhibit at a biggish art show next spring. Wish me luck.” He slung the camera back over his shoulder. “Okay, on to the haunted house. It can’t be far.”

  Debra was looking at the house numbers. “It should be that one, on the next corner,” she said, and they crossed one more side street. She consulted a piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. “Yes. This is it.”

  She was conscious of a sense of anticlimax as they stopped in front of it. It was a very ordinary-looking house indeed, and there was little to set it apart from any of the other houses they had passed, except that where the others were all open to the street, this one was ringed with a tall hedge which almost completely obscured it from view. The only place they could find that gave a glimpse of the front was a small gap where the hedge bordered the front property line of the house next door.


  “Well, this is what you traveled however many thousand miles to see,” she said. “I’m sorry it’s not more impressive.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Richard, snapping off some of pictures. “There’s certainly an appropriately gloomy aura about it. What’s supposed to have happened here?”

  Debra shrugged. “Some people who lived here heard noises in the attic—footsteps, and then banging, as if someone was trying to get out. When they went up to investigate they saw a glowing orb near the window—that one there, on the front, I expect.” She pointed to the single top-floor window, which was obscured by curtains. They did not quite meet in the middle, and as the window itself was open they blew slightly in the breeze, giving the impression of someone standing behind them.

  “And?”

  “And that’s about it. They called in some psychic investigators, who put flour and tripwires down on the attic floor. It didn’t stop the noises, but apparently there was no sign of a disturbance when they checked it out. They never did figure out what was going on.”

  “Typical true-life ghost story,” said Richard with a laugh. “No beginning or end, just a rather inconclusive middle section.” They walked back the way they had come and turned the corner, so they were at the side of the house. The hedge only extended halfway down the property here, and they had a better view of the building, which looked empty.

  “No one at home,” said Richard, taking a few final shots. “Not even the obligatory pumpkin. The neighborhood beautification committee will be having a few words with the owner. I think that house is safe, though.” He pointed to the neat bungalow across the street. “Now there’s someone who really gets into the spirit of Halloween.”

  Debra saw what he meant. Whereas a handful of the houses they had passed had sported more than one pumpkin near the front door, the owners of this particular house had more than a dozen pumpkins lining the front walkway, and another four perched beside the door itself, two on either side like guards.

  “I think we have a winner,” said Debra. “If someone’s awarding prizes, I hope they get a good one. They deserve it.”

  “They’re supposed to keep evil spirits away,” said Richard as they rounded the corner back on to the main road and began walking towards where the car was parked. “Back in the old days, I mean, when they were carved out of turnips.”

  “We tried carving a turnip once,” said Debra. “I almost sliced my hand open.”

  “Did you go in for Halloween in a big way when you were a kid?”

  “Oh yeah. It was a big deal all right. Pumpkins, decorations, sound effects, the lot. What about you?”

  “Pretty low key,” said Richard. “My brother and I each carved a pumpkin, and that was about it. We were more interested in the candies.”

  They had drawn up opposite her grandparents’ old house. Debra crossed the street and stood on the sidewalk. “Could you get a picture of me standing on the front path?” she asked, handing him her camera and walking to the front door.

  “Hope the people who live here aren’t home,” said Richard. “They’ll think we’re burglars, casing the joint. All right, smile and say Cthulhu.” He snapped a couple of shots. “Uh-oh,” he said in a stage whisper. “We’ve been spotted.”

  The front door had opened a crack, and Debra turned to see a woman’s face peering out at her above a stout chain which prevented the door opening any further. She said nothing, merely stared at Debra with a look that was—what? Scared, more than anything. Debra smiled, and adopted her most reassuring voice.

  “Hi there. Sorry if I startled you. I hope you don’t mind me getting a couple of pictures of the house.” The woman still said nothing. “My grandparents used to live here,” she added, “and my dad grew up here. I used to visit when I was a kid. I haven’t seen the house for years, and since I was in town I thought I’d pay a visit.”

  Still the woman said nothing, and Debra’s voice trailed off. Maybe she doesn’t speak English, she thought, and was just about to apologize again and turn away when the woman spoke.

  “Where did you come from?” she asked.

  “Vancouver,” said Debra. “And my friend here”—she pointed at Richard, who gave a small wave—“came from Atlanta. We’re here for a conference.”

  “Conference.” The woman nodded. “That’s all right, then. I thought that you . . . ” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You take care of yourselves. Take care.” And she closed the door.

  Debra stood for a moment, staring, then rejoined Richard on the sidewalk. “What a strange woman,” she said. “I wonder what she thought we were.”

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses, probably.”

  “Well, you’ve seen your haunted house,” Debra said, “and a little piece of my family history. What’s the plan now?”

  “I’d thought maybe some lunch. There’s a neat-looking brewhouse restaurant downtown that sounds good.” Richard was one of the few people she knew who could say “neat” and not make it sound affected, and Debra smiled. “But would you mind if we checked out the cemetery first? Not to sound ghoulish or anything, but it looks like a great place to get some pictures. Very atmospheric.”

  “The rain helps,” said Debra.

  “It’s not actually raining,” Richard answered, holding his hand up as if testing the air. “Not quite. And if it starts then we make a dash for the car.”

  “All right,” said Debra. “I’m glad I wore sensible shoes,” she added, as they started down the sidewalk.

  “What do you know about this place?” asked Richard, gesturing over the fence to their right.

  “Not a lot. It’s very old; my dad says it was here when he was a boy. His mother’s parents are buried in there somewhere, but I never found the grave. I used to spend a lot of time in there when we visited my grandparents,” she added, by way of explanation. “There wasn’t a lot else to do, and the park down the road was kind of boring, so I used to come here and wander around. It was lovely and cool in summer, and there were lots of squirrels to watch. And I had the place pretty much to myself, as you can imagine.”

  They had reached the gates, which were wide open, and turned in at the drive. A few yards in the road split into three narrow tributaries that snaked off into the cemetery, twisting amid the headstones.

  “Which way?” asked Richard, pausing in front of a small stone building which was clearly an office of some sort. Two cars were parked in front of it, but there were no lights on inside.

  “Straight on?” asked Debra. “Then we can get a better idea of where we are, and what there is to take pictures of.”

  They wandered along the roadway, keeping clear of the puddles that dappled the uneven surface. Above them bare boughs rubbed together in the slight breeze, and a few leaves skittered in front of them, tumbling over themselves before coming to rest in the grass. Richard peered at the grave markers crowding in on them from both sides, stopping now and then to take pictures of the more elaborate headstones.

  “A lot of Ukrainian names, it looks like,” he said. “Is there a big Ukrainian community here?”

  “Must be. There’re a lot of Italians in Toronto, I know that. There’s a big section of Italian graves in the back corner there.” She pointed. “I remember a lot of the gravestones had photographs inset in them, in ornate frames. I’d never seen anything like it before.”

  “Here’s one,” said Richard, pointing, and they moved closer to look at it. “Guiseppe Gagliano, 1902–1957,” he read out. “Not very old. Wonder what he died of.”

  Debra studied the picture inset in the tombstone, which showed a heavy-set man with close-set dark eyes. “Nothing that involved wasting away, if this was taken near the end of his life,” she said, and Richard made a tsk-ing noise.

  “Now, now,” he admonished, “de mortuis and all that. He might be listening.”

  “Stop it,” she said. “This isn’t the opening scene of Night of the Living Dead.” They stepped back onto the road, then had to step off a
gain in a hurry as a car swept by. Debra felt her feet sink, and looked down to see mud welling up over the sides of her shoes. She scraped them off as best she could, and they continued on their way.

  “I always thought, when I was a kid, that it was funny to see cars driving through a cemetery,” she said.

  “I guess so,” said Richard absently. He was eying a vista of gravestones and trees and grass stretching away from them, the markers sweeping in an undulating wave over the hills and curves of the lawn. “Hang on a sec, I want to get a picture of this.”

  Debra waited while Richard took his shots, glancing around the cemetery. Gray clouds scudded above the trees, and she shivered. The rain was still holding off, but just barely. “A Scotch mist,” her mother would have called it, that sodden air halfway between vapor and full-scale rain. If the skies open we’ll only be half-soaked by the time we get back to the car, she thought. It didn’t comfort her much.

  She noticed movement out of the corner of her eye, and she turned. A couple were standing a short distance away, gazing at one of the gravestones. Her gaze rose up and past them, and she noticed more people beyond them, and still more farther off; small groups of one or two standing among the markers. She went over to where Richard was standing.

  “Doesn’t this place seem a bit crowded to you?” she asked, and he looked at her for a moment, then swept his eyes round the cemetery.

  “Now that you mention it, yes,” he admitted.

  “Kind of odd for a mid-week morning, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so.” He thought for a moment. “What day is it?”

  “Thursday.”

  “No, I mean what’s the date?”

  “November second. Why?” He started laughing, and she looked puzzled. “What is it?”

  “You’re obviously not a Roman Catholic. Well, neither am I, anymore, but I still remember a lot of it.” She still didn’t understand, and he explained. “November second. All Souls Day. Also known as the Day of the Dead because it’s supposed to be when souls in purgatory can return to the earth and pray for release. The living honor their ancestors by placing candles and flowers on their graves. You can even invite them into your home, if you want to, by leaving a door or window open. Of course, if you don’t want them in you leave a light burning outside, which gave us jack-o’-lanterns. Because they’re souls in purgatory you can pray for them, to help them pass on. It’s called a plenary indulgence. Not quite a ‘get out of jail free’ card, but close.”