A Cursed All Hallows' Eve

  I kneel in it, dirty hands scrabbling over the plants and rocks until I find the one I need. Kissing the key, I stand.

  But there is still the matter of my bloody shirt. I don’t know how or where the blood came from, but I can’t wear this inside.

  I go to the trashcan next to the garage and lift the lid. I rip off my jacket and shirt and hold them in my hands, confused. Both have long slits up the back, stopping right before the collar.

  What? Why?

  I shake my head and toss the shirt in the can, and close the lid. Wearing just a suit coat was better than wearing that horror show.

  I’m putting the key in the lock when a lamp turns on in the living room. I freeze, but I don’t know why. I’m so ready to see Maisie again, to hold her, to reassure her.

  But the last thing I want to do is scare her. Maybe she thinks a stranger is trying to get in the house.

  “Maisie.” My voice sounds gravelly, unrecognizable, even to my own ears. I clear my throat and try again. “Maisie, it’s me, Grady. I’m coming in—”

  The door flies open and I see her beautiful, shocked face for just a moment before it slams shut again and the screaming starts.

  Before she can turn the lock, I open the door a crack and push my shoulder against it, trying to keep her from shutting me out.

  Maybe she can’t tell it’s me in the dark, and thinks a robber is trying to shove their way into the house. I stop pushing against her for a second.

  “Maisie, please. Stop screaming and let me in. It’s Grady, baby. You’re going to wake up the neighbors. I’m coming in.”

  I don’t know why she’s trying to lock me out, or why she won’t stop screaming. Have we been fighting? Is she mad at me? If we just talk, we can work things out. We always have.

  I shove harder, so she can see it’s me, but the pressure on the other side of the door releases and I open just in time to see Maisie falling backward. How did I do that? I didn’t mean to push so hard. We stare at each other for a shocked moment, before Maisie gets to her feet and sprints for the garage door, blond hair flying out behind her. She snatches the keys off the wall and throws open the door, running into the garage.

  I don’t run after her, I go slowly, carefully, pleading. She saw it was me, right? Why is she running? Maybe she couldn’t tell who I was with the bright moon behind me.

  I hear the garage door go up, and run the last few steps.

  The headlights blind me as I stand in the doorway, and I throw a hand up to cover my eyes. But she’s backing out of the driveway. I get one quick glimpse of her terrified face as she peels out.

  “Maisie!” I yell. Why is my wife running from me?

  ***

  Maisie

  I drive for a few miles, hyperventilating, checking the rear view mirror as if my husband will follow me. And maybe he will. Maybe he’ll appear in the passenger seat beside me, and I’ll have to talk to my hallucination of my dead husband.

  I’ve lost it. Grief and exhaustion have really and truly made me crazy, made me insane.

  Pulling over to the side of the road under a streetlight, I put it in park and lock the doors, just in case, as I try to catch my breath. Skin clammy, hands shaky, I meet my own eyes in the mirror.

  I look crazy. And scared.

  My mind has fractured from sorrow. Maybe because I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye. He’d gone to work one day, just like always, and I’d never seen him again.

  That night, when he hadn’t come home, I’d known something was really wrong. I couldn’t reach him, and he didn’t call. He always called, or texted if the service was bad. I’d sat up all night worrying, and when the sun had risen on the next day without him there, I’d sobbed on the floor in the kitchen.

  It had felt like something had been torn from my soul. I’d known he was dead.

  Maybe right then was when my mind had snapped. When the call came, I hadn’t been shocked, just in shock.

  In the weeks since then, I’d heard his voice at odd times. Seen a face in a crowd that could’ve been him. I’d smelled his cologne while asleep in my bed. And from everything I’d read, those are pretty normal grief experiences.

  My husband standing in my doorway—talking to me and reaching for me,—is not.

  But he’d seemed so real, just now, in front of me. I could still hear his voice calling my name, desperate, begging. I grip my hair, hard. I wanted it to be him. I wanted him to be a ghost, an apparition, or an angel that had come back to see me. As long as I could see him again. I wanted to feel him again, hold him again, kiss him again.

  Maybe I wanted him back so unbelievably bad that I’d made him appear outside our door.

  He’d looked awful, but it had been him. Or rather my delusion of him.

  But could delusions push a door back against you? Would a ghost block the glare of headlights from going into his eyes?

  I lean my head on the steering wheel, laughing as tears fall.

  There are no such things as ghosts, and my husband can’t come back to life no matter how badly I wish it was so.

  But what if...

  What if he hadn’t really died, and something else had happened to him instead? The casket had been closed. I’d stared at the smiling picture of him on top of it, unable to believe he was inside. What if he hadn’t been? Maybe they’d been wrong, and it had been someone else killed on the job. They hadn’t been able to tell who it was, at first.

  I’d spent over a month wishing, praying this was a horrible nightmare that I’d wake up from. Praying there had been some kind of mistake, that it wasn’t my husband who’d been in that awful accident, that he would show up one day. Maybe my prayers had been answered.

  But where had Grady been since then? Why hadn’t he come home sooner?

  Why was he wearing the suit I’d taken to the funeral home?

  I didn’t have any answers, but I was certain of one thing; whatever happened to him, wherever he’d been...I trusted his love.

  If he could ever come back to me, he would.

  He loved me more than anything, and he told me every single day. Part of what hurt so bad about his death was that it felt like he was still here, when he wasn’t.

  What if he had been? If by some miracle he was alive and had come home, why was I running away?

  I wipe my tears, put the car in gear, and make a U-turn towards home.

  I have to know if it was him, or if I’d imagined him. I have to know what happened, or if I’m crazy.

  I have to know.

  When I get home, the garage door is still up. Everything else looks normal and undisturbed. The front door is closed, and no shadows move behind the curtains.

  I sit in the car, fighting off disappointment and fear. Maybe I am just crazy.

  Maybe I’d been dreaming, sleep walking. I’d gone back to sleep quickly after the neighbor’s dog had quit barking, but then I’d awakened to sounds outside. Rustling, and the trashcan lid. There had been a feeling in the air, a weird pressure, but I’d ignored it, thinking raccoons had gotten into the trash. I’d turned on the light to chase them off when I’d heard the scraping at the door. Then I’d heard him say my name.

  Shaking, I turn off the car and shut the garage door behind me. I won’t run again. This is my chance to see Grady again, even if it is all in my head.

  Breathing deep, I get out of the car and quietly enter the house. The lamp is still on in the living room, and I step toward the warm glow. As I round the corner, I see him, and stop. My knees weaken under me and I sink into a chair. “Oh my God.”

  He's lying on the couch, looking gray, dirty, and thin, and just as dead as he should be.

  But then he opens his eyes and turns his head toward me. “I’m sorry I scared you. Can we talk?”

  My legs lose their strength, and I crumple onto the closest thing to me, which is the arm of the recliner. I don’t even have the strength to pull myself to sit in it properly.

  However he appeared, whatever he is, my de
ad husband is lying on our couch, talking to me.

  Chapter Five

  Grady

  I sit up slowly, no sudden movements, because Maisie still looks like she’s ready to bolt at any second.

  She perches on the edge of her chair, hands gripped together, face pale and eyes wide.

  This is not the homecoming I’d expected. I thought she’d be more relieved, happier to see me. Lord knows I’m relieved. I want to scoop her up in a hug, press my face to her neck, and just hold her. I miss her. But she looks like she will scream if I reach for her.

  “Are you real?” she asks into the silence between us.

  “Yes,” I say, one side of my mouth ticking up. But then I put a hand to my chest, because everything is weird right now. However, I am as solid as the couch I’m sitting on.

  Her lip starts to wobble in that adorable way she cries when she’s trying hard not to. “Then where have you been? What happened to you? Why is there blood on you? Are you hurt?”

  I hold a hand up. “The blood’s not mine. I’m not hurt.” But I don’t expand because I don’t know where the blood came from. And I don’t want to know right now.

  “Then where the hell have you been!” she shouts, fists clenched on her thighs, tears in her eyes.

  Her outburst isn’t unexpected. If only I had more to tell her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. I don’t know what happened. My memory is—blank.”

  Frighteningly so.

  “You don’t know where you’ve been? Well, why did you leave? Why didn’t you come home before now?”

  I try to summon an answer, but I don’t have one. “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve been gone all this time, and all you can tell me is you don’t know? You can’t just go missing, and then waltz back in here without an explanation. Where have you been?”

  There is accusation in her words. “I think... I think I’ve been asleep somewhere for a little while.” I put a hand to my forehead, a memory of blinding pain surfacing. But it didn’t hurt anymore. “I think I got hit on the head, so maybe I’ve been unconscious for a few days.”

  “Grady,” she breathes out, horrified.

  “It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt now—”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she says, standing and backing up a step. “You’ve been gone for six weeks.”

  I flop back against the cushions, absorbing that bomb, when she drops a bigger one.

  “You died. We had a funeral. I wr-wrote your eulogy,” she said, eyes flooding. “You’re wearing—” She gestures at me. “You’re wearing the suit I took to the funeral home to bury you in.”

  My eyes won’t leave her face, but my mouth won’t work either. It just hangs open while I try to sort out a reply. I don’t remember.

  “I’m sorry.” The words scrape from my throat. I don’t know what to say.

  “I thought you were dead.” She presses her hand over her mouth, trying not to let her sobs out as she stares at me with tearful, red eyes.

  I’ve been missing, and she’d truly thought me dead. For six damn weeks.

  “I don’t remember anything,” I rasp, on the edge of panic. I don’t. There’s just a heavy blank spot in my memory, and a vague awareness of time passing. But not six weeks’ worth of time. “It seems like it’s been a day or two, at most.” I can’t remember. I don’t remember anything.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  I’m lost at sea, from my blank memory, from what she’s told me, from her reaction. “What? Why are you mad at me?”

  “Why am I mad?” She stands up and covers her face with both hands, then she drops them and holds them out toward me. “I’m mad because I thought you were dead.” Her arms flop down to her sides. “I didn’t want you to be dead. I’m glad you’re not, but for six weeks I’ve been dying inside because I thought my husband had been killed in an accident, then you show up at our door, and can’t tell me where the hell you’ve been, what happened to you, or why you left. Or why we had a funeral for you. So, yes! I’m mad. And confused, and—and scared that I’ve finally lost my mind.” She pushes her hair back from her face as she paces away.

  “I truly don’t remember. Please believe me.” I stand and hold a hand out towards her. I need her to believe me. I feel a little bit like I’m on a thin ledge above an endless pool of black when I try to recall things. I’m going to fall in if she doesn’t believe me, if she doesn’t hold me.

  Slowly, carefully, I take a step toward her on shaky legs. “But I’m here now.”

  She turns to face me but then takes a step back. She’s ready to run again. Freaked out, understandably. So am I, but we’ll have time to work through that, later.

  “I’m here, Maisie.” I take another step and hold both hands out. “It really is me. I’m not dead. See?” She lets me step closer and grab her hand. I put it to my chest, my hand over hers. “Feel me. I’m real. I’m alive.”

  “You’re so cold.” She looks up at me with those beautiful blue eyes.

  “I’ve been outside with no shirt.” Her hand feels so amazingly warm against my skin that it almost burns. Like coming in out of the snow, freezing, and taking a hot shower. “I just need to warm up.” I want to burrow into her warmth, to wrap myself in it.

  I kiss her forehead, breathing in the scent of shampoo and woman I never thought I’d smell again.

  She steps closer, less scared, but still eyeing me like I’m a ghost instead of her husband.

  I reach out to brush her hair back, and she lets me, so I take that as a victory.

  “Is it really you, Grady? You’re alive?” Her voice is ragged with disbelief and hope.

  “It’s me.” That’s the only thing I’m really sure of right now.

  She nods, a sheen of tears appearing in her eyes, then she steps in to me, pressing her warm cheek against my chest. Her hands smooth up my back, but a second later, she’s clutching me, sobbing.

  I don’t know what to do other than hold her, so that’s what I do, my own eyes burning at her pain. “Shhh, baby. It’s okay.”

  Eventually she calms and pulls away, sniffling. But she still isn’t happy. This is far from the reaction I was expecting. “Aren’t you happy I’m alive?”

  She pops backward and glares at me. “Yes, of course I’m happy you’re alive!” Her expression almost makes me laugh, because it’s her you’re-being-ridiculous face. It’s comforting.

  “I’m just also confused, worried about you, stressed, and wondering what we’re going to tell your family—” She gasps and covers her mouth. “Your poor family. What are we going to tell them?”

  I rub her upper arms. “We’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now I’m just... I’m really glad to be home.” And it’s true all the way to my bones.

  I pull her close again. I just can’t get enough. Not of her, of her warmth, of her embrace. I’m starved for her.

  But she’s still stiff in my arms.

  I loosen my grip and she readily steps back. It stings, but it has been six long weeks of thinking I was dead for her. She looks exhausted, wrung out. Fragile. She needs some time.

  “You look tired. We can talk more in the morning. We should go to bed.”

  She nods but then clenches up.

  “I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be like we’re fighting,” I add, touching her chin, trying to get a smile out of her.

  She nods, but her expression stays anxious.

  “I’ll get you some clean clothes,” she says, then she’s gone with a fruit-scented breeze. I drop my hand.

  She comes back with my sweats and a T-shirt. When she passes them to me, I catch an odd sickly-sweet scent.

  I bend my head down and sniff, then jerk my head back. “Mothballs?”

  She wrings the hem of her night shirt, my t-shirt, and says, “I’m sorry. I just packed them up a few days ago. I couldn’t do it before now.” And she tears up again.

  Once more I’m reminded that my wife has been mourning me while I was... what? I don
’t know.

  “It’s okay. This will work. Thank you.”

  Before I would have thrown my clothes off right there in front of her, but I go the bathroom to change, because it’s weird now.

  We’re married, but we’re strangers. It’s been six weeks since we saw each other last, and it passed in the blink of an eye for me, but not for her. What the hell happened?

  I flick the light on, shut the door, and turn to set my clothes on the counter.

  And see myself for the first time.

  In the mirror above the sink, there’s a man that looks a bit like me. But he’s gaunt, pale, covered in dirt with a dark, cracked stain on his chin. His lips are darker and I swear, the brown color of his irises is lighter and washed out. They’re almost gray.

  What the fuck.

  I back up, and there’s more dirt and stains on my wrinkled suit jacket, on my pants. I look like shit. I look dead.

  No wonder I freaked my wife out. No wonder she couldn’t see her husband when she looked at me.

  The way I look scares me, too.

  I strip down and use a washcloth to quickly wipe myself down. I shake the dirt out of my hair and wash it and my face in the sink, avoiding the mirror.

  I put on the mothball-smelling clothes. It’s ironic somehow.

  I’m wearing a dead man’s clothes, lovingly packed away by his mourning wife.

  My clothes. My wife.

  I clench the edge of the sink, trying to get as firm a grip on my emotions.

  I put the washcloths in the hamper, but the suit goes in the trash. And the shoes.

  With a deep breath, I open the door to see Maisie still standing in the living room, cupping her elbows in that protective gesture she uses when she feels vulnerable. She looks me over and her face relaxes a bit. I must look more like myself again.

  The couch is made up for sleeping, but I walk to her first. I hold my arms out, and for a second I think she is going to just stand there.

  But then she flies into my arms, and I’m holding her while she cries again. Holding her, the feeling of her arms tight around me, does something for my soul. It’s a pleasure so good it hurts, and I have to clench my eyes shut because suddenly they’re burning.