“It called me,” he replied. “You called me”
Leathery fingertips caressed his cheek, and a sadness overcame the cartoon features of the woman-thing.
“I want to come home,” Eldon said.
“Too unripe you are, my little love,” Mother—his real mother—added, with a sad undertone to the natural harmony of her voice.
Tears formed in Eldon’s eyes. They dripped down his face and soaked into the paper of his mask.
“Please,” he implored. “I hate this place and these people. I can’t stand the washed out colors of their world and the washed out magic of their souls.”
The wide lips of the mother-thing curved down her chin. Shimmering, metallic tears carved wet lines down her face.
Her hand trembled atop his.
“Oh my dear, Eldon, complete is the trade. By blood and by word it is bound. There is no coming home, not until you are grown.”
The wind grew stronger around them. Sticks, and pebbles bombarded them both, but neither seemed to notice or care.
“No one understands me here,” he said. “I’m so tired of being alone.”
“The trade has been made,” the mother-thing said. “Rules are rules are rules. I say it thrice.”
“To hell with the rules,” screamed Eldon.
He rushed toward her, but the cyclonic winds pushed against him, knocking him off balance and tumbling him to the soil.
Loose dirt and detritus swirled around her—his real mother—as he looked up pleading from behind his mask.
“Spirits of chaos, that is man. Phantoms, to them, are rules and law. Tangible are they, to us. Bound to our oaths are the fey, Eldon.”
Corn husks broke away from stalks as the wind’s intensity increased. Angry gusts drummed out a timpani roll against Eldon’s mask and in his ears. The fairy woman’s hair whipped about, a thousand tattered ribbons in a helter-skelter color-guard display.
“Please!” Eldon cried out, tears soaking through the saturated, deteriorating paper of his mask.
“Slaves we are to our word, but you needn’t be alone. Other bargains there are to be made.” Her voice was quiet, but clear despite the cacophony of the gale.
“What bargains?”
Before she could answer, the cruel wind ripped the mask from his face. The magma glow of the soil vanished, as did the Amber radiance of the world at large. Corn stalks stood still and dark, barely reflecting the glow of the silver moon above. No gale force winds kicked up the dirt or stirred the rows of corn.
In front of David stood a shabby scarecrow. Washed out straw served as its hair and stretched down to the brown soil. A gnarled piece of tree root stuck out as nose from the middle of its dirty, burlap face. It curved over a lunatic smile painted ear-to-ear.
A sign post was hammered into the ground before the dismal scarecrow. Scrawled across the wooden placard in black spray paint was the word Rye-Mother.
David or Eldon, or whatever the hell is name was scanned the clearing for his mask. He needed it. He needed to know what manner of bargain they might strike, but the mask was lost to the rows of corn, just like he was in this gray, mortal world.
The boy stood and touched the scarecrow. Her face was coarse beneath his fingertips and there was no trace of life in her burlap flesh. No magic shined in the black button eyes he gazed into.
“Please . . . tell me . . . ”
She didn’t.
***
Eldon, as he now thought of himself, lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. His parents—or the human things his real mother had given him to—berated him for sneaking out.
Do you know how dangerous, blah , blah, blah . . . What were you thinking . . . bullshit, bullshit, bullshit . . .
Why had the mother-thing given him up? Why had she swapped him with some mundane, human animal? What kind of bargain had been made?
Eldon thought of posing that last question to his human mother and father, but thought better of it. They might not even realize a deal had been struck. Such was the way with fairies.
“David, you look at me right now!” His father demanded. Eldon turned toward the voice, a blank expression on his face.
“How could you do this?” Father continued. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Finding no words that wouldn’t upset his supposed parents, Eldon chose silence.
“Answer your father!” his mother, exclaimed.
Eldon shifted his eyes to her. She stood behind father, balancing little baby Brooke—his alleged sister—on her hip. The tiny child gazed stupidly at him with brown, bovine eyes. She clearly belonged here in this tepid reality, just as she clearly belonged with these lukewarm people. Eldon hated her for that.
His parents scolded him further, but he tuned them out. Instead, he found his gaze focused on poor, stupid, baby Brooke, with whom he would never have anything in common, and that was when the Rye-Mother’s words came back to him.
She was right. He needn’t be alone, and as he gazed at Brooke’s soulless expression, he realized that other bargains could be made. Halloween wasn’t over, after all.
THE DAY OF THE DEAD
Amber Fallon
Los Calaveras Cantina was not a good bar by any stretch of the imagination, but it was our bar. The beer was cold and cheap and, well, we probably wouldn’t have cared if it was cold or not, as long as it was cheap and plentiful. It was also close to the office, which was a great added benefit. It meant we could walk there and back and, if we got completely sauced (which happened from time to time) there were plenty of comfortable conference rooms in which to sleep it off before the boss man arrived. They had food . . . kind of. The menu was pretty much limited to chips and salsa or guacamole, and occasionally nachos when the mood struck the owner/bartender/cook, a friendly guy named Arturo, but it was cheap (much like the booze) and pretty tasty for what it was. We certainly weren’t going to complain.
Arturo was a fun guy, but he could be a tad on the eccentric side. It wasn’t at all unusual to come into the bar and find signs up everywhere advertising some new promotion he’d cooked up. Everything from “lucky” green (half-priced) tequila shots on St. Patrick’s Day to Valentine’s Day shooters filled with cinnamon hearts. So, it was hardly surprising to see a sign announcing a Day of the Dead celebration one day in late October.
JOIN US FOR A FESTIVAL OF THE DEAD!
HALF PRICE DRINKS FOR ALL IN COSTUME!
A MÍ LA MUERTE ME PELA LOS DIENTES!
Tiny skulls and maracas, obviously clip art, decorated the borders of the home-made sign.
“Day of the Dead? Huh.” Marlene cocked a teal-polished thumb at the sign stuck to the front door with beer bottle labels, “You gonna dress up?”
“Um, hello? Half-priced drinks!” I rolled my eyes as we made our way to our usual table.“You’re not going to come in costume? I asked my friend and longtime drinking buddy.
“Yeah, no.” she said, shaking her head as she munched on a corn chip, “It seems a little morbid, you know? Dressing up as a skeleton.” She shuddered.
“Yeah, okay, says the girl who came to the office as a slutty vampire last year. Suddenly you’ve got morals.”
She threw a chip at me, “Something about it just seems . . . wrong somehow.”
I flicked the chip off my lap and it skittered towards the bathrooms. “Suit yourself. I’ll be enjoying my even cheaper beers, makeup and all.”
Arturo arrived with our drinks a few minutes later. Soon the conversation was lost, all but forgotten amid the bustle of the after work crowd and the tinny mariachi music the bar always played once things got going.
Due to my planning brilliance, and the fact that Halloween actually occurred before Day of the Dead, I arrived at work the morning of Arturo’s event fully prepared and patted myself on the back. Not only would my drinks be half off, but my makeup was, too! I had picked up a set of cheap face paint crayons at my local pharmacy on my way in to work, along with a big bag of 50% off chocolate bar
s. What? The only thing better than candy is cheap candy!
The workday passed as workdays often do: slowly. By the time the clock struck 5, I was ready to tear my hair out. I don’t know why I was so excited to go to a place I’m at 5 or 6 days a week anyway, but I was. Maybe it was the half-priced booze, maybe it was the idea of a bunch of people dressed as skeletons drinking together, maybe I was just bored. Whatever the reason, I felt as giddy as a kid on Christmas Eve.
With that same enthusiasm, I darted into the office bathroom to apply my makeup.
I’m certainly no great artiste but I think I did okay for someone who hadn’t done anything like this since high school drama class. I smudged the white gunk all over my face, somehow managing to get it to look vaguely even with the help of some rough textured paper towels. Foundation applied, I circled my eyes in black, drawing it out towards the edges of the sockets, then did a little upside down V on the end of my nose and teeth over my lips. On a whim, I added a curlicue mustache for good measure, then I tossed the rest of the makeup in the trash and headed out.
“That’s cultural appropriation, you know.” Robin from human resources scowled at me as I made my way down the hallway to meet Marlene.
“Die in a fire.” I muttered, not knowing I’d come to regret those words.
Out on the sidewalk, I posed for Marlene, grinning like the skull I’d painted over my features. She swallowed distastefully as she stubbed out her cigarette. We walked over to Los Calaveras Cantina in silence.
As expected, Arturo had gone all out. He was wearing a velvet suit with elaborate embroidery and sequins sewn into it, along with a matching sombrero. Below the brim of his hat, his face had been turned into a work of art with swirls of paint and glittering embellishments. He smiled when he saw us and handed me a cold bottle of beer with a lime wedge stuck in the neck.
“First one on the house, mi compadre!” he crowed, “and one for the party pooper, too.” Marlene reluctantly accepted the drink he handed her. She was definitely in the minority, uncostumed as she was.
The bar was busier than usual. We were surrounded by costumed patrons who had put various amounts of effort into their ensembles. Some, like me, had simply smeared on a little paint in vaguely appropriate shapes and called it done. A few had even gone a step lazier and wore flimsy cardboard or paper masks. Some had gone all out and decorated themselves similar to Arturo. All of them were laughing and drinking and eating chips and salsa when we sat down.
Marlene snickered, pointing to a pair of young girls in normal clothing in the corner who were taking pictures of everyone and giggling.
“Think they’re old enough to drink?” she joked.
“Think Arturo cares?” I answered, carefully shoving a salsa laden chip into my mouth, to avoid spoiling my makeup.
Marlene laughed and took another chip. I was glad to see her relaxing somewhat. I’d been worried that her reservations would spoil my fun.
Arturo started the music, something slower and less cheerful than the stuff he usually played. It seemed almost somber, despite the rhythm. I shook it off and ordered another round of drinks, having finished my complimentary beer. Margaritas, this time. I liked those better and since everything was half off, why not?
Two drinks in and the girls in the corner were face down in their chips and salsa.
“Guess they couldn’t handle their liquor.” I laughed. Marlene smirked.
“See?” I said, gesturing with a chip, “I told you it wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun.”
Marlene slumped over, playing dead to punctuate the joke. I laughed for a moment, but she didn’t lift her head up. One arm remained outstretched across the table, neon purple fingertips floating above the bright tile floor.
“Marlene?” I shook her a little, “Cut it out. That’s not funny.”
I got out of my seat and shook her harder, panic rising in my chest like a frightened dove. Marlene wasn’t responding.
Someone screamed.
Outside the bar, someone else laid on a horn, long and loud. The sound ended with a crunch of metal that drowned out the screamer.
I shook Marlene even harder, desperate to wake her. Her head lolled on a neck which seemed suddenly devoid of bones, flopping backwards so that she was looking up at the ceiling, eyes staring sightlessly, mouth slack.
I didn’t realize I was screaming myself until I felt something in my throat tear painfully. Hands shaking, I dug my phone out of my pocket and dialed 9-1-1. After seven rings, it went to voicemail.
The bar had descended into chaos. My friend was dead, as were the two giggling girls we laughed at earlier, the young busboy, and a handful of others. There was another crash from outside, the sound instantly identifiable as a car accident and a bad one at that. I hung up and dialed for help again and again, until eventually all I got was a busy signal.
People were shrieking and sobbing, some cradling lifeless bodies, others tearing at their clothing or ripping out their hair. It might have been comical, seeing all those skeletons freak out like that, were it not for the dire circumstances which caused it.
That weird music was still playing, providing backdrop to a chorus of wails. Arturo had taken off his sombrero and was hysterically shaking the busboy, who I assumed was a relative of some sort.
I looked at Marlene again. I couldn’t bring myself to touch her. I knew she was beyond help, but I had no idea what to do about it. 9-1-1 was a dead end and I didn’t know who else to call.
A woman ran into me, smearing makeup from the bones she’d painted onto her arms all over my shirt.
“They’re dead . . . ” she said. Her eyes were rimmed with tears and her once impressive face paint had been smudged and smeared into oblivion. Before I could react, she stumbled away, repeating “They’re dead.” over and over again.
Forcing myself to look away from the corpse who had once been my drinking buddy, I stared at my surroundings, hoping someone would come help us.
No help came, but I did locate someone I recognized and sort of new. Nina, from accounting. She was holding her head in her hands, staring down at Arturo and the dead boy. She looked up when she saw me approaching.
“What the hell do we do?” she sobbed, skeletal face crumpling into a mess of black and white tear stained grease.
“I don’t know,” I said, taking her arm, “but I think we should get out of here.” The bar was starting to feel claustrophobic, which wasn’t helping the adrenaline racing through my system. I needed air, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be hanging out in a place where a bunch of people had mysteriously dropped dead, anyway. Seemed like a surefire way to tempt fate into taking me, too.
I shoved my way past a bunch of sobbing people dressed like skeletons, dragging Nina with me. She didn’t resist at all, choosing instead the path of least resistance and following me like a zombie.
Things weren’t any better outside. The crashes from earlier had been fatal. We made our way around what remained of a blue sedan that had plowed head on into a brick wall. Blood pooled beneath the wreck on what had been the driver’s door. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice the top of a child seat in the back.
Some kind of work truck was wrapped around a pole across the street. The guy behind the wheel had been thrown through the windshield, leaving a trail of blood and broken safety glass in his wake. A few feet away, a teenage boy lay half on the sidewalk, half in the street, still clutching a leash. The dog I assumed he’d been walking was nowhere to be seen.
Working on autopilot, I brought us back to the office. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure where else to go. We made our way inside, past the bodies of a few of our coworkers. Nina gasped and sobbed at each one we came across. I had started to feel numb to the death around us. Shock can do that to you, I suppose.
Whatever the hell had happened, it wasn’t isolated to just the bar.
I dug my phone out again and tried calling my sister. No answer. The pit in my stomach grew as I began to wonder just how widespread
this event was.
Surely it couldn’t have gotten all the way to her place, three states away . . . could it?
I don’t know if Nina was wondering about her friends or family members. She didn’t seem to be thinking much of anything, judging from her blank expression.
We got into the elevator for the most troubling and awkward ride of my life, and that’s saying something. I still didn’t know why we were there or what I was going to do. Nina didn’t, either, so at least I was in good company.
The elevator stopped at our floor and the doors opened in that old familiar way, revealing Robin, propped up against the doors leading to our area of the floor. I swallowed hard as I remembered my last words to her; “Die in a fire.” echoed in my ears as I looked at her lifeless body. What the hell had happened? And why weren’t Nina and I dead, too?
Something set Nina off and she started all out bawling. She pulled away from me and rushed through the front doors to the receptionists’ desk. She grabbed a handful of tissues and began blotting furiously at her eyes. I stood there, helpless, not sure what to say.
“Whyyyyy?” she howled, “Why us? Why did we live?” she seemed to be demanding answers from me, but I had none to give. I shrugged, then struggled under the weight of an epiphany.
“We’re in costume.” I whispered. Nina stopped, staring at me, her mouth hanging open inside the rim of teeth she’d painted over her lips. She gawped, trying to find words.
“That’s it. It has to be. Marlene wasn’t in costume, and she’s dead. Same with those teen girls. And the people outside the bar. They all died and we didn’t, because we’re made up like skeletons.”
Nina swallowed so hard I heard the click of her dry throat. She held the wad of tear and greasepaint stained tissues out to me.
“So what happens when we take off the makeup?” she asked.
RUSTY HUSK
Doorbells at Dusk Page 4