Doorbells at Dusk

by Josh Malerman

  “Father’s not dead!”

  “Yes, he is,” Ben said without emotion. “I killed him.”

  “As I killed mine,” Cameron said.

  “As all the young men who accompanied their fathers to the market did,” Ms. Sibley said. “It was my wish. And my children follow my wishes.”

  She motioned Benjamin forward and he came to suckle briefly from her decrepit left breast.

  “May Alaster have some too, Mother?” he said, pulling back.

  “My milk is for my children alone. Take the baby to the nursery and place it next to William. Both will want a feeding soon.”

  Alaster watched his brother obey, then glanced at the pumpkin.

  “You did the same thing to Will?”

  “Yes,” Ms. Sibley said. “Would you like to see? Earlier you admired that pumpkin very much. But I will show you something far more wondrous. A last glance at the world before your eyes close forever to it. Bring him, Cameron.”

  Cameron forced Alaster forward. They left the cottage and started into the woods. Ms. Sibley carried the infant’s gourd under her arm. The voices of other children rose again in their strange hymns, growing stronger as they penetrated the dense forest. From the sound, it might really be every boy and girl he knew. Dozens and dozens.

  They came to a glade filled with a vast patch. There must have been several hundred gourds scattered across the ground, all attached to their vines. A frost had come over most of them, a touch of gray on the otherwise vibrant orange shells. Ms. Sibley led them into the patch, stepping around the orbs. Many of the pumpkins looked entirely normal, but here and there Alaster found one with carved features glowing in the dark. He recognized so many faces.

  Then he saw Ben’s pumpkin, perfectly capturing his face as it was now.

  Alaster shook his head and looked away.

  “Benjamin wasn’t a day old when that carving was done,” Ms. Sibley said.

  “How can that be? How do you do it?”

  “Alaster, don’t assume I’m the carver just because I hold the knife. My Husband works through me, and His art is so much more subtle and skillful than mine.”

  “Your husband?” Alaster’s voice barely registered.

  “I’m sure you can make a guess, good Christian lad. Unfortunately another in the village was starting to make a guess as well. Poor Reverend Peterson, muttering his suspicions out loud. My hand was forced, and the plan had to begin earlier than desirable. I would have preferred an army of adults. But obedient children will do.”

  Alaster’s throat went dry. He just hung his head and watched Ms. Sibley kneel with the freshly carved pumpkin in both hands. She brought the stem against one of the many vines and spoke unrecognizable words. Another flash of light and then the pumpkin became part of the patch.

  “Now he is my child forever.”

  Alaster began to sob. “I want . . . I want to see William’s.”

  “You needn’t look far,” she said, gesturing to a pumpkin only a few feet from Ben’s. “No point separating blood brothers, is there? Yours would have been here as well.”

  She knelt and held up a pumpkin with his baby brother’s face cut into it. She lifted it as high as the vine would let her, almost chest level.

  “He can’t belong to you . . . not William . . .”

  “His heart is mine.”

  “No.”

  Ms. Sibley gave him a smile of gleeful sympathy. Then she went back to Benjamin’s pumpkin and cupped it in her hands. “Bring a knife,” she said.

  Minutes later, Ben appeared, blade in hand. Moonlight cut itself on the edge.

  Ms. Sibley’s fingers closed around the handle. She plunged the knife into the top of William’s pumpkin, and a sickly, wet sound commenced as she sawed. Alaster’s scream was stifled by Cameron’s large hand smothering his mouth. Nothing stopped Ms. Sibley’s knife. She tossed the cap aside, drove the knife into the soil with evident satisfaction, and reached within the gourd.

  “Mine, all mine,” she cooed, lifting a small beating, human heart. Blood ran down her boney white forearms like ink as she held the heart above her head. She stood and spun around, gnashing her teeth at the pumpkins all around her. “All of you are mine! All of you are His! Rejoice in your Father!”

  The children of the village, boys and girls of all ages, began to leave the dense forest and enter the glade. They did not sing now. They stood in solemn expectation, heads bowed just a little in submission.

  Alaster’s head bowed too as bitter resignation filled him. Through tears he saw Benjamin’s pumpkin almost at his feet. Part of him wanted to kick in the face. The flash of violence shocked him. Why blame Ben? He’d been under the witch’s command since birth, unaware of his dire state until the witch brought her spell to fruition. What did she want? The town? Power? What would she do to the children if not send them forth to spread her vile plans to other villages?

  He stomped his foot in powerless frustration, his sole coming down on the vine that connected Benjamin’s pumpkin to the patch. As he did, Ben gave the faintest grunt. Alaster looked over and saw a strain on his face, a brief clarity in his eyes. No one else seemed to notice, and his eyes clouded back to submission a moment later.

  Alaster stomped again. This time he pressed his foot against the vine as hard as he could and twisted his ankle.

  Benjamin blinked. Then he looked around.

  Then they made eye contact.

  Alaster would have done anything to bear down on the vine with all his weight. Cameron’s grip kept him from that. He twisted his foot again. His movements now caught the witch’s attention. She seemed startled, unsure.

  Benjamin shouted. He launched forward and seized the knife from the ground in one move, then stabbed it into Ms. Sibley’s ribcage. She howled like a wolf and dropped William’s pumpkin as she staggered. A frantic wave of her hands brought the other children to her defense. Cameron threw Alaster aside and headed toward Ben, who started retreating. Alaster began tearing at the vines, even biting them as he tried to break the pumpkins free. Each separation freed a corresponding boy or girl.

  Ben was gaining allies.

  The witch came at Alaster now, bounding across the patch, blood dark as lamp oil flowing from the stab wound. Alaster scrambled, knowing he had to find Cameron’s pumpkin. He was the oldest boy and the only one stronger than Ben.

  He saw Cameron’s carved face glowing like fire and clawed his way toward it, wrapping both arms around the pumpkin, shrieking as he twisted all his weight against the vine. Cameron froze in the distance but it wasn’t enough. Alaster saw the witch’s dark shadow falling over him.

  Then he heard Ben shout his name. Alaster and the witch both looked to see him charging across the patch, slashing as he went. The witch chanted and the pumpkins began to explode around his feet like cannon bursts. Ben screamed, losing his balance. He threw the knife as he went down. The blade went over the witch’s head and struck the ground a few feet from Alaster’s right hand.

  He seized it and cleaved the knife into Cameron’s vine.

  The pumpkin fell heavily to the ground, and Cameron staggered, squinting like someone waking from a long dream. He moved toward the witch, who now straddled Benjamin, both hands around his throat. Alaster rose to attack.

  “No!” Cameron said. “Cut the vines! All the vines!”

  Alaster worked with the knife, moving faster than he thought possible. He slashed everywhere, at every pumpkin both enchanted and ordinary. More children became free by the second. Cameron meanwhile had knocked the witch away from Benjamin and the two older boys stood shoulder to shoulder against her.

  The freed children gathered at their backs.

  “You’ll all die,” she said. “Without your connection to the patch, the hearts within will wither soon. Poor children. Come back to your mother and Father.”

  “We’d rather die,” Ben said, “and be with our real parents.”

  The children fell upon her.

  TRICK ’EM
ALL

  Adam Light

  Travis Raines couldn’t believe it. He had been stuck with the menial task of pushing the sweets out the door when the trick or treat festivities got under way. At sixteen, he was considered too old to go out and take part in the real fun, but his parents refused to allow him the honor of escorting his brother and sister around while they went door to door collecting their booty.

  Staring down into his bowl of corn flakes, he muttered, “Why can’t I take them out?”

  He had known it was pointless to ask the question, but he was not known for his tactfulness. And he was pissed.

  A troubled look passed between the two adults.

  “We don’t feel you’re ready for that kind of responsibility. You’re manning the candy dish, and that’s final. We shouldn’t have to explain all of our decisions, anyway.”

  “Maybe next year you can chaperone, kiddo,” his mom added.

  He looked first at his dad, then at his mom, his breakfast forgotten. ”I know what it is. You can try to bullshit me all you want, but I get it.”

  “Watch your language, young man,” his dad warned, brow furrowed. ”And if you already know why we don’t want you doing it, you shouldn’t have to ask.”

  Travis imagined how good it would feel to lunge across the table and scoop out his old man’s eye ball with his spoon. His stomach squelched like a giant fist had squeezed its contents into his upper intestine with malice, and he excused himself from the breakfast table without another word.

  Honestly, he had no desire to drag those little shits around the neighborhood anyway. What irritated him was the lack of trust his parents had for him. He saw himself as mature for his age, and the fact that they still treated him like a child was what really got his blood boiling.

  He marched upstairs and set to work carving the massive pumpkin he had stored in his closet. He was supposed to do it outside, but he didn’t care. Yesterday, he had drawn an evil face on it with a magic marker. As he chiseled out the demonic features and emptied its gooey innards, he focused all of his hatred on it. He imagined the knife sliding in and out of his father’s chubby body, gouging holes in his mother’s makeup caked face. It felt good to get his aggression out like that. It was liberating. After he finished, and the wicked face had been crafted just to his liking, he lit a candle, lifted the top off the pumpkin and set it aside, lighting it up. He knew that if he got caught with a jack-o’-lantern in his room, it would only illustrate his parents’ point in regard to his immaturity, but fuck ‘em. They could rot for all he cared. He was beyond caring about their opinion of him.

  Travis had never been fast to make friends; in fact, he had never been involved in a meaningful relationship with another kid, or even his own siblings. He glanced at his carved jack-o’-lantern and silently lamented his lonely existence.

  Finally, he sighed and cleaned up his pumpkin mess, tossed everything into the trash, and checked over his work.

  “And you shall be called Jackass, my friend,” he said.

  A moment later, the pumpkin replied.

  So you want to be friends, huh, Travis?

  Travis blinked.

  He shook his head and laughed. Yeah, right, dumbass. The jack-o’-lantern is alive.

  Once again, it spoke, its soft voice mellifluous, inviting.

  I’ll be your friend, if you want, Travis. How about it?

  This time he thought he actually saw the jack-o’-lantern’s mouth move.

  Not completely convinced he hadn’t imagined it, he still answered. ”Sure, I’ll be friends with a talking pumpkin.”

  Good. Thanks for that, young man. I knew you had good taste. And so do I. We’re going to get along just fine.

  There was no denying it. The thing was talking. What craziness is this?

  I’ve sought release from the darkness for so long, Travis, Jackass said. You’ve brought me into the light, and I am more grateful than I can put into words.

  Travis was floored. This couldn’t really be happening. He had finally lost his mind.

  “This is just great. I’m such a loser, I’m having a conversation with an inanimate object. Jesus Christ.”

  You made me, Travis. I’m here because you wanted me to be. This is real, and you’re not a loser. I think you’re pretty terrific.

  Travis sat in stunned silence, his mouth hanging open. He watched the pumpkin’s features, the mouth and eyes he himself had cut out of the thing, come to life and move in an almost exaggerated mockery of a human face.

  You created me, but I fear the job is only halfway finished. I’m just a head! A low throated, mischievous laugh erupted from the candlelit mouth. It made Travis’s flesh crawl. I need to be whole. I’m in a pretty compromised position right now. I need you to complete me. And I know how to make your problems go away, too, by the way.

  Jackass winked conspiratorially at him, and Travis grinned. It was like watching a live cartoon. Even though his mind was unable to grip what was happening, it was certainly a delightful experience. No one would ever believe it. But he wouldn’t tell anyone. This was his secret.

  Travis’s mom called him downstairs, and though he had no desire to move at all, he figured he’d better go find out what was going on. The last thing he needed was for one or both his parents to come storming in to find a lit jack-o’-lantern in his room.

  “I’ll be back soon, Jackass,” he said, and ran out of his room, still unsure whether Jackass was real, or if he had simply fallen down the rabbit hole. Maybe he’d had a nervous breakdown, and was really sitting in a padded cell right now, hallucinating the whole thing. He hoped not.

  Regardless, the wicked witch waited, and he had to find out what she wanted.

  It was time for dinner. They had tacos, which were good, but Travis could barely concentrate.

  The twins were not at the table. His dad revealed that one of the neighbors, whose kids were friends with the twins, was going to do the chaperoning, and had come over and gotten them a little while ago.

  And they still insisted that Travis pass candy out to the trick or treaters.

  Travis’s bitterness about being relegated to such an asinine job on this wondrous night rekindled, and though his attitude was acrimonious, he kept his temper in check. A plastic smile pasted across his mug, while he thought about what waited upstairs for him, he endured the pain of sitting with his parents. Jackass consumed his every thought.

  Unfortunately, his mom and dad prattled on and on, over explaining the reason Travis was not old enough or responsible enough to walk his younger siblings around the fucking block. As far back as he could remember, they had treated him this way. As if he didn’t understand them the first time they said things.

  And they had already started drinking.

  The old man and the witch had been out to get him for so long. They treated him like shit right to his face, showing him no respect at all. He knew how they talked about him behind his back, too. He had overheard the talks they had when they thought he wasn’t able to hear them.

  Like the time he found the Golden Retriever in the woods behind his school playground. The dog had been old and sick, and he’d done it a favor, put it out of its misery. Then, he’d been inclined to see what made the animal tick. So he’d taken it apart. He thought back on the day with a mixture of emotions. Touching the organs and bones he’d pulled from the animal’s furry flesh had been so exciting, his penis had bulged excruciatingly against the inside of his jeans. He hadn’t understood why that had happened at the time. He only knew that it was exhilarating, and the urgent throbbing in his loins had been his introduction to sexual arousal.

  He’d been caught by some teachers who had been dispatched to find him when he didn’t show up for class after recess.

  His dad had come to get him from school, but had barely spoken.

  When his mother had arrived home after work that night, they had discussed Travis behind his back. Thinking he was asleep, they spoke openly about their disdain for him, h
ow he made them sick and afraid to sleep in their own home.

  “Jesus Christ, Tom. Where in the hell did this come from? Because it certainly isn’t from my side of the family.”

  “Now, Judy, I don’t think that’s necessary. Sometimes people are just born . . . different.”

  “We’re perfectly normal, and we made a psychopath and brought him into the world, then? Is that it? Jesus Christ.”

  Travis had heard them loud and clear. It was awful. His own parents hated and feared him.

  His father had beaten him within an inch of his life the next day. It had been a savage thrashing, and Travis had, for a frightening moment, thought his dad had meant to kill him. Amazingly, his dad had avoided leaving any obvious marks on him.

  “You tell your mom what just went down, you sick little fuck, and you can kiss your ass goodbye. This’ll seem like a day trip to Disneyland, got me?”

  He had nodded, tears still streaming down his face, swearing vengeance on the bastard.

  “Seriously, Travis. Your ass is headed for boarding school if you fuck up one more time.” His face flushed, sweating so profusely he looked like he had just finished a marathon, and he had not waited for a reply. He just stormed out of the room and Travis had heard the tell-tale sound of the liquor cabinet opening and slamming as his father retrieved a bottle of something strong.

  Travis had been kicked out of grade school after the incident, at the tender age of ten. His mother had quit her job, too, so he could be home-schooled. He had seen a therapist for a while, and was given a clean bill of mental health. But mom and dad were never convinced. They spoke about him in hushed tones behind his back to this very day.

  Those thoughts weighing heavy on his mind, Travis unceremoniously excused himself from the table, mumbled “fuck both of you” under his breath, and went on his way.

  He hurried up the stairs, but slowed down as he neared the top, and stopped altogether when he reached his bedroom door.

  Back in his room, the sun drooped low outside the window, casting a blinding glare through the dusty glass as it crept closer to the edge of the sky. He turned on his mp3 player, cranked up the speakers, and filled the room with the sounds of death metal. He then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Jackass, and shoved his glasses instinctively up onto his nose with a forefinger.