Dark Hallows: 10 Halloween Haunts

by Mark Parker

  “Quiet,” Warren said. He went to the couch and snatched the dog up off his mother’s lap. His mother didn’t even stir.

  Warren went through the kitchen and to the basement door. He opened the door and released Laddie onto the first step. The dog barked once then went silent. Warren closed the door on him. He locked it, too, even though Laddie could not use a doorknob. That was just silly.

  Back in the living room, his silhouette silvered from the glow of the television, Warren stood for a long time above his mother as she snored on the couch. The longer he stared down at her, the more he could see the innate ugliness of her, the sheer wrongness of her. That angular face...the glistening trail of drool that purled from her open mouth...her meaty leg tented up from the part in her robe, the hue of unbaked dough...

  “You can’t fool me,” Warren said, his voice muffled from within the mask. “You can’t fool me.”

  But underneath! Oh, Warren, there was no hiding what that monster truly was!

  He went into the kitchen for a knife.

  THE DARKEST NIGHT OF THE YEAR

  Mark Parker

  Roselyn Saunders woke to the sound of something clattering against her living room window. Though the near empty room stood in total darkness, a half-lidded glance at the illuminated clock on the mantelpiece confirmed what she already suspected—that it was not still nighttime, but nearly dawn. Her nap with Roscoe, the Maine Coon her mother had given her as a housewarming gift, turned into her first night of restful sleep since moving into her new home. Having never lived in a rural setting before, surrounded by so much forest and farmland—and far too much unnerving silence—every little sound nearly had her jumping out of her skin.

  Lifting herself up from the couch where Roscoe lay nestled beneath the warm bedding she’d drug downstairs the previous evening, Roselyn maneuvered in the darkness around teetering stacks of packing boxes, and the new Ethan Allen recliner her mother had bought for her, as she crossed over to the large picture window to see what’d roused her from sleep. Without her glasses on, when she pushed back the curtains, she could only make out vague kaleidoscopic shadows beyond the triptych of frost-encrusted glass.

  She stood there for a moment listening to the howling wind outside, periodically broken by the heavy rustling of leaves and skittering of half-bare branches clicking against the bay window and adjoining side of the house. She figured that must’ve been what’d pulled her from sleep—and was now causing an icy chill to run up the length of her spine.

  Tomorrow was Halloween, which had her more on edge than usual. She’d experienced a terrible fright as a child, and subsequently developed a deep aversion to the “dark holiday,” as her mother liked to call it.

  Bertrand Franks, a skilled stuntman working with a low-budget traveling circus, and her mother’s long-ago boyfriend, had played a cruel joke on Roselyn and her friends, when one Halloween he dressed in farmer overalls and a red and black plaid shirt, and donned a bright orange jack-o’-lantern head that he’d soaked in gasoline and set aflame.

  Like something out of a Washington Irving novel, Bertrand chased Roselyn and the rest of the neighborhood kids up and down the street in front of their houses, making them all scream at the top of their lungs in terror, before running inside to tell their parents what he’d done.

  Roselyn had been furious with her mother when she came to Bertrand’s defense, insisting he’d only done it as a harmless prank, and nothing more. Roselyn vowed then and there that she would never again go trick-or-treating—and she hadn’t. In fact, she still blamed Bertrand for the terrible nightmares that plagued her to this very day. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could see his lumbering frame chasing after her, his fiery jack-o’-lantern head caught up in a swirl of thick, black, roiling flames.

  With a solitary thoughtless act, the man had forever ruined Halloween for her. What’d once been a lighthearted, fun celebration between her and her friends, had become something dark and foreboding—an event to be feared. And now, because of it, Roselyn was once again planning on spending the evening indoors, with the lights off and curtains drawn. She figured whatever children came around trick-or-treating, would simply bypass her darkened doorstep and go on to the next house, in search of whatever sugary treats folks were handing out. Although she knew the night’s festivities would’ve been the perfect opportunity for her to get to know some of her new neighbors, meeting them would have to wait, at least until Halloween had come and gone.

  Switching on a nearby floor lamp, Roselyn saw that Roscoe certainly had the right idea. He’d already gotten into the act, by burying his fuzzy round face beneath one large, oversized paw, in a not-so-disguised effort to shut out the rest of the world. She had to laugh. Perhaps giving her the cat as a housewarming gift hadn’t been such a bad move on her mother’s part after all.

  ***

  When her alarm went off the following morning, Roselyn woke both shaken and irritable. She’d had her recurring dream again. As always, in the dream she was running sluggishly through a charred clearing of trees, soundlessly screaming as Bertrand chased after her, long into the night.

  Rolling over to turn off her alarm, the hardback book she’d taken to bed with her, fell to the floor with a thunderous CLAP! Roselyn let out a startled scream, which sent poor Roscoe bolting from the room in search of a quieter, less threatening place to spend the rest of his morning.

  After brushing her teeth and washing her face, she nervously made her way downstairs. With the dream still so alive and vivid in her mind, she couldn’t help thinking that Bertrand had somehow made his way into the waking world, and was waiting in the shadows below, to finish off what he’d started so many years ago, and scare the very life out of her.

  When her foot landed on the last step, Roselyn was relieved to find the living room just as she’d left it. She shuffled over to the window and threw open the curtains to let some much needed light—and warmth—into the room. Anything, she told herself, that might help dispel the lingering ghosts of her dream.

  Heading back upstairs to take a quick shower and get dressed, Roselyn froze mid-step when the kitchen phone started to ring. It had to be her mother calling; no one else had the number. She debated whether she should let the machine pick up, but thought better of it, knowing if she didn’t answer it now, her mother would only keep on calling, and she’d never get anything done.

  “Yes, mother—” Roselyn said into the phone, catching it on the fourth ring.

  “What’s with the attitude, missy? And what took you so long to get to the phone? I was only calling to wish you a Happy Halloween, and see how you’re settling in.”

  “Happy Halloween, mother? Is that your idea of some sort of sick joke, or just an attempt to get me to rethink the whole living alone thing again?”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to, young lady? Surely you’re not still blaming me for what Bertrand did to you all those years ago?” Her mother took a breath before continuing on. “It’s obvious that high-priced therapy of yours isn’t helping. I don’t know why you can’t just let it go and get over it. I’ve put all that nonsense behind me, why can’t you?”

  “Go to hell, mother!” Roselyn shouted, and slammed down the phone.

  ***

  Still angry over the heated exchange she’d had with her mother, and her insensitivity for Roselyn’s feeling, she wanted to make short work out of her morning of running errands. There were only a few items she needed to get from the store, then she would return her library books and pick out more for the coming week. She was looking forward to getting home and spending the rest of the day unpacking and getting the house organized before having an early supper and retreating upstairs to barricade herself in her bedroom to wait out the night, with Roscoe by her side.

  When she pulled into her driveway a few hours later, Roselyn nearly fainted at the sight of what awaited her there. Someone had dumped a large mound of black earth under the swaying, leafless limbs of the large maple tree
in front of her bay window. Whoever had done it had also positioned an all-too-realistic looking headstone on top of the dirt mound, with YOU’RE NEXT spray painted across its faux stonework front in menacing black letters. A large Grim Reaper had been set up alongside it. Faceless and dressed in black tatters, it stood sentinel over the makeshift grave, with its nasty looking scythe glinting in the low-setting sun.

  Humming with unbridled fear, Roselyn reached into the back seat of the car and snatched up her bags before running toward the house. When she neared the porch, she took the stairs two at a time, frantically searching for her house keys as she went.

  When she found them, she pushed the key into the lock and all but hurled herself against the door’s thickness, which gave way easily under the force of her movement.

  Rushing inside, she ran over to the couch and dropped her armload of bags onto the well-worn cushions below. Not seeing Roscoe curled up there, when he narrowly escaped being crushed under an avalanche of groceries and library books, he let out a startled yowl and tore out of the room.

  Roselyn felt awful at having nearly crushed the poor cat. She followed after him, but lost sight of his fuzzy shadow when he ducked into the dark interior of her crafting room. Most likely he would hide in the room’s only closet, which she’d started leaving open for him.

  Poor kitty, she thought, leaning against the wall to catch her breath. After having just seen what she had outside, Roselyn felt as if she was dangerously close to having a full-blown panic attack. Lowering herself onto the gleaming hardwood floor of the hallway, she tried to regulate her breathing, but it wasn’t working. Without a clue as to who might’ve staged the macabre scene outside her window, it felt as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her.

  ***

  Several hours later, when afternoon turned to evening, Roselyn was surprised to notice that Halloween had arrived with barely a whisper. Expecting to already hear children shouting “trick or treat” up and down the street, she was curious at how quiet the neighborhood was, despite the night’s celebration.

  After eating supper and feeding Roscoe, she scooped him up and headed upstairs. In an odd sort of way, Roscoe appeared to be almost as frightened as she was. When she lowered him onto the bed, he immediately burrowed underneath the duvet and went deathly still.

  For her night of reading, she selected a bodice-ripping romance, figuring it might provide far more mindless distraction than one of her usual mysteries would.

  When she’d reached the midway point of Love’s Forgotten Passion several hours later, her heart stopped beating in her chest upon hearing a loud knocking coming up from downstairs. Even though she knew her bodily movements couldn’t be heard from such a distance, Roselyn continued to hold her breath for a few more seconds, hoping the knocking to soon stop, and for whoever was doing it would go away and leave her and Roscoe alone.

  Several seconds later she heard a loud THUD land on the weathered boards of the porch, followed by a rush of footsteps descending the stairs. She remained motionless, needing to make absolute certain she was once again alone, before slipping out of bed to chance a quick look outside.

  When she pushed aside the curtain and peeked out through the window that faced the front yard, it was all she could do to stifle a scream when she saw what was staring up at her from the moonlit yard below.

  ***

  It was only after she’d regained consciousness several hours later—with the sun already rising in the eastern sky—that the details of what she’d seen came frightfully back into view.

  A tall figure dressed in farmer overalls and a red and black plaid shirt…

  A fiery jack-o’-lantern where its head should’ve been…

  And then…

  …nothing but a forest of absolute blackness.

  Tired of being a prisoner to her own fears—in her own home, no less—Roselyn rose to her feet and ran downstairs, fueled by pent up frustration and anger. She remembered hearing a loud thud land on her porch before she’d blacked out, and wanted to see what’d caused the unsteadying sound.

  Unlocking her front door and pulling it open, she cautiously peered outside. Her eyes fell on a square of leaf-covered porch where an enormous pumpkin had been placed next to the pot of bright yellow chrysanthemums she’d bought the day she moved in.

  The pumpkin had a black, purple, and lime green bow tied around its crooked stem, with streamers tethering a small envelope to it, which was now fluttering in the brisk morning air like a paper hand waving.

  “Hello…” a deep, baritone voice called out from around the corner of the house. “Anybody home?”

  When the source of the voice came into view, Roselyn was startled when she saw the man was wearing overalls and a plaid shirt. Only, this time, there was no flaming jack-o’-lantern where his head should’ve been. Instead, he had a thick head of cotton-white hair, and was wearing a large, sun-faded, wide-brimmed hat, like Brad Pitt wore in A River Runs Through It.

  “I hope I didn’t give you a start, Miss,” the man said smiling. “I just wanted to come up and introduce myself and welcome you to the neighborhood, on behalf of my family and our farm. And, of course, to explain how this made its way onto your porch.” He pointed down at the pumpkin that stood between them.

  “It’s n-n-nice to meet you,” Roselyn said, brushing a thick strand of chestnut hair out of her face, squinting as the morning sun dappled light onto her face. “You’ll have to excuse me, I just woke up.”

  “No worries, Miss. I live in a house full of women. So seeing someone before they’ve had a chance to get themselves together is something I’m quite accustomed to. Of course, where my wife and daughters are concerned, I would adore them no matter how they looked.”

  Roselyn smiled at the stranger’s tender words.

  “Forgive my manners.” She tugged the belt of her robe a bit tighter. “I’m Roselyn Saunders. I only moved in a week ago. I’m pretty certain you are the first real person I’ve met since moving here.”

  He tipped his hat in a gentlemanly gesture, extending his hand.

  “First real person?” he asked.

  “I was referring to that fella over there,” Roselyn said, pointing in the direction of the creepy Grim Reaper that’d been set up alongside the makeshift grave scene.”

  “Oh, dear…” the man said, taking off his hat to scratch his head. “My grandson said he thought your house needed some Halloween decorations. But I didn’t think this was what he had in mind. Please accept my sincerest apologies. I hope he didn’t give you too much of a fright.”

  Roselyn cupped a hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn.

  “Well, at first—”

  Suddenly she felt silly for having made so many incorrect assumptions about why the display had been put there, and what it all meant. She was surprised to hear how it’d only been a matter of folks trying to be neighborly and welcome her to their small, evidently close-knit community.

  When the man graciously invited her to join him and his family that evening for dinner, in an effort to step out of her comfort zone, Roselyn accepted, asking if there was anything she could bring. He was no doubt who she’d seen standing beneath her window the previous evening, before everything had gone dark, and had also been the deliverer of the giant pumpkin that now graced her front porch.

  Unaccustomed to such kindness, Roselyn didn’t know what to say, accept, “Thank you!”

  And, with that, the man headed back around the corner of her house.

  ***

  When Roselyn left the house after a day spent straightening up and getting things arranged the way she wanted them, she made the decision to walk the short distance between her place and the Polk family farm. It was only a half mile down the road. She knew the fresh air and exercise would do her a world of good.

  She was delighted when some of her new neighbors smiled and waved as she walked past. Fortunately, they couldn’t see the craziness she still felt on the inside, after so many years of paralyz
ing fear and unrelenting memories—enough, no doubt, to fill ten lifetimes.

  It wasn’t until she reached the old weathered post fence that Mr. Polk said marked the parameter of his family’s property that Roselyn noticed something she hadn’t seen when first setting out on her walk.

  Behind each graying parcel of harvested farmland, stood serried ranks of skeletal, leafless trees, charred and smoldering against the burnt-orange backdrop of the darkening October sky. In a searing flash, a terrifying swell of fear fought to overtake her. But this time, when it did, Roselyn did her best to shut her mind to it, and simply kept on walking.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  RICHARD CHIZMAR is the founder/publisher of Cemetery Dance magazine and the Cemetery Dance Publications book imprint. He has edited more than 20 anthologies and his fiction has appeared in dozens of publications, including Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories. He has won two World Fantasy awards, four International Horror Guild awards, and the HWA’s Board of Trustees award. Chizmar and Jonathan Schaech have also written screenplays and teleplays for United Artists, Sony Screen Gems, Lions Gate, Showtime, NBC, and many other companies. Chizmar has appeared at numerous conferences as a writing instructor, guest speaker, panelist, and guest of honor.