He pulled up in front of the address a little past eleven. He sat for a few minutes, thinking it looked vaguely familiar. He remembered coming here with Paula, but he wasn’t positive it actually happened. The house was a typical Victorian: sash windows, stained glass, and a finial on the roof, a canted bay-window in front, geometric tiled walk, and a round tower at one corner. It was hard to tell how big it was, or even the exact color. Tall, unkempt evergreen bushes and trees hugging it so closely kept it dark and secretive, in contrast to the neighboring properties and their denuded trees. He’d barely been aware of the change of seasons when he left the city. Here it appeared full-blown, almost past.
He hadn’t yet decided what to say to her. He trotted up the walk before he could lose his nerve. Several windows were lit, so he assumed they were waiting for him.
The door opened before he could ring the bell. A woman’s pale face: could this be Paula, aged so harshly? No, surely too old and too short.
“I presume you’re Randall?” Her voice surprised him with its strength. She sounded almost angry.
“Yes. I’m sorry it’s so late, but I got here as soon as I could.”
“It will do.”
She guided him through a short hall and into some sort of sitting room. Although there were lights on in the house, the rooms were dim. Perhaps the darkness of the wallpaper and the overdone decor were too much to overcome. This room was relatively tidy except for tall stacks of women’s magazines piled sloppily by each chair. There were a number of pictures on the side tables. All of them were of Paula around the age Randall had known her, but none newer than that.
“Paula will be joining you soon. She requires a little time to get ready.”
“Do you have a more recent photograph of her somewhere?” Maybe it was rude to ask so quickly, but that was what was on his mind.
“My daughter doesn’t like to get her picture taken. I approve of that. I’ve always thought there was too much vanity in the world.”
He sat down in a chair by the window. It was low, and he had bad knees. He worried that it might be a struggle to get out of it. “I think you’re right. I hate getting my picture taken myself. I don’t, usually. I think the last time was when I renewed my license.”
“My daughter doesn’t drive. She doesn’t feel the need to.”
“I see.” Although he didn’t, really. The Paula he’d known had loved touring around, driving to new places.
The old woman sat down and stared at him with an expression that was almost a smile, but not quite. Calculated interest, perhaps. Because of the lowness of his chair he had to look up at her. He felt as if he were under observation.
“It’s been years since you’ve seen my daughter. Have you thought about her very much?”
He squirmed. “Yes, yes I have. I have many fond memories. And sometimes I wondered how she was doing.”
“And yet you never called.”
“I … think I called. I’m pretty sure I tried. But you know how it is. People move around, their lives get complicated. Before you know it, years have passed.”
“My daughter has never moved. She has been here all these years.” Paula’s mother leaned forward slightly. Randall had the uneasy feeling she might leap on him and he wouldn’t be able to get out of the chair in time.
“I’m s-sorry,” he said. “I should have tried harder.”
“You became involved in your own concerns, your own … passions. I imagine you only thought of her when you were between women, when your appetites made you remember how beautiful she was. That is often the way with you men, I think.”
Surely it was more complicated than that, Randall thought. He really had cared for her. But he thought about the timing she suggested, and saw the truth in it. But still he said, “No. It wasn’t like that. I never stopped caring for her. Please, can I see her now?”
She didn’t answer right away. She turned her head and raised an eyebrow, as if listening for something. There was another open door on the other side of the room leading somewhere else in the house. Randall leaned slightly and tried to look through it. It was a hallway, and very dark, but he thought he saw a glimmer of something, and movement.
“She’ll be down soon, I promise.” He straightened up quickly, unaccountably nervous that she had seen him looking. “She just wants to look her best for you. She was always a pretty girl, but the years, they do things to the best of us, and shallow people, they sometimes judge us harshly.”
“She was always beautiful. I’m sure she still is. A few wrinkles, a few extra pounds—that doesn’t bother me, I promise. Look at me, I’m not perfect.”
“No, you are not,” she replied. He guessed she wasn’t going to let him get away with anything. “You have to look past the surface to see the person inside. Tell me, if I were able to look inside you, Randall, what would I see?”
“I … I don’t know how to answer that.” But some words came readily to mind. Petty, bitter, impatient, disappointed. So he was dishonest as well. “I guess you’d be disappointed.”
“Only if I had misjudged you, Randall. Only then.” She turned her head and looked back through the entrance hall from which they’d entered this room. “I see it is only a few minutes before midnight.” Had there been a clock in the hall? He certainly hadn’t seen one. “Do you like Halloween, Randall? Are you familiar with its customs?”
“I dressed up and went trick-or-treating as a child. I guess I haven’t thought much about it since then. I was never into scary stuff. I never could understand why anyone would want to be scared, frankly.”
“For some, it is evidence that they are still alive. You are alive, aren’t you Randall?”
He forced out an awkward laugh. In truth, he felt as if he could hardly breathe in this house. “As far … as far as I know.” The forced laugh he repeated made him feel a bit crazed.
“You are a lucky man, certainly. The approaching hour provides us with a unique opportunity.” She smiled widely, exposing several broken and missing teeth. “There is a traditional Halloween ritual. I recall it very well from when I was a young woman of marrying age. I remember being so eager to participate in this ritual, as were many of my friends. Do you want to hear about it?”
Of course he didn’t want to hear about it, but he couldn’t imagine saying no with her looking at him like that. “Of course. Please tell me.”
“It’s quite a lot of fun, actually. When you’re young you’re always wondering what is going to happen to you, what you might be in for in your life. More so than when you’re older, I think. When you’re older you already know what’s going to happen to you.”
“I guess. I guess that’s true.”
“Very good. We are on the same page, then, Randall. The ritual is simply this. At midnight on Halloween a young man or young woman turns off all the lights and stares into a mirror. Eventually, according to this ritual, you will see the face of your future spouse standing behind you, looking over your shoulder. Isn’t that delightful? Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“I guess. I guess I can see how that would be fun, if you were young enough.”
“Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Randall! Do you think my lovely daughter would be interested in a stick-in-the-mud? Play along, why don’t you? It’s something to do until she comes down. And let’s just say you see her face in the mirror, looking over your shoulder. Think of her reaction if you told her that! It would likely make her very pleased, don’t you think?”
“It might.” It was an interesting idea. It gave him something to open with when he finally saw Paula. And he could tell her anything—it didn’t matter what he actually saw in the mirror. He didn’t expect to see anything. But he could tell Paula he saw her in the mirror, and how beautiful she was, but not nearly as beautiful as she was actually standing there in front of him. “I’ll do it. Where’s the mirror?”
“We only have the one. In this entire house, only the one mirror. It’s hanging on the wall at the
end of that hall.” She gestured to that other open door and the darkness beyond. “But you must hurry. It’s almost midnight. Soon it will be too late.”
Randall struggled out of his chair with some effort. It felt as if the air in the room was so heavy he could hardly move against it. He staggered a bit as he made his way to the open door. “Could you turn the light on in there? I can hardly see.”
“Oh, but Randall,” she said sternly behind him. “Weren’t you listening? The lights have to be out, or the game won’t work at all!”
Game, ritual, he wished she would make up her mind. He peered down the hall, his eyes struggling to adjust. There was that slight glimmer again. It must be the mirror, he thought. But no signs of movement. “Okay. Okay.”
He stepped forward a few steps. The lights in the sitting room went off behind him. “Hurry!” she said from the dark. Her voice rose. “There isn’t much time!”
He quickened his pace. The glimmer at the end of the hall appeared to change. Of course, he thought, because of his own movement. There was a sound behind him. Was the old woman following him in? He stared into the darkness, trying to concentrate, attempting to force his eyes to adjust.
“One more thing,” she said behind him, but her voice had subtly changed. “Voyeur.” Had he understood what she said? “If the viewer were destined to die before getting married, he or she would see something else entirely.” Her voice was completely different now, completely changed, reminding him of that voice he had heard, and been captivated by, that beautiful voice so many years ago.
“Midnight,” the voice said.
He was looking into the darkness so determinedly his head was splitting. But at last he was beginning to see his reflection in the black, his features distorted, melting, disappearing in patches, moving, rotating. A woman’s face rushed out of the darkness behind him and stopped above his shoulder. Paula was as beautiful as ever, unaged, until she too began to distort, the flesh melting from her bones, until that moment when they were exactly alike, two naked skulls, staring.
THE HALLOWEEN MONSTER
ALISON LITTLEWOOD
Alison Littlewood’s latest novel is The Crow Garden, the tale of a Victorian mad doctor so obsessed with his patient he follows her into the darkened rooms of mesmerism and séances. Her other novels include The Hidden People, A Cold Season, A Cold Silence, Path of Needles, The Unquiet House, and Zombie Apocalypse!: Acapulcalypse Now.
A winner of the Shirley Jackson Award for Short Fiction, the author’s stories have been selected for several “Year’s Best” anthology series and are gathered together in her collections Quieter Paths and in Five Feathered Tales, the latter a collaboration with award-winning illustrator Daniele Serra.
“Halloween is the perfect time to reflect on the masks we wear,” she explains, “not just on the one night we get to wear costumes, but all year round. It’s also a time to consider real monsters as well as the imaginary kind—those that are truly terrifying, rather than the ones we dress up as for fun.
“My character is navigating all the tribulations of school and a new home, stepping carefully and playing his part, until Halloween forces him to confront his own nature. Though perhaps having done so, it will also make him evolve into something else… .”
IT WAS A dead night, not like the ones I remembered. We had no pumpkins, no apples to duck for, no candies in a bowl. It was Dad who did all that, though I hadn’t realized it at the time. I’d thought then it was just the way things were.
This Halloween Dad was gone and I knew Mum wouldn’t open the door, not for anyone. She had that hollow look about her, her eyes focused too far away. It was only four o’clock but it was getting dark outside, and she’d already started walking past the drinks cupboard, back and forth, running her fingers over the wood. She didn’t like to start before five. Not like him, she always said, as if Dad didn’t have a name any longer.
I wondered where he was now. Somewhere better than this, I supposed.
Halloween used to be good. Dad would dress up as a monster—all kinds, it didn’t seem to matter. He’d have a bolt through his neck or a mask or a sheet to make him look like a ghost, and he’d throw apples into a bowl of water, light candles, whatever it was that occurred to him. And he’d drink too, but he wasn’t scary, not that night. On Halloween, everything was funny instead.
I slumped onto the sofa, picking the cushion with the broken springs underneath so it wouldn’t annoy Mum when she sat down. She had her back to me, looking out of the window, seeing whatever it was she saw. But it seemed she wasn’t so far away after all because she said, “Isn’t it time you went?”
Her voice had that shaky edge it took on as the clock edged toward five. I didn’t answer; I didn’t know what she meant. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was too old for trick-or-treating, too old for costumes.
She turned around. I saw that she was crying and I caught my breath. I remembered the way we’d laughed once, laughed as we decided what to carve into the pumpkin’s face, and I wondered if I knew what she’d been staring at all along: not the dark, but memories.
She shook her head. “Out,” she said. “Out!”
I fought my way up from the sagging sofa, wishing I’d picked the better cushion after all, and grabbed my coat. When Mum said something in that voice, it was best not to say anything at all. Best just to get as far away as possible.
Outside, the sky looked dirty, and the air was cold and sharp and smelling of the main road that ran past the end of our street. That was where ex-council houses with peeling window frames gave way to rows of terraces with narrow lanes and narrower back alleys; we’d moved here after Dad left. I zipped my coat to the neck. I didn’t think I’d ever been out on Halloween night alone, and for a second I imagined zombies and ghouls and mad axe-men, real ones, hiding in full view among all the costumes and masks. I forced out a huff of laughter and started walking toward town.
A group of blonde and blue-eyed girls dressed as fairies emerged from someone’s gate, their mum giving me a funny look as she herded them past me. The shop over the road had a strand of orange and black bunting in the window, but the shutter was down over the door. The next house had two carved pumpkins on the step, shuddering candles revealing matching grins. From somewhere down the road I heard kids’ voices, raised in the old chant: Trick or treeaaat!
Some fucking trick, I thought, pulling sharp air into my lungs and coughing, and I heard, “Oi, Connor—here!”
At first I couldn’t place it, didn’t even think the shout was aimed at me, then it came again and I recognized Gary Turner’s voice from school. I didn’t see him much—he spent most of his time smoking behind the gym, or in detention, or not showing up at all. I wasn’t hard enough or soft enough to attract his notice; I was surprised he even knew my name. But then, it seemed he didn’t.
“It’s Cam,” I said, as I approached. He was standing farther along the road, next to an alley that ran behind the terraces. “My name’s Cam. Not Connor.” I stopped a few yards short of him. I’d rather have ignored him and walked away, but it wasn’t worth pushing it with Gary Turner.
“Don’t care.” He cast his eyes down to my cheap knockoff trainers and back up again. “Give us a hand, will you?”
He nodded toward the alleyway and I realized he wasn’t alone; two others were standing there. I knew them from school too. Everybody did. James Poole and Dale Harris; they didn’t grin or wave or nod.
“In there,” Gary said.
I froze. There was no way I was stepping into the alley with those three waiting to close off the exit.
“We don’t want you, dickhead,” he said. Maybe he’d read my thoughts, or maybe he could smell fear. “We’re after the cat.”
I frowned, peering into the narrow, piss-stinking place. At first I couldn’t see any cat, and then I did; it was pitch-black, difficult to make out against the rot-streaked wall. It knew we were there, though. Its back was arched, its legs stiff and tail raised, its yellow e
yes unblinking. I also made out a thin red collar. I recognized it at once.
“Little fucker doesn’t want to be caught,” Gary said. “Need another pair of hands, innit? Nearly scratched Dale’s arm off.”
“What do you want it for?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, and then I realized he had after all. He had fished in his pocket and was showing it to me: a length of twine dangled from his fingers. It looked like he’d picked it up off the floor, frayed and filthy, but made of strong blue nylon. It wouldn’t break easily. It looked strong enough for whatever he planned to do. I thought I might just be able to imagine what that was.
I looked at the cat. It didn’t look scared. It looked straight back at me, as if it didn’t quite know what I was.
“Come on.” Gary laughed. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit. Haven’t got all night.”
Dale and James laughed, as if he’d told a joke.
“Why?” I said.
Gary stilled. He turned and looked at me. He looked at me as if he wasn’t used to being questioned. Then he shrugged and grinned, as if I was his mate.
“Let me tell you a story, Connor me lad,” he said.
Cam, I thought, but didn’t bother to say.
“Tonight is Halloween, if you hadn’t noticed. And tonight’s the night when witches—real witches, mind, not pretend ones—can turn themselves into cats. Black cats, specifically, like this one. And if you catch the cat, if you hurt the cat, you hurt the witch too. Geddit?” He patted me on the shoulder, as if I were a little kid, as if I was just a bit slow. I stared at him. I had no idea what he was on about.
The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories Page 4