What October Brings

  He began to cry, and thought he could feel his bladder start to empty itself in panic, wet heat like blood trickling down his thigh. He was gasping, barely able to breathe, thinking that soon, soon, he must surely pass out, fall unconscious while those creatures continued to pour into his sight, his room, his mind, and then—

  Something took the bow from his hand, wrenched it away, and his right arm dropped, and the sound ceased all at once, the roar subsiding, his vision clearing, and standing there in front of him was his younger brother, looking at him in confusion and disgust, the plastic buds in his ears blaring hip-hop so loudly that the boy could hear it.

  “What the hell are you doing?” his brother asked him, gesturing with the bow he was holding toward the growing dark, wet spot on the front of the boy’s jeans.

  “An accident,” the boy said huskily. “Don’t say anything to Mom and Dad about this,” he added, with as threatening a look as he could muster under the circumstances. “Or I’ll tell them you’re listening to that hardcore crap.” The threat, along with the fact that he was a head taller than his brother, seemed to be sufficient, as the younger boy nodded, handed back the bow, and left the room.

  The boy changed his jeans and underwear, and washed the soiled ones, hoping they would dry before his parents got home. Then he sat on his bed and looked at the music that had affected him so strongly and unpredictably. If the music had had such an effect on him when he played it, what might it do to those who listened? Even if he managed to stay sane, the listeners to such musical blasphemy might never forgive him…

  He thought some more. He thought about what he might do with the tune. Despite its power, and because of it, there was no way he could play it in the Halloween contest.

  But it might be just right for someone else.

  ***

  It had gone on long enough. The effect the tune had produced was far more than he had intended. The music had to stop now.

  Michael stood up and ran to where Elmer stood, his bow still slashing at the strings. As Michael tried to grab his fiddle, Elmer twisted away, right arm lashing out so that the bow ripped across Michael’s face, making him stagger backwards, then fell upon the strings once more. Enraged and desperate, Michael tackled the other boy, and he and Elmer fell together, their combined weight upon the fragile instrument, which shattered with a crisp, treble cracking of maple and spruce.

  Though his violin was now nothing more than a splintered box of wood held loosely together by twisted strings, Elmer tried to keep playing. He still held the bow, now broken in half, and moved the wood, devoid of horsehair, across the ruin of an instrument. When no sound resulted, he increased his efforts, and thrashed about on the floor, grunting with the effort, his eyes wild.

  Michael tried to restrain him so that he wouldn’t hurt himself or others, but it was difficult. Elmer seemed imbued with maniacal energy, and it wasn’t until Ken and Frank Withers came to Michael’s aid that they were finally able to hold the boy still.

  Michael was surprised and relieved at the assistance, for it meant that Ken and Frank, at least, had regained their own emotional stability. As he looked around the room, he saw that the others were also coming out of whatever spell the music had placed upon them. Some were trembling, some were crying, but all seemed rational, more rational than Elmer Zook, at any rate.

  When Ken and Frank’s attention shifted from Elmer to his concerned and sobbing parents, and while the others in the room were assuring and comforting each other, Michael surreptitiously slipped the wax earplugs out of his ears and into his pocket.

  ***

  When Michael came into the old firehouse that the Smoketown Bluegrass School rented for their lessons and gatherings, everyone was in the banquet room and kitchen in the back eating Halloween snacks and drinking punch and soda. Here in the big room where the fire trucks had been parked, the chairs were set up for the competition and jam session afterwards. Everyone had put their instruments along the side wall, which is what he had been counting on.

  He carried his violin case over and put it near Elmer’s. Then, glancing up to make sure no one else was in the room, he took from his case the brittle, folded music sheets and a small note, opened Elmer’s case, slipped them inside, and closed it again. Then he joined the others in the back.

  Elmer was talking to Daisy, of course, but she smiled when she saw Michael, and he joined them. None of them mentioned the contest. When Ken finally announced that the competition would start in ten minutes, Elmer went into the main room right away, while Daisy remained and chatted with Michael.

  When, five minutes later, they went into the big room, Michael saw that Elmer was crouching in a far corner, turning his tuning pegs to try and get them to hold in an unaccustomed position. The old music sheets were on the floor, and Elmer was looking at them, playing very softly so no one could hear.

  He’d taken the bait all right. Michael had written the note in what he thought of as a feminine hand, with loops and spirals and little hearts to dot the i’s. It had read:

  “Tune to F-E-A-R and kick Michael’s bee-hind! A Friend”

  Michael thought the “bee-hind” was a cute touch. And there was a bigger heart over the “i” in “Friend.”

  From the corner of his eye, Michael watched Elmer hold the music close and examine it carefully. He was sight reading sure enough, and memorizing as he went. Gullible hick or not, the kid really had a gift. He was going to ride this tune bareback.

  As Michael tuned, Elmer, still holding the music, went over to Daisy. He couldn’t hear them, but he figured Elmer was telling her that he wouldn’t need her to accompany him after all.

  Michael smiled. If that tune screwed up Elmer’s head just half the way it had done to his, it was going to be a real spectacle. He nearly laughed aloud at the prospect of watching Elmer pee himself in front of Daisy.

  It might even screw up the heads of some of the listeners, and that sure wasn’t going to endear Elmer to folks either. Nope, Elmer Zook’s name was going to be a dirty word from tonight on. Yep, I’m gonna get you now, farm boy.

  Michael patted the pair of earplugs in his right pocket, and did a quick, soft run-through of “Jerusalem Ridge” once again. Winning the contest mattered, but what mattered most was that he played the best that he could. After all, it was getting to the point where, even as young as he was, music was his life.

  ***

  Michael looked through the windows into the large, empty room. A lot could change in six months, and it had. He’d finally gotten his driver’s license, and could drive on his own now. Sometimes he’d drive over to the old fire station, now empty and for rent once again, and look through the windows and think about making music.

  Nobody did anymore. Nobody who was there that night could even listen to music, let alone play it. Shopping malls, doctor’s offices, stores that played background and elevator music were all off-limits to the students, parents, and friends of the Smoketown Bluegrass School who had come to the party that Halloween night.

  And nobody knew why. In the ruckus and confusion afterwards, Michael had taken the music and note out of Elmer’s case, balled them up, stuck them in his pocket, and burned them when he got home. So nobody knew why Elmer had played what he played, and nobody knew where in the world he got that tune in the first place. There were all sorts of theories, more about the reaction to the tune than the provenance of the music itself. They examined all the leftover treats and punch for food poisoning, and even inspected the building top to bottom for mold, but didn’t find anything.

  Ken and Frank stopped giving lessons right away, and Ken officially closed the school a couple weeks later. Though Michael hadn’t actually heard Elmer’s performance, he didn’t play anymore, because there wasn’t anyone around to play with. Daisy went to another high school, so he didn’t see her either. And Elmer? Well, nobody saw Elmer. Michael heard that he’d been
put in a “special” school, but was afraid to ask what “special” meant.

  Michael looked through the windows one last time, then turned and walked down the street to his folks’ car. He got in and figured he’d give it another try. He pushed the “AUX” switch on the dashboard, brought up Spotify on his phone, and from his playlist he chose Dirk Powell’s version of “Lonesome John,” a fiddle tune he’d always liked.

  As he pulled out onto the street, the fiddle began playing in double-stops, and after a few bars the banjo joined in. He felt no sense of torment, but the music sounded ugly to him. He found no pleasure in it, and he turned it off and drove in silence.

  Summer’s End

  Erica Ruppert

  “It’s not much of a town,” Josh said.

  Dana shrugged, watching the landscape rise and fall around them as Josh sped north on Route 41. Through the windshield, late October sun fell warm across her face.

  “Up here, it’s all these little spread out towns. The main businesses were the lodges, fishing, hunting, family stuff, but most of those are gone now too.”

  She turned to watch his profile.

  “I haven’t seen my mother’s family for years,” he said. “But it’s time.”

  He slowed as they approached another of the tiny villages that clung to the edge of the highway.

  The plain blue road sign said “Newbrook”, but the mosaic of brown woods and fields continued. Then they passed a few widely-set houses, and were suddenly in the center of the town.

  Dana looked around as they passed a low-slung motel set back in the trees, a small apartment block, a bank. At a T-intersection marked by a stoplight was an IGA, a dollar store, and a shuttered pizzeria. Past the light on 41 was a beer store and a medical clinic, then a few more houses on narrow strips of lawn.

  Josh pulled into the driveway of one faded ranch house and turned off the engine. He sat for a moment, then reached over and squeezed Dana’s hand.

  “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

  Dana watched the impassive front of the house. The porch was decorated for Halloween, with corn stalks and fat yellow gourds, and what looked like a goat’s skull hanging on the door with a tufted beard on its jaw. She glanced away, up at the clean blue sky.

  “Sure,” she said.

  As they climbed from the car and stretched, a young woman came out and stood on the porch, waiting for them to climb the steps to reach her.

  “Hey, Claire, you look good,” Josh said. “This is Dana.” He nudged her forward.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Dana said, and held out her hand. Claire hesitated before she took it, as if making up her mind.

  “Claire and I used to play back in the swamp behind the airport when we were little,” Josh said.

  “Airport’s been gone a long time. No one wants to fly in or out of here any more,” Claire said, looking past Dana with moony grey eyes. “Nursing home is out there now. But there’s still Airport Road, and swamp.”

  Dana looked from Josh to Claire for any other details, but Claire kept her eyes on Josh, and Josh looked up at the curtained windows.

  “You’re just in time for winter,” Claire said. “Year’s almost done. And Dad, well.”

  “Worse?” Josh said.

  “It’s chilly out here. Let’s go in” Claire said, and ushered Dana and Josh into the entryway.

  “Dad’s in there,” she said, gesturing toward the living room.

  Dana followed the line of Claire’s outstretched arm to where a man slumped in a rocking chair beside the television set. His face was slack, and moist, without any expression. A blanket spread across his misshapen legs looked spotted and damp, almost moldy, and his feet jutted out at broken angles from beneath the stained cloth.

  “Hi, Joe,” Josh said.

  Dana took Josh’s hand. “Can he hear us?” she asked him softly.

  “Maybe,” Claire said. She herded them out of the room again.

  “Our family originally came up from Massachusetts, after the witch trials,” she whispered, leaning close to Dana’s cheek. Dana held still. Josh looked disgusted, but Claire ignored him. “We bred like flies. Now the whole province is full of Masons and Mason cousins. And they say there’s a weakness in the blood.”

  Claire straightened and raised her voice. “A weakness that lingers. So I’m surprised you came back, Josh, after your mother got away.”

  He looked over her shoulder to where Joe drowsed. “You knew I would,” he said.

  ***

  “What’s with Claire?” Dana asked him as she put her clothes into the dresser.

  “She’s always been a little off,” Josh said. “But she’s okay. I mean she’s friendly, but she will say strange things at times. You just have to ignore it.”

  “Did you tell her my family is from Massachusetts, too?”

  “No,” he said.

  Dana closed the drawer and stuffed her bag under the bed.

  “What did she mean about your mother, and you coming back?”

  Josh sighed. “Family stuff she still follows. The end of October, all Samhain and Halloween stuff, ending summer and letting winter in. My mother left it behind and never came back. Uncle Joe held that grudge a long time.”

  Dana watched him.

  “She makes you nervous,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes.”

  He made sure the door was fully closed.

  “Family can do that to you,” he said.

  ***

  Dana woke before Josh did, and padded out of their room in search of coffee. The quiet in the house was broken only by cars passing on the highway.

  She went into the cold, bright kitchen and looked around. The coffeemaker had been set up already. She turned it on and leaned against the counter while she waited for the carafe to fill.

  Hung above the door was a dark wooden figure. She thought it might be some rustic crucifix. She reached up and took it down from its hook and found it wasn’t a cross after all. It was a damp clump of woody roots about the size of her hand, still spotted with clots of dirt, wound to form a loose nest. Two straight sticks stuck up at angles from the top of it.

  Claire came out of her room, and saw Dana standing there holding it.

  “The Mother Root,” she said, strolling into the kitchen. “The Lord of the Woods.”

  “Is it for good luck?” Dana asked.

  Claire smiled and moved past her. “Sure,” she said. “Something like that.”

  ***

  In the afternoon Josh and Claire went out together. Dana stayed behind, not sure if she had wanted to. She drifted around the house, avoiding the living room where Joe sat in his slow decay. He disturbed her, not for his infirmity but because she had a primitive feeling that his helplessness was a lie.

  At last she slipped on her coat, and headed out the kitchen door and around to the front of the house. The car was gone. She followed the road, kicking rocks along the pavement for a few hundred yards until the asphalt sidewalk began. The slanting sun fell over her head and back, driving her shadow ahead of her. There were a few people about, mainly going in and out of the supermarket driveway.

  She reached the intersection in front of the IGA, and crossed the road to the wooden barn that was Davey’s Variety Store. The front was decorated with pumpkins and faded plastic masks, and a bin of bundled firewood. She went in. It was warmer inside than she expected, and smelled of lumber.

  Behind the counter, a man Dana assumed was Davey sat reading a magazine, an oxygen tank clicking beside him. His skin was pale, almost grey, and his hair clung damply to his forehead. He did not look well. He glanced up at her as she came in then looked back down.

  She checked out the bandanas and sunglasses and fishing supplies, the leftover beach toys from the summer trade and the bin of old DVDs for sale. T
he store was deeper than she had thought it was, with rooms separated by arched doorways. She kept poking. In the back, past the bookshelves loaded with used paperbacks and the pegboard displays of toiletries and children’s clothing was a door labeled “Private”.

  Dana looked toward the register, but shelves blocked her view. The only sound in the place came from a radio set on a shelf somewhere toward the front.

  Curious, Dana turned the knob, and was surprised to find the door unlocked. She opened it to find a narrow hall and a staircase to an upper floor. Layers of footprints smeared the treads in dust. At the top of the stairs was another door, poorly fitted in its frame. Light slipped out in slices along its edges. She climbed toward it, drawn by the yellow light.

  The door opened silently when she tried it. She stood for a long time on the threshold, taking in the contents of the room.

  A pile of dry vines and flaking grey mud leaned in a tangle against the far wall, crowned with a small, unnervingly female figure. Dana stepped quietly across the room, plucked the figure from its nest, turned it in her hands.

  It was carved of a greasy white stone, about ten inches tall, with rows of heavy breasts like animal teats, and a grossly swollen belly. The face was a swirl of scratches, and from the forehead two horns curved up in a semicircle. The figure’s back and lower half were a mass of looping tendrils.

  The stone was biting cold in her hand but she held it against the pain, studying the curves and lines that turned like a Möbius strip across the oval space where a face should have been. The pattern seemed to shift under her gaze. Uncomfortable, Dana put the figure back and tucked her hand underneath her arm to warm it again.

  She turned away from the vines and the idol, and examined a shelf of books that stood below the room’s single window. The languages of the titles eluded her. She pulled out a massive folio, examining the dark leather cover embossed with vines and beasts. It was spongy, and warm. She didn’t want to open it.