by Lisa Morton
Then she’d finished her piece, and had also come up empty-handed. They followed her look as she gazed at the two chunks left on the plate. “Huh…only two pieces left…now how do we work this?”
Jay laughed, then stepped forward. “Simple.” He grabbed one slice in each hand and simply crushed, working his fingers through the cake, remains littering the lawn beneath.
Both Luke and Manny cried out: “Hey –!”
But before they could do anything else, Jay was shaking crumbs from his left hand, and holding a foil packet in his right. “Looks like I win.”
“Fuck you, dog,” Manny said, his meaty hand forming a fist.
“Probably melted in there anyway,” Luke added, then let himself fall into a lawn chair, defeated.
“Yeah,” Jay said, fixing the girl with a hard stare, “but what if it’s not?”
“Then,” she said, drawing out the pause, letting her tongue linger on her lower lip, “the trick’ll be a treat for you.”
“Well, then,” Jay said, trying to match her sexually-charged speech and failing, “let’s find out.”
He held the packet up, and slowly tore it open. When nothing was revealed, he raised the packet up to his eyes, peering inside.
“What the –?!”
Manny gasped and Luke leapt out of his chair, knocking it over, as they both saw something black swirl up out of the packet and into Jay’s open mouth. He clamped his jaws shut, but too late – something had entered him, something that was already making him sweat and stagger back.
The girl smiled and stepped forward, staying with him as he stumbled, stricken. “Okay, I confess: This has all been a little Halloween trick, because that was certainly no condom…and my costume is way better than you could ever guess.”
Jay was drenched already, shaking and panting. “What the fuck was that?”
The girl’s face was subtly altering even as the boys watched, becoming more feral, her eyes taking on a malignant glow. Luke desperately tried to will his feet to move, but somehow he also knew he had to stay to witness the finale of this drama, to see a real Halloween haunting.
“That,” the girl-thing answered, “was a little something of my own creation, a sort of concentrated form of the bubonic plague. You know what they call it in the history books, don’t you? The Black Death.”
Jay’s hand shot to his neck as something bulged there, and Luke realized his friend’s neck was now covered with large protrusions, oozing blood and pus.
The tormentor continued, lightly, as if describing an amusing scene. “I thought it was appropriate for tonight, because we owe some of Halloween to the Black Death. You probably didn’t know that, did you? All the stuff with skeletons and skulls? That comes from the art that was inspired by the plague, the ‘Danse Macabre’ drawings –”
Jay leaned over and vomited, splattering barely-digested cake across his collectible Nike shoes and the manicured lawn.
The girl frowned. “You interrupted me. And just when I’m in the middle of teaching you something important –”
Manny’s paralysis broke, and he soundlessly turned to flee. He made it almost to the gate before she caught up to him; Luke hadn’t even seen her move. She snagged Manny’s collar and hauled him back as he screamed, high-pitched shrieks that didn’t sound as if they could issue from a masculine throat. The girl-thing didn’t even struggle as it thrust him towards Jay, who had now fallen and lay writhing in agony. Manny’s screams turned to “No, no, NO” as she pushed him inexorably closer to Jay.
“They say the Black Death was passed by rats, but I figure your idiot friend will do just as well.”
She ground Manny’s face down into Jay’s bloody neck, then released him. Manny reared back, his cries now sobs of terror and pain. He clawed at his black t-shirt, and literally tore the sleeve frantically trying to reach the pustules that had sprouted under his arm.
Luke stood in frozen horror, watching his two friends die, waiting dumbly for his turn. He knew he wouldn’t make it if he tried to run or fight. This was the end of his life. No one would come to help – if anyone had heard the screams, they’d dismissed it as a Halloween stunt. He’d die here, tonight, at sixteen, and he regretted how little he’d done, for himself or anyone else. His siblings hated him, he’d disappointed his parents, and had accomplished nothing. Now there’d be no chance to fix any of those things.
He didn’t know he was crying until the girl-thing turned to him and laughed. “Tears for your friends. How sweet.”
He couldn’t even speak, couldn’t tell her the tears weren’t for them. He just wiped his eyes and looked at her.
“You know Merran McCafferty.”
The words – not even phrased as a question – took him so completely by surprise that his crying stopped instantly. At first he didn’t recognize the name, then he remembered: The attractive, newly-single mom who lived at the end of his block, the one Jay had called “milf” earlier tonight. When he’d still been alive.
He thought her name was Merran, although the last name sounded wrong. Wasn’t it something like Allman? No – Alstead. But that first name…how many Merrans could there be?
“I think so. I mean, yes.”
Her voice changed, becoming deeper, stranger, acquiring an accent – British. No, Luke thought – Scottish.
“You’re being allowed to leave here alive to deliver a message to her: Tell her the Samhanach has come tonight.”
“The…Samhanach…?”
Then the creature before him transformed visually as well, growing, darkening, until it was an eight-foot-tall nightmare with the face of a demonic jack-o’-lantern.
Luke didn’t have to wait to be urged to leave. He turned now, freed from his stasis, and ran, arms flailing wildly, breath coming in great gulps. He ran three blocks, until his legs stopped working and he dropped in the middle of the street. When he could breathe normally again, he realized a car was honking at him and anxious trick-or-treaters were staring, and he picked himself up, then started walking quickly. He was three miles from home, so it would take him an hour…
…but he would find Merran McCafferty and deliver the monster’s message.
The Samhanach had come.
Merran
Merran shivered – the night was cooling rapidly – and went into the house to retrieve a sweater and her phone.
Once she’d returned to the porch, she sat down, and ran an internet search on the term “Samhanach." She found a website called The Halloween Encyclopedia where the Samhanach was described as a Scottish “bogie," or demon, that appeared only on Halloween, performed malicious mischief, and stole children.
It was almost eight, and she was surprised that Keesha wasn’t back with Jeannie yet. She had a flash, a presentiment of danger – something is wrong – then quickly dismissed it. They were trick-or-treating. Taking their time. Enjoying the evening.
As she should have been doing.
Looking for something to occupy her thoughts (not think about her daughter in peril), Merran picked up the journal, and opened it to where she’d left off.
She began to read again…
The Journal of Connell McCafferty - 1810
It was a century before the trouble started again.
By the end of the 1700s, the McCaffertys had truly prospered; they’d left behind the farming life and were succeeding as merchants in the growing city of Inverness. They had a lovely house on a street not far from River Ness, and they were liked and respected in the community. Brian McCafferty was forty-three years old, in good health, and still in love with his wife Maeve, who’d recently given birth to their fourth child; tiny Ceana joined her six-year-old sister Fiona, ten-year-old brother Murdock, and fifteen-year-old Niall.
Halloween held only happy memories for Brian and Maeve, who had wed after a Halloween when they’d thrown two nuts onto a fire, and the nuts had burned together until both were ash. This year they’d decided to keep their annual gathering intimate, just the immediately
family and the serving people and their kin. As the sun set on October 31st, 1810, there were a dozen present in the warm central room of the McCaffertys’ home. A fire was burning merrily in the hearth, nuts were readied nearby, a tub of apples for ducking waited, a barm brack cooled in the kitchen, and the adults drank the traditional lamb’s wool.
Little Murdock was the first to call for ghost stories, and although his sister Fiona blanched, the servants’ children all echoed the cry. Brian laughed, settled into a chair before the fire, and leaned forward.
“Do you know of the Samhanach?” he asked.
Maeve frowned. “Brian, that story isn’t for wee ears –”
He cut her off, nodding at the circle of young listeners gathered around his feet. “Nonsense, Maeve. They’re all old enough to hear it. Besides, it’s part of their family history – they should know it.”
Maeve leaned back, unsettled, but silent.
“What’s the Samhanach, papa?” asked Murdock.
“Well,” Brian began, rubbing his hands together, “a hundred years ago the McCaffertys weren’t so well off as we are now. Your great-great-grandparents lived out in the country, where they were farmers. But they loved Halloween, and every year they held great parties that were famous for three counties.
“This one year – 1710 it was – there was a bad man in the neighborhood, a villain named Red Rab. Rab, he had a long-standing feud with the McCaffertys, and this Halloween it came to a head. Rab got into a fight with one of the younger McCaffertys, who whipped him and made him run. But Rab, he wasn’t one to give up so easily; he hid outside, and waited for that unfortunate young man to come out, and when he did…”
Brian paused dramatically until little Fiona exclaimed, “What? What happened?”
Swinging his arms dramatically, Brian said, “Red Rab cut off his head with a reaping scythe!”
The children all gasped, and Maeve started forward. “Brian, that’s enough –”
“Oh mother, can’t we please hear the rest?” said Murdock.
Maeve hesitated, then returned to her seat, offering an angry look to Brian. “Their nightmares tonight will be on your head!”
Brian grinned. “It’s Halloween – we should all have nightmares.”
“What happened next?” said the usually-quiet Niall.
“Well, the McCaffertys of course went after Rab when he fled. They went to his home first, and found out he’d killed his own father.
“Then they followed the black-hearted rascal to a bog, a haunted bog. Rab, you see, had been born on this very night – on Halloween – and as we all know, those who come into this world on that day can sometimes see into the next. Rab had second sight, and other powers, too…he could call up wicked wichts.”
Another collective shiver rippled through Brian’s audience. He let it pass, then went on:
“And that’s what he did, there in that bog on Hallows Eve. He summoned forth the worst of all the bogies: the Samhanach. In the old tongue, ‘samhanach’ meant ‘giant’, and that’s what it was – taller than the tallest man by at least another yard. It had skin like a rotting turnip, and features that glowed with hellfire.
“Eight of the McCaffertys were there, to behold the monster, and they all swore to exactly the same thing: That the Samhanach turned on Rab himself, ripping him apart before the clock hand moved to twelve, midnight struck, and the demon returned to the otherworld –”
A scream cut the story short. It’d come from the kitchen, and was followed by the sudden appearance of Bridget, the cook, hands in the air, face white as milk.
“Bridget – !” Brian jumped from his chair and went to her.
“Sir,” she gasped out, between pants, “I just spied something out the kitchen window, something horrible, moving outside the house…”
Brian led her to a chair and bade her sit. “There, there, I’m sure ‘tis gone, whatever it was –”
His daughter shrieked, pointing to a window beside the front door. “A bogie!”
Brian’s eyes shot from his daughter, who now clutched, trembling, at her mother. “Brian…” Maeve said, a growl of disapproval in her voice.
“I swear I don’t know what’s –”
There was a knock at the front door. It was so strong it shook the whole house, and every one of those present could feel that knock vibrate in their chests. The knock came again, then continued, slow, steady, deafening.
Maeve’s expression had now changed to fear. “What is that?!”
Brian moved towards the door. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not going to open it – !”
He waved her to silence and tried to peek carefully through the small window by the door. After a beat, he tentatively reached for the knob, rested his hand there, swallowed once – and then yanked the door open.
An ancient, decrepit beggar stood there. He was nearly black from grime, his hair long and matted, toothless mouth sunken, clothes tattered, body bent. He leaned heavily on a gnarled old walking staff, and there was a filth-crusted bag slung over one shoulder.
He peered up at the astonished Brian, squinting his red-rimmed eyes. “Pardon me, sir, I did nae mean to frighten ye…”
“Yes? What is it?”
The beggar thrust out a shaking hand. “Could ye spare a soulcake to a poor man for All Souls Day?”
Brian stared at the man’s hand – the nails were so long they extended at least an inch past the ends of his fingers – and he felt a mix of repulsion, pity, and curiosity, the latter engendered by the man’s reference to All Souls, still two days off.
“Good sir…?”
“Oh.” Brian shook himself from his reverie, and gestured back to Bridget. “Bridget, prepare a plate of food for this man.”
Bridget shook her head and stared in disbelief. “Sir, I don’t –”
Brian turned to look back at her. “Bridget, don’t be silly. Just –”
The beggar began to laugh. Brian spun back to him, and as the laughter grew, the beggar changed – his limbs and torso lengthened, his eyes went from red-rimmed to emitting their own fiery internal glow. The laughter took on gale proportions, and Brian braced himself in the entryway; behind him, the fire went out in the hearth, all the candles and lamps throughout the house were extinguished, and he was dimly aware of a chorus of screams behind him.
Gathering his strength, Brian began to push against the door, struggling to block the unnatural wind that roared in. It took him several seconds, but finally the door was shut and he threw the lock, then leaned back against it in the sudden darkness, panting, trying to get his bearings.
It took him a few seconds to realize that the laughter and wind had ceased, as had the screams from his family. He heard confused voices, Maeve crying out for someone to light a candle, a muttered curse as someone banged a shin, something crashed to the floor. He made his way carefully into the room, found a flint, and soon had a candle going.
“Is anyone harmed?”
He received denials and questions. He lit lamps and candles, passing them around, until the room was nearly as bright as mid-day. He saw pale faces, wide eyes, shaking fingers. Maeve was just setting Fiona down, and the child suddenly ran to him, wrapping her arms around his knees. “Was that the Samhanach?”
Brian put a hand on his daughter’s head, but had no answer for her. He was trying to make sense of what they’d just experienced, when his wife uttered a sound far worse than any scream: It was a groan that sounded as if part of her soul had been ripped out; and then she fell, senseless, to the floor. He ran to her, his heart in his throat, and he realized with dread what she’d been looking at:
The new baby’s crib.
He peered down into the little wooden bed, trying to prepare himself, but seeing it was both better and worse than what he’d feared:
The crib was empty. The blanket had been tossed carelessly into one corner, but there was no sign of his infant daughter Ceana.
Niall spoke from behind him. “I
t took her, didn’t it?”
Brian couldn’t answer. He could only stare down, stunned, helpless. He heard Fiona move up to join her brother. “What took her?”
“The Samhanach.”
Brian said nothing, because he knew it was the truth. The Samhanach had come, and it had taken his baby.
And someday it would return.
The Party
Rick Joosten paused by the kitchen to chat up Emmy Kazanian. The woman was already drunk, and Rick guessed that by the end of the evening she’d have a convenient wardrobe malfunction and fall out of the top of the leather corset she wore, trying to pass herself off as a dominatrix. Of course Rick was dressed in a white medical jacket and red rubber gloves; his gynecologist costume included a long-handled mirror he used to stir drinks.
He exchanged idle flirtation with the young widow for a few moments, and gave his red gloves a snap that caused her to shriek and slosh vodka onto his carpet. She didn’t seem to notice.
He briefly considered sending her a carpet cleaning bill, then excused himself and pushed through the party guests to see Shirl at the front door, doling out candy to another group of kids. A small boy accepted the chocolate, then stared up at her in confusion.
“Who are you s’posed to be?” he asked.
Shirl thrust out a hip and threw her bewigged head back. “Recognize me now?”
The kid still looked confused, then turned and left.
Rick desperately wished he could go with the boy. He’d spent the early part of the evening watching in horror as his wife, determined to be a popular African-American singer, had applied dark skin makeup to her exposed arms, neck and face, and he’d tried not to suggest that perhaps he should have dressed as Al Jolson. He wondered how many of their guests tonight would find the get-up to be in extraordinarily bad taste. At least his choice came with a sense of humor.