Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour
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DARK HALLOWS II: Tales from the Witching Hour
Copyright © 2016 Mark Parker
Published by Scarlet Galleon Publications, LLC
FIRST EDITION
Edited by Mark Parker
Cover design by David Mickolas
Story Illustrations by Luke Spooner
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, not by recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who my quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author(s) and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author(s), and all incidents are pure invention.
ISBN – 13: 978-1537639246
ISBN – 10: 1537639242
Printed in the U.S.A.
This publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of the original works as follows:
“The Enchanted Forest” copyright © 2016 by Lisa Morton
“Sugar Skulls” copyright © 2016 by Sean Patrick Traver
“The Witch” copyright © 2016 by Richard Chizmar
“One Bad Apple” copyright © 2016 by J.D. Horn
“The Trespasser” copyright © 2016 by Joshua Rex
“The Minch Lake Tragedy” copyright © 2016 by A.P. Sessler
“Through the Veil” copyright © 2016 by M.L. Roos
“The Jack-O’-Lantern Man” copyright © 2016 Brian Moreland
“Six” copyright © 2016 by Stuart Keane
“Netherlands” copyright © 2016 by JC Braswell
“The Many Hands Inside the Mountain” copyright © 2016 by James Chambers
“The Devil Take the Hindmost” copyright © 2016 by Annie Neugebauer
“The Glad Street Angel” copyright © 2016 by Ronald Malfi
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sincere thanks go to:
Richard Chizmar and Brian James Freeman for their continued support and guidance.
David Mickolas for the eye-catching cover design and wonderful promotional ad for Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour.
Luke Spooner for his illuminating story illustrations, each of which brought the stories to life.
The contributors whose collective works not only took us to the dark holiday of Halloween, but one step further, to the chilling early-morning realm of the ‘Witching Hour’, where black magic is said to be at its most potent—and the threshold between the world of the living and the dead is made frightfully tenuous.
DEDICATION
For our readers.
Your continued support means more than you know!
CONTENTS
Foreword
The Enchanted Forest – Lisa Morton
Sugar Skulls – Sean Patrick Traver
The Witch – Richard Chizmar
One Bad Apple – J.D. Horn
The Trespasser – Joshua Rex
The Minch Lake Tragedy – A.P. Sessler
Through the Veil – M.L. Roos
The Jack-O’-Lantern Man – Brian Moreland
Six – Stuart Keane
Netherlands – JC Braswell
The Many Hands Inside the Mountain – James Chambers
The Devil Take the Hindmost – Annie Neugebauer
The Glad Street Angel – Ronald Malfi
FOREWORD
It’s that time again!
As I write this a light September breeze is blowing in through the window next to my desk, and it has me thinking, once again, of that time of year when the air grows chill, and the leaves begin their downward spiral, anxious to skitter off like so many brittle, skeletal fingers.
With autumn comes our favorite dark holiday—Halloween. Or, if you’re a purist, ‘Hallows Eve. That time of year when neighborhood streets are lined with costumed trick-or-treaters, porches are festooned with jack-o’-lanterns and sundry other decorations in black, purple, Day-Glo orange, and bright lime green (the color of freshly opened antifreeze!). And any number of monsters can be found lurking amid the long, unforgiving shadows.
In thinking how this year’s Dark Hallows could be different from last year’s inaugural installment, I found myself thinking: What if we went darker? Perhaps later in the evening, long after the little ones have all gone to bed, and the real monsters slowly begin to emerge?
That’s how Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour came to be. In researching lore around the ‘Witching Hour,’ it is posited that 3 a.m.—that hour of the night or early morning when no Catholic church is holding prayers—the world is tragically left vulnerable, and thereby unguarded. It’s also thought that during this time, black magic is at its most potent, and the veil between the living and the dead is ruefully pulled aside.
I don’t know about you, but that’s evidence enough for me!
It is my sincere hope that this year’s offerings hold you as entranced as they did me upon first reading them. We have wonderful illustrations by Luke Spooner accompanying each piece, lending some added fright to the stories themselves.
Whether it’s the fantastical though terrifying world of Lisa Morton’s The Enchanted Forest, or Richard Chizmar’s quizzical hybrid tale—part horror story/part police procedural—or the heady, metaphysical realm encountered with Sean Patrick Traver’s Sugar Skulls, trust me when I say, you’re in for a frightfully good time!
Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour is a reading experience filled with all we’ve come to associate with Halloween, and so much more. For this is the unmistakable time of year, when brightly colored mysteries are only equaled by so many dark, dreaded misgivings.
What will your choice be this year?
Trick?
Or treat?
Mark Parker
Editor
THE ENCHANTED FOREST
Lisa Morton
He stood at the rusting metal gate, heart hammering as he stared into the dark woods beyond. A black cat perched on one of the gate’s stone columns, its green eyes glittering with mischief. In a small clearing between the gate and the trees, headstones circled a small fire like campers listening to a ghost story. Beyond the mossy and cracked grave Jeffers, the path that led from the gate into the forest was limned in moonlight, pouring down in a blue cascade between the tall, black-barked trees.
Connor forced himself to examine the surroundings and think. The gate…the cemetery…the forest…something about it was familiar. The forest…
The Enchanted Forest.
The name burst into his consciousness with the force of a physical blow. He staggered back, refiguring, grasping at memories that rushed through his misfiring mind. The Enchanted Forest. The beginning… He knew this place. No, he’d created this place. He was this place…and it was him.
Drawn now by familiarity that lurked just out of his reach, teasing, Connor leaned forward on his cane and pushed open the gate. The hinges protested, but the cat remained undisturbed, causing Connor to suspect that it wasn’t entirely real; but when he poked it with a finger, its fur was soft and its head turned to eye him. He suppressed a shiver as he moved past it. The answers he needed lay farther along the path, deeper in the woods. He hobbled warily past the graves, half-expecting some terrible surprise, a jack-in-the-box specter or paralyzing shriek, but there was nothing.
He knew the real scares waited ahead.
In the meantime, as he made his way along the narrow trail, his cane thumping a
gainst hard-packed earth, he tried to remember more about this place. About the day. About the beginning…
***
“Dad, have you been taking your pills?”
Connor looked up at his son, Jeff, whose handsome brow (when had he gotten that big?) was furrowed in concern. Beside Jeff stood Terry, the diminutive Guatemalan caregiver.
“Hell, yes, I’ve been taking my damn pills.”
Jeff gestured at Terry, who stood by, impassive. “Terry says she hasn’t seen you take them.”
“Of course she hasn’t. That’s because I take them before she gets here in the morning.”
Connor wasn’t about to confess that he had been opening the little compartments of the huge pill container that Terry made up for him once a week, taking out his morning handful, and flushing them down the toilet. He was sure the pills were making him groggy and tired, and did nothing for him otherwise. But when he’d tried to argue that in the past—with Jeff, with Terry, with doctors and nurses—they’d all told him, “Oh no, Mr. Carson, you must take your pills…and you can’t miss a single day.”
Bullshit.
“Dad, did you hear me?”
Connor looked up sharply. He didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t. “I heard you.”
“So what day is this?”
Connor tried to gather his thoughts. What day was it? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Days hadn’t meant much to him since Margie had died. Nothing meant much anymore, even his art. It had taken him a while after she’d gone to realize that everything he’d done—the work at the amusement park, the designs, the paintings—had all been for her. Without her, there was no reason to do it. “What damn difference does it make?”
Jeff tried a smile. “It’s Halloween, and I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Halloween. God, he and Margie used to love Halloween. They’d hold grand parties, costume affairs for all of their friends from Merry Mountain, and some years even the great man George Merry himself would turn up, elaborately costumed as a knight or a cartoon Napoleon.
“Halloween…”
Jeff’s smile broadened. “Right. The surprise isn’t ready yet, but give us another few hours.” Jeff and Terry exchanged a conspiratorial look.
“Just don’t throw me a party. I haven’t had much interest in parties since your mother passed away in May.”
The smile on Jeff’s face crumpled. “Dad…Mom’s been gone for three years. Are you sure you’ve been taking your pills?”
Three years…? Had it really been three years since the cancer had taken Margie, since Connor had picked up a paint brush?
“I’m fine,” he lied.
***
Connor pushed into the woods, his way lit not just by the moon’s rays but by mysterious glimmerings from behind the trees. Animal voices—bird caws, more distant mournful howls—sounded around him, and Connor felt a shiver that left him both fearful and strangely happy.
At least I know I’m still alive.
He rounded a slight turn in the path, and found himself surrounded by dozens of glowing red eyes. Things were hidden in the branches, in the trunks, small night things that peered out at him curiously, sometimes blinking.
I’ve been here before. If I’m right, around the next turn I’ll see bubble-sized glowing things bobbing overhead, I’ll hear tiny voices laughing…
He turned the corner, and was unsurprised to find himself facing an aisle between the trees filled with multi-colored lights floating just out of reach. He approached the first one and saw a humanoid figure, smaller than his fist, with iridescent wings.
Connor nodded and felt a deep sense of homecoming. “The Enchanted Forest,” he murmured, as he let the sense of familiarity fill him.
***
“I want to call it ‘The Enchanted Forest’,” George Merry had said on that day in 1968.
Connor Carson, the latest hire into the design staff for Merry Mountain, tried to stay focused on the boss’s words, but he was confused—he had the odd sensation of being two places at once. Part of him whispered, “This is a memory.” But another part was living it now, and he went along with that part.
“Think you’re up for the job, Connor?”
Connor nodded vigorously. “Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Merry! If we can’t make this the best walk-through attraction ever, I’ll eat a dancing skeleton.”
Merry chuckled. “That’s what I like to hear. Now go draw me some good scares.”
***
Connor was staring into the golden eyes of a huge wolf. Its head had pushed out from between the branches next to him, bringing him back to this place, and now he was breathing hard. The wolf’s head was as big as an elephant’s, its lips were pulled back in a snarl, its mouth filled with lethal white teeth, each as big as a knife blade.
The wolf…how did I forget about the wolf?
The head abruptly withdrew, vanishing back into the shadows behind the trees. Connor’s breathing slowed, and he pushed on, trying to remember what came next…
***
Connor was hungry. He was surprised to see it was after 1 p.m. Where had the day gone?
“Terry…?”
His caregiver appeared, unfailingly cheerful. “What you need, Mr. Connor?”
“Food.”
“We have some lunch.”
Connor saw he was in his bedroom, and he let Terry help him up out of bed, positioning his hand on his cane. “I hate this goddamn thing.”
Terry giggled. “Oh, no, no, Mr. Connor, you can’t hate the cane.”
“I do. I hate the way it squeaks on the tile. I hate the stupid rubber tip on the end. But most of all, I hate having to use it.”
Terry gave us his arm a reassuring pat. “I know. I know. C’mon, I get Jeff and Patrick in here and we all have some nice tuna sandwiches, okay?”
“Jeff and Patrick are here…? What are they doing?”
“Something in the front yard—decorating for Halloween.”
That’s right…today is Halloween. “Terry, did I ever tell you that George Merry himself once told me he thought The Enchanted Forest was the greatest contribution to Halloween since trick or treat?”
Terry smiled. “You did tell me that, Mr. Connor. Many, many people love your Enchanted Forest.”
Just then, they passed out of the hallway into the living room and Connor saw—for the millionth time—the huge framed poster for The Enchanted Forest. He’d designed that poster himself for the attraction’s opening in 1972. Silk-screened in Day-Glo colors, the art showed a little girl clutching her father’s hand tightly as both pulled back, their shoulders tensed, from a gigantic wolf’s head thrust out from between menacing dark trees. The bright violet type set against the dark blue background of the overhead sky read “The Enchanted Forest Now Scaring at Merry Mountain”. Connor remembered how opening day for the new attraction had broken the park’s attendance records, how he and George had stood outside the exit of The Enchanted Forest, disguised in low hats and sunglasses, watching families exhaling and laughing. Finally George had clapped one hand on Connor’s shoulder and said, “They love it. Good job, Connor. Good job.”
George had walked away, but Margie—who had stood quietly just behind the two men—had stepped forward, taken Connor’s hand, and kissed his cheek.
It had been the best day of Connor’s life.
***
He couldn’t remember what came after the wolf.
Connor stood a few feet from the next twist in the path, leaning heavily on his cane, afraid. The wolf had startled him. What if something even more frightening waited just ahead?
He didn’t want to go forward. Should he turn around, go back the way he’d come? But the wolf was behind him, and he didn’t relish facing it again. Besides…what if someone was waiting for him outside? How would it look if he’d been unable to complete the trip through his own creation?
He had to go on.
Taking a deep breath, he moved forward, cautiously placing the cane with each stop
—it wouldn’t do to fall here. It might be days before he was found, alone in this haunted place.
He turned the corner. The route ahead wasn’t immediately visible—it narrowed and twisted—but he saw flickers of orange light, heard a low voice muttering.
What IS that?
Connor moved around the last group of trees blocking his vision and saw a clearing, with a house at the back and a figure near the path. The structure was an oversized gingerbread house, with walls and roof made of huge brown slabs of cookie, trimmed in white icing, a smoking chimney was built from red sugar plums, the windows were spun sugar, the trim gum drops and jelly beans. The figure was a wizened crone in a black hooded cape, stirring a huge bubbling cauldron as she softly recited a spell. The clearing was surrounded by a low fence made of candy canes and red licorice cross-beams. Near the witch, the black cat from the entrance sat atop a post, looking at Connor.
Connor was paralyzed with fear. He froze, unable to take his eyes from the witch. She was a fairy tale figure, certainly, but from where he stood she seemed completely real, so real he could almost feel evil rolling off her in waves. What if she looked up and saw him? The path was only a few feet from her—surely there was no way to move past her without being discovered…? And how had the cat moved from the front without him seeing it? Had it run through the forest, a secret trail only it knew about?
Then awareness started to return, and he relaxed: Of course—how could I have forgotten about The Witch? She became the most famous character in all of Merry Mountain. Even now, in the 21st century, haunters and designers call her the most realistic audioanimatronic character ever.
But even with the return of his memories—weeks spent over his drafting board, getting every crease in her face and gnarled knuckle just right—Connor was uneasy. For one thing, he could smell the rank odor of whatever she was brewing up in the cauldron, he could feel the heat radiating from the cook-fire…wasn’t the fire fake, just a few shreds of fabric and crinkles of foil cleverly lit from below to create the illusion of flames?
He shouldn’t be feeling any heat from it. And that smell, like—
“…eye of newt and tongue of frog, a tick from the tail of a diseased dog…” the Witch muttered, as she used a long branch (a broomstick?) to stir the cauldron.