Dark Hallows II: Tales from the Witching Hour

by Mark Parker

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Jonathan cut her attempt at apology short. “We couldn’t be more pleased that you’re entertaining the children.” He gazed at his companions. “I know it’s probably impossible to believe we were ever young, but once upon a time, back when this house was still a private residence, we four used to come here to do some trick-or-treating ourselves.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Dempsey said, her expression again brightening, this time with true delight.

  “Yes, but the old maid librarian who lived here,” Max said, managing to sit up straight, though slurring his words, “only ever gave out those damned soggy popcorn balls. You remember her, don’t you, Gordon?”

  “Certainly,” Gordon said, looking back over his shoulder at their host, “the one who went mad because she couldn’t get the children to stop chattering in the library. Loaded each of those popcorn balls of hers with a razor blade, she did, in the hopes of cutting out their little tongues. Back in ’56, wasn’t it?”

  The momentary warmth in Mrs. Dempsey’s eyes dissolved in an instant, her expression regaining its previous lacquered politeness. “Bravo. You nearly had me there for a moment,” she said, her smile a pantomime of appreciation. “Well then, gentlemen, I’ll return as soon as we’re done entertaining the children.” She stepped back out of the room, pulling the door to with a soft clack.

  “The children, indeed,” Gordon said as if it were a toast, knocking back his drink, then raising his empty tumbler. Jonathan, whiskey bottle in hand, drew near, opened the bottle and poured his old friend three thick fingers. “Little bastards one and all, if they’re anything like the ones still trying to suck at my teat. My eldest just turned forty-five, still trying to find himself. Now he wants to be a writer, he says. I’d say he’s having a midlife crisis, but he’s never had any kind of life to begin with.”

  Jonathan didn’t really follow what Gordon was saying, struck as he was by the year Gordon had selected for his little tale of horror. The actual events just before Halloween of that very year, 1956, lay at the root of why Stanley lay dead. Now, sixty years later, the four of them were gathered together once again, after a lifetime with little to no contact, for what would certainly be their final meeting this side of hell.

  Jonathan tried to remember. Had he gone trick-or-treating that year? No, he had played sick, going as far as to hold a cup of hot tea up to his forehead, so his mother would be convinced he had a fever. He was too old, he’d insisted the following year. His mother had agreed, seeming relieved that she wouldn’t have to baste together a last minute costume.

  He let his mind drift back even further to the Halloween before the accident, when Jonathan had stood on the porch of this very house wearing an eyepatch and holding a cardboard cutlass. Jonathan could visualize himself, could see the old flowered pillowcase his mother had given him to carry his candy loot—he had complained so about the floral pattern, his mother came within a cat’s whisker of calling Halloween off and grounding him. Arriving here today, he had noticed the steps and front door were, except for color, unchanged, so he imagined that he could still see the way they’d appeared on that night. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn’t bring the image of the woman who lived in this house to his mind’s eye. Perhaps the innkeepers had a photo of her tucked away somewhere?

  “Hit me, Johnny,” Max said, tapping on the side table that held his glass with such force, he nearly tipped it. His hand shot out and righted the tumbler before it could topple and shatter on the inlaid wood floor. Good reflexes, Jonathan thought, for a man of their age and of Max’s current blood alcohol level.

  He crossed to Max and poured a liberal amount into the tumbler. “Don’t be stingy with your old pal,” Max said, and Jonathan filled the glass almost to the rim. “There ya go. Didn’t cause you too much pain, now did it?” Max reached out with a meaty paw and swiped the glass up to his lips. He nodded at Jonathan, then proceeded to drain a third of the whiskey in a single draft.

  “Timothy?” Jonathan held the bottle up in offering.

  “None for me,” he said, his tone softened. “I’ve had enough.”

  “Ah, come on,” Max said, his tone jeering. He never did know when to quit poking. “Can’t have a wake without a toast to the dearly departed.” He lifted his glass, sloshing a bit onto the sofa. He didn’t seem to take notice. “To the dearly departed Mr. Crofton.”

  “A toast, my ass,” Gordon said, then fell silent, holding his tumbler up, examining the amber liquid backlit by the fire. “I lied to den mother Dempsey. This isn’t a wake. As far as I’m concerned this is a forced abduction, and we’re the abductees.” He knocked back its contents, then held the glass up to Jonathan. Jonathan filled the tumbler once more, then left the bottle on the coffee table, central to both Gordon and Max’s reach. It was bad enough he’d volunteered to act as chaperone. He’d be damned if he’d spend the evening bartending, too.

  What Gordon said was true enough. They’d each received the same letter, sent via one of the large overnight delivery services that offered nearly instant confirmation of delivery. The letters contained the reminder of an ancient shared sin, as if they needed to be reminded, and a threat to reach out from beyond the grave—with the unwitting assistance of his will’s executor—to expose the crime unless they each attended Stanley’s funeral. Stanley must have pulled the trigger within moments of learning the final letter had been received.

  “I’m not drinking to that sonofabitch extortionist,” Gordon said, his voice coming out in a near growl.

  “True enough,” Max said. “He took the coward’s way out, but not before laying a plan to take the rest of us down with him. To us, then. To men who have something to live for.”

  Gordon snorted, but he took another sip of the whiskey. “A bit too briny for my tastes,” he said and licked his lips.

  Jonathan would have choked had he tried to join in the toast. He no longer counted himself among those who had something to live for.

  With the world outside passing into darkness, each of the window’s panes had transformed into a mirror, reflecting the interior of the room. Jonathan caught sight of his own haggard expression, the deepening lines in his face, the receding hairline. The grayness of his very being. Helen had left him ten years back, claiming he’d grown old before his time, although she meant he’d grown old before her time. Their daughter Meg had shown such an unwavering commitment in choosing her mother’s side in the divorce, anyone would have believed Jonathan had committed a grave sin against Helen, when in truth he’d only been guilty of slowing down.

  Seventy is the new fifty. That was the message he’d received from a colleague on his last birthday. For God’s sake. Back when he was growing up, right here in Waterville, most folk had the sense to realize that even fifty was old. Not now, though, when it seemed that even a nonagenarian was meant to win the match, then leap over the net to land with athletic grace in his well-manicured grave. “Alcoholic hepatitis,” his doctor had nearly sung the words. “Not too late to turn it around, John, if you’ll lay off the sauce.” He could just about hear the whiskey bottle calling his name. Maybe he didn’t care if his condition developed into full-blown cirrhosis.

  “Miss Tanner,” Timothy spoke up, the non sequitur causing Jonathan and the others to turn toward him. “That was her name,” he said, then, perhaps realizing that none of them had the slightest clue what he was talking about, added, “the spinster librarian who lived here. I spent a miserable summer taking piano lessons from her.” Timothy moved closer to the fire. “She wasn’t even that old, really. She just seemed it at the time.” He took hold of the poker, adjusting the logs so the dwindling flames shot higher. “I didn’t have to take lessons the following year. She’d moved away. North. Presque Isle, I think.” He stood still before the hearth, seemingly frozen, staring into the fire. “I didn’t come here because I was afraid of being arrested.” He roused himself and returned the poker to its stand.

  “Nor did I,” Max said
. “It’s been sixty years now. We were kids. And then there’s the matter of proof. No D.A. would ever dream of attempting to prosecute.”

  “No,” Timothy said, his eyes widening as he leaned in toward them. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t care about any legal ramifications. And,” he added quickly, seemingly intent on cutting off the next argument, “I’m not worried about a public shaming, either.” He clasped his hands together and held them out before him. Jonathan had actually never witnessed anyone wring their hands before, but now his old buddy looked like he was auditioning for the role of Lady Macbeth. “I’ve been dreaming about him…about Will. For around three months now. Not sleeping more than a couple of hours a night.”

  Well, that explained his sallow skin and dark-ringed eyes.

  “More than once,” Timothy continued, his voice now barely audible, “I’ve been at the point of doing the same thing Stanley’s done, only I’m afraid it wouldn’t end it. That I’d find myself stuck for all eternity with Will McIntosh by my side.”

  “You need to pull yourself together,” Gordon said, turning, red-faced, to glower at them. “It was an accident. An accident that happened before the moon landing, before the Kennedy assassination. Before the Beatles, for God’s sake.” His shoulders relaxed, and his face softened. “And besides, McIntosh was not blameless in the incident.” He turned back to face the fire.

  “He was a petty thief, and a liar,” Max said almost if by rote, reaching anew for the tumbler. “If he hadn’t died when he did, he would have undoubtedly graduated to more serious offenses. Perhaps it’s uncharitable to say, but maybe it was for the best. Maybe the world was done a favor.”

  Jonathan bit his tongue, refusing to give in to the urge to defame the long dead boy. They were cataloguing the reasons they themselves should be held blameless for what had happened, and he wouldn’t take part in that. Not when the boy’s darkest sin had been stealing a slew of knick-knacks. Jonathan did the calculation. It was precisely sixty years and one week since the day that the four of them—five, if you counted Stanley—had met to try, then execute old Will. Of course, they’d only intended to threaten the execution, never carry it out, but as often happens with a group of adolescent boys, matters got carried too far. Someone had pushed where they ought not to have, or perhaps one of them had just tripped, and the charade of the execution had become real. It nettled him that Gordon seemed to feel that the fact that Will’s death occurred six decades ago was a strong enough defense in and of itself. As if their collective sin could be washed away by the stream of time.

  “That boy was born to meet a premature end,” Max mumbled from behind his drink, giving Jonathan a look that resembled defiance. Jonathan wondered if Max had read his thoughts from his expression. “It was only a matter of time.”

  Now, Jonathan realized Max was merely parroting words they’d all heard spoken by callous adults long ago. The whole of Waterville had agreed that Will was a troubled boy. It’d been no secret the McIntoshes had adopted him, and when you take on a stranger’s child, well, you never knew what you were going to get. There was never a question that his death could’ve been anything other than suicide, even though as an adult, Jonathan had reflected how the police must have noticed several sets of child-sized shoe prints, a diagram for the panic dance, in the barn’s dirt floor. At the time, Timothy’s dad had been a bigwig in city politics, and perhaps that was why no suspicions were ever voiced.

  Sure, Mrs. McIntosh refused to believe Will could’ve taken his own life, but then she went away. To rest, everyone said, though the whole town knew she’d had a breakdown. She’d been the one to find him, after all. Still, after she returned home, she, too, seemed to have accepted Will’s hanging as a suicide.

  “I saw him,” Timothy said under his breath. “I saw him,” he said more clearly. “Will. For real. Today.” His voice trembled, and his face flushed. “Not in a dream. Here. Outside. I was upstairs, looking out my window, and I saw him, just like he was…”

  A shrill cry sounded from a tinny speaker somewhere near the front of the house, followed by a loud snap. Jonathan knew that in their collective mind’s eye, they’d each had a flash of the hayloft, of the beam, of the rope jerking tight. Of Will McIntosh swinging like a pendulum, his bladder letting loose a stream of urine that traced an ellipse onto the barn’s dirt floor. One of them had laughed. Laughed that Will had pissed himself. Laughed before the full horror of what had happened settled on them. Jonathan couldn’t remember which of them it had been. Maybe he’d never known.

  Max turned ashen and sat his still half-full glass on the table. Jonathan, fearing his companion was about to be sick, scooped up the room’s scallop-edged, floral decoupage waste bin and hurried to Max’s side. His old friend stared up at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  Gordon’s throaty laughter punched its way into their consciousness. “Good God, you’ve turned into a bunch of superstitious, jumpy old women.” A cruel glee covered his own shakiness. “It was only some sound effect meant to spook the trick-or-treaters.” He narrowed his focus on Timothy, who was visibly shaking. “And you. You looked out your window, and you saw a boy. A normal living child who just happened to be passing by…”

  “But his eyes were fixed on me. He was staring at me.”

  “Probably wondering what kind of old perv was looking down at him. Must’ve thought you had your dick in your hand.” Gordon said and snorted, seeming pleased with himself for having set aside his own disquiet. “Did you, Timothy? Were you up there watching the boy and polishing your pecker?”

  “Stop it, Gordon,” Jonathan said, disgusted by the snipe. It would seem that weakness still prompted Gordon’s cruelty.

  “Jesus,” Gordon said, looking struck. “Just trying to lighten things up here. Diffuse the—” He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers, “Wooooooooo.”

  “His neck was broken,” Timothy insisted. “The boy. His head lolled to the side.” Timothy paled as he lost himself in the telling. “He reached down and used his hair to draw his head up straight,” he said, reaching up over his head and grabbing a handful of his own hair, still thick but silvered with age. “Maybe there’s still time for the three of you. If you haven’t seen him. You should go. Just get up and walk out of here now. Together…”

  The door swung open, and a distraught Mrs. Dempsey poked in her head. “There’s been an accident. Vera was in the tree adjusting a speaker, and the limb snapped. I think her arm’s broken. I’ve got to take her into the emergency room.” Her eyes shot to Jonathan. “Listen. I hate to ask, but the children will begin arriving at any moment. Would you mind passing out the candy as they come?”

  “Be a shame if the little pissers egged your lovely establishment,” Gordon said, “wouldn’t it?” Jonathan was struck by the feeling that Gordon had been anticipating some form of calamity, and was now greeting its arrival with glee.

  “Of course,” Jonathan spoke up over Gordon and placed a hand on Mrs. Dempsey’s shoulder, easing her back out of the room before Gordon could upset her any further. “Not to worry. We’ll hold down the fort for you.”

  She fixed him with a somewhat grateful, but mostly nervous stare. “Thank you…”

  “Cora.” She turned at the sound of the other woman’s bellow. “Come on. My arm hurts like a…”

  “I’m coming.” She spun on her heel and rushed down the hall. Jonathan caught a glance of Vera, her back at least, as she stood hunched over by the open door, a man’s leather bomber jacket draped over her broad shoulders. Good farm stock. That’s how his father had always referred to this sturdy type of female. It was odd, but something about her voice seemed familiar. Jonathan hesitated, curious to see her face, or at least catch a glimpse of her profile. It struck him that the women had no personal photos anywhere in the house, at least not in any of the public spaces. Mrs. Dempsey, Cora, snatched a set of keys from the hall table, and followed Vera over the threshold. She pulled the door shut with a bang.

  Jonath
an took a step back into the sitting room. Gordon sat there, looking in his general direction, though with an unfocused gaze. “Jesus, Gordon.” He fought the urge to spit. “When did you become such a bastard?”

  Gordon’s eyes sharpened in a tic. “Always was.”

  “It’s true,” Max said. “You’ve just forgotten.”

  Timothy now stood by the window. Leaning toward the pane, his face just half an inch or so from the glass, he said, “They’re coming. The little ones.”

  Jonathan could hear children’s voices. Squeals and shouts and laughter. Distant but coming closer. Excited. A witch’s screech came from the direction of the front door. A moment’s silence, then the harpy called out again. The innkeepers had evidently replaced the doorbell with a novelty buzzer. Tiny fists began pounding on the door.

  “Take care of him,” Jonathan said, addressing Gordon and nodding toward Timothy’s back. “Don’t torment him.”

  The logs in the fire settled, causing flames to shoot up amid a shower of sparks.

  “‘…the enjoyments of Genius...’” Gordon said, making one of his trademark obscure references. He had picked up the habit of searching out and regurgitating the words of others back in middle school, a youthful tendency he appeared to have cultivated rather than quashed. Having delivered his quote with pompous theatricalism, Gordon nodded to acknowledge his charge and dismissed Jonathan with a single imperious wave.

  The cry of the witch repeated itself several times in quick succession. Jonathan shut the door to the parlor and hurried down the long, narrow hall, glad to find five large bowls filled with sweets lined up on the hall table. He scooped up the one nearest the door, then swung the door open. Eyes widened and one child cried out when the gaggle of trick or treaters at the door caught sight of the strange old man in the severe black suit towering over them. They began backing up, the vocal one turning and flying back to his mother’s side. Only one girl, the smallest of the bunch, held her ground. She gazed up at him with unimpressed blue eyes.