All Hallows' Eve

by Hal L. O'ween

  “You’re a dead?” Jessie managed.

  “Well, temporarily anyway,” he said. “I’ve been sent from between worlds to protect you from the Toracs.”

  “What that ‘thing’?” she asked, confused. How could he be dead? He nodded.

  “I don’t understand how you can see me. It’s impossible for a human,” he informed her, puzzled. She held her hand to her head feeling dizzy.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, concerned. She shook her head just as her legs gave way. Catching her he carried her into the lounge, and sat down with her. She leaned against him, feeling him, hearing him breathe. How could he be dead?

  “But I can hear your heartbeat,” she whispered. He smiled.

  “Perhaps it’s because it’s Halloween?” he suggested.

  “Why were you following me?”

  “You are a descendant of the Martorgorn, the creators of the new world. The Toracs want to get to the new world and destroy it. They want to use you to open the slip-stream.” He lifted a strand of hair from her eyes.

  “What are they, aliens or something?”

  “Or something being the better description,” he said, raising an eyebrow. She looked at him.

  “How would I open this slip-stream?” she questioned.

  “Just by stepping into it,” he replied.

  “Really it’s that easy?”

  “It’s not easy, believe me. I have thought about it a hundred times.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I have four months left in between worlds.”

  “And then what?”

  “If I don’t get enough credits, then…. I’m dead for good.” She turned to him.

  “Dead for good, what does that mean?”

  “There would be it no afterlife, just dead for good.”

  “What are credits?”

  “I get credits when I help a human. I need six thousand to get into the new world.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Five.”

  “How much am I worth?”

  “Eight hundred,”

  “What’s the new world like?” Wandering over to the window, he looked out.

  “It’s wonderful,” he turned, smiling at her, “it’s a happy place.”

  “Do you have to be dead to go there?” she asked. He nodded, glancing at her, she was so beautiful. She sighed disappointed.

  “Can I touch you?” he asked.

  “Touch me?” she questioned, surprised.

  “Sorry,” he apologised, looking back out the window. Standing up she held out her hand. His eyes meeting hers, he took it, rubbing his thumb on her soft skin.

  “I haven’t felt anyone for nearly twenty years,” he whispered. Her heart shook as he moved in closer to her, before she knew what was happening he was kissing her. He broke away.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologised, flustered.

  “Don’t be. What’s your name?” she asked, trembling.

  “Eric,” he replied. Her chest heaved at his name, dead or alive, who cared? They kissed again and for a moment she thought she had died and gone to heaven.

  “Eric?” she cried, as sheer panic shot through her, he was gone.

  “Send me back!” Eric yelled furiously.

  “Send you back, you’ve got to be joking. That’s it for you, your last chance,” Sir growled.

  “Send me back now or she’s going to die!”

  “She’s already dead, you failed your mission.” Eric’s face froze, a frown creasing his brow.

  “What do you mean she’s dead?”

  “Exactly that, I don’t know what you’ve been playing at, she went off the chart an hour ago.”

  “Impossible I was just with her.” Sir frowned.

  “She doesn’t know she has passed, damn it, bloody Halloween. I’ll have to bring her in.” Eric shook his head.

  “No, I’ll do it,” he insisted.

  “No, she belongs to me.” Eric rubbed a worried hand across his face glancing towards the control panel it was still set for Jessie’s. He dived for the switch, whacking the button down into reverse he jumped into the beam.

  “Where did you go?” she cried, throwing herself at him.

  “No time,” he whispered, hugging her. “They pulled me back, they said you were dead.”

  “I’m dead,” she said, shocked. He nodded, frowning in thought. Taking her hand they went back into the kitchen.

  “Oh my god,” she screamed. Her body lay against the kitchen units, blood seeping from her chest.

  “I killed you,” he stuttered, glancing to her, “when I fell on you, the knife must have stabbed you!” Her heart lifted at his words.

  “Eric, if I’m dead, I can go with you to the new world.”

  He smiled astounded.

  “You want to be with me?”

  “Yes,” she whispered desperately. Grabbing her in his arms his kissed her.

  “We have to go between worlds, when we get to the other side don’t let go of me, not for a second.”

  “You are sure I can open the slip-stream?” He touched her face.

  “Yes.”

  Taking her hand they slipped, reappearing in the control room. Sir looked at them startled. Eric launched himself at him, knocking him out. Hurrying to the control panel he turned a number of dials, his hand hovering over one button.

  “This is it.” She nodded. As his hand rose and slammed down hard they dived into a beam of light. Eric pulled Jessie tight against him, her body shaking as she enveloped them in light.

  “Did we make it?” she whispered, opening her eyes, and looking onto a beautiful city. Eric nodded, turning to her.

  “I love you,” he said, smiling. It was good to be dead but not dead for good.

  “I love you,” she whispered happily, snuggling into his arms.

  Richard sobbed as the police broke down the door, heartbroken as Jessie’s dead body was lifted into the ambulance. He hated Halloween.

  *

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  Chapter 26

  “Unlucky”

  Gretchen Steen

  Pensacola, Florida, USA

  “The dew on my skin, lying under the predawn sky, I wait for the warming sun. It’s a beautiful day amongst my friends, the brisk air and sunshine. I do remember the brief saffron flower that shriveled and swiftly fell away. The open spaces have become cluttered and my family is growing ever faster.

  Oh, not the evil crows again, to peck, scratch and devour. There must be something out there, to relieve this weary soul. My shiny curves and broad middle will surely please someone; but here, they will not find me.

  Here he comes, machete in hand, I guess it’s time to go. Brush my bottom; my vine-like arms lay wasted. Off we go to the big, wide world, I’m so very happy! Now I see I’m not alone, ‘Hello Fritz and George and Manuel’. Off we go, on a bumpy ride, to where I’m still not certain.

  One by one we’re carried away, and put in a disheveled heap. They come to probe and prod us, but we don’t utter a peep. Then up I go, oh joy I’m saved, away from that rowdy bunch.

  A little boy named Tommy has taken me for his own. His sister Lil cried and sobbed until Fritz was taken too. ‘Hurry now, time is wasting’ I heard a voice chime behind me.

  With that voice, a strange satisfaction did come. Quickly, and with precision, the scalpel does its deed. In and out, its blade-cuts repeated into my lustrous skin. I feel no pain only pleasure. I’m scraped and gouged, my insides are gone! How can I possibly go on?

  One, two, three … the easy stuff was done, but now for the ragged, jagged number four. Oh, stop, please STOP!!! That tickled too much, you must be finished soon.

  You stepped back and grinned; the children jump up and down, ‘Light it, please, PLEASE!’

  I patiently sit and watch and wait, to see what’s in the
offing. I feel inner warmth and smile with an unnatural, pleasing glow.

  The spooks and hobgoblins came; the witches and fairies unparalleled. They passed and never took notice.

  My inside is scorched, my eyes grow weary and my smile has dropped to a frown. My skin is dark and puckering, like that of ‘ole man Brown’.

  Soon I’ll be cast aside as mere garbage; a stinking, rotten shell. But then, what did I truly expect … it always turns out the same … for us, the ‘Happy Unlucky Jack-O-Lanterns!’

  *

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  Chapter 27

  “The Band Marched Through”

  Erik Gustafson

  Story City, Iowa, USA

  The marching band streamed down the hill in perfect lines. As they approached the grandstand, the drum major cued the players. The drums, trumpets, clarinets, and all the other instruments those high schoolers held proudly in their hands, burst into song. But it wasn’t an upbeat version of some popular pop hit or even an inspirational patriotic piece: They began playing the dark bars of a requiem.

  My son was somewhere in that formation with his saxophone. It was always hard for me to pick him out, what with them all dressed in identical white and orange band uniforms—barrel-chested coats and over-sized hats with orange and yellow plumes waving off the tops.

  Even though I knew that my son had never practiced such a dismal tune, at first the haunting music didn’t seem out of place. It was a week before Halloween, after all. The streets were lined with proud parents, sitting on blankets and colorful folding chairs. Kids were playing in the nearby swing set and slides. Dads and moms held their cell phones out in front of them, recording the bleak tune.

  But as I watched the crowd turn from cheering and excited to quiet and confused, I knew my hunch was right on the mark.

  The slow, low dirge rolled through the leafless trees and chilled the fall air. Dead leaves danced around me, some prancing into the streets. The animated leaves somehow seemed ominous and I was oddly drawn to the lazy arcs they made in the breeze.

  The leaves acted panicked, or at least alarmed. I doubt the leaves were retreating, fleeing the scene, desperately trying to catch a tail wind out of the park—but they might have been.

  What a silly thought to have when I should have been focusing on my performing son.

  I was near the edge of the street, anticipating being a good dad and videotaping as he marched by. But my cell phone dropped to my side as I watched the leaves and the eerie song filled my head. It had a puffy, hypnotic effect.

  My wife stood beside me, her long black hair was bunched up in the hood of her orange sweatshirt, spilling out the sides. She had been beaming moments earlier, but now her expression was flat. I could tell she was trying to discern what the hell kind of music they were playing. My ten-year-old daughter, none the wiser, jumped up and starting clapping along, pigtails wildly bouncing out of tune.

  The two lead girls holding the school banner marched past us and I barely noticed them. The half dozen or so flag girls paused right in front of us after that, and I noticed them. And no, I don’t mean I was ogling over them in their leotards, but I wasn’t captivated by a stunning flag show either. I was transfixed by their eyes.

  Ovals of gray.

  That’s the only way I could explain what I saw. No pupils. No irises. Just cloudy voids, staring at nothing, probably. I looked at my wife, but she was too busy trying to locate her son, still being the proud parent.

  I had checked out of that role.

  The girls were twirling and spinning their flags while the band belted out the musical lament.

  I nudged my wife. She had spotted Stephen and was waving, so I got the annoyed look. “Cindy, look at their eyes.”

  “What?”

  Before I could explain, the tall thin blond, not four feet from us, flipped her flag over, gripping it like a lance, and charged. The pointed tip sunk into the chest of an elderly man sitting two people away from me, the silver staff tore through his green canvas chair back. The man choked and crumpled over.

  The girl withdrew the makeshift spear; the flag was wet and clung to the slick pole. Her expression was unchanged. I jerked my daughter into my arms and pushed my wife away from the band. The music died off and was replaced by screaming families.

  The band dispersed; each member on a hellish quest. Chaos exploded in the park.

  I saw a brass tuba crumple as it struck a woman in the head, her body abruptly falling to a sitting position. Cymbals became spinning blades, slicing into victims. People were fleeing, hustling toward their cars or anywhere but the park.

  The possessed killers didn’t have any expression on their faces-no remorse or even rage. I surmised the kids had to be under a hypnotic spell.

  That’s when I noticed the drum major, still standing in the center of the road, still conducting. It was a chilling sight. He was like a statue with moving arms. I knew he had to be the key to all this insanity, but what could I do?

  We fell back. I tripped over a toppled wheelchair. There was blood smeared on the seat and backrest.

  To my right, a flute player sat perched on a large woman. At first glance, I thought he was performing CPR on her, but I hurled my breakfast when I realized he was driving his silver weapon into her chest over and over.

  Vomit spewed all over my daughter, who was clinging to me, head pressed deep into my chest. I grabbed my wife by the arm and tried to take off. But she stopped, causing my arm to jerk.

  “Stephen!” She screamed and looked back at the carnage.

  I was so busy trying to save my family and get the hell out of there, I forgot one member of my family. My son. Where was he? Better still, what was he doing? I didn’t really want to know, but I scanned anyway.

  People in white pants and orange coats were spread everywhere, swinging and stabbing with their instruments. Bodies were all over the place; like so many dead fish washed ashore.

  My heart was pounding.

  “Take Kelly,” I ordered, thrusting my daughter into my wife’s arms. “Get to the car.”

  I ran into the crowd without another word. Ducking, I barely missing a bent, twisted trombone arching across my path. I stumbled on the road. Catching myself, my hand slopped through a thick wetness. I wiped the hand on my jeans but still my hand was coated red and peppered with gravel.

  For a crazy, heroic moment, I considered tackling the drum major. Somehow, I could take him out and stop all this madness. Maybe that wouldn’t have worked. I wouldn’t know, because I chickened out. I told myself it was more important to rescue my son.

  Shake some sense into him; snap him out of his trance. Get him home.

  A body rolled in front of me. A bone was jutting out of his throat. A black bone. As I stepped over him, I realized it wasn’t bone at all. It was a broken off piece from a clarinet.

  Another man, wearing a torn drum as a straitjacket, ran past me screaming.

  I tracked him for a moment until my horrified eyes stopped cold.

  There was my son, grayed-out lifeless eyes and all, glaring at me. Blood splattered band uniform. He gripped his saxophone like a baseball bat and was panting. Most of the keys were missing and the opening was bent inward, stuffed with glistening patches of hair. He wouldn’t be making music with that any time soon.

  ‘Stephen!” I cried, holding out my hands. I had no idea what to do next. “Stevie!”

  He marched forward, closing the space between us. Yes, I said marching, as in boot-top high and perfect cadence.

  He swung the sax; I dropped, feeling the whoosh just above my bald head. I sprung from my crouch and pummeled him. His expression didn’t change. Sitting on his chest, I stared into his soull
ess eyes and saw nothing I recognized.

  God help me, I punched my son. Nothing happened. His baby blue eyes didn’t come back. The haze remained like a hard frost on a cold morning. I punched him again and he at least stopped resisting. I hurled the saxophone as far as I could.

  I wasn’t leaving him behind, so I slung my unconscious son over my shoulder and hauled ass through the rampaging monsters destroying the patrons of our peaceful park. My only prayer was that my son didn’t wake up before I got him back to the car.

  I threw him in the trunk, while my wife jumped out and began protesting and cussing. I slammed the lid closed and got in the car without a word. She stopped yelling, climbed in, and we sped away.

  That was the first hour.

  By the third hour, most of the band members had vanished, gone hunting for greener pastures perhaps. Searching for more victims. But that wasn’t the biggest problem. No, the worse thing was that the dead started waking up.

  *

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  Chapter 28

  “Mirror Mirror”

  Debra Elliott

  Chalkville, Alabama, USA

  Mirror, mirror.... Jax watched and listened to the pretty teenaged girl recite her request into the antique mirror.

  Mirror, mirror in my bedroom, send forth a handsome bridegroom. Silly girl, he thought. The mirror had been in his family for centuries. He was charged with the task of guarding the mirrored portal and whoever possessed it.

  The reflective glass fell into the hands of seventeen-year-old Megan, a flitty teenager who believed in Ouija Boards and Bloody Mary. She and her girlfriends were constantly in front of the mirror asking for something.

  Jax wasn't thrilled. There was nothing he could do; after all he was a ghost. Jax wasn't allowed to enter the human world unless something evil happened or Megan summoned him directly.

  He continued to spy on the pretty Megan as she primped for school. She pulled her long brown hair into a ponytail, applied lipstick to her full lips, and kissed the mirror leaving behind a bright, hot pink stain.

  Jax touched his lips to the spot where hers had been. He had gotten too close to this charge and in his world that meant danger and possible death for Megan. It also meant he could be banished to another realm.