The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories Read online

  Steve Rasnic Tem is a past winner of the Bram Stoker, World Fantasy, and British Fantasy Awards. His last novel, UBO, is a dark science fictional tale about violence and its origins, featuring such historical viewpoint characters as Jack the Ripper, Stalin, and Heinrich Himmler.

  Valancourt Books has recently published Figures Unseen, a volume of his selected stories, while The Mask Shop of Doctor Blaack, a middle-grade novel about Halloween, is out from Hex Publishers. With his late wife Melanie, he has also authored a handbook on writing, Yours To Tell: Dialogues on the Art & Practice of Writing, published by Apex Books.

  “Two impulses drove the creation of this story,” recalls Tem. “One was my participation in ‘prophecy’ games when I was young. They have them around Halloween, but also around most of the major holidays. When will I die? Will I find true love? Who will I marry? You never believe in their validity—at least I never did—but you’re drawn to them anyway. In my case I was hungry for even fake assurance that I would have a normal life and get the things I imagined so-called ‘normal’ people get in their lives.

  “The other impulse was a dissatisfaction I’ve always had with a perfectly ordinary state of affairs: you encounter people in the course of your life who seem quite important, who have a significant impact, and yet over the years you lose touch, and eventually they’re completely lost to you. It happens to everybody, and yet it has always aggravated me, especially in this age of the Internet and social media. But many people of my generation do not participate in social media—a Google search doesn’t find them. That’s why various paid services exist, to find those people lost to you. But when you do find them, sometimes you wish you’d left well enough alone.”

  RANDALL LEFT WORK early again, feeling ill. Nothing definitive, a general fatigue, a general malaise—that was the word, although he’d never used it before. If he’d stayed in his chair another minute it would have required an army to get him out. He didn’t know where he belonged, but he didn’t belong there.

  The bus was unusually crowded for the time of day. He wondered if there might be a concert or some such event. He found a seat quickly and hunched forward, trying to shut out the pack. But there were just too many of them, jostling about, not exactly noisy, but murmuring. That constant murmur. And they smelled: rank body odor and cigarettes, and things left out in the rain. But it had been a dry fall, so that stench had to be from something else.

  He glanced around. Had they all been fighting? Their faces were discolored, bruised. That fellow’s nose had gone scarlet, swollen. The woman next to him appeared caked in blue, turning black around her eyes. Another woman’s lipstick smeared from both ends of her lips, as if a razor had widened her mouth. Some of their clothing was torn. He studied the women, seeking exposed flesh. It was an old habit, but he didn’t mean any harm. He simply liked women. Was that an exposed breast or an elbow? He felt vaguely ashamed, but he looked anyway. Another word he’d never used occurred to him: voyeur.

  Their outfits were unusually colorful, some of the clothing beyond outlandish. They were in costume, he suddenly realized, but they’d been wearing their costumes too long, and now their costumes stank, and their makeup had deteriorated.

  Halloween wasn’t until tomorrow—were people partying early? He’d never liked the holiday himself. It seemed such a sad and desperate celebration, poking at your fears for some supposed fun.

  “Paula!” A female’s voice from the back of the bus. Maybe an objection. Maybe a warning. Randall couldn’t get the tone, the intent, or even the age of the speaker from just a single word. He turned around in his seat to see if he could tell who had said her name. Maybe, he thought, he might even see Paula herself. Would he even recognize her after so many years? He’d certainly had plenty of practice trying to imagine her older face, her body. Of course it was unlikely to be her, but what did they say? A small world.

  His cell went off. One ring. He looked at the screen. NOT AVAILABLE was all it said.

  “Paula!” He jerked his head up, looking for the speaker. No one looked at him. No one looked eager to speak. Each huddled to him- or herself, nursing their poorly-disguised injuries, murmuring softly.

  He’d always thought of her as the one who got away, although arguably he never had her in the first place. She’d been pleasant enough, and consented to his kisses. But never further, no matter how he’d suggested it, although he’d never been that direct. They’d gone to dinners and movies, and he’d felt cowed by her quiet beauty. She was taller than him, and had that beautiful voice, especially when she laughed or whispered into his ear. Those were early college days, and he had lacked confidence. He never told her how he felt, and he had no idea how she felt about him. It was ridiculous to be thinking about her now, but someone had said her name, and he hadn’t had sex in a long time. If he could find that person he would tell them to shut up.

  His cell went off again. NOT AVAILABLE flashed on the screen. He answered anyway. There was nothing but static on the line, and perhaps under that a distorted murmuring.

  At his stop he pushed his way through the stinking crowd. Everything he touched left his hands feeling greasy. Climbing off, he looked back to see if anyone watched him as the bus pulled away. It was hard to tell. The one face turned in his direction appeared to be sleeping.

  As he walked home it occurred to him how the homeless who huddled under steps and in alleys appeared to be in costume, but for them it was constant and involuntary. But he was romanticizing things again—it had always been his problem. After the break-up Miranda said he’d always expected too much—he had too much imagination—that was why they’d ended up hating each other. She’d been the last of many.

  Randall had been furious at that comment. It was as if Miranda had broken the rules—it was over, she had no reason to say anything. That night he’d tried to track Paula down. Maybe she was still unattached. Of course it was just a fantasy that they might reconnect, but such things did happen in the real world.

  But he couldn’t find a “Paula Jenks” on any of the social media. A general Internet search turned up very few possibilities of the right age. She might have married, of course, and had a new last name. Women were difficult that way—it made it more complicated to track them down. The websites wanted a credit card number to delve further. It felt a bit too desperate to pursue things that far, however. He would have felt like some sort of stalker. So Randall had let it go.

  He felt deflated as soon as he entered his apartment. He hated the familiarity of it. No matter how much he rearranged things it always felt the same, and nothing at all like where he should live. Perhaps if he had more room, or even a house, he could turn his environment into some sort of sanctuary. But that required more money, and although he was in a job he couldn’t stand, he couldn’t imagine another.

  He went into the dingy bathroom and washed his face. In the dim light his reflection looked darkened, bruised, and mottled as if makeup had been applied to unsuccessfully hide the damage. He was only forty, but aging poorly. Tomorrow he would wear dark glasses for his commute. He thought he had a pair large enough to disguise things.

  Revelers outside his windows were breaking things. What had gotten into people? If it was this bad the night before Halloween, what could he expect on the actual night? He vaguely remembered a name for this night from when he was a kid. “Malice Night” or “Prank Night”? No, Mischief Night was what they had called it, but he didn’t remember it being anything like this.

  He thought he’d successfully put Paula out of his mind until he’d heard her name on the bus. It seemed possible the experience had ruined him. A month after he’d given up searching for her he’d been drinking and thought he’d try again. Who cared how it looked? Maybe Paula would be pleased to hear from him. Maybe she’d been thinking of him too. He chose one of those “lost loves” websites and entered his credit card information. He felt relieved that he didn’t have to talk to a live person. The website just asked him a series of questi
ons and he typed in all he could remember. He remembered she was a year younger, so he knew the year she was born, and he remembered she had lived in Georgia all her life, so she had probably been born there as well. He knew where her mother had lived, but he couldn’t remember the exact address, but he thought he might recognize it if he saw it. He might have even visited Paula there, or had he?

  He’d been excited when her social security number came up. There were flashing screens and PROGRESS bars—all for show he presumed—with intermittent results. Randall had been much less excited when a married name came up, PAULA DUNCAN. Husband named Frank and an address where both of them lived. Then, after an agonizing period of more so-called “processing,” there was an obituary notice for Paula Duncan from a mortuary in the town where Frank and Paula Duncan lived. A vague disappointment consumed him. He did some more checking with the social security number he had. In one of the online records, that number came up DECEASED.

  And that was that. The service charged his credit card and didn’t even offer condolences. Why should it? He hadn’t been the husband. It made him feel vaguely dirty, as if he’d been peeping through the bedroom window of Mr. and Mrs. Frank Duncan.

  Randall couldn’t say he was heartbroken. He was saddened, certainly, to think someone so vibrant, so beautiful, someone he might have loved was gone. But he hadn’t seen Paula in years. It had been merely a pitiful fantasy.

  Then today happened. Whoever the Paula had been on the bus, she hadn’t been his Paula, and he needed to stop thinking his, because she never had been.

  Randall’s cell phone rang. He picked it up off the coffee table, expecting to see “Not Available” again. But this time the screen said PAULA JENKS. He frantically hit the button and fumbled it to his ear. “Hello?”

  No one spoke. There was a hollow, liquid sort of background noise, a soft echoing effect, as if the phone were at the bottom of a well. “Hello?”

  A clicking noise. Then, “Hello, is this Randall?” He didn’t recognize the voice, and as had become his habit when dealing with telephone solicitors and scammers, he avoided saying ‘yes.’ “This is Randall.”

  “Randall, this is Alice Jenks. Paula’s mother.”

  “Oh. Oh, Mrs. Jenks. I’m sorry. I heard… .”

  “The reason I’m calling is because Paula has been trying to get in touch with you.”

  His eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I heard that Paula died. I’m just so relieved… .”

  “Died? Who would say such a thing?”

  He could tell her the truth, but it was embarrassing. He couldn’t think of a way to say it without sounding creepy. “I’m sorry, it was on social media. You know how that goes, rumors and half-truths. Obviously it was a different Paula.”

  “Well, I don’t have the Internet, but I know how people are.”

  “Could I speak to Paula?”

  There was a pause, with more liquid clicking. Randall thought they’d lost the connection. “I’m afraid not. She’s lying down, feeling poorly I’m afraid, poor dear. She’s been trying and trying to contact you, with no luck at all. She became quite worked up over it, actually. I told her to rest. But I had to promise I would make the attempt for her. If I hadn’t I didn’t think she would fall asleep.”

  “How did she try to contact me? I’ve moved a few times, but I’ve always left a forwarding address. And I have email, social media …”

  “Oh, my daughter doesn’t own a computer. I believe she may have written you a few times over the years and you never answered. She gave me this phone number. She wrote it on this pad by the phone, several times in fact. The same number, but several times so she wouldn’t forget. But she couldn’t reach you.”

  “I didn’t get her letters. If I had gotten one of her letters I absolutely would have written her back. And I don’t have any phone messages from her.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she would have left a message. She hates speaking to those machines. But Randall, she would absolutely love to see you, she really would. She’s been in poor health for years, but I think seeing you would make all the difference.”

  Would it be rude to ask what was wrong with Paula? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want this woman to think it would make some crucial difference to him. “Of course I can come sometime. Where do you live?”

  “Might you come right away? She feels so badly, I frankly worry about her. Could you come for Halloween? She dreads the holiday, all those costumes and masks, that morbid preoccupation. We’re in the same house, a few miles from the old campus. Are you very far away?”

  “Not at all. Give me the address. I have to take care of a few things, but I’ll be there tomorrow night.”

  He was at least twenty hours away by car, probably more, and he didn’t own an automobile. Randall left a phone message for his boss telling him he was much sicker than he thought. He threw some clothes into a bag and left the apartment.

  The rental was much too high, but he had little choice. He hadn’t driven in a while, but his initial nervousness passed once he got out of the city and onto the highway. He kept his cell phone on, lying on the passenger seat beside him. He expected the woman to call back, confessing that it had all been some tasteless Mischief Night prank, but she never did.

  Once he crossed over into Maryland he could see that a large number of people were out—teenagers mostly, running around in the dark, yelling and breaking things, screaming in pain or excitement. At one point he had to veer around two figures in clown suits in the middle of the road. He couldn’t be sure, but his impression was they had been copulating. They howled as he passed.

  He’d never liked driving at night. As it was he had no idea if he would make it to Paula’s house by Halloween night, or what it might mean if he didn’t. Perhaps nothing, or perhaps everything. Timing mattered in life, and his timing had always been mediocre at best. He was bound to lose his job, but it certainly wouldn’t break his heart.

  Paula would be much older than the woman he remembered, the woman he might have loved, but then so was he. She probably still had the eyes, those high cheekbones, that beautiful voice. He hoped she still had the smile.

  Randall’s night vision wasn’t what it used to be. That was clear now that he was out here, the lights from the oncoming cars stabbing his eyes. The reflections off his windshield felt dangerous, confusing.

  It nagged at him that he was traveling all this way without actually having talked to Paula. Her mother had sounded sincere, but here he was driving hundreds of miles with no sleep because of a phone call from a woman he might or might not have met.

  About 2:00 a.m. in a rural area beyond Richmond he ran over something. He didn’t see it until he was about to hit it, and he still had no idea what it was. A mound of clothes, seemingly, but there was hair, or fur, in a streak along the top. And it screamed when he ran over it.

  He stopped a few yards ahead of the object and glanced in his rear-view mirror. He couldn’t see very much with his taillights, but whatever it was, it didn’t appear to be moving. The responsible thing to do, of course, was to walk back there and check. What if that was a human being?

  But he hesitated. He hadn’t seen any other vehicles the past half-hour or so. The area was poorly lit, and although there was a building just off the roadway, some sort of maintenance shed, it was dark, and there were no other structures in view, no one to call out to if he needed help.

  He grabbed his cell phone. No bars, but a 9-1-1 call might still go through. Something flashed by the car. He looked up. Several dancing ragged figures—perhaps they were meant to be scarecrows—shouted at him nonsensically.

  Something slapped his driver’s-side window. He stared into the bloody red face. “Watch where you’re driving!” it shouted, moving its lips in exaggerated fashion. What he thought was blood was actually some sort of paint, garish and dripping. He drove the car slowly through a growing crowd of garishly dressed revelers, who sprawled on and off the hood, daring him to hurt one of them.
He was tempted to hit the gas pedal a few times, but what if he actually hurt someone? He would be charged—he might even go to prison. This went on for two or three miles before, seemingly bored, they let him go.

  After a few more hours his cell phone rang. He jumped, almost running off the road. Paula’s name flashed on the screen. When he picked it up her mother got straight to the point. “So are you coming?”

  “Yes, yes. Like I said, I’m coming. It might just take me awhile.”

  “I just wanted to make sure. She’s been asking.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there. But I have to hang up now.”

  “All right, but please come.” She hung up. They were up late, but then so was he. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt as if she thought he’d somehow wronged Paula. But it was such a long time ago, and they’d been so young, babies practically.

  He made a few wrong turns, and became lost more than once. He drove part of the next day in the completely wrong direction. He was going to be late, he supposed, but was now too tired to care. By the next evening, Halloween night, he stopped paying attention to all the people in disguise. It seemed somehow normal, as if they were at last displaying their true selves, however deplorable. Once or twice someone spit at the car, or struck it with something. Randall didn’t stop.

  Somewhere in Alabama both headlights went out. Randall was so tired he almost didn’t notice, and when he did realize he simply stared straight ahead, counting on the moonlight and occasional streetlight and the luminous paint on the edges of the road to show him the way. Eventually they came back on as suddenly as they had gone out.

  It began to rain about an hour from his destination. Randall turned the wipers on but they weren’t making good contact with the windshield and left a thin skim of water after each swipe of the blades. He had to lean over the steering wheel and gaze intently through a confusing array of fragmented street lights in order to stay safely on the road. Eventually the rain let up as he entered a series of narrow neighborhood streets. Leaves were down everywhere, making a dark and nasty mess in the gutters. Water pooled in spots on the uneven pavement, shimmering with yellowish reflections. The only signs of trick-or-treaters were some scattered candy wrappers and a few soggy remnants of costume, scarves, gloves, random bits of cloth, and what looked to be a cheap mask torn in half, dropped in the hurry to get home.