The Mammoth Book of Halloween Stories Page 5

  “You can tell ’em because they make weird noises—not like a normal cat. Like this ’ere cat did when it nearly took your arm off, isn’t that right Dale? And because they won’t let you catch ’em—they fight like devils. Devils and witches, yeah? Ain’t you seen Supernatural?”

  “I—” I hadn’t a clue what to say. I hadn’t believed in that stuff since—well, forever. I didn’t remember ever believing in it, not really. Halloween was fun. The monsters were only Dad dressing up. He’d jump out at me and shout Rahrrr! and I’d laugh. It was the other nights when the real monster came out. The nights he was bored, out of work, pissed off with Mum and me and life. The nights when the only answers he could find were at the bottom of the next bottle, and the next. And the next.

  “Look, you don’t have to believe it. All you have to do is help us catch the fucking cat.”

  I turned and looked at Gary. It was hard to believe he was asking me for a favor, even if he had got my name wrong. Even if he really believed in some stupid story, if he was completely nuts. And he was nuts.

  I knew he was nuts because of the things he’d done at school, to lads who were harder or softer than me. I could hear it in the edge that was in his voice, sense it in the words he didn’t say but that hung in the air between us: Do it—or else.

  I took a deep breath. “All right,” I said, “I’ll help you catch it. But that’s it.” I thought maybe I could get hold of that twine somehow, get it away from him and lose it as quietly as I could. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  We lined up, the four of us, at the mouth of the alley. It smelled worse when I stepped inside it. It reeked like the watery stuff that dripped from bin-bags that were overdue emptying. Slimy brick walls rose all around us, high over our heads. There were doors set into it at intervals, but they were all blank, all closed. I knew cats could jump, but I didn’t think they could jump that high. The thing was trapped.

  “Stop it getting out,” Gary said. “It nearly did, before. There weren’t enough of us. I’ll go first and chuck my coat over it.”

  The cat, as if it knew what we were doing, pushed its back into an even higher arch. It opened its mouth—I saw a flash of red—and hissed. There did look to be something demonic about it, but cats were like that, weren’t they? They were claws and spitting and teeth. I wondered for a moment if Gary had really seen its true nature, and pushed the thought away. The cat was just a cat. He belonged to the woman who lived on the corner of our street, the one with the big garden where it liked to hide in the long grass. My mum stopped to talk to her sometimes. They’d call the cat to them with silly clicking noises, calling his name. It had a stupid name—Whirligig, that was it.

  That gave me an idea. “Wait,” I told them.

  Gary shot me a dirty look and I shrugged. Then I crept forward, bending low to the ground, reaching out and rubbing my fingers together. I made clicking noises with my tongue. The cat didn’t relax, not really, but it closed its mouth and watched me, its eyes wide.

  I took another step and it didn’t move. It didn’t run. There wasn’t really anywhere to go but I didn’t think that was the reason. I thought that maybe the possibility of finding a friend meant a whole lot more when you were stuck, on your own, in a place like this; even if you were a cat.

  I was within a couple of feet of it now. It started to relax its back a little. It didn’t hiss or spit or do anything. It just followed me with those yellow eyes.

  And then I bent and scooped it up.

  It went rigid for a second before I felt its face nudging my cheek, the softness of fur as it rubbed itself against me.

  I heard Gary’s laugh as I turned. “All right,” he said, and I don’t think he just meant the result. I thought he also meant me.

  He held out the rope. “It needs to go over its head.”

  I didn’t move. He surely couldn’t think I’d do that. But then—I’d known what he intended, didn’t I? He’d pretty much told me, and I’d still done what I’d done. I was still holding the cat. It didn’t squirm. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, its back end hanging loosely over my arm. It seemed quite happy there, and I wondered why that was.

  Gary twitched the rope, as if enticing me like I’d enticed the cat. “Come on, do it then. Show us what you’re made of—Cam.”

  I shifted my grip on Whirligig, holding him more firmly. Gary couldn’t really mean to hurt it. He was daring me—testing me. I wondered what would happen to me on Monday if I failed. And what might happen if I succeeded… .

  I reached out, without quite touching the rope. He’d already knotted one end into a loop, or maybe he’d found it that way, because the knot looked drawn as tight as it would go. I didn’t think it could be pulled tighter still—but maybe I was wrong.

  I looked down and saw Whirligig’s red collar, softer and wider than the rope. I imagined the cord sinking into his neck. From a long way away I heard kids’ voices, the chants of Halloween followed by laughter: someone getting a treat maybe—or playing a trick.

  “The cat isn’t a witch,” I said. My words didn’t come out clearly, clogging in my throat. “It’s only a cat. It’s only a story. I don’t believe in stuff like that anymore.”

  For a second I saw my dad, the year he’d dressed like a vampire. He’d been passed out on the sofa, the pointed teeth half-slipped from his mouth, drool running down his chin. I knew there were no monsters. Those were just pretend. They were masks people wore to hide what lay beneath, if only for one night.

  Gary stared at me for what felt like a long time. Then he let out a sharp splutter. That turned into laughter and he hooted with it, doubling over. I turned and James’s and Dale’s faces were distorted with amusement as they all laughed and laughed.

  Then Gary straightened. No trace of humor remained. His eyes were cold. His didn’t look like a face that had ever laughed, that could laugh. And I knew then that there was no room for stories behind that look, not even nasty ones. There was no room for anything but this—brick walls, concrete, rot; and a rope.

  I found myself stepping away. I felt cold now too. It was like ice in the pit of my stomach, and it was spreading, slowly, along each vein. I knew the reason why. It was not the thought that he believed in some old tale and would do terrible things because of it. It was knowing that he didn’t believe. He never had. It was just some story he’d told because he wanted to hang the cat. He wanted to watch it struggle and spin and flex. He wanted to hear it choke. He wanted to see the yellow light fade from its eyes, because he would be bigger then, wouldn’t he? More powerful. Something more than he had been.

  I stepped away from him again.

  “You don’t want to mess with me, Connor.” Gary’s hands curled into fists and I stared at him. I realized I’d done what my gut had warned me against after all. I’d gone into the alley. Now the three of them were lined up, just as we had been with the cat, only now it was me that was trapped.

  All three of them had the same eyes, a row of pinprick lights shining. Their faces were as blank as Halloween masks. He held out the rope again and I wondered if he still meant it for the cat. Slowly, I reached out and touched it, but Whirligig—such an odd name—wriggled in my arms and I grasped him tighter.

  “Christ. I’ll do it,” Gary said, and he stepped toward me, looking taller than ever; like someone I wouldn’t want to mess with, someone I wouldn’t want holding a grudge come Monday morning, or lunch break, or the way home.

  And I knew that I was a coward.

  Another flashback. My dad’s fist, driving deep into Mum’s stomach. Her face crumpling. And her screaming—Get out—because she’d rather take any number of punches than have him turn on me. And I had got out. I’d grabbed my coat then too and run out of the door, and I’d thought at the time that I’d done the right thing, done what I was supposed to do. Now, I wondered.

  Gary held the loop out wide and he started to slip the twine over Whirligig’s head. I pictured the woman who owned the cat. She had
gray hair and flowery dresses. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been smiling; smiling at the cat.

  And I threw it at him.

  Whirligig exploded from my arms in a ball of hair and claw and tooth, yowling his rage. Gary jerked away. I saw fragments: a red line scratched into his hand; Dale barging in, almost knocking him over; the cat, falling; Gary snapping out his hand and grabbing hold of its leg. I saw the way Whirligig twisted in the air but couldn’t fall, couldn’t right himself, and I heard the snap of a bone breaking.

  Then he was on the ground, his legs spread, fur standing on end. And he ran, but not how he had used to run. He ran in a jaggedy, spiky way, his right foreleg held in the air, the paw sticking out at an odd angle.

  “Fucker.” Gary caught hold of my coat, shoving me up against the wall. My head banged against the bricks but I didn’t cry out.

  He stared into my face. He looked at me as if he hadn’t yet worked out what I was. Then he said, emphasizing each word, “You’re—not—worth it.”

  He let go of my coat. When he turned away his cronies flanked him again, and they walked away, leaving me in the dark. I hoped they wouldn’t find the cat again. I could still hear the echo of the sound of its leg breaking. I didn’t know what its owner would do; I didn’t know what she’d say to me if she found out, or if my mother did. I didn’t know how they’d look at me.

  I put my hand to my face. It felt cold, like a mask, but I didn’t have a mask, not this year. I was too old for them.

  I stayed there for a while. Then I pushed myself away from the wall and turned to start the walk home.

  The next day, the sky was a solid gray, like cigarette ash, and I pulled on my coat as I stepped out of the door. I noticed something white against the fabric and I realized the stuffing was coming out where it had been slashed by sharp claws.

  It was a good job Mum hadn’t noticed. She was still sleeping, passed out on the sofa, where she’d spent the night. I knew she’d say sorry, later. She’d say it in a voice quiet enough not to hurt her own hangover-ridden head. I found I didn’t care.

  I could smell the fumes of passing buses and the grimier hint of rubbish clogging the gutters, and I saw all the after-effects of Halloween. The road was littered with candy wrappers, abandoned treat bags, empty beer bottles, spent matches. The fruitier smell of charred pumpkins came from doorsteps where the rotting things leered. There were a couple of gates off their hinges, leaning against the wall—an old trick, played on any who hadn’t enough treats to pacify Halloween’s goblins.

  I was planning to walk into town, but when I glanced ahead I saw the house on the corner, the one with the large and tangled garden. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about what happened last night, but the sight of it brought it all back—the cat’s sharp hiss; Gary Turner’s narrowed eyes; its willingness to come to me, the warm weight in my arms; the snap of a bone breaking.

  My own limbs felt heavy as I went closer, heavier, in fact, with every step. I imagined standing by while my Mum chatted with the woman about the awful thing that had happened to her cat. Of course, she wouldn’t know it was me—she’d never know. Whirligig could have fallen off a wall that was too high, or been hit by a car. But I could still hear Mum exclaiming over the cruelty, how she couldn’t understand it.

  I found my eyes stinging and rubbed at them. I couldn’t avoid walking past the place; I’d just have to get used to it. I hadn’t even done anything.

  I reached the edge of a fence that was once painted blue, probably a long time ago. And I saw the woman who owned the cat. She was standing outside her door, not chatting to anybody, not doing anything at all. She was just standing there, staring into space.

  I didn’t look directly at her. I looked from the corner of my eye, but I couldn’t see her face anyway because her hair was hanging down over it in long, straggly clumps. I forced myself to keep walking. She didn’t move an inch.

  Then, as I drew level, she did.

  Every sound suddenly seemed very loud. I could hear my own breathing, and her footsteps, irregular and uneven, scattering thin gravel as she came down the path. No: as she lurched.

  The woman was limping.

  If you catch the cat, if you hurt the cat, you hurt the witch too.

  Slowly, I turned and looked at her, opening my mouth to say a friendly “Hello,” just as Mum would have; just as anyone would have who hadn’t tempted her cat into its enemies’ hands, who hadn’t broken its leg. And it was her—but of course it was; I think I’d even seen her wearing that same dress before, flowery but ill-fitting, hanging off her bony frame. It was her, but her face was different. Older. Her skin had grayed, looking stretched where her beak nose poked between strands of hair, sunken into dark hollows at the cheeks. Still, her eyes shone out—they were no-color, but very bright. She was looking straight at me.

  She knew.

  I froze. She didn’t stop, though. She kept on lurching down the path, that weed-choked path where Mum and her and me—yes, me too—had all bent and made clucking noises at her cat. There was no cat now, not a trace of him.

  I could see her loss, the pain of it, under the blank shine of her eyes. It was awful, and it was fascinating, and I couldn’t look away from it.

  I realized I didn’t even know her name.

  I couldn’t see which leg she was limping on. Was it her right? It was impossible to tell. She moved more as if she’d been winded, punched in the stomach, maybe. An image rose: Dad driving his fist into Mum’s belly. I saw again the way she crumpled and went down. She hadn’t got up again. She hadn’t lurched after me, like this; like a monster.

  And I looked harder, and I saw that the woman hadn’t seen me at all. Her eyes still stared straight ahead. I didn’t know what she was looking at. I wasn’t sure she saw what was around her, or anything at all.

  I found I could move again. I looked toward the main road and saw Gary Turner, standing alone on the opposite corner, leaning against the wall. He looked like he was waiting for something, and as I watched his head swiveled toward me—us—and I made out the slightest twitch of his lips. Did he think I was here to chat to my neighbor? I could already imagine what he’d say.

  The woman sank to her knees. She reached out, grasping at something lying on the path, and I thought of the cat but saw only pieces of wet, shattered pumpkin that someone must have thrown into her garden. She caught up the pieces and threw them back over the fence. Another memory: my Dad carving jagged teeth into a pumpkin. I could see it perfectly, never could forget it. He was taking me trick-or-treating. We’d told each other silly stories we didn’t believe with torches shining under our faces, and we’d laughed. We’d laughed all night, and Dad hadn’t got mad, not once. Had he known, then, that it would be the last time?

  The spell was broken. I walked up to the woman’s gate and looked down at her. I watched as she raked her long nails through the gravel. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know her name. I knew now what she was. I saw her knotted, colorless hair, her dull eyes, her hollow cheeks. I saw that there was no beauty left in her, nothing anyone could want, no one left to care what happened to her.

  Witches didn’t have names. They didn’t need them.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw again the way she’d walked down the path. It had been her right leg she was limping on: yes, definitely. And she’d aged since yesterday. That wasn’t right, was it? It was as if her younger self had been the illusion and now her true age was revealed, now that I’d unmasked her—now that I knew. She was a witch. We’d done right to hurt the cat after all. It was nothing more than she’d deserved. We’d had to hurt the cat.

  I stooped slowly and picked up a stone. It was a stone from her own garden, poking between the slats of that badly painted fence. I felt its texture, dry and caked with earth, turning it in my hand. Then I drew my arm back and threw it as hard as I could.

  It struck her head. The sound of it was sharp and shocking but I wasn’t shocked, not really. I was something else, though I did
n’t know what; not yet.

  A moment’s silence and a darker line appeared in her dirty hair.

  She raised her head and saw me at last. She stared at me. Fixed me with her witch’s eye. And she started to shriek.

  I walked away, ignoring her cackles. I wondered if I should be afraid—anyone might hear, anyone might come running, but somehow I knew they wouldn’t. Dad had hit Mum many times. Anyone could have heard that, but no one had ever come.

  I drew myself taller as I went. Gary Turner had pushed himself away from the wall, was standing looking at me, his mouth slightly open. I remembered the way I’d felt when I’d last seen him. I’d been afraid to be alone in the dark, afraid of stepping into an alley. I’d been frightened, just for an instant, that zombies and ghouls and axe-men would get me; that the monsters would appear.

  But it wasn’t Halloween when scary things happened; it was anytime and all the time.

  I sauntered over to Gary Turner. “All right?” I said, and I kept on walking, heading toward town, and I heard the scuffing of his feet as he started to follow.

  I didn’t need a costume any longer, didn’t need a mask. I was too old for trick-or-treating; I had gone beyond all that. I was something more powerful, something more than I had been.

  I was the monster now.

  THE PHÉNAKISTICOPE OF DECAY

  JAMES EBERSOLE

  James Ebersole’s stories and poems have appeared in such publications as The Horror Writers Association Poetry Showcase (Volumes I and IV), Folk Horror Revival: Corpse Roads, Richmond Macabre, Werkloos, and Broken Worlds.

  “At the time I wrote this story,” he explains, “it was late summer and I had just moved to Atlanta, Georgia. I felt lost in a new place, sick of the heat and strangeness. I set about writing my way out of that sense of displacement.

  “What began as a notion for a cursed-object story ultimately became a meditation on resistance to change, and the desire for familiarity and repetition in the face of entropy. The upstate New York setting came naturally—with its crimson leaves and crumbling Main Streets, I could think of no better place to fit the mournful and autumnal mood I desired.”