On a dark and snowy night, three couples sat huddling around a sodden campfire in the snow and drizzle, rent by the roll of thunder and the sudden jagged forks of lightning regaling each other with scary stories and poems.
This was their scary Halloween tradition, and this year, the snowy weather was cooperating with their plan as if they had scripted it. A prize was awarded to the winner of their annual contest, so their competition had an edge, and all their compositions would be published in their school’s literary magazine, by permission of that publication’s editorial staff. They had prepared for months for this night, and this year, they vowed that nothing was going to stand between them and sheer terror.
The couples had come in costumes that were in the spirit of the occasion, so to speak. Herbert and Ann came as Mr. and Mrs. Death. Paul and Kathy came as Jack Sprat and the wife who could eat no lean. Charles and Diane dressed as zombies with flesh so realistically putrescent that the others claimed they could smell the decay across the fire’s hearth.
They had devised an order to their madness. Each couple would tell a story. All their stories had to begin with the words, “On a dark and snowy night.” When all the stories had been told, each would then recite a scary poem from memory. The girls would tell the stories. The boys would recite the poems. They drew lots for their order of precedence. They had decided they would vote on the winners of their contest after all their works had been presented.
Kathy was the first by lot to tell her story, which was titled, “Knife Grinder.” Kathy was curvaceous, as befitted the wife of Jack Sprat, so she munched her way through her telling.
“You can tell this is my tale because Paul and I, or rather Jack Sprat and his wife, are characters in it.” As Kathy told her tale, she roasted and ate marshmallows. This is the story she told that dark and snowy night:
Knife Grinder
On a dark and snowy night, which happened to be a particularly scary dark and chilly Halloween, the rural trick-or-treating was well underway. By custom, around a half an hour remained before the curfew began. The Johnson Farm was under siege. Children dressed in costumes knocked at the door, and Mrs. Johnson, dressed as a wicked witch, answered.
“Trick or Treat?”
“What are you dressed as, son?”
“Can’t you tell? I’m Jack Sprat. My sister there is my wife, who could eat no lean. She’s really fat. Hey, Jillian, no hitting!”
Paul stood up all of a sudden and posed with his prop as Jack Sprat. Kathy, dressed as Mrs. Sprat, stopped telling her tale long enough to hit him on the arm while she pulled him back into his place.
Laughing, she gave him a roasted marshmallow and put another over the fire before she recomposed herself and continued. “And who is this other fellow?” She held out her brimming bowl of candy and the two children each took one piece.
“I don’t see anyone else. Come on, Jillian! It’s getting late. Thank you for the treat, Ma’am.” Jack Sprat and his wife ran down the walk to the road and into the night.
“Young man, is it? Come forward. Don’t you want a treat? What are you dressed as?”
Charles and Diane stood and stretched, their zombie costumes looking positively ghastly in the firelight. Kathy stopped and glared at them while she waited for them to settle back into their places. Paul took the opportunity to add another log to the fire, which hissed and sputtered when he stoked it. When everyone was ready, Kathy stuck another marshmallow in the fire and picked up her story as if nothing had happened.
“Guess.”
“Hmm. Let’s see. You’re carrying a machine. It looks like an old fashioned metal grinding machine. I haven’t seen one of those for many years.”
“Not bad. That’s exactly what it is—a grinding machine. I grind knives. The grinder really works. It makes a lot of racket. Do you want to hear it grind?”
“No thanks. I believe you. When I went trick-or-treating many years ago, the knife grinder had a very special meaning. You’re a knife grinder. So what are you meant to represent?”
“Dad says I’m like the grim reaper. The sound of my grinding is supposed to mean that death is near.”
Herbert and Ann now rose and did a macabre dance because they were dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Death. Kathy laughed and corralled them back in their places. She gave each one a roasted marshmallow and continued with her story.
“That’s scary.”
“It’s Halloween! It’s supposed to be scary. Speaking of scary, who’s that behind you?”
The witch did not turn around. Instead, she smiled wickedly so the boy could see that she had only a few teeth, and she cackled.
“The man behind me with the long scythe is death. He lives with me always. I’m glad I didn’t ask you to demonstrate your grinder. Don’t you want some candy?” She extended her bowl of candies and watched as he selected the one he wanted.
“Yes, ma’am, I suppose the grinding sound would be very bad luck for someone. Thank you for the treat. Have the three cows been by yet?”
“Yes, they came by around fifteen minutes ago. It was a very moving experience. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been trying to catch up to them all evening.”
“Are you related?”
“Not really. They’re sisters.”
“Did you see which way the cows went after they stopped here?”
The witch cackled and pointed east. At the same time, the figure behind her pointed his scythe in the opposite direction. Or was he raising it to take a harvest swing? His rictus gave no indication that he intended to laugh.
Instead a dry coughing sound broke the slicing sound as the witch fell in a heap and the scythe reached forward to catch the knife grinder, who was proceeding down the walk as fast as he could run to catch up with the three cows.
As he walked along, the knife grinder began to grind. The sound was like a low murmur, grating to hear. On the main road, the other trick-or-treaters gave the knife grinder a wide berth. None could see him. What they avoided was the sound he made.
Behind him, came the figure with the scythe, trying to reap what it had not sowed. No one could see death any more than they could see the knife grinder, but they knew death was near in the night.
Ahead, were Jack Sprat and his wife. They had joined the three cows and were turning into the Randolph farm. The knife grinder stopped grinding and tagged along behind. Of course, death followed waiting behind them all. Jack Sprat knocked on the Randolphs’ door. Mrs. Randolph answered on the second knock. She was dressed like an old crone, with two milky white eyes. She appeared to be blind and groped at the children with one hand while she extended her tray of candied apples with the other.
“Trick or treat.”
“I cannot see you because I’m blind. Tell me who you are, and I’ll give you each a nice red candied apple.”
“I’m Jack Sprat, and this is my wife.”
“The one who could eat no lean?”
“That’s the one. She’s really fat, so she looks the part. Stop hitting me, Jillian!”
“Okay, each of you take a treat. I know there are others out there. Don’t be bashful.”
“We are the three cows in the meadow, Bossy, Milly and Hildegard. Moo.”
“Moo!”
“Moo?”
“I hear you lowing. Come take a treat, one each. Now run along. And who is left now?”
“I’m the knife grinder.”
“I heard you coming. Was the sound a recording?”
Kathy was doing a great job making the sound of a knife grinder. The sound she was making grated on everyone’s nerves.
“No. I made the sound with my grinding machine.”
“You were sharpening knives?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I was afraid of that. Do you know if he is following you?”
“Who’s that?”
“The man with the scythe.”
“I saw him at the Johnsons’, but I didn’t see him following me here.”
“I can’t see him, but I know he’s out there with you. You’ve come as a pair. Each of you come forward and take a treat.”
The knife grinder took his treat, turned and skipped back down the lane to the road. He did not see the figure with the scythe take his harvest. He only heard a whistling sound like a sudden wind, followed by a low moan.
“Wait, no wait!” the woman cried. The knife grinder did not look back because she was not speaking to him.
Out on the road, heading to the Simpsons’ farm, were the whole crew of trick-or-treaters. Minnie and Mickey Mouse, Goofy, Aunt Jemima, Jack Sprat and his wife, the three cows, and the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood, were all there in a throng. As before, Jack Sprat knocked on the door as everyone crowded around expectantly. Mr. Simpson answered the door dressed like an undertaker. Behind him was his wife, dressed all in black for mourning and holding a lighted red candle.
“Trick or treat!”
Mr. Simpson smiled wickedly and said, “So, what if I choose trick?”
“You can’t do that. It’s not fair.”
“Treat, treat. We want a treat!”
“I just received two calls from my neighbors. That’s why we’re dressed for the dead. The wicked witch and the blind old crone are dead. We’re in mourning. Don’t be frightened, children. Sooner or later, you all come to me. I’m the undertaker. Do you know what that means?”
“It means we have to trick you, Sir, to get away.” This was the knife grinder speaking. The others all parted way so he could approach the undertaker.
“I have a figure following me. I will leave him here with you. If you will prepare him for a funeral, we’d all appreciate it very much.”
“And who, pray tell, are you?”
“I am the knife grinder. Do you want to hear me grind my knives?”
“Why, I’d be delighted. It’s the kind of music that lifts my heart, because every time I hear it, it reminds me of my wedding day.”
Ann and Diane looked at each other in disbelief at what they were hearing. How could anyone like the horrid sound? What did the sound portend, anyway?
The knife grinder began to grind. The others held their ears at the grating sound of metal on metal, except for the funeral director and his wife, who stood enraptured by the sound. As the knife grinder continued, the funeral director bowed to a figure behind the trick-or-treaters. The figure raised its scythe as if to sweep through the children when the knife grinder stopped his grinding and stood back. Death walked straight through the crowd to the door and proceeded past the funeral director and his wife.
“Now that we’ve played our trick, please give us each a treat.”
“Yes, please, Sir, give us all a treat,” said Minnie Mouse.
“I’d like cheese!” said Mickey Mouse.
The cows all mooed and bellowed.
The undertaker went back to the coffin that lay in his hallway and drew out a small casket of candies. He took it into the crowd and made sure each trick-or-treater got a treat. They saw that the man was sweating and looked afraid. His wife was smiling at something, but they could not see what it was. None of them could see the figure with the scythe.
As the children meandered back along the path to find the road, the knife grinder heard the sound of a slicing scythe, but he did not look back. Instead, he looked forward at the three cows with keen interest.
Jack Sprat asked Mickey Mouse, “Isn’t it time for curfew?”
“We have only just enough time for perhaps one more visit before we have to get home.”
The knife grinder knew that his time was almost up, so he played his machine as they walked.
The three cows complained at the racket.
“Have you heard of cattle mutilations? This is the sound that the cows hear just before the mutilator strikes.”
“Stop teasing!”
“No fair!”
“We’d better run!”
Just then, flying down the street, came a coven of witches on brooms with a huge black cat leaping and bounding. They waved flashlights in everyone’s faces and surrounded the cows. They cut them out from the rest of the trick-or-treaters and herded them home through the darkness.
The hounds began baying at every farm. Across the moon, drifted a lonely cloud. The curfew horns started sounding, one after another. The children raced to get home, all except the knife grinder. He started up his machine again with gusto. The grinder’s raucous music filled the cold night air, and other sounds arose like an infernal chorus.
Cattle bellowed. Dogs did bark. Children screamed. The knife grinder’s knives shot sparks into the air. Jack-o-lanterns flickered and leered. As the midnight hour approached, the knife grinder thought he saw a figure in a long cape. The figure had a scythe. He was swinging the scythe in the air effortlessly, as if he were slicing through night souls with abandon. The knife grinder saw that the figure was coming straight for him with a vengeance because he had been tricked.
Feeling very small, the knife grinder stopped his grinding as the figure rose up on its tiptoes and raised its scythe.
Here Ann and Diane raised their hands to their mouths in fright, their eyes wide as saucers. The boys were trying not to show they were scared, but their fists were clenched, and their breathing was heavy as witnessed the white coming from their mouths.
“It’s time to go home now, son.”
All the listeners breathed a collective sigh of relief.
“Oh, Dad, can’t we stay out a little longer?”
“We’ve had a lot of fun this Halloween, but it is now midnight. So our powers have been overtaken. We had our chance and did well. Don’t worry because there’s always next year.”
“Next year I want to wear the cape and swing the scythe.”
“We’ll see, son.”
“That usually means no.”
“Hahaha. Did I see the Black Dog passing you in the night?”
“Yes, the Black Dog passed a few minutes ago.”
“And what about the Phosphor and the Cold White Tentacle?”
“Them too.”
“So we’ve seen nearly everything tonight.”
“And was anyone really afraid?”
“I was afraid.”
“Hahaha. You were afraid? Not likely, Dad. Why do you say you were afraid?”
“I was afraid I’d laugh and spoil our game.”
“I didn’t see you until that last farm. How did you manage to remain invisible?”
“That is a trade secret that my dad taught me.”
“So will you tell me the secret?”
“Why don’t you tell me how you guessed I was there all the time though you couldn’t see me?”
“You remember that Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Randolph both looked over my shoulder? Well, I guessed you were there somewhere.”
“So that’s why you knew how to do the trick on Mr. Simpson. That was so spontaneous. Great thinking.”
“It was good that you played along, Dad. Thanks.”
“But I didn’t play along. That must have been someone else.”
“Now you’ve got me scared, Dad!”
Death reached out and grasped the knife grinder.
“This knife grinder was my grandfather’s. I used to take it out when I was a trick-or-treater.”
“We’d better get home now. Mom’ll be worried.”
“You’re right, son. Lead the way.”
Kathy shrugged and screwed up her face in a broad grin. Popping another marshmallow in her mouth, she said, “That’s my story!”
“Kathy,” said Paul, “that was a truly great, very scary story. I particularly like the allusion to cattle mutilations and the family heritage behind the knife grinder. You were a good sport letting us get up and down during your telling and feeding us marshmallows too. Okay, Diane is next by lot. Are you ready? Yes? Good. Okay, tell your story.”
“My story is titled, ‘Chainsaw,’ and I think you’d all better huddle against each other and watch your backs while I tell it.”
Just then, an owl hooted and, as if on cue, the thunder rolled and lightning flashed as the couples moved closer together around the fire. Diane was a dramatic reader and member of the school’s theater group. Like Kathy, she could change her voice to suit the characters in the story. She did not overly dramatize her reading. The story was scary enough without her overdoing it. This is the story that she told that snowy night:
Chainsaw
On a dark and snowy night, almost anything can happen. This night, to boot, it was Halloween. More than that, all the power in the Northeast corridor was out, on account of the snowstorm, with no estimate of restoration.
The trick-or-treaters were very disappointed that their night of fun was ruined. Parents consoled themselves by using the candy they had bought for visitors as an assuagement for their children, who huddled together over board games or snuck off into their rooms to play games on their cellphones.
Unfortunately, the seasonal propaganda was accompanied by an actual Freddy-like chainsaw murderer, who had decided to dismember his victims and post the horrific results on the Internet. The sadist who did the postings borrowed from other banned photographs, but the result was what you would expect—pandemonium. The parents were scared. The police were bewildered. The public was on alert because no one was safe. No one knew when or where the chainsaw murderer would strike next.
In a house with a generator, still decked with lights in Nashua, New Hampshire, the general misery of Greater Boston was entirely ignored. Halloween was observed not in the breach, but in the full regalia. Robotic spiders climbed up and down the portal to the entrance. A robotic owl looked this way and that with its red eyes gleaming. The proud owners of the house were ready to receive all comers. The husband dressed as a witch with a tall, pointed hat, and the wife was bustling around the house, touching up the ghastly decorations that were part of the festivities.
The husband and wife had counted all their previous years’ visitors on this unhallowed night, and the number averaged seventy, give or take five. They had bought provisions for eighty just in case. Tonight, though, the visitors were few. Yes, they used their cellphones to inform their friends about the benison that would be available at this remarkable house. Probably they would inform them about the robotic snakes that dwelled in the tree wells and the gules of red light that streaked the macabre abode in an irregular display.
At this point in the story Charles tickled Diane, who laughed and made snowballs to throw at the zombie pair. Kathy kept roasting marshmallows and handing the sticks around so others could eat them. Diane calmed down and picked up where she had left off her story.
Pauly and Lisander approached the dwelling with trepidation, but they were determined to have their treats on Halloween night, though the other houses in the neighborhood had offered none. They went right up and knocked, and when the witch answered the door, they shouted in unison, “Trick or treat!”
Silence followed. The witch looked over the two boys and asked each to extend his index finger. When they did so, her gnarled, bent fingers caressed them and checked to see whether they had fattened up to serve her purposes.
They were not found wanting, so she curled her finger with its long, insinuating nail and invited them inside. There, her husband, dressed as Dracula, awaited them. The two boys were not going to be deprived of their treats by a little terror, so they went inside, hoping to be given a treat and allowed to depart straight away. If only things had been that simple.
Dracula asked the boys to be seated on the couch while he fetched them drinks, apparently soft drinks, red in color and bubbling. They drank. Both boys fell into a deep sleep. Dracula lifted each gently and took him into the back room, where he placed them on beds like the others, where his vampires were feeding.
Two began feasting on the new bodies as soon as they were in place. They inserted their sharp fangs to draw blood and then used their tongues to lick the blood as it flowed from the necks. Children had such rich, pure blood, they were natural donors. Dracula and his brood appreciated this in a time when blood stocks were uniformly contaminated by drugs and toxins.
The witch scanned the path and road for other victims, but weather conditions and the power outage were not going to provide the numbers she and her husband required. She remained near the door, keeping watch while Dracula did the best he could to feed their children with the blood of the drugged trick-or-treaters. At midnight, the feasting was done, and that was a good thing because the invulnerability that Halloween had provided was no longer available to them.
It was time to release the children and go back to what passed as normal. Dracula unbound the two boys and the three girls who had been the food while they slept. He revived them with ammonia and gave them warm punch. He loaded their Halloween baskets with candy and cakes. They went away satisfied that they had gotten more than they had bargained for this Halloween.
Only when they were well clear of the gabled, haunted house did they realize how late it was. They scampered home through the snow in the abysmal blackness of the night. Their parents were distraught because they had been out much too long, and they vaguely threatened punishments, except they were so grateful that the children had appeared again, apparently unharmed.
The harm was not apparent, but it was condign. The next morning, the parents of those children realized that the marks on their necks had significance. They did not call the police. Instead, they called on a local necromancer, a warlock of some renown. They marched the five children into his slovenly office for an examination. The warlock did so. He said there was no question: the children had all been fed upon by vampires.
He told them, “They have the characteristic marks on their necks, and they are listless. I advise against informing the authorities because officially vampires have no standing under the current laws.”
“So what are we to do?” asked the most energetic male parent.
“The children’s blood loss will probably not affect them. Of course, there is a slim chance of the children having become vampire-prone.”
The way Diane said, “vampire-prone” gave everyone the shivers. For a moment, Kathy stopped roasting her marshmallow so it burst into flames. Paul grabbed the stick with the flaming torch of a marshmallow and cast it into the fire. Herbert put his arm around Ann and tried to bite her neck like a vampire, but she pushed him away smiling. Charles nodded for Diane to continue, while Kathy picked up another stick and stuck a new marshmallow on it.
“And what, pray, does that mean?”
“Vampires get a taste for a certain person’s blood and decide they cannot resist tasting it again. One thing can lead to another, and before you know it, your child has become one of the vampires.”
“So what do we do about this?”
The boys and girls held each other’s hands and leaned forward while they looked into the fire. Clearly a bad thing could happen. How could the story possibly end happily?
“There is no one-hundred-percent solution. You can try the usual remedies. For example, you can hang a garlic clove and a cross around the children’s necks. You can keep the children inside after dark, and be sure that the windows are closed and fastened. You can counsel them to keep away from strangers. That’s about all you can do. One thing more, though, statistically, children who’ve been attacked by vampires and survived are far likelier to achieve healthy lives and advanced age than others. So there’s an upside to the encounter.”
The parents were not consoled by what the warlock said. They instituted a strict regimen for their children and for a long while, they watched over everything they did, day and night. The children became exasperated by their parents’ over-protectiveness and intrusion on their lives. They decided that they would find ways to escape the confines of their perceived imprisonment.
This was particularly true of the two boys, though the three girls were also unused to confinement. It was only a matter of time before the children staged a breakout from the parental envelope that suffocated them. The oldest girl, named Astrid, met Pauly at school to discuss the problem that they faced.
“I have the strongest desire to climb out my bedroom window and run to the nearest woods. There, I’d be free.” That was Astrid’s confession to the older boy. “I’d feel a lot better about this decision if someone big and strong was there to protect me.” Clearly, she implied that Pauly should run away as well and join her.
“I have the same impulse, but I’m not sure I could protect you from the vampires. They are all adults, some probably hundreds of years old. What could I do against them?”
“Have you no courage? Do you want me to be eaten by them and killed, or, worse, turned into a vampire?”
“Astrid, aren’t you being a drama queen about this? We have no evidence that the vampires have been watching out for any of us. Maybe they’ve all gone into hibernation until next Halloween?”
“That’s nonsense. Vampires have to feed, and they could never last until next Halloween without attacking someone to feed.”
“So let’s plan to meet in the woods and see what happens?”
“We’ll only have to stay there a little while at first. We can meet at midnight and stay for an hour. If that works okay, we can plan to stay longer, and then perhaps, invite the others.”
“Astrid, I’m not at all sure what this will prove.”
“It’ll prove we don’t need all the fuss and bother that our parents are subjecting us to. It’ll prove we can stand on our own.”
“It’ll prove we may be as foolish as our parents. They think we have to be sequestered. We think we have to be totally free. I, for one, am scared of vampires. I can’t believe we all became victims.”
“You’re not scared, are you?”
When she asked this question in her story, Diane tickled Charles. He tickled her back. Everyone started tickling the others until they were in an uproar of tickling and laughing uncontrollably. Herbert and Ann were the first to calm down. They went back to roasting marshmallows. Paul adjusted his seating and gazed into the fire, as Kathy laid her head on his shoulder and looked into the flames. Diane picked up again where she had left off.
“Why shouldn’t I be scared? Real vampires are scary. Let me put this another way: if I were to bite your neck and lick your blood, what would you think of that?”
A smack resounded. Ann had smacked Herbert because he tried to bite her neck again. Now Kathy glared at Ann, who held one hand over her mouth and laughed while she pushed Herbert to let him know she was just playing with him.
“You wouldn’t do that. I won’t allow it. What a disgusting thought anyway. You don’t mean it?”
“Of course, I don’t mean it. The thought disgusts me too. No offense.”
“No offense taken. So it’s decided. We’ll meet in the woods behind my house at midnight tonight. There’s a place just inside the copse of trees, where pine needles make a nice surface under the snow. I’ll meet you there. Don’t forget. I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t show up.”
“That would probably be scary. I’ll be there, though. Count on me.”
The children went to their respective classes and continued their normal routines, until midnight, when they slipped out their back windows, down their roofs, and scampered into the copse of woods in the back of Astrid’s folks’ property.
“Hello, Astrid, it’s dark. Are you there?”
“Yes, Pauly, I’m here. Come on inside. The pine needles are as soft as I said they’d be.”
“So, you haven’t heard anyone or anything else?”
“I was frightened by the flutter of a large barn owl. It flapped free of the trees and went hunting.”
“They grow very large. Some can hunt large rats, small cats, and very small dogs.”
“It’s chilly, so I brought a blanket we can share.”
“I won’t need that. So what do we do? Tell ghost tales? It’s awfully dark.”
“We’re here to prove we can be safe outside the confines of our homes for one hour.”
“I’m satisfied that we’ve proved we can be safe for ten minutes. Won’t that do?”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you? Scaredy cat!”
“Shh. Did you hear that?”
“What? What did you hear? Now I’m afraid.”
“Over there. See the light?”
“Astrid, are you out there?”
“That’s my dad. I’m in trouble now. Look, hide here. I’ll go out to meet him. When we’ve gone inside, you can go home.”
“Dad, I’m over here.”
“Astrid, your mother and I were worried sick. We thought you’d been abducted. Get yourself inside right now. We are not pleased in the least that you snuck out like that.”
“Oh, Dad, I’m all right. It is such a nice night for a walk.”
“Get inside right now, young lady. I need to teach you a lesson you’ll not forget.”
“Ouch. I’m going.”
When Astrid and her father had gone inside, Pauly decided to make his way home, but he bumped into a tall figure that grabbed him by both arms.
“How convenient it is for me that you happened along tonight.”
“Who are you? What do you want? Let me go!”
Pauly was about to scream when the figure hit him in the jaw. Pauly then heard the unmistakable sound of a chainsaw starting.
“Well, Paul, how do you like the ending?”
“I’m scared. Don’t you hear the chainsaw revving now?”
“You’re making me shudder just thinking about it.”
“Okay, let’s move right along. Ann, it’s your turn now.”
Ann was the intellectual among the friends. She was prim and proper and a rule marm par excellence. She told her tale, titled ‘Rictus II,’ with a cold objectivity that lent a stark contrast between the words and their grisly meanings. Ann was a deep one, and her listeners were very attentive for hidden meanings in her tale.
Rictus II
On a dark and snowy night, an ancient man is pushing a hugely overloaded shopping cart around the first circular traffic divider once you leave the town. His cart is full of plastic bags, bulging with the necessities of his homeless life, including a sodden sleeping bag.
The man is wearing an old raincoat over a vintage three-piece suit of faded blue. On his feet, are shoes that are much too large for him. As he walks, they squeak and spill water as they crunch through the snow. An old-fashioned fedora hat sits on his head. It is much too small for him, but it manages to stay fixed, though it is covered with snow and beaded with drizzle from the light rain. The man’s long stringy hair, tied in a ponytail in the rear, falls in damp strings around his unshaven face.
The man has been around the circle many times. After each circumnavigation, the man recites a consecutive number. He intones the number to no one in particular. It is three a.m., and traffic has long ago dwindled to nothing. The early morning outside is dark and foggy, and an orange pool of halogen light illuminates the snow-covered traffic circle.
The man reaches the number 665 and stops. Another figure approaches from the main street, from the direction of the town. This figure, a male dressed in black, seems amused to find the man with the shopping cart walking in a wide circle. He falls in silently alongside the man with the cart.
Sated from his earlier blood feast, the figure in black listens for any lingering tell-tale sounds of this special night for him and his kind. The night has experienced its storm-inspired hours of snow and icy rain, but now the large portion of the great storm has passed. The empty streets are slippery wet with slush, and still running with snow melt. By the stroke of midnight, the Halloween crowds disappeared. The denizens of darkness retreated as their adversaries advanced to reclaim the land. All Saints Day came at the twelfth church bell's chime, and none too soon for the mortals who remain.
The figure in black decides to engage the man with the shopping cart in conversation.
He asks, “Where are you heading?”
The man answers, “I’m heading for my grave.”
Herbert took this occasion to tickle Ann, who giggled in spite of herself. This caused another bout of general tickling that lasted until Ann straightened her costume primly and folded her hands in her lap until the others settled back down. Paul stoked the fire. Kathy balled up the marshmallow container and put it in her pocket. Charles and Diane nodded that they were ready for Ann to continue telling her tale.
“I can understand that, my friend. Do you think you’ll find what you’re looking for by going in circles in the snow?”
As if the figure in black has said nothing, the old man continues, “I was there at Los Alamos on the day of the first test of the atom bomb. That great fireball in the sky changed my life forever. It reduced me to my current style of life.”
Reaching into his cart, brushing off the snow and finding his cereal box, he asks, “Do you want some food?”
The figure in black demurs when he sees what his companion offers.
“Quaker Oats, though nutritious for some, is not in my diet,” he explains. ‘Thanks, just the same.” He watches while the man munches noisily. He has a thought and asks, “Do you always eat healthy food? Have you ever smoked, drank alcohol or used drugs?”
The man with the shopping cart swallows and says, “I’ve never done any of those things at any time in my life.”
“So you’re as pure as no other man I’ve ever met!”
“Not so. I was affected by the radiation from the nuclear blast. My condition is not fatal though I wish it was. Can you understand what I’m saying?” His yellow eyes look crazed as he focuses ahead on his circuitous path.
The figure in black does not answer because he has been distracted by a female figure in a black cape. She clearly has designs to feast on him. He turns toward her and bares his razor-sharp teeth in a ghastly smile. She smiles in return with teeth like his and does something like a curtsy.
She then looks across him at the man with the shopping cart and nods at him as if in recognition. The man with the shopping cart pays her no heed. Then she rushes around the round-a-bout looking for other prey. In her wake, runs a gaunt figure with a long, sharpened stake. He clearly means the female figure mortal harm.
The figure in black sticks out his foot, causing the woman’s pursuer to fall in the slush of the street and his stake to fly out of his hand. The man with the shopping cart leans down and picks up the stake. He examines it as best he can in the orange light. He then shrugs and hands it to the figure in black.
The old man mumbles, “The wood is from a rowan tree—it’s a vampire killer.”
The figure in black continues to walk alongside the man with the shopping cart, keeping the stake close to his side. Frantically and vainly, the fallen man gropes around the street in the slush for his lost weapon. The female returns to find him there. She mounts him and rides upon his back as if he were a beast of burden. She then leans forward, smiles and begins to feast—on him.
The man with the shopping cart continues his round, completely absorbed in his mission.
The figure in black turns to depart, yet he hears a rattling of the shopping cart behind him. A hooded figure raises a scythe as if to harvest the old homeless man. The figure in black hurls the stake into the chest of the scything figure as it slices vainly through the man with the shopping cart.
Ann paused for a moment while everyone absorbed what was happening in her story. She saw her companions were spellbound at the thought of the figure with the scythe. Satisfied that she had made her intended effect, she plunged into her story’s conclusion.
“Hahaha, 666!” The man with the shopping cart continues on his way, oblivious to the pageant that unfolds around him.
In the distance, a cock crows.
“I get the reference to 666,” said Kathy.
“I get the reference to Los Alamos,” Charles chimed in.
“I get the references to the rowan tree and the cock crowing,” said Paul.
“But what does the whole story mean?” asked Diane.
“That’s for you to puzzle out, Diane,” said Ann cryptically.
“Okay, everyone, it’s time for the scary poems. Charles, will you begin?”
“I drew the lot, so I’ll recite first. The title of my poem is ‘Unholy Names.’ Here goes.” Charles’s recited his poem as follows:
Unholy Names
This day no church bells ring, eve before light
Songs begin unsinging, witches turning,
Eeking, gasp and cry soulless prayers of night.
Black fires run along the marrow burning.
Unhallowed graves yawn wide without stirring,
Waiting for fleshy bones red worms to eat
The lad who dallied and his maid’s crimped ring
Mocking the time, their wasted game complete.
Across the moon’s pocked face hags still fly high,
Dip, rise, gyre, laugh and brave it till the dawn.
Black cats arch their backs then spring and lie
Expectant while the scythe is backward drawn.
This one day names come empty at the call,
Unholy children lost before they fall.
“Charles, that is one spooky poem. It’s clearly a Shakespearean sonnet. It even ends in an epitaph couplet. The last line is absolutely spectral.”
“Thank you, Ann.”
“Okay, Paul, it’s now your turn.”
“My poem is titled, ‘End Time Constriction,’ and it goes like this.” Paul recited his poem as follows:
End Time Constrictor
Riding her broomstick o'er damned gabled slough
Flash lightning, roar thunder shrieks white-eyed pain
Where bats dwell and crows line bare lime bough
Cawing or cleaning beaks in bloody rain.
She seeks one handy with his scythe to spare
None. Soul mower, Hell's harvester of sins,
Sod slicer riffing frantic flight: despair
Red gules lit by jack-o-lantern grins.
She waves her gnarled hand as moonrise mocks
Blind children's laughter punctuating raves
Birth pangs drawn from death's cool reckoning knocks.
Between marks lies silence of yawning graves.
With soughing sound and broad blade whistling slow
She smiles grim greeting. He swings. It's time to go.
“Wow, Paul, I’m blown away,” said Kathy “It’s another Shakespearean sonnet. Only you’ve changed the perspective three times in the last line—brilliantly.”
“Okay, one more poem to go—Herb, are you ready?”
“I am ready. My poem is called, ‘Moonstruck.’ Here I go.” Herb recited his poem as follows:
Moonstruck
Tomorrow’s lunar aspect portends doom:
The largest moon we’ll ever see blood red.
My hair unleaves as silence laves your loom.
Your fangs divide my living from your dead.
Yellow-eyed tribe, we’ll howl and ghastly grin.
The creature I become you cannot change.
Wild winds winnow twinned souls adrift in sin.
A rictus rakes us where our glasses range.
Too horror struck for words, I growl. You glare.
Our supine bodies make standings stumblings.
My claws scratch you, our couch, your ochre chair.
My mouth foams red while we share dark mumblings.
We feast on time as time devours this night:
Tomorrow strikes the moon and dies our light.
“I love the penultimate line, Herb! It’s definitely the third superb Shakespearean sonnet we’ve heard tonight,” said Ann.
“I like the resonance between time and light, brought together by the moon and the lycanthropy,” contributed Charles.
“We certainly have three winning stories and three winning poems this year. Good work, all!” said Kathy. “I like the fact that we had a set of rules, but got entirely different approaches.”
“So we’re not going to go the next step and judge a winner?” asked Paul.
Diane interposed, “That’s right, Paul. Everyone’s a winner. All the works will be published in our school literary magazine. That was our goal, and we’ve done it.”
“The snowstorm has blown over now. We’re surrounded by a rising snow mist. It’s spooky enough to tell some other tales if you’re all game. These stories won’t have rules. They’ll be just for fun. What do you think, Ann?”
“I’m a little tired from listening, but I’ll not spoil the fun,” said Ann with a cheery smile.
“Who’s first, then?” asked Paul.
“I’ve got a chilling story, but it doesn’t start with the catch phrase we used for the others. One thing more—it’s very dark in content. Do you think you can stand it?”
“Charles, don’t be so dramatic. Just tell your story,” Kathy said.
“Okay, I warned you. The story is based on fact. It really happened. It could happen again. It could happen to you. So it is not exactly a Roman a Clef, though each occurrence will naturally have its own key. It shows how fear can be ignored to everyone’s peril. My story is titled, ‘Waiting for You,’ and it goes like this.” Charles told the following story:
Waiting for You
Red-haired Sheila was the belle of the ball. Everyone knew that she would marry well and have, as she said, dozens of Celtic children. Nothing was farther from her mind than what lay just ahead.
The first inkling that something was very wrong was a series of postcards that she received in snail mail with words cut out of magazines and newspapers. Invariably, the message was, “Waiting for You.” At the same time, she received odd invitations on Facebook from a figure named, “Waiting4U.”
Sheila threw the postcards away and avoided friending the creep that seemed to be stalking her. She told her mother about the incidents, and they both laughed at the antics some screwballs will descend to in order to gain a girl’s attention. Mrs. Connaught told her daughter to be careful when she went outside but otherwise, ignore the stalker. Sheila’s father wanted to inform the police, but Sheila and her mother dissuaded him from taking that step, because of the intrusion that might make on their lives.
The autumn festivities were ratcheting up at Sheila’s high school. Sheila was elected Homecoming Queen, and the captain of the football team invited her to the Halloween Ball. What with all her other activities, like orchestra and her clubs, Sheila was working eighteen hours a day just to keep up.
She took shortcuts for efficiency, and one of those was walking from the bus stop through the woods that led to her backyard every weekday evening just after sunset. She was the designer of her club’s float for the Halloween Parade, so her days stretched even longer as the deadline for completion drew near. Her walks through the woods were now at eight o’clock and even later.
She had no trouble following the narrow path through the woods with her cellphone spotlight, but the umbra outside the lines of light hid demons and monsters that Sheila tried to ignore. She did not like the dark one bit, and the whispers she heard, or thought she heard, were beginning to get on her nerves.
She thought heard, “Waiting for you,” and a shiver ran up her spine. Worse, she thought she sensed a presence right behind her and a cool breeze lifted her hair, but when she dipped and wheeled around to shine her light, all she saw was darkness and the encroaching woods, and nothing menacing at all. She laughed out loud and turned the light back to the path ahead and saw two red eyes glaring at her.
At this point in the story, Kathy audibly gasped. Paul took her hand. Ann edged close to Herbert, who put his arm around her. Diane’s eyes widened as she gazed into the fire and poked it with a stick. Pleased with his story’s effects, Charles continued while the dark night pressed on them cold, wet and fearsome.
She stumbled but caught herself before she fell. The lights ahead disappeared, and a scuffling sound in the dead leaves of the wood told her that whatever was on the path had gone into the woods. It was no threat. Perhaps it was only Coco the Siamese cat that was always prowling around the neighborhood. She just did not know.
She made it to her back yard and saw that the way was clear for her to enter her back door. She was determined not to become frightened of nothing as she went inside to do her homework and get to bed.
On her Facebook page was a new friend invitation from someone called, “SawU2Nite.” She was definitely not playing that game, and in her mail on the kitchen table was another postcard with the annoying message, “Waiting for You.”
She tore the postcard into tiny pieces and threw them in the kitchen trashcan. She decided to tell her mother about the latest indignities in the morning over breakfast, but by the time breakfast came, the events of the day sent the family in six different directions. Sheila thought bringing up silly fears was no way to start the day.
Sheila was fitted for her Homecoming Queen gown at a dressmaker’s shop that habitually sewed the costumes for the occasion. She laughed to think that she walked into the establishment dressed like Cinderella before the fairies did their magic, and for a moment, did her fitting on a dais like royalty, and then afterward, turned back into Cinderella in her cutoff jeans and vanilla sweatshirt with the big letters, “IN YOUR FACE!”
When she stepped out of her brilliant blue high heels into her Adidas, she felt that she was descending from Olympus back into the humdrum normalcy of existence. Her dreams and her reality were so closely linked, that she wondered what life would be like in the real world after school. Would it be variegated as it was now, or would she be the princess that her father always said she would be?
Walking through the woods that night after a long, sweaty afternoon working on the float, the woods were alive with the sounds of frogs and insects. Surely, she thought, she had not focused on her hearing, or she would have known the sounds were always present there. Still, her hearing was particularly acute this evening. She was aware of the rustling of the leaves and the cracking of a branch.
Above her head, a great rustling indicated an enormous bird was taking flight, perhaps a great horned owl that had been startled by her light, she thought. Now she heard a rhythmic breathing sound as if some enormous pit bull were gasping just off the path to her right.
She turned the light to one side of the path and then the other, to find the origin of the sound. She spun around looking urgently to identify the creature that was so palpably near. In the cold, night air, she heard the distant sounds of teenagers laughing as they romped in the woods. They would be frolicking in the moonlight, she fancied, and they will not be home until very, very late.
Sheila stumbled and fell off the path into a circle of mushrooms that crushed under her weight. She found her cellphone by its light and found the gnarled root that had been her stumbling block. She rose and brushed the leaves and wet mushroom residue from her clothing. She pointed her cellphone light in all directions. Then she received a text on her cellphone.
“IC2. Do UCme2?”
Now Sheila was very afraid. She crouched and carefully aimed her spotlight in decans around the circle of which she was the center. Finding nothing in the woods around her from her crouched position, she rose and did the same thing from a standing position. She found nothing in her line of sight, but she heard the laughter of the teenagers as if a girl were running and a boy were pursuing her through the sough.
Sheila envisioned the satyr pursuing the nymph through the forest. She envisioned the lusty satyr catching the nymph, and having his will with her. She imagined the nymph, who had been ravished, weeping as the satyr left her, laughing because he had had his way with her.
Sheila did not like whoever was tormenting her, so she texted back, “WhoRU?”
“IM in your dreams,” the monster texted back. Then it continued, “Do U hear the couple in the woods?”
“Y,” she texted. “So what?”
“That’s the sound of US.”
“U creep! Stay away from me or I’ll call the police!”
Getting no response to her threat, Sheila stepped back on the path and quickly made her way home, careful not to trip on any of the other roots on the ground.
The listeners remained spellbound by the story. The girls and boys huddled together and watched the fire. Kathy, Ann, and Diane were wholly engrossed in the plight of the heroine of the story wondering how it would end. Everyone was keenly aware of the night sounds in the forest. The fire was the only light. Paul stirred it with a stick, and the embers glowed with what he thought was a sinister light. Charles pressed on with his story as Herbert rubbed his hands together—for warmth, perhaps—as his breath was white against the darkness.
Charles paused and looked at his listeners one by one to gauge their reactions. He could see Kathy, Ann, and Diane were waiting anxiously for the next part of his tale. Each of them thought she might be the Sheila of the tale. Herbert and Paul looked at Charles sidewise with concern in their eyes. He knew they thought this story might end badly. What would that do for their night’s fun? Charles nodded. Then he went on.
That night, Sheila received an email from a person with the handle, “Satyr4U.” Its title was, “Waiting for You,” and its text was, “ICU now!” Sheila shut down her machine and drew the shades to her room. She had an exam the next day, so she focused hard on her class materials. When she went to bed, she pulled her covers over her head as protection from the torment that she tried to ignore.
She finally slept and dreamt of being pursued through a forest of mushrooms by an evil figure with horns and goat feet. When she looked down, she saw that she was fixed to the ground. Her legs had become fused and were covered with bark. She was turning into a tree in the middle of the mushrooms!
The monster that sought her came and was perplexed that she had disappeared. Hearing the laughter of another nymph, it went off in pursuit of the girl. Sheila awakened in a cold sweat, and badly needed to go to the bathroom. This whole thing was getting out of hand.
The pressures at school were one thing—and she could deal with that. The pressures from this obsessed monster that she had never seen were another thing entirely. She wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery, but she knew in her heart that the only way she could do that was in the woods. She felt her violent temper would protect her from any threat if only she could face it.
The next morning at the family’s breakfast, Sheila mentioned the texts she had received after she fell in the woods. Her mother was concerned. Her father wanted to call the police immediately. Sheila said that she could handle the situation. After all, she always carried her cellphone. Who would try anything when he knew all she had to do was dial 911 to bring the police?
Her father was not impressed with this argument, but he knew his daughter’s desire for independence, so he backed down. He didn’t tell his daughter, but he would go into the forest to see what might be threatening her. He would take care of the villain if he lurked there, and if he did not, he would have the satisfaction of knowing that the monster was a figment of his daughter’s imagination.
So the next night, when Sheila came through the woods later than ever before, she heard a great rustling, and she saw a flashlight aiming every which way as if searching. A deer bounded across the path in front of the girl, and she saw red eyes off the path to either side ahead of her. Tonight there were no sounds of boys and girls frolicking in the darkness. There were no insinuating text messages. She had no trouble navigating the path to make her way finally to her back door. Out of the woods behind her came her father, with his flashlight still on.
“Oh, Dad. It was you. What were you doing in the woods at this hour?”
“I was looking for mushrooms. I found nothing, though I looked everywhere. Maybe I’ll try again during daylight hours.”
“Dad, thank you for trying to protect me, but I can fend for myself. Did you know you scared a deer? And I saw red eyes in the woods along the path.”
Charles saw the girls’ relief at the appearance of Sheila’s father. He modulated his voice to be reassuring as he continued. Paul and Herbert were waiting for the next twist in the story.
“Those would be rabbits or foxes, or both. When you shine your light in their eyes, they reflect red. Anyway, I didn’t find any monsters out there.”
“And I didn’t get any text messages either. We should both calm down. I have work to do, and Mom will be worried about you. I won’t tell her a thing. Just let me do my work and live my life. I’ll be all right. I promise.”
“Okay, Princess. Keep an eye open for ogres and monsters in the meantime.”
“Hahaha. The only monster in the woods tonight was my father.”
In her inbox, Sheila had another email from Satyr4U. This one read, “So close!”
Sheila replied, “So what?”
“Tomorrow night I’ll CU.”
“Not a chance, U creep!”
Sheila closed her computer and returned to her books. When she had finished studying, she decided that she might just let her father play a role in her life after all. At breakfast, she asked her dad to meet her halfway down the path that night at nine o’clock. That way, she thought, the would-be assailant would not be alarmed by her father’s thrashing through the woods with his flashlight. Instead, he would be surprised by her father and perhaps caught while he was prying into her life.
That night, Sheila was confident finding her way down the path, because her father was going to be waiting for her halfway home. She had not figured on hearing a girl screaming in the woods and fleeing someone who was calling for her to stop and listen to him. The noise was a story in itself because it told of a struggle and flight, a sudden silence, and then thrashing in the woods.
Ahead of her, Sheila saw a light depart from the path and strike out in the direction of the noises. She guessed her father had decided to become the rescuer. Then everything went silent. Sheila, who had stopped to listen to the drama that was being performed in the woods to her left, struggled to hear what was happening now. She heard nothing. She aimed her light off to the left side of the path.
Then she felt a touch on her shoulder and the hot breath of someone right behind her in the dark. She dropped right to the ground and kicked behind her. She rolled on her back and pointed her cellphone light upwards and all around. No one was there.
As she got to her knees and stood up, she realized that she was now covered with dead leaves and moss and squashed mushrooms. She brushed herself off, did a three-sixty turn with her light and then proceeded along the path toward her house.
Halfway down the path was her father, patiently waiting for her as he had promised to do. She hugged him, and as he hugged her back, he asked what had kept her. She said she heard terrible things in the woods and then a more terrible silence. Her father asked whether they shouldn’t investigate. She said perhaps not because she had a lot of work to do and it was late. She thanked her dad for coming to help, but she really did not need his assistance after all.
The next morning, law officers were searching the woods for a missing girl who had not been at home all night. They eventually found her unclothed body off the path in the woods. She had been savagely raped and then murdered. The area where the body was found was surrounded by a yellow police crime line tape. The homicide detectives went house to house in the neighborhoods around the woods to ask what anyone might have seen or heard the night before.
When they came to the Connaught residence, Mrs. Connaught took the officers’ cards and told them she would ask her daughter to be in touch if she knew anything that might help the authorities in their investigation. She texted her daughter about the current events surrounding the murder and told her that she had the officers’ cards in case Sheila had information that could help them.
Sheila had exams all day, so she had turned off her cellphone and placed it in a holding box. The school had strict rules about students not bringing anything to an exam room that could compromise the integrity of the exam. Therefore, it was very late in the afternoon when Sheila received the news about the murder.
She went pale and texted her mother that she had heard the whole thing while she was walking home on the path. She texted that she would write down everything she had heard and send the account as an email attachment to the officers. Meanwhile, she texted, she would be home late again that night. She mentioned that she would be asking the captain of the football team whether this one time he could accompany her from the bus stop to her back door. After all, he was going to take her to the Halloween Ball.
Sheila’s float was coming together nicely, but she had to attend to a number of details herself, and that put her off her intended schedule. As a result, she did not meet the captain of the football team as she had intended to do. She made her way home alone as she always had before.
The crime had been accomplished, she thought, so lightning would not strike twice. Besides she was excited because tomorrow was Halloween and the Halloween Parade. The Homecoming football game and the Halloween Ball would all occur as the climax of the fall season. She would ride on her float. She would preside as Homecoming Queen over the game, and she would go to the Halloween Ball with the captain of the football team. She imagined what a grand day it would be if the team won the game!
So it was in a spirit of exultation and exuberance that the beautiful, young Sheila Connaught made her way down the path through the woods toward her home. Her light shined on the path, and the darkness broke before her and then closed in behind her like a shroud. Sheila heard the snapping of twigs and branches in the woods, but she thought the deer might be wandering as it had previously. Her ears pricked up when she heard what she thought was urgent whispering.
“How can it be you?”
“Who’s that? Stop where you are.”
“You know who this is. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Yes, waiting for you. I’m the satyr that’s been texting and emailing you. I thought that was you last night. But it wasn’t, was it?”
“Stay away from me! I’m dialing 911 right now.”
“Too late, Sheila. Much too late.”
Charles could see Diane’s teeth were chattering from fear. Her nails dug into his arm. Ann and Kathy were snuggling close to their companions. This story was going places they had not bargained for. They wanted a happy conclusion, but the story was heading on a tragic curve. How would it end?
The import of the monster’s words sank in as Sheila aimed her cellphone spotlight to one side and another. She felt a breath on her cheek, but it was only a breeze. She thought she felt a hand on her thigh, but her hand struck empty air as she tried to push the hand aside. Sheila realized that she was in the presence of the monster that had murdered the poor girl whose body had been found raped and naked in the woods. She had been the intended victim.
Now, she thought, she would be the murder’s second victim if she could not think fast. She texted with both hands, “Help. Path. Now. Murder!” and sent the message to her parents. Then she screamed at the top of her lungs, “Murder! Murder!” A huge body collided with her, and the two fell among the sough at the side of the path. Sheila’s cellphone flew from her hand. It landed face down so its spotlight faced upwards.
Sheila felt hands groping her, and a shaven male face trying to kiss her on the mouth. She struggled, and the man’s fist came out of nowhere. She was screaming and scratching, kicking and trying to roll free. The monster was too large for her to prevail. She continued to scream as she had heard the last victim scream, and she decided that screaming was the only remedy if it could only be heard.
The murderer’s hand ripped off her panties, and his hand groped down there as she writhed and continued to scream. The monster arched his back above her and in the outline of his face, Sheila saw the football hero and her date for the Halloween Ball looming over her and ready to violate her and then murder her.
Sheila screamed one more time and pulled her face aside to avoid the monster’s fist, which hit the ground beside her head with such force and noise she could not believe the wooden sound came from the same source. The monster crumpled upon her with its tremendous weight, and she thought her body would be violated, and then her life would end.
Those things did not happen. The monster somehow rose up and rolled aside on its back. Another figure appeared and shone a flashlight’s beam at the body of the high school football hero. Sheila could not believe what was happening. She was now free. She rolled over and pulled her legs up so she was on her knees, and when she tried to stand up, she was grasped by large hands that reached around her and held her in a bear hug while she trembled and shook violently. She heard her father’s voice.
“There, there, princess. It’s all right now. Everything is all right. You’re safe. The police are on the way. The monster is over there in the leaves. He’ll not be harming anyone tonight or anymore. Don’t worry, sweet. You were right, after all. He was waiting for you all the time.”
“You were right, Charles, that is a very chilling story. I felt the goose bumps on my arms from the start.”
“I did too, Ann,” remarked Diane.
“It’s every girl’s worst nightmare come true,” said Kathy.
“Except Sheila the female heroine in the story was not killed,” Herbert interjected. Ann punched him in the arm.
“The heroine does not have to be killed for the story to have its effect,” said Charles.
“Okay. I think we have time for one more story tonight.” Paul was always the organizer, and everyone expected him to tell a story. Instead, Kathy wanted to tell a story.
“After that last story, I think it’s time to change the tone a little and get off Halloween. My story is true. It really did happen. I’ll tell it if you don’t laugh at me.”
“We won’t laugh at you, Kathy. We may laugh at your story, though.”
“Herb, stop that. We promise we won’t laugh,” said Ann. She looked around at the others, and they agreed, the boys reluctantly. This is the story that Kathy told:
If You Don’t Brush
Billy said that we shouldn’t be afraid of the hunchbacked old crone who roamed through the neighborhood at odd hours leaning on her cane, but I was not so sure. Every time I saw her, I was reminded of the Grimm brothers’ tale of Hansel and Gretel.
I did not want Billy to be Hansel, and I certainly did not want to be Gretel. Billy would not listen to me. Instead, he waited until the old woman slowly walked along the path leading into the public park late Friday afternoon, and he went right up to her to say hello. I went right after him. I had filled my pockets so we could leave a trail behind us. Hansel and Gretel had used bread crumbs that the birds ate, so I was making an innovation that might help.
Billy’s greeting seemed to make the crone delighted. She screwed her face into what might have been a radiant smile if her teeth were not so bad. She was missing her top front teeth, and her tongue was visible working in her mouth as she spoke. She said that it was a beautiful day for a walk in the park. Would we join her?
Billy asked her what her name was, and she said it was Marianne Smith. She asked for our names, and Billy told her that we were Billy and Sandy. At this, I poked Billy in the back, but he did not regard me. The woman asked if we could wait a moment while she found her teeth. She then fished into her dress pocket and came out with artificial teeth that she fitted into her mouth. She said that she could speak better with the teeth in than out, and now when she smiled, she did look radiant. I began to relax.
Marianne began telling us the tale of how she had lost her teeth. She said that her family always had bad teeth, and everyone ended with some sort of bridge or inlay of false ones in old age. She said that when she looked in the mirror in the morning before she put her teeth in, she thought she looked like a wicked witch. Did we think that she looked like a wicked witch? She wanted to know.
Billy fearlessly told her that we were afraid to talk with her because of how she looked. She nodded sagely, and she told us that she had the misfortune of losing all her children to accidents and wars. She was alone now, living in a house one street over from the park. She hoped she would not frighten people, but she knew what they thought.
She asked whether we brushed our teeth every day. When we hesitated and looked guilty, she pulled out her false teeth. With a laugh, she pointed to her mouth and said, “This is what you will get for not brushing!” We both shuddered and ran. We remember that meeting to this day.
“Is that the end of your story?”
“Yes, I’m done.”
“And the story is true?”
“Indeed it is true.”
“Prove it.”
“Come on, Herb, she doesn’t have to prove that her story’s true.”
“But I can prove it.”
“So prove it so we can all go home. I’m exhausted,” Ann said with finality.
“Well, Herb, why don’t you ask the old woman herself because she’s standing right behind you?”
“So here you are, children. I thought you might be back here in the woods,” the crone said, standing behind Herb and supporting herself with her cane.
“Grandma, you found us. I was just telling them a story how you’re always scaring little children by removing your dentures and telling them to brush their teeth. Do you want to join our storytelling?”
“No, dear, but I will take out my dentures and show everyone what happens when you don’t brush. I’m taking them out now. There! See?”
In the last glow of the fire, Kathy’s Grandma’s wrinkled face and hooked nose were the perfect illustration of the story everyone had just heard. The old woman cackled very convincingly before she put her teeth back into her mouth. She smiled, pleased with herself.
Paul said, “I think I hear a chainsaw starting, so it must be time to go. I’ll see you all in school.”
The others got to their feet in a hurry and moved out in all directions toward their separate homes. Finally, only Kathy and her Grandma remained at the fire site. Kathy carefully covered the fire over with snow using a dibble she had brought for the purpose. Then she took her Grandma’s arm and walked carefully along the snowy path out of the woods toward their home.
“It was snowy, wet and stormy, but did you manage to have fun this year?”
“Yes, Grandma. And do you know the best thing that happened?”
“No dear. Tell me.”
“You. You appeared at just the right time.”
“When I was your age, I liked to tell scary stories with my friends on Halloween, too. We did it come rain, or sleet, or snow. I’m glad you like to do that, too. One day you might have teeth like mine to end the games of your granddaughter.”
“Grandma, I brush my teeth. You know that.”
“So did I, Kathy dear. So did I. Hahaha.”
“Oh, Grandma. Please stop kidding me. I’m tired from all the telling and listening, and I need to get to sleep.”
As the two reached the edge of the woods, a great rustling sound came from the tree just above the path. It was the sound of the wings of a large barn owl unwinding and breaking through the obstructions to the open sky. It was, Kathy thought as a chill ran down her spine, the perfect ending to the perfect Halloween night.