Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (20 page)

laughed and kneaded his arm. Her fingers were very strong.

“I like your bruises,” he said. “Sexy as hell.”

“You are a little nuts, aren’t you?” she said and kissed him on

the mouth. She was sweet with lip gloss and smoke and spearmint

gum.

His toes curled. He thought of the Stevens poem about the wind

in the hemlocks and the tails of the peacocks and the dead leaves

turning in the fire as the planets aligned and turned outside the

window. Fear and exultation turned within him. The wind and the

cold in his chest receded, growling.

LAIRD BARRON [149]

She separated from him slightly and said, “
And I remembered

the cry of the peacocks.”
She licked her lips. “Sometimes I can read minds. Ever since that sledding accident.”

He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Precognition.

Usually during dreams, but occasionally when I’m walking down the

street or chatting on the phone . . . Zaps me like a bolt from the blue.

Too unpredictable or else I’d hop a plane to Vegas and rake it in.

Eerie, though.”

“That explains your perspicacity.”

He kissed her again.

Finally, she said, “All night I’ve had a feeling of impending

doom.”

“I’d say everything has turned up aces so far.”

“Maybe, maybe. Can’t last. Romance with me is fraught with

peril. Consider yourself duly warned.”

Clouds rolled across the stars and covered the moon.

“Hm, the gods agree,” he said, noticing the abrupt and precipitous chill that slithered over his flesh and into his bones. He felt her breath against his face, but could barely see the shine of her eyes.

She trembled and tightened her grip on his arms. “All the lights

are out. Everywhere.”

The chill intensified as he realized that she was indeed correct.

While they’d been distracted, a vast, cosmic hand had erased the

town below them with a sweep of darkness. Fog and cloud covered

the world. The rock vibrated beneath them and small stones cascaded away toward the water. In the near distance a metallic shriek rent the silence. Its echoes died quickly and the land stilled.

“What the hell?” he said.

“Earthquake,” she said. “We get them now and again.”

He stood and smiled with faint reassurance. “The witching hour

is upon us. Let’s start back. I can see pretty well in the dark.”

They inched along the path, and gradually were able to discern

just enough of the landscape to make out the road and approach the bridge.

“You’ve probably already written a story about this while we

walked down the hill,” she said.

[150] BLACK DOG

“Of course,” he said. “Although, I don’t have an ending.”

She took his hand and led him onward.

The shadowy lines of the bridge materialized amid the bank of fog

that boiled up from the river. As they stepped onto the partitioned walkway, his heart began to drum. He imagined the previous tremor

had sheared the bridge in twain and that in a few more paces he’d

swing his foot over murky nothingness and fall. There wouldn’t be a cold river awaiting his plunge; only the endless void between stars.

Behind them and on a steep grade in the road, a pair of headlights clicked on and pierced the gloom. He understood this was the panel van he’d seen cruising town. He knew with absolute infallibility
who
inhabited the idling vehicle and
what
they intended to do with their ropes and machetes and plastic bags. The dog, or wolf, howled again.

Its cry bounced from the fog and could’ve originated anywhere.

She turned to him and her expression was hidden. “We’re not

going to die tonight. I promise.” Then she released him and stepped backward and vanished. Somewhere in the town ahead, a distant

solitary porch light winked into existence.

“What about your sense of impending doom?”

“Melted away by the power of love. Come on.”

A pair of red eyes flashed low to the ground and were gone. If

they’d ever been.

“I felt afraid,”
he said, meaning it in every sense of the phrase.

“We’re not going to die. Trust me, trust me.” Her voice was

faint and fading. She laughed a ghostly laugh. “Probably something worse.”

He waited for a time, standing on the bridge, listening to the

night and preparing for the inevitable. But nothing happened.

In a while he squared his shoulders and began to walk toward the

light that flickered and receded with each heartbeat.

N

Laird Barron
was born and raised in Alaska, did time in the wilderness, and raced in several Iditarods. Later, he migrated to

Washington State where he devoted himself to American Combato

LAIRD BARRON [151]

and reading authors like Robert B. Parker, James Ellroy, and Cormac McCarthy. At night he wrote tales that combined noir, crime, and

horror. He was a 2007 and 2010 Shirley Jackson Award winner for

his collections
The Imago Sequence and Other Stories
and
Occultation
and Other Stories
and a 2009 nominee for his novelette “Catch Hell.”

Other award nominations include the Crawford Award, Sturgeon

Award, International Horror Guild Award, World Fantasy Award,

Bram Stoker Award, and the Locus Award. His first novel,
The

Croning
, was published in 2012; his latest collection,
The Beautiful
Thing That Awaits Us Al
, is due out soon. Barron currently resides in Upstate New York and is writing a novel about the evil that men do.

“

THE HALLOWEEN MEN

D

Maria V. Snyder

Two Halloween Men paused in front of our shop. Crouched in the

dark window display, I froze, hoping they wouldn’t notice me among the merchandise. My navy blue merchant’s robe blended in with the

black velvet mannequin heads, my simple mask was unremarkable

in the midst of the elegant and colorful masks on display.

Despite the
Closed
sign hanging on the door, the Halloween man on the left twisted the knob. My heart crawled up my throat as metal rattled. I’d just locked it. His partner held a box in his gloved hands.

They both wore wide-brimmed leather hats to keep the rain off their full-face Bauta
masks. Drops of water beaded on their black robes, resembling little globs of molten glass as they reflected the weak yellow light from the street lanterns.

Go away. Please go away.

But he knocked. Each bang of his fist sent a spike of fear right

through my chest.

I squeezed my eyes shut as I huddled in my dark corner.
Go

away. Please go away.
But the knocking turned into a pounding that reverberated throughout the building.

They’ll break the door down.
Memories from childhood flashed—

being jerked from a sound sleep by boots hammering up our staircase, voices shouting, my mother screaming as she disappeared in a sea of black hats.

[155]

[156] THE HALLOWEEN MEN

Opening my eyes, I banished the nightmarish images. Only two

stood outside.
How bad could it be?

“Antonella, answer the door,” my father roared from the back

room unaware of the importance of our visitors. “Tell them to return tomorrow during business hours.”

My body refused to obey even though the half-face, Columbina

mask I wore met all the legal requirements.

My father shouted again as the thumping continued. The curtains

parted and he stomped into the showroom, drew in a deep breath—

to unleash a tirade on either the offending customer or me—and

threw open the door.

The tirade failed to erupt. Not even my father would dare speak

harshly to the Halloween Men.

“Master Salvatori, may we have a moment of your time?” the

Halloween Man holding the box asked.

My father stepped back, allowing the men inside the showroom.

Masks for every occasion hung from the walls and were stacked on

the shelves. A few of the more expensive ones graced smooth-headed velvet mannequin heads to best display them. Beads and sequins

sparkled even in the dim light.

The men dripped on the floor, making a puddle while Father

lit a couple more lanterns on the counter. Trapped and uncertain, I remained in my crouched position.

The Halloween Man placed the box on the counter and opened it.

He removed a bright glittering heart-shaped Columbina party mask

cut from leather and decorated with red feathers. “Do you recognize this?”

Daggers of fear pumped through my body.

“No,” my father said.

“How about this one?” He pulled another Columbina from the

box. This one had been cut to resemble a butterfly.

“No.”

“Are you sure?” the Halloween Man asked.

Father wore his usual navy Bauta with the small silver beads, but

a hardness shone from his eyes. “Yes.”

They stared at each other. My heart tapped a fast rhythm,

MARIA V. SNYDER [157]

drowning out the rain pelting the windows. I stifled the desire to bolt.

The Halloween Man looked away first. “What can you tell us

about these masks?” he asked.

Father picked up the green and purple butterfly and examined

it. Sequins outlined the wings and it had small peacock feathers for antennae. He measured the length and width and checked the back.

He did the same for the red one.

I held my breath.

“Aside from their unconventional shapes and overly ornate

embellishments, they are legal,” Father said, setting it down.

The man huffed in disgust. “They make a mockery of the law!

Proper masks are essential to societal order, not—”

His partner put a hand on his arm. “Tell us something we
don’t
know.”

“Have you checked—” my father said.

“Yes, we talked to the other
mascherari
. They believe the quality of the craftsmanship points to you.”

Father waited. I bit my lip. Would they arrest him?

“And you, of all people know
this
is how it starts.” The man stabbed a finger at the box. “We want to stop it before it begins. Before we have to teach another young
mascheraro
a lesson.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Father said.

His words seemed to satisfy them. They returned the masks to

the box and left. Father re-locked the door.

“Antonella,” he said.

I jumped as Father focused his hard gaze on me.
Did he suspect?

“What happens when the Halloween Men come for you?” he

asked.

Yes, he did.
“They arrest you?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” he demanded.

“They take you into custody.”

“And then what happens?”

Depending on the severity of the crime, punishment could be a

public whipping, being locked in the stocks for a few hours or many days, being forced to wear a metal Bauta mask, and many more things

[158] THE HALLOWEEN MEN

I did not want to think about. Getting caught in public without wearing a mask had the worst consequences. So horrible, no one spoke of

them. My father never told me for fear of giving me nightmares.

Father saw the answer in my eyes. “Don’t give the Halloween Men

a reason to suspect you of wrongdoing. Understand?”

I longed to ask what reason Mother had given them, but he never

talked about her. Instead, I nodded.

“Good. The deliveries are ready, get moving or you’ll be out after curfew.”

“Curfew?” I hadn’t had one since I turned eighteen last year.

“Yes, curfew. And tell Bianca that you will not be able to attend

her Halloween party. You have work to do.”

“But—” I clamped my mouth shut. There was no arguing with my

father. Even the Halloween Men had backed down. They appeared

to be satisfied with his answer.
I’ll keep an eye out.
Was he spying for them? That would confirm the rumors about him, which just

increased my desire to move out.

And as long as I lived in his house, I had to follow his rules.

My masks didn’t sell as well as Father’s, and my recent attempt to supplement my income had just brought the Halloween Men to our

door. I shuddered at the memory. “Yes, sir.”

I hurried to the back room to load the cart with the boxes.

Father followed me. “Mister Bellini gets two and Mistress Fiore

ordered four party masks for her daughters.” He handed me the list and their corresponding addresses.

I scanned the sheet, memorized it, slid it in a pocket of my robe

before pulling the two-wheeled cart behind me. Rain continued to

pound the windows so I paused to draw my hood up, tucking my