Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (25 page)

“Will you be all right if I run to the booth for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” He tried getting comfortable. “I’ll just sit here. Get into character.”

“The suit’s the character, Glenn. You’re in it. That’s enough for

now. No need to go Stanislavsky on me yet” She turned, headed for

the door. “Just stay in the chair.”

Then she was gone, leaving him alone with all the things he

knew he should have said to her, all the things he would have said if she had only given him the proper cues. Life, like acting, was

about reacting . . . but she had given him nothing to play off of, only business, as if the past hadn’t happened. He wondered about that. A minute went by. Then another. He wondered what she was doing, if

she was up to something other than checking relays. It was as if—

“Glenn? You there?”

He straightened up. “Yeah.”

“Do . . . me . . . okay?”

“You’re breaking up.”

“How about now?”

“Yes. That’s better.”

“I’m in the booth. Think I’ve found the problem. Lauren’s out

back checking the router. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Is she online with us now?”

“No. Just me and you. But listen, there’s a chance your video

might go dark again. If it does—” Her voice cut out, then returned.

“Sorry. That was me. I bumped a switch. Easy to do up here. We need a bigger space.”

“Listen, Elle. There’s something—”

“How’s that head. Not too heavy?”

“I’m all right.”

“You can stand and stretch if you need to. I know I said to stay in the chair, but—”

His video went dark.

“There go my eyes.”

“Video go out?”

[190] PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES

“Just like you said it might.”

“Hang tight.”

He waited.

Hang tight.

“Elle, listen. There’re things . . . I feel there’re things we’re avoiding.

Things about us.” He expected her to interrupt again, but this time she seemed ready to let him go.
All right. Go on! Tell her!
“There are things I should have said when you called. About the accident, about the way I left town without you. That was wrong. I’m sorry.” He wanted to stop there. That was enough. But something about the darkness

took him back to their nights together, back to his flat where the only window faced a brick wall and the only light had come from their

charging phones. They’d done a lot of talking then, sharing dreams, making promises that he wished he had been able to keep. “I guess I forgot myself. I always seem to do that . . . even when I’m not acting.

And when I am? Well, you know about that.” He was rambling now,

but so what? It felt good. He kept going. “We never should have been cast as Iago and Emilia. Those roles . . . all that rage . . . it was like—”

He was crying now. Not audibly. But enough to overflow his eyes, wet his cheeks and lips. Salty tears. And he couldn’t wipe them. What a mess. But it felt good. The weight lifting even as the headpiece bore down on his shoulders. “What I mean . . . what I’m saying is . . . I’m sorry. Okay? Can you forgive me?” He paused, giving her space to

reply. But something was wrong. “Elle?”

The video flickered. Came on a moment. Went dark again.

“Are you there?”

Silence.

“Do you hear me?”

Nothing.

Had she heard any of it?

The darkness closed in.

She puts me in this thing. Then she leaves.

It didn’t feel right. Or maybe . . . it fell
too
right. Almost staged.

What if she’s paying me back? Getting even!

It was an irrational thought, but there it was, and in the

darkness . . . in the silence . . . it had the resonance of truth.

LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY [191]

What if the whole thing was a setup, a get-even scenario devised

the moment she’d heard he was back in town? Was there even a Total Immersion Theatre? He hadn’t heard or read anything about it until Elle had called with her proposition. “Look, Glenn. I know this is last minute, but I’ve started my own company, and if you’re looking for work, we might be able to use you.”

Use me!

Why hadn’t he noticed the edge in her voice?

“I’ve started my own company.”

But had she? Had she really? How much effort would it take to

furnish an old church with a barebones lobby and dressing room?

No need for a stage or control booth. All she had to do was mention those.

“ . . . stage is through there . . . booth’s upstairs . . . ”

Was he thinking rationally? Would these thoughts have occurred

to him if he weren’t locked up in a padded headpiece, sensory

deprived, stewing in guilt and regret?

The video flashed.

“Elle?”

The room came back into view. Same as before. Just him and

Pumpkin Head’s shadow staining the floor in front of him: elongated body, giant head.

What’s she planning? What’s her next move?

He reached for the micro clasps about his neck.

Got to get out of this thing.

He tried detaching the headpiece. No good. It was just like she’d

told him. His hands were useless, couldn’t even move his fingers.

Trapped!

He got up, stumbled to the closet, got out his clothes. His phone

was in the jacket. He clawed at it, ripping the pocket. The phone

toppled out, landed on the floor.

Now what?

He doubted he could pick the thing up let alone work the touch

screen with his tree-branch hands. And even if he placed a call, what then? Hold the phone to Pumpkin Head’s mouth and scream like a

horny cat?

[192] PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES

Just go. Get out of here before she gets back.

He wasn’t thinking clearly. Part of him knew that, but the panic

was winning.

Get out. Now!

He grabbed his clothes, crossed the room, and threw himself

against the door. It shuddered in its frame, thin and flimsy, plywood over a hollow center: the kind used to dress a set. He backed up

and rammed it with his thirty-pound head, smashed it to hell and

stumbled into the hall.

The lobby stairs rose to the right, but an exit sign marked a

closer flight to his left. He went that way, ascending until he reached a fire door. He kicked the panic bar and lurched out into a city

neighborhood: working-class homes, narrow sidewalk, parked cars,

open-air restaurant across the way. It was cold for alfresco dining, but the patio had pole-mounted heaters, basking the diners in an

orange glow. They were all looking right at him.

Trick-or-treaters approached to his left: a ghost, vampire, wicked witch, and a pair of zombies—all led by a rock-n-roll queen with a blue mane of electric hair.

He dropped to his knees, grabbed his head, gesturing.
This head.

Help me get it off!

The kids stopped.

The girl leaned forward. She seemed to understand.

Her friends watched.

He gestured again, more frantic this time . . . maybe too frantic.

The girl backed away.

“No! Please!” He reached for her. “Help me!”

Bags of candy hit the pavement. The kids took off, tripping over

each other until they reached a home a few doors away. The porch

was decorated with orange lights, polyester cobwebs, electric jack-o’-lanterns. The kids careened up the stairs. Porch light came on, front door opened, a woman looked out. Then a man.

Meanwhile, the people in the café were stepping back from their

tables, raising their phones, taking pictures, placing calls.

In the distance, sirens wailed, coming closer.

The theatre’s fire door had closed behind him. No exterior latch.

LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY [193]

No way back in from this side of the building. And where were his

clothes? His wallet? Phone? Had he dropped them?

His video pixelated as he looked around, finally focusing on a

man coming toward him from the decorated porch. He carried a

baseball bat, smacking it against his hand. . . .

Glenn turned and ran, around to the front of the building and up

the stairs to the lobby. He didn’t try working the latches. He just used his head to smash through. The first time didn’t work. The second

time Elle’s voice came back on line, screaming in his ears: “Glenn.

Glenn!
”

He rammed once more.

The door flew open.

He entered the lobby, stumbled through the hanging posters, and

passed through the partition door to find himself in the back of a small performance space: no chairs, just a stage dressed with the

backdrop of a burning city.

People streamed in through the partition door. Some carried

guns, a neighborhood militia of hunting and assault rifles. The people from the café came next, then the trick-or-treaters. But were they the same kids? They seemed younger, with the rock-’n’-roll queen looking almost like a fairy-tale princess. He noticed that for an instant. Then the girl was gone, blocked by the advancing militia.

A light came on behind him, tossing his shadow against the floor:

slender body, giant head. And that’s when it happened. Something

turned inside him, the darkness that was always there. Sometimes

he controlled it. Other times it took over, when a character’s rage became his rage, when the walls came down between the man he was

and characters he portrayed. No boundaries then. Total immersion!

He crouched.

The militia stopped.

“Glenn!” This time it was Lauren, the stage manager. “Glenn.

Back away! Head for the stage. Elle’s coming!”

But Glenn was no longer in the suit. He was Pumpkin Head now.

And the Pumpkin was pissed!

The guns swung toward him, taking aim.

He charged.

[194] PUMPKIN HEAD ESCAPES

The guns fired.

The first shot struck his shoulder. The others ripped into his chest and torso. He lost balance, slipping first on blood, then on a trail of ropy things that spilled across his loins. He dropped to his knees, body in shock. He raised his arms once more, released a bellowing

roar, and toppled backward. And now, at last, the micro clasps

opened. The headpiece shifted, someone pulled it free. A moment

of darkness as the rubber padding slid past his eyes, and then there she was, leaning over him. “My, god, Glenn!” It was Elle. She helped him to his knees.

The room rang with applause.

“Amazing,” Elle said. “Just amazing!”

The guts dangling from his suit were rubber, inflated and released in sync with the gunshots. And the guns? They weren’t real. One of the vigilantes stood close by, leaning with his hand over the barrel, grinning like an ingénue.

“I knew you’d surprise us!” Elle leaned closer, indifferent to the smears of blood. “You missed a couple marks, but we hadn’t gone

over those. We’ll hit those next time—after we’ve put you back

together!”

Part of him wanted to feel relieved. But his head was on fire now, swelling from within. He didn’t need to be put back together. He was right where he needed to be.

“Come on, Glenn. Take your bow!”

He looked at his gloves. So heavy. So sharp. But they weren’t

gloves any longer. They were part of him.

Elle’s walkthrough might be over.

But Pumpkin Head’s escape was just beginning.

N

Lawrence C. Connolly
’s books include the novels
Veins
(2008) and
Vipers
(2010), which together form the first two books of the
Veins
Cycle
.
Vortex
, the third book in the series, is due out in late 2013.

His collections, which include
Visions
(2009),
This Way to Egress
(2010), and
Voices
(2011), collect all of his stories from venues such LAWRENCE C. CONNOLLY [195]

as
Amazing Stories
,
Cemetery Dance
,
The Magazine of Fantasy and
Science Fiction
,
Twilight Zone
, and
Year’s Best Horror
.
Voices
was nominated for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement

in a Fiction Collection. He teaches writing at Sewickley Academy

and serves twice a year as one of the residency writers at Seton Hill University’s graduate program in Writing Popular Fiction.

a

WHILST THE NIGHT REJOICES

PROFOUND AND STILL

k

Caitlín R. Kiernan

Remember thee!

Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat

In this distracted globe.
~ Hamlet

Of course, the first colonists brought their own sacred days and

traditions with them. When their Bussard ramjets and shimmer sails descended from the black into the orange Martian atmosphere, they

carried with them the religions and celebrations of Earth. But Mars is not Earth, and beliefs erode as surely as anything. One or another belief adapts to the needs of those who need them, or the belief