Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (43 page)

They talked a little more and while Malina didn’t feel happy when

she got off the phone, a fragile scab had formed over the bleeding rawness within and she was able to pull herself to her feet and begin making the candy apples she’d planned as giveaways, deciding to
not
call the police, at least not until she calmed down. She had the bushel of Granny Smiths, bought a week before from the same vendor from

whom she’d purchased the pumpkins—when she had been too

terrified to look him in the eye! When he virtually ignored her. And hadn’t offered to help her carry the basket to the car.

Malina decided to keep busy—that was the best way to take her

mind off the remnants of the destruction. At least that was one thing her mother had taught her that made sense.

She pulled out the large blackened pot that had been her

grandmother’s and placed it on the stove top, taking up two burners.

It was an easy recipe, one her mother had made several times,

though once not as it should have been done. The year before her

mother died, she made candy apples and placed the tiniest tip of a razor blade inside one of the apples. So many people gave out candy apples that year her mother had not been caught, but it was in all the news, especially stories of the little boy who’d received stitches and a tetanus shot. At school, the other kids had been suspicious

and directed their accusations at Malina and her mother, and that

made her life hell for months. In her head, Malina could still hear the cackle that resonated through the house as her mother recounted the event with fondness. Oh how mother wished she could imbed
every
treat with razor blades
every
year. Or perhaps the tips of needles.

Anything to inflict pain—that would bring her such joy.

She had no intention of hiding anything in the apples that would

cut the children, even if those same children had cut her emotionally.

Guin was right. Tell them how much their actions had hurt her. Give them a chance to learn to be better people. That was the key.

NANCY KILPATRICK [325]

Into the large pot she poured white corn syrup, water, sugar, and a colorant that turned the mixture a brilliant red. When the ingredients reached the right temperature, she coated the skewered apples, and then placed them onto a waxed sheet. Thirteen, that was the number she made. There were thirteen children in this neighborhood, as she recalled from the year before. A baker’s dozen. And she marveled at how that number seemed to be everywhere tonight. It was like an

omen of some kind, but she didn’t let her mind travel far along that path, a rocky road of pitfalls that her mother had dragged her down far too often.

October thirty-first dawned with a foreboding in the chilly air.

Dying leaves pirouetted from the wind, twirling in a graceful dance macabre, or so Malina thought of it as she stared out the window, her emotions flat-lined by the events of the night before.

She’d woke in fits and starts from nightmares, but only rose at

noon, still overcome with exhaustion. Now it was late afternoon,

headed towards evening. She sat in her grandmother’s rocking chair by the window, a pot of herb tea on the little table, watching the sun struggle to get down the sky until it gratefully disappeared behind a house across the way and ultimately hid below the horizon.

Malina heard then saw the first of the children at the end of the

street. Wearing their costumes, holding small, dim flashlights so they could see in the encroaching darkness, each with a bag slung over an arm or clutching a little plastic bucket to receive treats.

The first three were quickly joined by another three and then

another four and finally there were thirteen of them, all shapes and sizes, moving as if they were one unit, one being, and Malina thought they looked like a pulsing, throbbing single-celled life form, many parts joined together and coming apart but ultimately remaining together, and the word “parasite” came to mind with a new understanding.

They went from house to house, crossing the street, back and

forth, laughing, pushing and shoving one another, waiting for doors to open then shouting in unison “Trick or treat!” Malina watched as candies were placed into bags, and more were demanded until the

giver met their demands. One householder even offered the bowl—

[326] TRICK OR TREAT

the greedy children grabbed handfuls of whatever was in it until the bowl was empty.

Once they reached her house they paused at the curb, pointing

at the pumpkins she had lit earlier on the porch, no doubt discussing the wisdom of knocking on the “witch’s” door. A couple of the more brazen ones pointed to the car and laughed, admiring their work of the previous evening, the destruction bolstering their courage, no doubt, and Malina felt a fury rise in her which she quickly shoved down.

Finally, she heard the tallest boy say, “Don’t be chickenshits! Let’s do it!” and they moved as a group along the cement to the thirteen steps and climbed them, the youngest and shortest in the front,

staring at the jack-o’-lanterns as they made their way up.

Malina rose from her seat and went to the door, waiting for the

bell to ring. When it did, she opened the door without hesitation.

The dim yellow porch light and the glow from the pumpkins offered

the only illumination as she stood at the entrance of her home

surrounded by darkness peering out at the costumed group. There

were no presidents or princesses among them, no superheroes or

pirates. Every single one wore the mask and costume of a supernatural, but to her eyes, they were all resembled demons.

The darkness that enfolded Malina stopped the chatter for a

moment, and as she scanned the little mob she could see in the mask holes the eyes of the youngest ones reflecting something akin to fear.

But as she examined them by age, the older they got, the more the

fear turned to confusion, then questioning, and finally to blatant arrogance.

The oldest, a boy in a skeleton suit and cape, holding a wooden-

handled scythe, the blade made of plastic, said in a snarky voice,

“Trick or treat, witch!”

The others laughed. This gave them courage and a chant rose up

that started with a few of them until all thirteen were shouting in unison, “Trick or treat, witch!” over and over.

Whatever confidence Malina had felt became submerged in her

own fear. She tried to tell herself through Guin’s voice in her head:
They’re just children. They can’t hurt you.
But then she remembered NANCY KILPATRICK [327]

vivid stories her mother and grandmother had repeated about the

burning days, their kind being tormented, tortured then tied to a

stake and set on fire. Terror surged through her and she shook her head rapidly to clear it of the horrific images.

The oldest boy mistook the head shake for a
no
and shouted,

“Then we’ll trick you, ugly witch! Again!”

A survival instinct rose up and Malina blurted out, “I have treats!”

“Let’s see ’em?” yelled one of the younger ones, a bloody-fanged

vampire, the voice so coldly demanding she could hardly believe it came from such a fragile-looking being.

“Yeah, where are the treats, ugly witch? Bring ’em, or we’ll torch this place!” The boy, a hairy lycanthrope, snarled at her and gnashed his teeth, making the graveyard ghoul next to him giggle.

“Right here,” she said, turning sideways to the tray of candy

apples she’d made. She tried to still the trembling of her arms as she held the tray.

The younger ones started to reach into the darkness with both

hands, towards the apples, but the oldest, the reaper, said, “Wait! This isn’t candy from the store. How do we know there aren’t razor blades in them?”

“You’ll just have to trust me,” Malina said in a calm voice. Then,

“Despite what you did to my car, which wounded me quite a bit,

I want to celebrate Halloween with you as it was intended to be

celebrated. Here are the treats. Help yourselves, but
only
if you feel you really deserve them after what you did to me.”

By now, the youngest had each grabbed an apple by the stick and

soon the waxed paper was empty as the last, Reaper boy, took his.

They stood there, watching her like ravenous animals eying meat,

ready to pounce, and she wanted nothing more than to slam the door in their collective faces. But she also wanted to see how this would end. They thought they deserved treats, after what they did. She’d given them the option to own up to their cruelty, but none had taken that route.

The standoff was over when the eldest glared at her one last time

and said, “Stupid, ugly witch! Whatever you get you deserve! Come

on,” he told the others. “We’re outta here!”

[328] TRICK OR TREAT

He turned and started down the steps, and one by one the children

turned and followed, the youngest of them already a third of the way into her candy apple, the red coating smeared over bloodless ghost lips and chin, staining the white sheet costume.

Malina stayed in the doorway listening to them discuss going to

another street and trying their luck there, and one of them wanted to visit the cemetery and overturn tombstones. She watched them

disappear into the darkness, leaving her house in peace, her life

intact, her car utterly destroyed. Their insulting and hostile tones still ringing in her ears.

The autumn coldness finally penetrated her bones, but the wind

had stopped and the night turned calm and quiet. A sudden urge

overwhelmed Malina. She stepped onto the porch and picked up

the large rock that had damaged her car, raised it above her head

and brought it down hard onto the smallest pumpkin, crushing it

into pieces. She stared at the remains for long moments, then in a fury swept what was left off the bench with her hand. The remains

bounced and split and splattered further. Demonic energy possessed her and one by one she bashed in each pumpkin, sending the flesh

crashing onto the steps. She felt in a trance, ecstatic, breaking their little heads, spewing their guts across the thirteen steps, destroying them utterly! She moved fast, smashing each until all thirteen were pulverized, leaving only the one large pumpkin intact. All the while a cackle split the night that she realized came from her. She didn’t stop until her energy was spent and by then she was breathing hard, covered in mushy pumpkin guts.

The pumpkins, one for each, with the dark stones inside, had

drawn the young demons to her. The outcome depended on whether

her mother’s reality made the most sense or Guin’s did. The thirteen could be real monsters or fake monsters, that didn’t matter to

Malina. If innocent, as the youngest probably were, they would be

fine. And those who felt true remorse would not be affected either.

If they didn’t, well, then, they wouldn’t survive the treats because of the trick.

“
Razor blades!
” She laughed aloud. Mother was always so

obvious. So dramatic.
So
uncreative. Witch’s blood,
that
was the most NANCY KILPATRICK [329]

powerful ingredient in any spell aimed at the unrepentant. And, as it turned out, witch’s blood was also the best colorant for candy apples!

N

Nancy Kilpatrick
is a writer and editor. She has published eighteen novels, one nonfiction book, over two hundred short stories, five

collections of short fiction, and has edited twelve anthologies. She writes dark fantasy, horror, mysteries, and erotic horror, under her own name, and her
noms de plume
Amarantha Knight and Desirée Knight. Kilpatrick has been a Bram Stoker Award finalist three times, a finalist for the Aurora Award five times and, in addition to winning several short fiction contests, won the Arthur Ellis Award for best mystery. She lives with her calico cat Fedex in lovely Montréal in a dwelling that features Gothic decor, which suits the sensibilities of both residents. When not writing, Kilpatrick travels in search

of cemeteries, ossuaries, catacombs, mummies, and
danse macabre
artwork.

a

FROM DUST

O

Laura Bickle

“We reap what we sow,” my mother would say. “No harvest is gained

without surrendering something of value.”

I don’t think that I believed her. Not then.

Maybe it was because I was too young. And too much in sunshine.

I grew up on land with straight ribbons of Kansas road that extended from horizon to horizon, never any traffic on them. Those horizons stretched farther than I could fling my arms, the blue glass bowl of the sky stretching over me. Our fields were green, green from the

start of spring when the crop would be tall enough to tickle my

ankles until harvest when the crop reached over my head. For two