Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (46 page)

“There ain’t nothing here but dust and wind,” he said. “Nothing

living.”

I shook my head. My mother loved this place. I would stay. I

stood on my front porch and watched as the family went down the

road with all their things packed in the back of their pickup. Sam sat in the back, his legs dangling over the tailgate.

I watched until the truck was a speck on the horizon.

I felt truly alone, then.

I saw to it that the field was planted thick with black seed. Mr.

Mauer said it was no use, that nothing would grow this year, that all the yellow dust blown in had ruined everything. There had been no

rain for months. But I insisted. I paid him. Money was one of the

only things that talked, these days. And I still had some.

I watched the fields, waiting, not knowing if anything would

grow. The crows were mysteriously absent.

I sat at the edge of our field . . . my field . . . on the dry and ruined grass.

I knew, deep down, that this was not enough. I had an oasis, an

enviable life. The women in my family had made a bargain with the

crows. One that I had unwittingly broken. I didn’t know what I could do to fix things. What sacrifice could I make to bring it all back?

I clambered to my feet and ran back into the house. I gathered

LAURA BICKLE [347]

all our fine things: the jewelry, the dishes, the silverware, the crystal.

I brought these treasures and a shovel to the edge of the field. I jammed the shovel into the pale amber earth, turning it up. I dropped a handful of pearls into it. I covered the hole, dug out another two paces away. I tossed a dinner plate into it. The china shattered into shards, cutting my bare foot. It didn’t matter. I kept on. I kept planting the only things I had to give: the shiny baubles and the fragments of the riches we enjoyed. Anything . . . anything to call back the quiet, satisfyingly bucolic life I’d led before my mother’s death.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I worked. “I didn’t understand.”

My tears speckled the soil, along with blood from my foot. I

worked until the sun set, burying all the fine treasures my mother had so carefully passed down to me. Coins, watches, paper money . . . it all went into the earth. It had come from the earth, and I gave it back.

Even my mother’s wedding ring, though now I doubted if there

had ever been any man here with her, only a shadow with feathers

who perhaps smoothed her hair the way the crow had in the yard.

When it was accomplished, I fell to my filthy knees beside the

disturbed earth. “Please!” I cried to the darkness. “Please bring it back . . . all of it.”

I pressed my forehead to the ground.

Nothing answered me.

I think I must have passed out there, in the dust. The cut on my

foot was more serious than I’d thought. I only know that I woke in the morning with my cheek pressed against the cool soil. I reached up to rub dirt from my eyes.

When my eyes cleared, I spied a crow pacing in the distance, along one of the furrows, pecking for seeds. Small green sprouts reached like fingers up from the furrows.

Rain began a soft patter along my back, sticking my dress to my

skin, like a caress. I pulled myself to a seated position. My arms were covered in small red scratches, as if I had tried to hold a dozen angry cats. A crow feather was stuck to the shoulder of my dress, glossy and black as obsidian.

I turned my face up to the gray sky, where crows swirled, and I

smiled. I reached up for my hair, finding it neatly tucked and twisted

[348] FROM DUST

behind my ears, knotted and braided. Feathers prickled through,

feeling stiff where they had been carefully wound in my hair.

I had sown. I would reap. I would begin again and carry on as my

mother had, in a new cycle and a new season, with the old earth.

N

Laura Bickle
’s professional background is in criminal justice and library science, and when she’s not patrolling the stacks at the public library she’s dreaming up stories about the monsters under the

stairs. (She also writes contemporary fantasy novels under the name Alayna Williams). Laura lives in Ohio with her husband and five

mostly-reformed feral cats.
The Hal owed Ones
, her first young adult novel, was published in 2012; its sequel,
The Outside
, will be out in September 2013. For more information, please see www.laurabickle.

com.

a

ALL SOULS DAY

+

Barbara Roden

“I want to see the haunted house.”

Debra had smiled when she’d seen Richard’s text, following hard

on the heels of the announcement that the following year’s World

Conference on Disaster Management would be held in Toronto.
I’m
guessing this means you’ll be at the conference
she’d texted, to which he’d replied with a smiley face.

Typical Richard; and typical of him to recall a throwaway comment

she’d made once, about her grandparents living on the same Toronto street as a haunted house. That had been at a conference in San Jose, four—no, five—years earlier. She hadn’t known Richard then, but

he’d been one of a group of them sitting at a table on the outdoor patio. A sudden wind had sprung up, and someone had asked where

that came from, and she’d been amazed to hear someone say, in a soft Texas accent, “Where I come from, we’d have said someone whistled

for it.”

“M. R. James!” she’d said in delight, to the bemusement of almost

everyone else at the table. The one exception was a slim, dark-haired man sitting three places down from her, who grinned. “
Quis est iste
qui venit?
’ she’d added, and his grin widened.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used that line. You’re the first one who’s ever recognized it,” he said. “A group of us are planning a trip to the Winchester House tomorrow, before the conference starts.

I think you’d like it. Want to join us?”

[351]

[352] ALL SOULS DAY

Just like that, before they even knew each other’s names, a

friendship was born. Long distance, as so many friendships were

these days, what with Richard in Atlanta most of the time, and Debra in Vancouver. They kept up via e-mail and text, sending each other links to weird and wonderful news stories. She sent congratulations when his eldest daughter was named valedictorian of her graduating class; he sent condolences when her father had a heart attack. Each twelve months they met up in whatever city the annual conference

was held, picking up their friendship as if they’d seen each other last week, not last year.

“There was a haunted house on the street my grandparents lived

on in Toronto,” she’d said at the Winchester House, as they both

gazed up a stairway that led to nowhere, and he reminded her of that now.

“I’d love to see it, if there’s time,” his e-mail read. “After all, how many chances do you get to see a real live (no pun intended)

haunted house?” She’d replied that it wasn’t much to see: “It was a very ordinary house, not at all the Charles Addams-style mansion

I’d half-expected. I think I was a bit disappointed when I first saw it. Besides, I don’t even know if it’s still there. It must be thirty years since I was in Toronto.”

She wasn’t trying to put him off, not really, and he knew that;

which was why they found themselves, some months later, purring

down Bloor Street in Richard’s rental car. Debra had a map spread

out in front of her, just in case. “It’s not that I don’t trust GPS,” she said, “just that . . . ”

“ . . . you don’t trust GPS,” said Richard. “I hear you. It looks a pretty straightforward route, though.”

And it was. Debra gazed out the window as they drove, searching

for anything that looked familiar. For a time there was nothing,

merely shop front after shop front, the same mix of chain stores

and coffee bars to be seen in any urban centre of North America.

As they left the CN Tower behind, however, the mix of shops grew

less homogenized, more eccentric, and the buildings gave way from

hard-edged steel and glass to softer brick, mellowed with age and

softened round the edges.

BARBARA RODEN [353]

The first thing she recognized with certainty was High Park, and

soon after that they crossed the Humber River. Then buildings began to come into focus, one after another, little islands of familiarity. A green sweep of trees and grass appeared beside them, and Debra said

“Next left,” folding up the map as she spoke.

“What’s this, another park?” asked Richard, flicking on the turn

signal. “I didn’t know Toronto had so many.”

“Not a park,” said Debra with a grin, and Richard took a better

look.

“Holy crap! A haunted house
and
a cemetery! Is there an

abandoned crypt too? That would just about complete the set.”

“Not unless they’ve added one in the last thirty years or so,” said Debra, as they turned. “Oh,” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“It’s—well, nothing’s changed. Nothing. It looks exactly the way it did in my mind, picturing it from when I was a child.” Now that they were out of the traffic on Bloor Street, Richard had slowed down,

and she gazed round her. “Except the trees,” she said finally. “It was always summer when we visited. I’m not used to seeing them bare.”

The cemetery was on their left, and neat brick houses set back

from the road were on their right. The lawns and gardens were

uniformly tidy, trees and bushes neatly pruned, the paths clear of leaves. Everything was peaceful and quiet, and Debra could almost

believe that nothing
had
changed since the last time she had been there.

Until, that is, she asked Richard to stop the car, and peered at

the house directly to their left. It was the first house beside the south fence line of the cemetery, and Richard looked at her inquiringly.

“My grandparents’ house,” she said. “My dad grew up there.” She

shook her head. “Now that
has
changed. That whole addition next to the driveway is new, and the siding is different. I wouldn’t have recognized it if it wasn’t for the location.” She laughed. “I guess the old saying is right. You
can’t
go home again.”

Richard pulled round a corner and parked the car. “So where’s

this haunted house of yours?” he asked, pulling his top-of-the-line Nikon from the back seat. “I’ve come a long way to see it.”

[354] ALL SOULS DAY

“This side of the street, up about four blocks,” replied Debra. She glanced up at the sky. “I hope the rain holds off. It’s not looking very promising.”

“Adds to the atmosphere,” said Richard, locking the car. “Lead

on, Macduff.”

They strolled along the sidewalk, sidestepping the occasional pile of soggy leaves huddled against the grass border. Apart from the odd car passing them, all was silent, and there were no signs of life in any of the houses they passed.

“You Canadians are trusting souls,” Richard said as they crossed

another side street. Debra looked at him quizzically. “Look at all the houses we’re passing. Notice anything?”

“No, not really. Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway. What do

you mean?”

“I mean if people on our street had left their Halloween pumpkins

out after Halloween night, they wouldn’t still be sitting on front porches. They’d be smashed all over the road.”

Debra looked again, and realized he was right. Every house they

passed had at least one pumpkin on the front porch, their bright

orange faces one of the few notes of color to be seen. “I wonder why they’re still out,” she said, puzzled.

“Canadian custom?”

“If it is, it’s one I’ve never heard of. Most people clear them away as soon as Halloween night is over. So they
won’t
end up smashed all over the road. We’re not as polite as people make us out to be.”

Richard shrugged. “Maybe it’s some neighborhood street party

thing,” he suggested. “Or someone’s filming here and they’ve asked for the Halloween stuff to stay out. Looks nice, whatever the reason.”

“You think so?” said Debra, and Richard glanced at her. “I think

it’s a bit depressing, now that Halloween’s over. The same way the Christmas tree just doesn’t look the same after the twenty-fifth of December. Kind of—deflated, somehow. Like it’s lost its reason to

be there.”

They were halfway along the block, and Richard stopped. “Look,”

he said, pointing to a house that was in the process of being torn down. The yard was ringed with a temporary fence of chain wire,

BARBARA RODEN [355]

and what was left of the yard was a torn-up mass of dirt and rocks and bits of brick. There had obviously been a small peaked roof over the front door, but it had been pulled away, exposing fresh-looking brickwork behind it. Yet even this house had a carved pumpkin on