Halloween: Magic, Mystery, and the Macabre (47 page)

the front step, incongruously perched beside a pile of bricks.

“That makes a change,” said Richard. “Builders with a sense of

the season. Usually they just leave empty pop cans lying around.” He took a few pictures.

“You’re obviously still into photography in a big way.”

“When I get the opportunity. I’m trying to put together enough

for an exhibit at a biggish art show next spring. Wish me luck.” He slung the camera back over his shoulder. “Okay, on to the haunted

house. It can’t be far.”

Debra was looking at the house numbers. “It should be that one,

on the next corner,” she said, and they crossed one more side street.

She consulted a piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. “Yes. This is it.”

She was conscious of a sense of anticlimax as they stopped in

front of it. It was a very ordinary-looking house indeed, and there was little to set it apart from any of the other houses they had passed, except that where the others were all open to the street, this one was ringed with a tall hedge which almost completely obscured it from

view. The only place they could find that gave a glimpse of the front was a small gap where the hedge bordered the front property line of the house next door.

“Well, this is what you traveled however many thousand miles to

see,” she said. “I’m sorry it’s not more impressive.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Richard, snapping off some of pictures.

“There’s certainly an appropriately gloomy aura about it. What’s

supposed to have happened here?”

Debra shrugged. “Some people who lived here heard noises in the

attic—footsteps, and then banging, as if someone was trying to get out. When they went up to investigate they saw a glowing orb near

the window—that one there, on the front, I expect.” She pointed to the single top-floor window, which was obscured by curtains. They

did not quite meet in the middle, and as the window itself was open

[356] ALL SOULS DAY

they blew slightly in the breeze, giving the impression of someone standing behind them.

“And?”

“And that’s about it. They called in some psychic investigators,

who put flour and tripwires down on the attic floor. It didn’t stop the noises, but apparently there was no sign of a disturbance when they checked it out. They never did figure out what was going on.”

“Typical true-life ghost story,” said Richard with a laugh. “No

beginning or end, just a rather inconclusive middle section.” They walked back the way they had come and turned the corner, so they

were at the side of the house. The hedge only extended halfway down the property here, and they had a better view of the building, which looked empty.

“No one at home,” said Richard, taking a few final shots. “Not even the obligatory pumpkin. The neighborhood beautification committee

will be having a few words with the owner. I think
that
house is safe, though.” He pointed to the neat bungalow across the street. “Now

there’s someone who really gets into the spirit of Halloween.”

Debra saw what he meant. Whereas a handful of the houses they

had passed had sported more than one pumpkin near the front door,

the owners of this particular house had more than a dozen pumpkins lining the front walkway, and another four perched beside the door itself, two on either side like guards.

“I think we have a winner,” said Debra. “If someone’s awarding

prizes, I hope they get a good one. They deserve it.”

“They’re supposed to keep evil spirits away,” said Richard as they rounded the corner back on to the main road and began walking

towards where the car was parked. “Back in the old days, I mean,

when they were carved out of turnips.”

“We tried carving a turnip once,” said Debra. “I almost sliced my

hand open.”

“Did you go in for Halloween in a big way when you were a kid?”

“Oh yeah. It was a big deal all right. Pumpkins, decorations,

sound effects, the lot. What about you?”

“Pretty low key,” said Richard. “My brother and I each carved a

pumpkin, and that was about it. We were more interested in the candies.”

BARBARA RODEN [357]

They had drawn up opposite her grandparents’ old house. Debra

crossed the street and stood on the sidewalk. “Could you get a

picture of me standing on the front path?” she asked, handing him

her camera and walking to the front door.

“Hope the people who live here aren’t home,” said Richard.

“They’ll think we’re burglars, casing the joint. All right, smile and say
Cthulhu
.” He snapped a couple of shots. “Uh-oh,” he said in a stage whisper. “We’ve been spotted.”

The front door had opened a crack, and Debra turned to see a

woman’s face peering out at her above a stout chain which prevented the door opening any further. She said nothing, merely stared at

Debra with a look that was—what? Scared, more than anything.

Debra smiled, and adopted her most reassuring voice.

“Hi there. Sorry if I startled you. I hope you don’t mind me getting a couple of pictures of the house.” The woman still said nothing. “My grandparents used to live here,” she added, “and my dad grew up

here. I used to visit when I was a kid. I haven’t seen the house for years, and since I was in town I thought I’d pay a visit.”

Still the woman said nothing, and Debra’s voice trailed off.
Maybe
she doesn’t speak English
, she thought, and was just about to apologize again and turn away when the woman spoke.

“Where did you come from?” she asked.

“Vancouver,” said Debra. “And my friend here”—she pointed at

Richard, who gave a small wave—“came from Atlanta. We’re here for

a conference.”

“Conference.” The woman nodded. “That’s all right, then. I

thought that you . . . ” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You take care of yourselves. Take care.” And she closed the door.

Debra stood for a moment, staring, then rejoined Richard on

the sidewalk. “What a strange woman,” she said. “I wonder what she thought we were.”

“Jehovah’s Witnesses, probably.”

“Well, you’ve seen your haunted house,” Debra said, “and a little

piece of my family history. What’s the plan now?”

“I’d thought maybe some lunch. There’s a neat-looking brewhouse

restaurant downtown that sounds good.” Richard was one of the

[358] ALL SOULS DAY

few people she knew who could say “neat” and not make it sound

affected, and Debra smiled. “But would you mind if we checked out

the cemetery first? Not to sound ghoulish or anything, but it looks like a great place to get some pictures.
Very
atmospheric.”

“The rain helps,” said Debra.

“It’s not
actually
raining,” Richard answered, holding his hand up as if testing the air. “Not quite. And if it starts then we make a dash for the car.”

“All right,” said Debra. “I’m glad I wore sensible shoes,” she added, as they started down the sidewalk.

“What do you know about this place?” asked Richard, gesturing

over the fence to their right.

“Not a lot. It’s very old; my dad says it was here when he was a

boy. His mother’s parents are buried in there somewhere, but I never found the grave. I used to spend a lot of time in there when we visited my grandparents,” she added, by way of explanation. “There wasn’t

a lot else to do, and the park down the road was kind of boring, so I used to come here and wander around. It was lovely and cool in

summer, and there were lots of squirrels to watch. And I had the

place pretty much to myself, as you can imagine.”

They had reached the gates, which were wide open, and turned in

at the drive. A few yards in the road split into three narrow tributaries that snaked off into the cemetery, twisting amid the headstones.

“Which way?” asked Richard, pausing in front of a small stone

building which was clearly an office of some sort. Two cars were

parked in front of it, but there were no lights on inside.

“Straight on?” asked Debra. “Then we can get a better idea of

where we are, and what there is to take pictures of.”

They wandered along the roadway, keeping clear of the puddles that dappled the uneven surface. Above them bare boughs rubbed together in the slight breeze, and a few leaves skittered in front of them, tumbling over themselves before coming to rest in the grass. Richard peered at the grave markers crowding in on them from both sides, stopping now and then to take pictures of the more elaborate headstones.

“A lot of Ukrainian names, it looks like,” he said. “Is there a big Ukrainian community here?”

BARBARA RODEN [359]

“Must be. There’re a lot of Italians in Toronto, I know that. There’s a big section of Italian graves in the back corner there.” She pointed.

“I remember a lot of the gravestones had photographs inset in them, in ornate frames. I’d never seen anything like it before.”

“Here’s one,” said Richard, pointing, and they moved closer to

look at it. “Guiseppe Gagliano, 1902–1957,” he read out. “Not very old. Wonder what he died of.”

Debra studied the picture inset in the tombstone, which showed

a heavy-set man with close-set dark eyes. “Nothing that involved

wasting away, if this was taken near the end of his life,” she said, and Richard made a
tsk
-ing noise.

“Now, now,” he admonished, “
de mortuis
and all that. He might be listening.”

“Stop it,” she said. “This isn’t the opening scene of
Night of the
Living Dead
.” They stepped back onto the road, then had to step off again in a hurry as a car swept by. Debra felt her feet sink, and looked down to see mud welling up over the sides of her shoes. She scraped them off as best she could, and they continued on their way.

“I always thought, when I was a kid, that it was funny to see cars driving through a cemetery,” she said.

“I guess so,” said Richard absently. He was eying a vista of

gravestones and trees and grass stretching away from them, the

markers sweeping in an undulating wave over the hills and curves of the lawn. “Hang on a sec, I want to get a picture of this.”

Debra waited while Richard took his shots, glancing around the

cemetery. Gray clouds scudded above the trees, and she shivered.

The rain was still holding off, but just barely. “A Scotch mist,” her mother would have called it, that sodden air halfway between vapor and full-scale rain.
If the skies open we’ll only be half-soaked by the
time we get back to the car
, she thought. It didn’t comfort her much.

She noticed movement out of the corner of her eye, and she

turned. A couple were standing a short distance away, gazing at one of the gravestones. Her gaze rose up and past them, and she noticed more people beyond them, and still more farther off; small groups

of one or two standing among the markers. She went over to where

Richard was standing.

[360] ALL SOULS DAY

“Doesn’t this place seem a bit crowded to you?” she asked, and he

looked at her for a moment, then swept his eyes round the cemetery.

“Now that you mention it, yes,” he admitted.

“Kind of odd for a mid-week morning, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.” He thought for a moment. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“No, I mean what’s the date?”

“November second. Why?” He started laughing, and she looked

puzzled. “What is it?”

“You’re obviously not a Roman Catholic. Wel , neither am I,

anymore, but I still remember a lot of it.” She still didn’t understand, and he explained. “November second. All Souls Day. Also known as the Day of the Dead because it’s supposed to be when souls in purgatory can return to the earth and pray for release. The living honor their ancestors by placing candles and flowers on their graves. You can even invite them into your home, if you want to, by leaving a door or window open. Of course, if you don’t want them in you leave a light burning outside, which gave us jack-o’-lanterns. Because they’re souls in purgatory you can pray for them, to help them pass on. It’s cal ed a plenary indulgence.

Not quite a ‘get out of jail free’ card, but close.”

She looked skeptical. “And that works? I mean, it helps someone

get out of purgatory?”

Richard shrugged. “It’s supposed to. Look, I don’t make the rules.

And as I said, it’s been a long time since I considered myself a Roman Catholic. I’ve probably got a couple of the details wrong, but that’s the gist of it.” He looked round. “There are a lot of Europeans buried here, it looks like. I’m guessing there’ll be a lot of visitors here today.

Old traditions from the old country, that sort of thing.”

By now they had crossed through the heart of the cemetery and

come to where the road split into two, heading left and right. “I just want to walk along this way for a bit, and get a couple of shots looking back over the cemetery toward the gates,” said Richard. “Aren’t you going to take any pictures?”

“I guess I should,” Debra replied, pulling her digital camera out

of her pocket. “Knowing me, it’s the only time I’ll have my camera out all week. I don’t know why I bring it along to these things.”

BARBARA RODEN [361]

Her little Canon looked insignificant compared with Richard’s

camera, and he was clicking shot after shot, not bothering to check them for quality. Debra raised her camera to her face and peered

through it, trying to frame a decent picture.
If only al those people
weren’t milling about
, she thought.
Not very atmospheric
.

She clicked a shot, and the glare of the flash going off made her

sigh. She still hadn’t quite got the hang of the settings, and she ran her eyes over the buttons on the back, trying to figure out how to turn the flash off. As she did so she saw the picture she had just taken, framed in the screen on the back. It was only there for a second or two before disappearing, leaving a view of the road and her left foot that shook slightly as she tried to process what she had just seen.