It wasn’t even Halloween, technically. It was the day after, at your company’s annual Halloween party, and it was late and you were drunk, so when Susan suggested a short-cut through the cemetery you didn’t hesitate. You’d follow Susan anywhere.
You remembered a song from your teens:
Went down to the cemetery, looking for love
Got there and my baby was buried, had to dig her up
Maybe that was her thing. Weird, kinky shit.
But that wasn’t her thing, turns out. Or if it was, she still wasn’t interested in you in that way. She simply wanted to find somewhere quiet to smoke a blunt.
It was a dry, cool night. A strange musky tang to the air. And if the night was unusually quiet, or if it was a bit darker than normal, or if the trees seemed even more skeletal and reaching, you either didn’t notice or care. Probably didn’t care. You were the only one at the party not in costume. Susan was a mouse. A cute little mouse.
You tromped across some graves and plopped yourselves down against a cool marble headstone. You slid your hand onto Susan’s knee, but she shut you down with a withering look. “Not happening, Todd,” she said, and you deflated a bit. Susan rummaged in her bag, spilling keys and tissues and makeup, until she found the weed. She sparked it up, took a hit, and passed it over.
Susan pushed the plastic mouse mask up off her face and closed her eyes. “Tell me a story.”
A tiny shriek pierced the air, then a hoo-hooooo. You shivered.
“The night will let something in,” Susan said.
“What?”
Her eyes were still closed. “Something my Momma used to say whenever she heard an owl. She didn’t like them. They only come out at night.”
“Nocturnal,” you said.
“Yesss,” Susan slurred. “And they can turn their heads all way round.”
You laughed. “No, they can’t. It’d break their necks.”
“Still creepy,” Susan said, “seeing that head swivel round and those big yellow-orange eyes staring at you. That sharp beak.”
You stubbed out the joint. “We should go.”
“You promised me a story,” Susan said.
You sighed. “Did you know owls regurgitate their food? They eat mice like you then all the parts they can’t digest—the fur, the bones, the teeth—comes back up in a pellet.”
“Gross,” Susan says.
You glanced around the cemetery. The graves were like broken teeth in a giant’s mouth, grey, chipped, and leaning. “This is the day the dead come back,” you said. “Halloween. After midnight, actually. The veil between worlds is thinnest.” On cue, a cool wind swept across the grounds, rustling leaves. “In Mexico they celebrate with the dead. They have picnics in graveyards.”
You looked at Susan. She was asleep. You shook her and she roused. “S-sorry.”
“Let’s go,” you said.
Susan pushed the mask down over her face, stood. “All set.”
You stared at the cheap plastic mask, the fake whiskers. “In Ireland it was thought that if you wore a mask, the spirits wouldn’t notice you.”
You could sense Susan grinning behind the mask. “Guess you’re a goner, then,” she said.
Turning, you threaded your way through the headstones. You could hear Susan stumbling behind you. A noise reached you, faint.
You came up short. “Did you hear that?”
Susan plowed into your back. “Hear what?”
“A noise.”
“No.”
Who . . .
There it was again. You tensed. “Coming from over there,” you said.
“Nothing,” Susan mumbled, but you grabbed her arm and dragged her across the graves.
Help me . . .
You pulled Susan further into the cemetery. You scanned the darkness, and you noticed movement ahead, furtive. You edged toward it. You heard a strange squelching sound. Then you saw it, or her, a small girl, pale, so pale, long dark hair. Darker than the night. She was just a few feet away. She was leaning back against an ancient maple tree. Her eyes glowed. She looked right at you. You swear they fucking glowed. She opened her black, misshapen mouth and you smelled char and mud and bile. You retched. The girl was clutching one of those cheap plastic pumpkin pails.
I see you . . . Then . . . help me . . . She thrust the pail toward you.
A wild shriek behind you and you turned to find Susan laughing hysterically, the plastic mouse mask making her voice squeaky and mouse-like. And a squelching gurgle came from the girl. You turned again to witness the girl convulsing, her body heaving, spastic. Susan was giggling now, a strange plastic titter. Then the girl’s black mouth stretched wide and a black mass pushed its way slowly past her lips and dropped wetly to the ground.
You screamed and pulled Susan after you as you raced the other way. Susan was lurching behind you, laughing wildly.
Breathless, you stopped just outside the cemetery. Your mind was a spinning black void. Your heart thudded. You turned to Susan. “What the fuck?”
Susan smiled. “A prank. That’s all. Just kids, silly. It was funny.”
You could think of nothing less funny. You stared at her gape-mouthed. Susan reached into her purse, fished around. “Fuck,” she said. “My keys. I think I dropped them. I have to go back.”
“No,” you said. “Not a chance. No fucking way.”
“Gotta,” she said, and turned and walked back towards the cemetery gate.
You ran after her, grabbed her arm, rough, and she shoved you away. “Jesus, Todd, get a grip.” She smirked. “They really got to you, didn’t they?” She spun around and pitched back into the graveyard. You couldn’t let her go in alone. She was probably right—just kids—so you trailed after her, scanning the shadows, your ears alert for any noise.
You fumbled around for hours, cellphone flashlights arcing over the cold ground, until you finally found Susan’s keys. You even stuttered past the maple. But there was no further sign of the girl. No strange noises. Nothing but you, Susan, and the dead.
Sometimes, you think, the night will let something in.
It’s night and it’s raining. It’s the dark, dark kind of night. And the rain is lashing the shutters in a constant torrent. Thunder booms like cannon-shot. Somewhere you hear a tree crack and split and crash to the ground. And another sound, a steady banging, whack . . . whack . . . whack. Just the window shutters, you reason. The wind has loosened them. You chortle, nervous, and madly think It was a dark and stormy night. You laugh. It’s an old house. Old windows. Old doors.
There won’t be many more trick-or-treaters tonight, you hope. It’s late. But just in case, your mask is still on the table by the door, beside the bowl of mini chocolate bars and potato chips.
The house is dark. You like it that way. It’ll dissuade the ghouls. As will the rain. You’re privy to their tricks, their pranks. After last year . . . You’ve convinced yourself that Susan somehow setup the whole thing, though she’s never admitted such. A thought creeps into consciousness: the night will let something in. You shiver.
You’re in the living room having a drink, letting the amber liquid numb you. You are watching a horror film; they help. They make it seem less real. Fiction. Secretly, you are nervously anticipating that final knock at the door. Waiting for the last little ghoul, clutching their sack of sweets and dressed in their sodden ash sackcloth, to come to the house. There’s always one willing to test the darkness, and you are always on edge until it’s over and done with and the creature scrabbles off the porch into the night.
You have paused the movie you are watching, and you are now staring into the backyard, wondering if it was one of your trees that came down. Something scurries along your deck, but it’s too dark to see what it is. The cat, you think. Perhaps it got out when a small demon was at the door. Now it’s seeking shelter from the rain and the wind. You lean closer, peering through the glass. Briefly you think you see movement reflected behind you in the patio door, a darker dark filling the hallway, but you quickly turn around and don’t notice anything out of the ordinary. That’s not exactly true though, is it, you think. Houses are different at night. Corners and hallways are darker; strange creaking sounds are audible. Doors slowly swing open. Creak. There are soft thumps from upstairs, as if someone were roaming along the upper landing. Thump. From the corner of your eye, you think you catch glimpses of things. Strange things. Flitting things. There are inexplicable tapping sounds. Tap. You’re more attuned to these things now.
And sometimes the night will let something in. You laugh again. Where did you get such notions? You’ve watched too many horror movies. Too many bad horror films. You’d been watching one as the storm raged. You can’t even recall the title, just the tag line: Don’t open the door—the night will let it in. A small cackle escapes your mouth.
You go back to the couch, prepared to finish watching your horror film. Your coping mechanism. You lift your glass and tilt it to your mouth. The ice clanks against your teeth. The whisky burns your throat. You run your tongue along your teeth, tasting the remnants of the smoky Scotch. You’ve told yourself you’re only going to have one drink per night; but you’ve been pouring them generously. Another coping mechanism. This is the night you need your liquid courage.
You pick up the remote and are about to un-pause the film when you hear a noise. It’s rainy and windy, but somehow you can detect something underneath that. A howl or a shriek? Of course—the cat!
You stand and head to the door, but as you draw near you hear something else, and your blood runs cold.
Help me . . . Hoo-hoo . . .
You freeze. Then you laugh. Ha! Just an owl, you reason. Owls are everywhere. But you tiptoe up to the door and peer through the peephole. It’s dark, the door is old, and the peephole occluded, but there doesn’t appear to be anything out there. And your mind wonders at your choice of words. Anything. Thing. Why not anyone? And now you know you’re just winding yourself up. So, to be on the safe side, to alleviate your growing anxiety, you grab the old brass doorknob and slowly twist it so as to not make any noise, so that you can gently pull open the creaky door, even though another part of your mind, a small screaming part, is telling you No! No! No! this is the scene in a horror film where you do the wrong and stupid thing that gets you killed, but you pull the door open anyway, and it creaks shrilly, and you’re beyond relieved to find nothing on the front porch, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.
Except . . . except, there is something. Looking down you see a brown paper bag, the type groceries used to come in. The bag is soaked and misshapen. And an acrid stench wafts up, stinging your nostrils. Something rancid and putrid. You bend, pick up the bag, open the top and look in.
Wha—? You gasp, blink, uncomprehending. Inside the bag, wound together, is a large dark mass of bone and fur and god-knows-what else. You drop the bag and bend over, retching and dry-heaving.
I see you . . . Help me . . .
And that brings you up straight again. Gooseflesh pimples your skin. You take a step back. Then you see it, that orange plastic pumpkin pail, the pale hands clutching the handle. And then the figure of a girl in a grey and dripping sackcloth and then that darker dark. The girl’s long wet hair. Darker than night. You see it because it’s moving, swiveling, and her head slowly revolves and you’re staring at those huge yellow-orange eyes and that black, black mouth, opening, opening.
You take another step back. Then another. And the girl steps forward. And your mind is dimly aware and conscious of two words being repeated over and over, but you can’t tell if they’re emanating from yourself or the girl.
Help me . . .
Help me . . .
Then . . . I see you . . .
And your hands fly up and begin to claw at your mask-less face.
Originally published in Picnic in the Graveyard, edited by Brhl and Sullivan.
