Horror at Halloween: Part Five Read online

  JO FLETCHER lives in North London. As an editor, writer, poet and journalist, she has been published widely throughout the world. She has won an International Society of Poets Award, the British Fantasy Society’s inaugural Karl Edward Wagner Award and the World Fantasy Award – Professional. In 1985 Jo joined the fledgling independent publishing company Headline and masterminded the launch of the imprint’s fantasy, SF and horror list. She has since worked in various editorial capacities at such British publishers as Mandarin, Penguin, Pan Books and Gollancz. In 2011 she launched Jo Fletcher Books (www.jofletcherbooks.com), a genre imprint of Quercus Publishing.

  STEPHEN JONES lives in London, England. He is the winner of three World Fantasy Awards, four Horror Writers Association Bram Stoker Awards and three International Horror Guild Awards as well as being a twenty-one time recipient of the British Fantasy Award and a Hugo Award nominee. A former television producer/director and genre movie publicist and consultant, he has written and edited more than 110 books. You can visit his website at: www.stephenjoneseditor.com.

  Special thanks to Charlie Grant for allowing this book to be set in the town he created.

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Pumpkin Books,

  an imprint of MeG Publishing Limited, 1999

  This ebook edition published by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2011

  Horror at Halloween copyright © 1999, 2011 by Stephen Jones

  This selection copyright © 1999, 2011 by Stephen Jones and Jo Fletcher

  “Sam” copyright © 1999 by John Gordon

  “Eleanor” copyright © 1999 by Stephen Bowkett

  “Tina” copyright © 1999 by Diane Duane

  “Chuck” copyright © 1999 by Craig Shaw Gardner

  “Cody” copyright © 1999 by Charles L. Grant

  The moral right of the editors and authors to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-78033-435-6

  CONTENTS

  PART FIVE

  CODY

  by Charles L. Grant

  EPILOGUE

  CODY

  CHARLES L. GRANT

  1

  The week before Halloween, I didn’t believe in monsters. The week before Halloween, I didn’t believe in ghosts.

  I still wouldn’t, tonight, if it hadn’t been for Angie, and a kid all dressed in black.

  There wasn’t much light that Sunday, although it still wasn’t quite five. The sun was already halfway below the trees, and sharp-edged shadows pointed the way from dusk to full dark. The street lamps were on, and the handful of cars that passed the house had their lights on too, glaring the way they do when it’s not quite their time.

  Late autumn hung over Oxrun Station, a reminder that winter was just a few weeks away.

  If you didn’t know that already, you could figure it by the signs – the last of the leaves slowly burning in trashcans and gutters, adding a sharp smell to the air you couldn’t get any other time of the year; a feel to the air like thin ice on the park pond, brittle and cold; the way sound carried when a little kid yelled or a dog barked or a door slammed.

  The way you took a deep breath and felt suddenly wide awake.

  I was awake, but I was home, and feeling pretty miserable.

  A single leaf lay on the front porch, serrated edges curled like the fingers of a dead man. Despite the breeze that once in a while skated across the lawn, it didn’t move but for a single brief tremor, scratching at the air.

  The dead man daring me to come over and have a look.

  I watched it from the bench swing and had every intention of getting up, walking over there and crushing it beneath my shoe.

  I didn’t move, though.

  I sat on the swing, pushing a little with my heels, and watched it.

  Mainly, it was a way to kill time. Mom wasn’t home from work yet, and wouldn’t be for a couple of hours, and I didn’t feel like getting the rake from the garage and clearing the leaves from the yard. I wasn’t supposed to or anything. I mean, it wasn’t like it was my job for the day. For a change, I didn’t have one. Instead, Mom reminded me it would be Halloween in a few days, and she wanted me to get my homework done, then “go out and have some fun”. Yeah.

  Right.

  To be honest, though, I hadn’t told her I was a hunted man, soon to be wiped off the face of the earth by a guy who had muscles where muscles weren’t supposed to exist.

  A breeze touched the back of my neck then, and I zipped up my denim jacket, flipped up the collar, and figured that if I sat here much longer, I’d probably freeze to death.

  When I stood, the chains creaked as the swing swung slowly back and forth. Ghost chains, my dad used to call them. When my dad was still alive. This was his favourite season, and even though it’s been six years, I still feel a little down when October rolls around.

  And you’d have to be dead not to know it was practically Halloween – carved pumpkins on just about every porch, cardboard witches and black cats and ghosts taped in some windows, stalks of maize and promise dolls tied to a few front doors, things like that.

  And things like the tiny red lights buried in the hedges in front of the Oppermans’ house, and the mechanical things Mr Opperman put in the leaves to make them rustle when you walked by, making you think there was something in there, ready to jump out and tear your arm off.

  Or the huge iron kettle on Mrs Galbraith’s stoop, with dry ice on the bottom to make it boil over with smoke that trailed down her walk to the kerb.

  Or Mr Robson’s front yard, three doors down from mine, where he had a scarecrow with a painted gourd-head, dressed in a tuxedo, hanging by the neck from a twisted, fat maple, swaying over a bunch of tombstones. They were on a long, narrow stretch of what, in spring, would be his front garden – five stones in front, four on the lawn behind. Weird, but no big deal, except that he puts names on them, too. Not fake ones; real ones. Kids, grownups, anyone he would think of. No dates, just names. Mostly, they were the same every year, but there was always a blank one, and at the last minute, he’d put something on it, just for the heck of it, I guess. Every year the little kids fought like crazy to get their name on that blank one, running errands for him, making sure his paper didn’t get tossed anywhere but exactly at his door.

  I used to do that. When I was little. It seems really dumb now, but I remember one year crying like a jerk when he put Angie’s name on instead of mine.

  Of course, I grew up.

  So did Angie.

  And thank God she doesn’t remember, or she’d never let me live it down.

  Things were bad enough the way they were, after today; I didn’t need that, too.

  When I passed his house – a big old thing, like all the others on the street, practically all the others in the Station – he was kneeling in the dirt, straightening one of the tombstones – the blank one, right in the middle of the first row – and shoving rocks around the base to keep it from falling. He’s a skinny guy, arms and legs and not much else, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and these really ugly heavy shoes.

  Actually, he’s pretty okay, all in all, even though he yells at practically everything that touches his precious grass and garden, squirrels and birds included. He lives alone, so I guess taking care of his lawn and those flowers is about all he has left to do. Mom says it keeps him young, but I don’t know. It seems like he’s been old and cranky for practically ever.

  Still, it was a brave kid that stepped on one precious blade of his perfect grass, or tried to pick one of his flowers that always won awards at shows all over New England.

  Ballistic, actually, is a pretty good way to describe how he usually reacts.

  “Evening, Cody,” he said, waving as I went by.

  “Hi, Mr Robson.” I nodded at what he was doing, making sure it was clear I was on my way to someplace important. “Somebody knock it over again, huh?” They weren’t cardboard, those tombstones; they were solid oak, and five feet high. Even a good kick wouldn’t budge one.

  You really had to make an effort just to tilt one, believe me.

  He scowled as he rocked back on his heels, wiping his face with the back of a spotted hand in a work glove. He always wore gloves. Not because of the work, but because of his fingers – a couple had been mangled in an incident – that’s what he called it – when he was overseas during World War II. I’ve seen them. On the right hand, he didn’t have the fourth finger or pinky at all, and on the left, the same fingers had been cut off down to the first joint, which is too bad since he’s a lefty. It was the same
reason he limped.

  I think that, more than the yelling, was what made kids avoid him.

  He also didn’t look so hot. He moved kind of jerky, and he looked like he could barely hold up his head.

  He sneezed, and blew out a breath while he shook his head. “Yep. Seems like every night, one gets dumped. Ain’t the same around here any more, Cody. Maybe this’ll be my last time. Getting a little old for this kind of crap.”

  I didn’t say anything, because he said that every year, because every year those things became a dare, and he knew it. Some kid, out late with his friends, dares somebody to go over and tip one. Most don’t; every so often, though, one does. The idea, see, is to see who’s buried underneath. Nobody is, of course, but that doesn’t stop it from happening year after year; and it doesn’t stop Mr Robson from complaining, calling the cops, waving his arms and yelling at the neighbours, and generally being a royal pain in the butt.

  Mom says it’s just part of the season’s ritual.

  I still think it’s just a royal pain in the butt.

  So the old man grunted and pushed and straightened and grunted, and even though I figured he had the flu or something, I kept moving, reaching Centre Street just about the time I heard my name, looked back, and grinned as Matt Barton chugged up, chubby face red, dark hair flying in every direction at the same time.

  “You,” he said, pulling up alongside me, “are one brave dork, you know that?”

  I shrugged.

  “No, really.” He frowned solemnly. “I am honoured to have known you.”

  “I’m not dead yet,” I muttered sourly.

  “Yet,” he repeated. “That’s the operative word, don’t you think?”

  There was very little car traffic on Centre Street, this being Sunday night and all.

  There wasn’t much any other time, either, as a matter of fact, even when the shops and offices were closing down. Not too long ago, somebody got the bright idea of tearing up the blacktop and putting cobblestones down. I guess it looked okay, but people hated driving on it and so most of them parked on the side streets instead. Besides, the Station isn’t all that big. Practically everybody but those who live out on the Pike or in the valley can walk home in a few minutes.

  So we stood on the corner, checking things out, not bothering to admit we were really checking for Theo Bronson.

  Theo wanted my head.

  He wanted every other part of me, too, but mostly, he wanted my head.

  Matt tucked his hands into his football jacket pockets. He didn’t play, he hated the game, but he wore it anyway, just to tick the jocks off. He forced a shiver, making it seem as if it were colder than it really was. “So, your mom working weekends again?”

  I nodded.

  He kicked at a leaf crawling towards his shoe. “So, you gonna cook?”

  I shook my head.

  Even if I was, it would be stupid to admit it. Matt could eat a banquet by himself and still complain there wasn’t enough for dessert. The weird thing was, he wasn’t really gross. I figured him to be over two hundred pounds, but the only place he looked fat was in his face. The rest of him was pretty solid.

  “So, you gonna starve, or what?”

  I didn’t answer. Across the street, just coming out of the corner news-stand, was the girl who just by breathing had signed my death warrant.

  Angie Hanover.

  Long brown hair topped with a red beret; long legs and torso, wearing a down parka; dark brown eyes that looked at you with eyelids almost always half-closed. They drove me crazy, and she knew it.

  Before I could turn away, or figure out how to become invisible, she spotted us and waved, called something to someone still in the store, and hurried across the streets.

  Matt whistled, and she made a face at him before looking up at me.

  “Hi.”

  “Uh, hi.”

  She looked a little tired, kind of worn around the edges, but she smiled at my brilliance, just a twitch of her lips, and wanted to know if we were going to the Halloween dance at the high school on Friday.

  She couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d asked me straight out, and I couldn’t for the life of me think of an answer that wouldn’t either get me killed, or get me in so much trouble that I might as well be dead.

  “Well?” Her voice was normally husky, but when she was annoyed, it deepened even more. That drove me crazy, too.

  I kind of gave her a one-shoulder shrug – maybe, maybe not, it all depends.

  For a moment she actually looked angry, but it passed before I could say a word.

  “Your mother,” she said knowingly. “Working again, huh?”

  “Yes,” I answered quickly. I lowered my head, regret practically dripping off my body. “I kind of promised her I’d give her a hand, you know?”

  She nodded and touched my arm. “Well, maybe you could come after, huh?”

  I couldn’t resist: “Yeah.” I grinned. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Cody,” Matt said quietly.

  A gust fanned her hair in front of her eyes, and she slapped it away angrily. A sigh, and she squinted across the street towards the store. She needed glasses, but say something to her, and she’d cut you off at the knees. “I swear that girl is going to drive me up the wall.”

  “Who?”

  She didn’t need to answer. Rena Viser raced out to the corner, looked around frantically, and flapped her arms helplessly until Angie called her.

  “Hey,” Matt said, moving slightly behind me. “Cody.”

  I started to turn, but Rena had already arrived, her little girl voice making me smile automatically as she blurted out the latest news about Marley Hunt and her boyfriend.

  In Oxrun Station, if you wanted to know the real story behind any story that appeared in the paper, all you had to do was ask Rena or her brother Joey. Their father was a reporter on the Station Herald, and their mother owned the village’s most popular hair salon for women. Between the two of them, and their kids’ own maddening curiosity, you couldn’t whack a finger with a hammer in Alaska without them, and the whole town, knowing it before dawn.

  Marley Hunt was different.

  She and her out-of-town boyfriend had been cycling up Chancellor Avenue towards the railroad depot a month or so ago, and hadn’t come back. For days, search parties combed the woods and hills, the farming valley beyond the tracks, even up to the old quarry.

  Nothing.

  Not a thing.

  The word was, Chief Stockton believed they’d run away, because Marley’s father hated every boy who even looked sideways at his daughter, and hardly ever let her out, even on group dates, even when she finally went to college. I didn’t know her all that well, she’s couple of years older, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had taken off. Casper Hunt was one real son of a bitch.

  “So how’s Ursula?” Angie asked then, looking at me sideways.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Didn’t see her today.”

  Rena’s eyes widened. “Oh . . . really?”

  “For God’s sake,” I snapped, “we’re not married, you know.”

  Problem Number Two: we’re all part of the same group – me, Angie, Rena, Matt, and Ursula Strong. We grew up together, were always in the same classes, stuff like that. A few weeks ago, Rena got it into her head that me and Ursula would make the perfect couple. Nobody else did, but she wouldn’t let it go, and drove us all nuts with her hints and stupid winks.

  It had been funny at first; now, it was really getting old.

  Anyway, Ursula took a fall down her cellar steps a couple of weeks ago and smashed up her left leg pretty good. She was in traction for a few days, and damn grumpy the last time I saw her. What with Theo and all, I didn’t need that too.

  “Dammit, Cody,” Matt snapped, and punched my arm.

  “What?”

  I turned, looked over his shoulder, and saw Theo Bronson standing on the corner a block away.

  It was full dark now, and he was under the corner light. Standing there.

  Just standing there.

  “Oh, man,” I said. Ice settled in my stomach; my legs went a little weak. “Oh . . . man.”

  2

  I am not what you’d call a physical kind of guy. Where Matt was thick, I was thin; where Matt could lift tons of cord wood without breaking a sweat, I had a hard time lifting myself out of bed in the morning.