Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 106, No. 4 & 5. Whole No. 648 & 649, October 1995

Here Be Monsters by Lisa Lepovetsky

© 1995 by Lisa Lepovetsky

It isn’t only the ghosts of the dead that roam the streets at Halloween, hut the ghosts of events long buried, as Lisa Lepovetsky’s narrator discovers in this tale of family strife. This is Ms. Lepovetsky’s fourth story for EQMM. As in the others, her interest is in the small-town rural community and the way lives within it cross.

When I was a little girl, I loved to be scared. Now, when crimson and gold leaves rain from the maples and birches here in North Carolina to layer the ground, I’m sometimes a bit sorry that I’ve become too jaded to be really frightened anymore. Then I remember the last Halloween I spent back in Willowsburg, the year I turned fourteen. And I remember why I don’t like to be scared anymore.

We wore rough paper and cloth masks then, not rubber or vinyl. Nobody worried about risking their fingers in that ancient, sensuous ritual of gutting and carving great pumpkins. Homemade demons and evil spirits roamed the streets at night, hoping for nothing more than a good clean scare. We traveled in packs, imagining that would protect us from what waited for us in the dark. And we screamed in terror — and relief — when the boys jumped out at us from behind a hedgerow.

All the houses on River Road, where we lived back then, were decorated with life-size paper skeletons and whispery cornstalks and real candlelit jack-o’-lanterns. I remember those disturbing idiot smiles flickering from front-porch railings, and the smell of charred squash as flames licked at the soft carved lids. The neighbors all lurked behind their doors on Halloween to hand out fruit or home-baked goodies to those of us who braved the night. I still remember how I loved the taste of fear mixed in with the sweets.

I felt a curious combination of anticipation and regret that year, as autumn turned our small-town greens to brown. The roses had faded long ago, and the sky took on a deeper, more brittle blue behind the naked branches, a color that reminded me winter would soon be sniffing beneath the doors. I’d just started high school, and life just wasn’t the same anymore. I’d moved into a new world, but I’d left something behind, too.

My mother didn’t get our decorations out that fall. She was working extra shifts at the tannery, since Daddy had left. The second week of October, he’d put on his frayed brown suit and Panama hat, the way he always did when he went on a sales trip. Then he’d kissed Mama and me as he went out the door, whistling.

We were used to the sales trips, but he and Mama had argued the night before when he’d flown into one of his jealous rages, and she frowned a little when he kissed her. Mama often worried about him being gone, ever since he’d had the accident. Daddy had been touring another plant several years before, when a forklift went out of control, throwing him against a cement wall. He’d been in the hospital for a week, with broken ribs and a severe concussion, and was never quite the same after that.

The doctor couldn’t find anything physically wrong, but Daddy seemed secretive, suspicious all the time after that, kind of sneaking around. And he began drinking more. He and Mama fought all the time, it seemed, mostly about things he thought she was “up to.” No matter how much she denied them, he found some way to convince himself she was lying. So when he kissed her and smiled the morning after their big argument, she didn’t smile back. She went to the window and watched him drive away until he disappeared in the distance.

A week later, the Friday before Halloween, Mama called the shoe factory where Daddy worked. He’d rarely been gone that long; his trips never lasted longer than three days. The people at the shoe factory told her he’d been fired a month earlier for beating up a foreman. They had no idea where he’d been going every weekday since then, and certainly no idea where he was now.

I happened to walk in on the end of the conversation after school. I was surprised to see her there, because she usually left for work before I got home.

“What’s up?” I asked as she cradled the receiver. Her back was still to me. As she turned around, I saw tears on her cheeks. My heart froze — I’d never seen my mother cry before, not even during one of Daddy’s tirades. In a surprisingly steady voice, she explained what the manager of the shoe factory had just told her.

“I’m sure there’s some mistake,” she finished. “Or he’s going through some kind of psychological trauma. He’ll be back any day now; he always is. Don’t you worry about it.”

I didn’t believe her, and I didn’t think she believed herself. But I nodded and agreed with her. After all, what if Daddy didn’t come back? There wouldn’t be any more embarrassing phone calls to the local bars, looking for him. There’d be no fights in the middle of the night, while I covered my head with a pillow, praying he wouldn’t slam out the back door again.

But he was my father, and I loved him. He hadn’t always been so volatile, so tense. I knew that I could make everything right again, if he’d just give me the chance.

Mama redialed the phone as I started upstairs, and I heard her ask for Sheldon Owen, her boss at the tannery. I crept partway down the stairs again. I liked Shel Owen, everybody did. He was a widower who lived on an old farm about half a mile down River Road, where it twists to the west, away from town. He raised a little vegetable garden for himself, and about a half-acre of corn.

The first fall he moved into Willowsburg to take over the tannery, he hosted a neighborhood costume party/corn-roast the Saturday before Halloween. That was six years ago, but it was a huge success and became an instant tradition. Everybody on River Road prepared their costumes weeks in advance, trying to win first prize in the contest. Mr. Owen always found something interesting for the prize. That first year, Daddy won, dressed as an armchair, and he still carried the gold lighter with an evil jack-o’-lantern engraved on it. He’d been so proud of his prize, and we’d all had such fun that night. I cherished that memory.

“Shel?” Mama said quietly into the phone. “Harry’s gone again — a week this time... No, I don’t think so. He’s left before, but he always comes back after a week or so, when he gets tired of his little escapade.... I know, but that doesn’t mean anything. Any minute now, he’ll come marching through the door, wanting something to eat. I suppose we’ll have to figure something out about the job, though.... I know you will. I just wanted you to know why I’ll be a little late today... I know you do. Thanks. Thanks for everything. Of course we’ll be there tomorrow — wouldn’t miss it. I’m bringing my carrot cake and Sammi’s still working on her costume.”

I’d forgotten about the picnic. I wondered whether we’d still go if Daddy came home. We’d never missed a corn roast in the six years Mr. Owen had hosted them. For some reason, Daddy had developed a hatred for Shel Owen and never wanted to go now, but Mama insisted we go anyway. He was her boss, after all, she said. How would it look?

One year, Daddy and Mama had a big fight the night before the roast. He refused to go the next day, and forbid us to go, too. Mama just looked him in the eye, grabbed her cake, and marched me out to the old Ford station wagon without a word. It was the only time I ever saw her disobey him. Daddy didn’t come after us in his truck that time, but he never missed another corn roast. I don’t think he enjoyed them anymore, but he dressed up and went along every year.

By the next morning, Daddy still hadn’t come home. Mama packed up her witch costume into a plastic bag and left early to help Mr. Owen set up for the picnic. All his employees at the tannery seemed to like him, but he and Mama were especially close. They were about the same age, and never stopped talking about books and movies they both liked, and how “one of these days” Mr. Owen was going to help Mama plant her own vegetables. Sometimes I wondered about their relationship, but he was her boss, after all, and she was... well, she was my mother.

I got bored a couple of hours later, and decided to head over to the farm a little early. I hadn’t wanted to wear a costume because I was afraid none of my friends would be wearing them. But Mama had talked me into wearing the spider costume I’d made the year before out of a leotard and four pairs of black tights. I stuffed it into a duffel bag and left a note for Daddy, in case he came home while we were gone.

On the way, I stopped off at my friend Alice’s house, to see her costume. We talked for a while about what boys would be there, then had some sandwiches and a drink. I left about an hour later for Mr. Owen’s house. The afternoon was so beautiful that I decided to take the long way, staying on the road, rather than cut through the little woods and the cornfield.

I scuffed little waves of dirt around my sneakers as I walked, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the musty smells of burning leaves and dropped pine needles. I started as something scurried across my feet, then laughed nervously as I realized it was only some dry leaves caught in a little gust of wind. Nothing is ever what it seems to be at Halloween. Twilit ghosts dancing in the shadows behind the garage are no more than shirts left to dry on the line. Even the weather is infidel; in no more than the casual snap of barometric fingers, sultry warm days can leave us damp and shivering. I walked a little faster, not as happy to be alone as I had been a moment before.

I got to Mr. Owen’s house just before three, still an hour before anybody else was due to show up. The garden was black with newly filled soil, waiting for winter. I went around back first, to see whether there were any good ears of com left in the field. I liked wandering through the dry cornstalks, listening to the papery sound they make, even on the stillest days, like little voices whispering. I noticed Mr. Owen had put up a new scarecrow in the center of the field, using scrap leather from the tannery. But, as usual, the birds were perched on its arms and the big floppy hat, not a bit scared. I always suspected Mr. Owen really didn’t mind birds and animals in his cornfield that much, anyway. He even put a couple of the wormy ears out in his front yard for them every couple of days.

I headed toward the scarecrow anyway, assuming that if there were any good ears, that’s where they’d be. When I got close to the center of the field, I noticed something shiny in the dirt between the stalks. I stooped to pick it up. My breath stopped and I felt goosebumps prickle on the back of my neck. Daddy’s lighter.

I thought of Mama and Mr. Owen alone back at the house, and Daddy returning drunk from wherever he’d been. I imagined him finding my note and racing furiously through the woods and the cornfield to get there ahead of me, while I drank lemonade and chatted with Alice. I made myself stop imagining then, and ran back toward the house.

Mama and Mr. Owen came out onto the back porch just then. She had on her long black witch’s dress and some makeup that I thought made her look more beautiful than frightening. Mr. Owen was carrying a paper-wrapped bundle. He took his arm from around Mama’s shoulders when he saw me there, and Mama tucked a couple of strands of loose hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. Her eyes were red, and she came over and hugged me. She stepped back then and put her hands along the sides of my face. She looked into my eyes for a long time.

“Mama,” I gasped, holding out the lighter. “I found this. I think Daddy’s back. I was afraid that you... that he...”

Then Mr. Owen cleared his throat softly. Mama glanced at him. She smiled sadly and kissed my forehead as she took the lighter.

“Don’t worry, Sammi,” she said. “We’re fine. See? There’s nobody here but us. And look how dirty the lighter is. It must have been dropped awhile ago. Everything’s fine.”

She dropped the lighter into a pocket of her black dress. Before I had a chance to say more, she asked if I’d help set up the long picnic tables before everybody got there. Mr. Owen tucked the package into the pile of wood laid for the bonfire. We finished just as the first car pulled up, and I ran inside to change into my costume.

The com roast was as fun as always, and we stuffed ourselves with buttery, salty kernels that popped in our mouths almost before we bit into them. Mr. Owen oohed and aahed over Mama’s carrot cake until I was almost embarrassed for her. But she just smiled at him across the table, while everybody else nodded in agreement and dug in. The night settled onto the mountains like a cool, damp shawl, and a yellow moon began its ascent in the east.

Then came time for the bonfire. Mr. Owen let a couple of the men light it, while he brought out a tray stacked with marshmallows. The children all ran to find thin green branches for toasting them, and those of us who were too old to show that much enthusiasm found our own sticks more quietly.

When everybody was settled on a railroad tie, one of the kids called out for a ghost story. Everyone cheered. Mama turned to Mr. Owen.

“Shel, you know some good stories,” she said. “Tell one.” We all clapped our encouragement.

He shook his head. “Not this year,” he said, looking at my mother. “I can’t think of any.” She looked away.

There was some good-natured booing and more clapping. Then Mr. Owen looked at me. I nodded and mouthed the word please, and he smiled, the same sad smile Mama had on her face earlier.

“Okay,” he said, sitting back on his haunches and looking into the fire. “This one is about monsters, monsters who look like people, wear people’s faces, but are deformed and evil underneath. Kind of a Halloween costume in reverse.”

Mr. Owen stared into the fire for a few seconds, frowning. He looked as if he’d forgotten all about the party around him.

“These monsters find families to infiltrate,” he continued. “They pick the best husbands and wives and the nicest kids because that’s where they find sustenance. They’re always hungry, never satisfied. They insert invisible fangs into the lives of the ones they should love the most and feed on that gentleness and love, grinding and devouring it until there isn’t anything left. Those families just walk around with nothing inside, empty as the sky. Then they just blow away in the first wind.”

One of the smaller children whimpered, “Mommy, that’s scary.” Mr. Owen glanced up as though surprised to find all of us still there. He stood and kicked a corn husk into the fire.

“You’re right,” he said. “That’s a lousy story. I’m sorry, but I guess I’m just too tired for a good story tonight.”

After that, the guests seemed rather subdued, and the party never quite got going again. It broke up early, most of the parents packing up their little ones and saying good night. A few of the older teens and single adults fiddled around with their marshmallow sticks for a while, but even they didn’t stay much longer.

Mama and I were the last to leave. She went inside alone to say good night to Mr. Owen, then we headed up the road in the old station wagon. Neither of us said much; it had been a long day, and we were tired. When we got home, the note was still on the kitchen table where I’d left it. I crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash can.

I never saw Daddy again, and Mama threw out the Halloween decorations the next spring when we moved away from Willowsburg. I have my own house now, and my porch light remains off every Halloween night to discourage trick-or-treaters. I keep my door locked tightly to keep out monsters. I don’t like remembering that last Halloween party at Mr. Owen’s house.

Because then I remember seeing Mama silhouetted against the bonfire, after everybody had gone home. She threw something into the flames that looked a lot like a Panama hat. And I remember that tilled patch of earth behind Mr. Owen’s house, and what the police found buried there after I gave them the lighter I dug back out of Mama’s pocket. And I hope Mr. Owen forgives me.