Halloween Gallows
Author: Cullen Bunn
Date: 2011-10-14 00:05:42+00:00
Description: From Cullen Bunn - author of Blood Feud and Crooked Hills, and creator of the comic books The Sixth Gun and The Damned, comes a fun size sampling of short fiction featuring the short story Gallows, and four festively fiendish tales of Halloween horror featuring the ghoulish and gracious Mrs. Friedly.
Publisher: House of Melee, Misc.

GALLOWS

IT HAD BEEN MORE than fifteen years since he last visited the Gallow’s Tree, and the old paths were overgrown with treacherous weeds and briars. Val worried he wouldn’t remember the way through the tangles of crooked oaks and pines. But as he trudged along the shadow-dappled carpentry of leaves and pine needles, he started to notice familiar landmarks—the rotting remains of a great stump, a jagged outcropping of rock with peculiar red markings—though they be concealed by moss and brambles.

“This way,” he said, pushing aside a grasping, thorny vine. “I can almost make out the trail.”

David followed. As he ducked beneath the vines, a thorn snagged his sleeve. He cursed and tugged his sweater free.

“Let me get this straight.” He laughed. “You used to live here?”

Val nodded. He had been expecting David’s sarcastic streak to bloom at any moment.

“Here,” David said again.

“In the vicinity, yeah.” Val glanced over his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow. “You find that hard to believe, I take it?”

“Well, yeah. No offense, man. Me of all people – I’m not judging you, but I just can’t imagine you growing up in a place this … I don’t know … rural.”

“Eight years of my life,” Val said. “My family moved here around the time I turned nine. Remember the house we passed at the edge of the woods? I grew up there.”

“That old ruin?” David laughed again.

“It was in better shape back then.”

“I can’t imagine anyone ever living there, let alone the great Val Winters, cosmopolitan playboy.”

“Houses rot,” Val answered, “and people change.”

With every step, Val felt the day-to-day pressures of boardroom battles and grueling conference calls and scandalous media attention. He had wondered if returning after all this time would be a good idea. Now he wondered why he had waited so long.

“Val Winters!” David’s voice rang out through the forest. A flock of agitated black birds took flight from nearby branches. “King of the Wild Frontier!”

Up ahead, wiry vegetation with inch-long thorns swallowed the path. To the right, dense grey trees formed a nearly impassable wall. To the left, the path descended toward a dry creek bed. This Val remembered, only water flowed through the channel when he had last seen this place, and he had used stepping-stones to cross. He skirted down the bank and climbed the other side. David tripped when he reached the creek bed, falling to his hands and knees. He regained his footing quickly, brushing feverishly at his slacks.

“We never discussed the matter of my dry cleaning bill,” he said. “And my shoes are ruined.”

“Should have worn something more suited to the woods.”

A snide smile curled David’s lips. “Like I have anything like that.”

“Haven’t you ever been camping?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Offering a hand, Val hoisted David up the other side of the bank. David’s palm was clammy and sweaty.

“You all right?” Val asked.

“Fine. Fine. But tell me again what we’re looking for. I mean, I understand wanting to take a walk down memory lane as much as the next guy, but this—”

“We’re not far now,” Val said.

The path was even more overgrown on this side of the creek bed. If not for Val’s memory of the route he had taken on so many occasions, they might have quickly lost their way. As they proceeded through the forest, the twilight shadows grew longer, the darkness between the hollows of trees deeper. Soon, the trail broadened, exposing a shaded clearing.

Before them loomed a massive, gnarled old tree.

Val stopped.

“This is it,” he said. The trunk of the tree was gray, and runners, like veins, threaded along the craggy bark. The limbs stretched in all directions, reaching to the edges of the clearing and forming a crisscrossing net overhead, a web ensnaring the darkening sky. The bends and knots of the branches reminded David of the arthritic arms of retired muscle builders. “This?” David asked.

“This? You drug me all the way out here for this?”

“You don’t know what you’re looking at.”

“What did you call it?” David asked.

Val’s gaze danced over the tree.

“The Old Gallows Tree,” he said.

David shrugged. “Sorry, man. I was expecting a little more, I guess.”

“This spot was used during lynchings,” Val said. “From the branches of this tree—the Gallows Tree—criminals were executed. A lot of people believe many of the men who were killed here were innocent, victims of an overzealous lynch mob. At night the ghosts of the hanged men appear, still dangling from the branches, whispering their pleas of innocence to anyone who will listen.”

“You’ve got a real morbid streak, Val. Did I ever tell you that?” David shook his head, but his laughter caught in his throat. “Wait a second. You’re not going to tell me that you believe the stories, are you?”

“Of course I do,” Val said.

A gust of wind rushed through the clearing, and the old tree limbs swayed.

“When I first heard the stories about the Gallow’s Tree,” Val said, “I was fascinated. I always loved monsters and ghosts. They terrified me, but I loved them.”

“Sounds vaguely like a co-dependent relationship,” David mused.

“Smartass. You know what I mean. Then I learned that this tree was just a short hike through the woods from my house, so of course I had to check it out. I snuck out of the house one night and followed the trail back into the woods. Got lost so bad at least once that it’s amazing that I ever made it out. I found the tree, though … and the stories were true.”

He approached the tree, ran his fingertips along the trunk.

“The tree hasn’t changed much in all the years,” he said.

“So if it’s true,” David said, “where are these ghosts?”

Val backed away from the tree, still looking up at the crooked boughs, and sat down upon the ground. “We wait,” he said.

“What? For how long?”

“As long as it takes. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” He fished the car keys from his pocket and tossed them to David. “Go on back to town, check into a motel. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“As if I’ll be able to find my way to the car.” David threw the keys back. “I guess I’m waiting with you, although I hate the idea of fueling your delusions.”

As night settled around them, the air grew cold.

Val continued his story.

“Here’s the thing. When I was a kid, I felt like no one wanted to talk to me. No one wanted to listen to me. We had just moved to the area. You know how it is—being different. I didn’t have any friends.”

“Everyone feels that way at one time or another,” David said.

“Yeah, I guess so. I know it’s going to sound crazy, but the tree became something of a friend to me. Not the tree. The spirits. I listened to them and they listened to me.”

“Val, if you’re not pulling my leg with all this, the first thing we have to do when we get back home is get you a therapist. Sitting out here in the middle of the woods, waiting for … ghosts to appear—it’s crazy. We don’t even have jackets, and it’s freezing out here.”

“It always gets colder before they appear.”

“Oh, come off it, will you –”

The tree groaned and creaked.

Val turned and looked up at the tree. A pale luminescence washed across his face. David followed his gaze.

From each of the heavy branches depended a ghastly figure. Coarse, knotted rope dug into the flesh of their throats. Their bodies sagged, limp beneath outstretched and distended necks. Their faces were bloodless, frozen in painful leers. Their eyes bulged in the sockets. They swayed back and forth as they glared down upon Val and David.

“Oh, Lord,” David choked.

The whispered voices of the ghosts joined the unremitting creaking of the ropes.

“Innocennnt …”

“I did not do this thing.”

“Please. Innocent. Please.”

Each horrific spirit gibbered of its innocence.

“Val, let’s go. I believe you, ok? You’ve proven your point. Let’s just go.”

But Val stepped towards the tree. He raised his arms towards it. “Do you remember me?” he asked.

“Innocent,” the spirits hissed. “I used to come out here.” Val’s voice sounded almost childlike. “To talk with you.”

“Mercy! Mercy! I have committed no crime!”

“Please,” Val said, “you remember, don’t you?”

But still the spirits ignored him, instead crying out to the unseen lynch mob that had killed them so long ago.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dave said, grabbing Val by the shoulder. “They … they don’t remember.”

“No!” Val shrugged his hand away. “They know who I am.”

The spirits gibbered incessantly, and it was impossible to tell where one plea for mercy ended and another began.

“They remember,” Val said. Spittle flew from his lips. “They just want me to prove myself.”

“What are you talking about? I’m leaving. You hear me, Val? I’m leaving.”

“You’ll get lost in the woods,” Val said. “You said so yourself.”

David stepped away.

“Funny thing about these spirits,” Val said. “They hang there professing their innocence. But they aren’t innocent, David. They committed the crimes. Only they won’t admit it, except to one of their own.”

“One of their own?”

“I found out quite by accident, you know? And they demanded so little. A favorite pet. But they started asking for more and more, but it was worth it, because they listened, really listened. They understood me.”

Val jangled the car keys in his had. He wrapped his fist around the keys, leaving the point of one protruding from his fist.

“I just have to remind them. That’s all.”

He took a step towards David.

“What are you doing?”

Val drew closer. As if sensing Val’s intent, the tree spirits started convulsing and howling, only this time they did not plead for clemency, did not weep for their disavowed innocence confessions, but instead cackled and hissed the most awful stories – stories of murder, theft, rape, and worse – all the while trembling and bucking and swinging back and forth – back and forth – on the decaying, creaking ropes.

Val’s hand flashed out.

GONE FISHIN’

“Another year,” Mrs. Friedly piped, “another Halloween Festival!”

The Elk Ridge Community Center was decorated with paper jack o’lanterns, dancing skeletons, and dozens of orange and black streamers. Children in costume—goblins and witches, vampires and ghouls, princesses and ninjas—scurried around the large chamber, and their laughter and squeals formed a constant din.

Mrs. Friedly clucked her tongue as she watched the children. Maybe she was old-fashioned, but some of the costumes just didn’t seem very… Halloweeny… to her. Ghouls and ghosts and monsters—those were fine. But the princesses and cowboys and monkeys just didn’t seem to fit the spirit of the occasion. Halloween, as the elderly woman saw it, was supposed to be a spooky night.

What on earth, she thought, is a ninja anyway?

The festivities were in full swing. Music swelled as a group of older children (and more than a few parents) took part in a cake walk. Screams and giggles rose from the make-shift haunted house the local Industrial Arts club was putting on behind the curtain on the auditorium stage. Groups of kids were playing Pass the Pumpkin and Candy Corn Catch. All around the perimeter of the massive chamber were small booths featuring all sorts of attractions and games. Fortune tellers, face painting, apple bobbing—there was something for everyone. There was even a kissing booth, sponsored by the Elk Ridge High School cheerleaders, and the line of teenage boys waiting for a smooch was impressive.

A pudgy little boy approached Mrs. Friedly’s booth.

“What’s this all about?” he asked.

Mrs. Friedly looked the boy over in disappointment. His only attempt to get into the spirit of Halloween was to wear a t-shirt that read, “This IS my costume!” Still, she forced a sweet smile.

“This is the fish pond.” She motioned to the curtain wall behind her. The curtain was decorated with dozens of swimming fish, many with sharp, fearsome-looking teeth. “You cast a line over the curtain and fish for a prize.”

“What kind of prize?”

Mrs. Friedly eyed the boys round belly and smiled. “Usually something good to eat!”

“I’ll give it a try,” the boy said.

Mrs. Friedly giggled happily. “Oh, goody!”

The boy looked around the booth. His brow furrowed. “Where are the fishing poles?”

Just then, he noticed something large moving behind the curtain. It was the shape and size of a gorilla, but the head was misshapen and covered in what might have been wriggling snakes. The grotesque figure made awful grunting sounds as it approached.

“W-what’s that?” the boy asked.

He had his answer soon enough. The shadowy figure moved behind the curtain. A fishing line dropped down next to Mrs. Friedly. At the end of the line was a large, rusty hook. Mrs. Friedly grabbed the hook. Without a second’s hesitation, she flicked her wrist and drove the hook through the flesh of the boy’s mouth.

The boy screeched and trembled, pulled at the hook and flailed.

Mrs. Friedly looked around. No one else seemed to notice.

The elderly woman gave the fishing line two quick tugs. The line was quickly retracted, and the little boy was hoisted up. He vanished over the top of the curtain. The last Mrs. Friedly saw of him was his kicking legs flopping over the edge.

Mrs. Friedly smiled and hummed to herself as she waited for her next customer. Within a few minutes, she saw a princess walking her way, and she felt a little rush of Halloween excitement.

THE SILENT AUCTION

“My word, Mrs. Friedly!” Claire tapped the tiny, elderly woman on the shoulder. “I’ve never heard such questions in all my life!”

Mrs. Friedly turned and regarded her new neighbor over the rim of her round-framed eyeglasses. “What’s that, dear?”

“These questions–” Claire waved towards the gorilla-suited MC, who was busy reading trivia questions from a crumpled sheet of paper. Behind him, a banner was tacked to the wall. HALLOWEEN TRIVIA NIGHT, it read. “–They’re dreadful!”

Mrs. Friedly smiled sweetly and nodded.

“OUR NEXT QUESTION …” The MC’s voice, muffled beneath his ape mask, boomed over the microphone. “…NAME, IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, THE VICTIMS OF JACK THE RIPPER.”

Claire gasped in disgust, but a nervous titter passed through the crowd. At each table, a group of costumed ghouls gathered around scorecards. They whispered to each other and jotted their answers down. The question seemed to spark a heated debate at one of the nearby tables. A thin man in a skeleton get-up asked his companions, “Do you think he means just the known victims? Or should we list all the others, too?”

“AND THE FINAL QUESTION IN THIS CATEGORY,” The MC announced. It must have been very hard to breathe under the mask. Drool dribbled from the gorilla’s lips. “ACCORDING TO POPULAR BELIEF, HOW MANY CHILDREN WERE DEVOURED AT THE SIXTH FEAST OF EIBON?”

Mrs. Friedly clucked her tongue and muttered, “Trick question.”

“I’m afraid this is not what I had in mind,” Claire told the elderly woman. “I don’t care if it is Halloween. These questions are simply revolting. What charity is this event benefiting anyway? I appreciate you trying to introduce me to some of the other people from the neighborhood–I really do–but I think it would be best if I left.”

“Oh, don’t run off,” Mrs. Friedly said. “I’m sorry about the trivia questions. But I didn’t write them. I just run the silent auction, and that’s about to begin.

A cheer rose from the crowd as Mrs. Friedly walked to the center of the stage and took the microphone from the gorilla.

Just then, a pair of hands grabbed Claire by the shoulders and roughly pushed her on-stage. She struggled to free herself, but the beast that held her refused to let go.

“Here we have a lovely young woman,” Mrs. Friedly said. The crowd of monsters clapped and hooted. “She’s new to the neighborhood, and very sweet, I’m sure. Do I have an opening bid?”

Several members of the crowd raised clawed hands to place bids.

“Let me go!” Claire yelled. “This isn’t funny! Let me go right NOW!”

Mrs. Friedly looked at the young woman and made a tsk tsk tsk sound. She handed the microphone back to the gorilla, and approached. She dug in the pockets of her dress and withdrew a pair of bright, shiny scissors.

“Didn’t I tell you, dear?” Mrs. Friedly asked.

The hands at Claire’s shoulders strayed to her face and forced her mouth open. Mrs. Friedly raised the scissors.

“This is a silent auction,” she said.

The scissors snipped closed.

FRIEDLY’S TREATS

Joshua hated Halloween. He once loved costumes and jack o’lanterns and candy. But now he dreaded the holiday.

Outside, trick-or-treaters giggled and climbed Mrs. Friedly’s porch steps. The shuddering knock sent shivers down Joshua’s spine. He squeezed his eyes shut.

The door creaked open. Cool air swept the foyer.

Guttural voices cried, “Trick or treat!”

“Aren’t you fearsome!” Mrs. Friedly beamed at the anxious little monsters. “I’ve something extra special for you.”

Joshua squirmed as she lifted him, but the ropes around his hands and feet held tight. The gag muffled his screams. Grinning sweetly, Mrs. Friedly plopped him into one of the yawning treat bags.

“Oh, dear!” She pursed her lips. “I’m afraid I’m all out of treats. I don’t have enough for each of you.”

A disappointed groan rose from the beasties.

“Oh, I know!” The kindly-looking woman snapped her fingers and ducked into the house. She reappeared minutes later.

She dropped shiny treats into the other bags.

Wide-eyed, Joshua watched over the edge of the bag.

“Here you go!” Mrs. Friedly said. “Remember to share.”

Thanking the old woman, the hideously-masked trick-or-treaters skipped down the sidewalk, Joshua in one bag, butcher knives and meat cleavers in the others.

THE BEST COSTUMES ARE HOMEMADE

Mrs. Friedly had been feeling quite festive, but the children were raising such a fuss that she was growing cross. She took a deep breath, though, and reminded herself that it was, after all, her favorite holiday. She refused to let it be spoiled. She picked a piece of candy from the bowl on the kitchen table and plopped it into her mouth. She instantly felt better.

But the children still whined and mewled.

“Now, now, my sweet ones,” Mrs. Friedly said, “I’m afraid this really is a necessity. I know you love the costumes we’ve made, but it is simply too cold out, and you must wear your jackets.”

The children moaned and sighed, whimpered and cried. Mrs. Friedly clucked her tongue as she gathered their jackets.

“Now, now. I know what you think. We worked very diligently on those costumes, and they are very scary. I realize you think that wearing a coat will ruin the illusion, but I can’t imagine your parents will approve if you come home with colds. I mean, look at you. You’re already shivering, each and every one of you.”

She offered the first of the children—Sara—her coat. Sniffling, the little girl slipped into the garment and shuffled off.

“There you are,” said Mrs. Friedly, “and you still look quite frightening!”

She handed jackets to little Billy and Gretchen and Scotty. The children screeched with disappointment as they pulled their jackets on.

“Now, that’s just about enough of that,” Mrs. Friedly said. “It’s Halloween, and you should be happy to go trick-or-treating. I still have to finish costumes for the other children.”

Mrs. Friedly looked over her shoulder. In the living room, the other children in her care—the children from the “wrong side of the tracks”—waited patiently while watching Charlie Brown. Misshapen shadows from the flickering TV screen danced across the walls.

“You know they are less fortunate than you,” Mrs. Friedly said, lowering her voice, “but you don’t see them complaining. Now, off you go!”

She ushered the whimpering children towards the door.

“Have fun!” she called, but she could hear them crying as they shuffled down the walkway.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Friedly shut the door and returned to the kitchen to finish the costumes for the other kids. The floor, she noticed, was a mess, covered in puddles of spattered gore and tracked around in four sets of bloodied footprints.

Those really were frightening costumes, she thought to herself. Perhaps I should have put plastic down. Oh, well. No use worrying over spilled milk now.

She sat at the table and set about stitching and patching together the four new Halloween disguises. Normally, she would have taken the time to clean the table up a bit before she got started. She, like her mother before her, had always been a clean-as-you-go kind of woman. But she could hear Charlie Brown coming to an end in the next room, and she knew the children would soon grow restless. She worked around the oozing, dripping blood and promised herself she’d make the entire house spotless once the holiday was over and done.

After a few minutes, she sat back and surveyed her handiwork. The new costumes were ready and—if she did say so herself—they looked terrific. She called to the children in the other room.

The kids shuffled and loped and slithered into the kitchen. Their teeth and fangs and mandibles clicked together with anticipation. They could already taste the treats they’d receive tonight, and saliva oozed down their chins, dripping to the bloody floor with all their other ichors and bodily secretions.

“Here you are.” Mrs. Friedly held up the first of the costumes for one of the children. “Tonight, you’ll be going as Sara.”

The child took the fleshy, sticky costume and pulled it on over its chitenous, roach-like shell.

“And you,” Mrs. Friedly said to the next child, “will be Billy.”

The second child took the costume, sniffing it hungrily.

“It’s not for eating,” Mrs. Friedly said, “at least not until after you’re done trick-or-treating.”

The third child wore the Gretchen costume, although Mrs. Friedly had to cut additional holes into the face for the extra set of eyes.

The final child had never dressed up for Halloween, but the Scotty costume Mrs. Friedly had made fit perfectly over his twisted, scaly body.

Mrs. Friedly clapped her hands together excitedly.

“Oh, don’t you look wonderful!”

Before her stood Sara, Gretchen, Billy, and Scotty, albeit stitched and bloodied versions of said children. They looked grotesque, that was for certain, but far less so than usual.

“And isn’t that what Halloween is all about?” asked Mrs. Friedly. “Pretending to be someone you’re not.”

She handed each of the children a plastic jack o’lantern and each, in turn, a slip of paper. On each scrap of paper was written an address.

“Sara’s home, and Scotty’s, and Gretchen’s, and Billy’s. I think their parents will be most thrilled with your costumes. Oh, how I wish I could be there to see the looks on their faces.”

The four costumed creatures shuffled out the front door—none of them wearing a jacket. They croaked, “Trick or treat! Trick or treat!” as they moved along the walkway.

“Would you look at that,” Mrs. Friedly called from the doorway. “Someone left you some treats right in the front yard.”

Four crumpled, bloody, skinless figures were sprawled in the yard. Blood had soaked through their jackets, ruining them.