The Pumpkin Ghost slithered through the night on withered, spectral stalks. It was Jack’s shadow, made of everything that was thrown away: The stringy, seed-speckled entrails, the sawed out shapes of nose and eye and grinning mouth. It demanded that everything forgotten get its due. It sought to be whole again. But as it surveyed the neighborhood, it saw the sinking shapes of rotting fruit, smashed or half-eaten by squirrels. It saw strings of lights set out for the next holiday. It realized forgetting is a cycle. As it fit itself awkwardly back into rotting shells, it yearned for revenge.
He’d been bitten and turned in the 1870s, long before Stoker’s torrid little novel. He’d met the man, and remembered him as passably handsome, but not nearly as charming or clever as he supposed himself. Now the dead mortal got all the credit and he was left a pop culture cliché. It infuriated him. The worst part was, he wanted to change. The world had progressed, but he could not. It was full of wondrous things he’d never understand. His death had trapped him like a fly in amber. Now, he would never be anything more than a Victorian Vampire.
He didn’t realize the old book he picked up from the consignment shop was a ghost until he brought it home. But that night he was kept awake by the sounds of creaking leather bindings and rustling yellow pages. A story lives when it is told, and can leave a ghost behind when it’s forgotten. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy a book, so he tried to dump it in a free little library. The book was back on his shelf the next day. He realized the story wasn’t malevolent, just lonely. So he built an archive for it instead.
The Jolly Scarecrow perched upon his pole and looked out across the valley. Everything was calm and still. No screaming crows or ravens perched on the corn. No scurrying rat skulked among the wheat. No buzzing locust descended upon the vines. Everything was perfect. When rain fell, fat and heavy and black with soot, it knocked the unharvested apples from the trees, where no intruder plucked them from the ground. Since the noise and fire on the horizon, no humans came in their noisy machines to cut down stalk and branch. All was as it should be. The scarecrow beamed.
I sat in the squeaky leather chair in my financial planner’s office and tried not to look nervous. The annual visit always terrified me, like I was about to make some faustian bargain. “Is it a bull or a bear market?” I asked, pulling out the one bit of jargon I knew, but didn’t fully understand. She smiled, exposing too many little white teeth, and passed a document across the desk. “Actually, it’s a goblin market. I can get your a fantastic rate on your 401K in exchange for your ability to taste strawberries.” I sighed and signed the contract.
The Worm Witch sat and felt her children dig through the soil, breaking apart and enriching the earth. She felt the warmth of their passage and judged them to be good. She blessed them with her magic: The power of rotten leaves and soft rain. Autumn was her time. As she rose and brushed the dirt from her hands she reflected that what was pleasant was not the same as what was necessary. Few would call her beautiful, but she cast her spells through the forest’s leaf-strewn paths; renewing it, preparing it for the long winter and the next spring.
The daughter of the vampire’s latest victim was a girl of twenty so beautiful that he decided to abandon his long-term plans and take her for his new Bride. He approached her as she lay in bed, summoning all his dark powers. But something was wrong. She sat up and brandished the crucifix hidden beneath the covers. The monster recoiled and felt the tip of a stake press against his back. “Count, you’re under arrest.” She flashed her badge and slapped a pair of sanctified handcuffs over his wrists. She hated these sting operations, but the payoff was always satisfying.
The Silent King sat on his throne, reigning. All about him, the palace bustled. Ministers saw to their purviews and clerks filed reports. Judges saw justice done. The kingdom ticked along smoothly. It was never said, but the king was famous for his laziness. He’d learned at his father’s side and watched the man work himself into the grave. He spent his first decade building a bureaucracy he could wind up like clockwork. Government became so self-sufficient he found himself without any duties at all, which pleased him. He died sitting on his throne, and his subjects left him there.
As the final test of their apprenticeship, Shadow Keepers are given a sturdy box with a heavy lock. They’re instructed to never let it be opened, lest the darkness inside be loosed on the world. They are also given the key. Some apprentices open the box on their first night. Others dutifully guard it for years. But eventually, everyone succumbs to the temptation. Inside, they find a letter for them from their master, along with the letter their master received, and so on back to the founding of their order. They learn their true history, along with their real purpose.
The restless dead lay in their coffins, unable to rise. They could not return to the long repose of death, staring up at the darkness of their coffin lids like a sleepless night that never ends. They called to one another, but the dirt muffled everything except the sound of footsteps from mourners above leaving flowers or stones upon their graves. They were waiting for something, but even they did not know what. They lay caught between life and death, with only the memories of their misspent lives for company. Someday, the necromancer would remember where he dropped that crystal.
Hugh J. O'Donnell 