'Wistful Halloween' --- short story

Howdy folks.

So there's a second writing group that I'm involved in, called Rag 'n' Bone. RnB is a heck of a lot more informal than 20mw (my other group), and the focus is much more on just having a great time. We only meet every couple of months, writing to a theme, but usually it's about finding ways to make the theme as hilarious as possible.

Anyhoo, last week we were writing to the theme 'Whimsical Halloween', and were provided a bunch of photographs to provide inspiration. One of them was this:

I can't claim this as some brilliant work of literature. I just loved that photo, and wasn't interested in any of the 'spookier' images we had to work with. I also couldn't think of a whimsical story, so mine's more wistful. Hey, they both start with W and end with L. Anyway, enjoy! (Or don't. Whatever.)

Wistful Halloween

Pamela and Julian looked forward to Halloween more than anything. For weeks beforehand they practiced their strolling, promenading around the dining table until they’d worn a shiny path in the carpet.

‘What shall we dress up as, darling?’ Julian asked on the morning of the thirty-first.

‘Very droll, dear,’ Pamela answered. They had the same exchange every year.

All day they tried to pretend that they weren’t excited, that this night wasn’t the highlight of their unfortunate lives. Julian read a book, but found himself reading the same sentence over and over. Pamela did some knitting, but found herself constantly unravelling her work to begin again, until the wool was so badly crimped as to be unusable. Come dusk, however, they were both to be found in the parlour, peeping out through the blinds.

***

Pamela and Julian had moved to Smithton immediately after the accident. Since taking the house and arriving in the dead of night, they hadn’t shown themselves outside, out of embarrassment. Their only communication with the outside world came, ironically enough, via the telephone. Their neighbours had coming knocking in the first few days, but had of course received no answer.

It was common knowledge in the town that the house was occupied—Tommy Walton dropped off a dozen bags of groceries every Monday morning—but as to the identity of the occupants, the townsfolk had never had the slightest clue. The groceries sat on the step all day, but must have been taken in overnight, because they were always gone the next morning.

The town’s children made up lurid stories of murderers and ghosts, and always walked past on the other side of the street. The adults just grumbled about unneighbourliness.

Slowly the garden—and the house’s exterior—had grown shabby, then unkempt, and passed through dilapidated before settling into decrepitude. Ruin would come soon enough.

Now, whenever the townsfolk thought of the old house they tut-tutted, and they wondered. But they didn’t think of the house, or its occupants, very often any more.

***

‘You pick the number this year, dear, but do make it a small one. I’m getting itchy feet.’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Good.’

Once it grew dark enough that the streetlights flickered to life, Pamela and Julian peered through slits in the blinds. It was a game they played: one of them picked the number and then they stood at the windows and counted. Only once seventeen costumed children had scurried past would they emerge from their house and join them.

Because Halloween was different. On Halloween Pamela and Julian could once again walk the streets without fear, could once again breathe fresh air and stretch their legs and stroll about unmolested. To any prying eyes they would seem merely another costumed pair, perhaps too old now to be begging for candy, but maybe on their way to a party somewhere. Yes, the pry-ers would think, yes, that must be it, on their way to a party … though their costumes are a bit odd, really, aren’t they? And didn’t I see somebody wearing the exact same thing last year?

***

‘Sixteen.’

‘And there’s another. Seventeen!’

‘Ooh, I like her Cinderella outfit.’

‘The glass slippers must be murder on her feet, poor darling.’

‘I’m sure they’re not actual glass.’

Julian took Pamela’s hand in his. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Good God yes,’ she answered. They crept into the hall, then to the front door. ‘It’s your turn to go first,’ Julian whispered.

‘No it’s not, you’re just frightened.’

‘Of course I am, but are you sure I didn’t go first last year?’

***

The accident had happened in the workshop. Pamela and Julian had owned and operated a small company making and restoring antique telephones. There were enough people out there who wanted something fashionably clunky that they were able to make a comfortable living. Until …

Julian had been screwing the steel baseplate into a replica of a Simmons A7 Model. It was a custom job, two-toned in red and white. ‘Like a pair of bowling shoes,’ he’d said at the time, shrugging. Pamela was testing her latest creation, a hook-and-cradle job that she’d spent two weeks piecing together from various spare parts.

‘I’d love to go dancing in a pair of bowling shoes,’ Pamela said. ‘It would be marvellous, sliding around so easily—’

It was at that moment that the workshop exploded.

***

The doctors were shocked that they both survived, but even more shocking was the curious nature of their deformities. Telephone parts had embedded themselves into each of their skulls, fusing with the bone in the heat of the fire. It was too risky to attempt to separate them from their phone-skulls: no, they would instead have to live like freaks. And so they moved towns, and once they reached Smithton, they never stirred  outdoors, hiding their audio-communication-equipment-related shame. The building they lived in may have looked like a house, but it was, in fact, a cage.

Except on Halloween.

***

Pamela edged the door open, all the while cursing Julian for a coward. The cool fall breeze rushed into the hall, stirring the dust and stirring something within the two shut-ins. A single fallen maple leaf, orange and yellow and turning brown at the edges, flew through the door. Pamela and Julian breathed deeply.

And then, after checking carefully that the coast was clear, they skipped down the path, out the creaking gate and onto the sidewalk. Giggling, Julian put out his elbow. Giddy, Pamela slipped her arm through the gap. And all night they walked together, and talked together, and were free.

THE END

Story notes:

• It's very jump-about-in-time-y. I hope it's not confusing in terms of what's happening when.
• It's very silly. I make no apologies for that. Of course it is. It's about people with telephones fused to their heads. You try writing a serious story about that photograph.
• Even though Halloween is a distinctly American thing, it just felt right writing Pamela and Julian as kind of hoity-toity, even though they come across more English than anything else. It also doesn't really scan that they talk like that, but used to work as manual craftsmen (or women). All I can say about that is: meh, I don't care.

And that's really all I got. Peace out.

Cheers, JC

currently reading: The Corner by David Simon and Ed Burns

books to go: 120

(Oh, a bit of housekeeping. There's been a bit of weirdness with how many hits this blog is getting, and where they're coming from. Like, for a period of about an hour I was suddenly really popular in Poland and Brazil. So if anyone notices any weirdness going on, or starts seeing weird links on their blogs, or whatever, just let me know. I'm probably being paranoid, but my last email account was telling my friends about a French electronics store a while back without my knowledge or consent. And if you're a genuine reader from Brazil or Poland or Turkey or Iran, please don't be offended!)