Left Alone: A Halloween Tale

The pungent aroma of roasted pumpkin seeds, fresh from the scorching blaze, permeated the home.  Chris breathed in the intoxicating mixture, satisfaction layering his melancholy mood.  Youthful indignation surged in a fresh wave. 

         How could they do this to him?  It was one thing to reprimand him, but ground him on Halloween?  Was there no justice in the world?  There he sat, crossed-legged on the wooden bench, sturdy as it was old, in the backyard, upset that just outside the confines of his cage lay a festive night worth remembering.  The orange moon hung above his head, relaxing in its uncontested dominion of the speckled night sky. 

         He had long since abandoned any desire to trick-or-treat.  At his age, gorging himself on sweet delights echoed only in memory: pains the following morning and feverish nights spent touring a canvas of sugar induced night terrors gone, relics of a distant past. 

         No, tonight breathed freedom among the anarchic hordes.  Yet, here he was, trapped in the quiet repose of suburbia: one more copy of tranquility in the form of a small fenced yard, private and calm save the unhappy adolescent that stalked its bounds.  His mother's lawn gnome gaped stupidly, smiling with that benign happiness indicative of absence of thought.  The small creature mocked his predicament.  Besides, his crime hardly justified imprisonment.  It wasn't a big deal: a misdemeanor at worse. 



         Third period ended with a chorus of lockers, conversation, and shuffling feet typical of the short break between one boring hour and the next.  He ran into Justin at their locker.  The ritual decision of where to eat lunch burned another five minutes; they decided on Luigi's.    At fifteen, your options were limited to, if you cared for perfunctory attendance and avoided tardy marks like the plague, believe me there are kids that really give a damn about that attendance award at the end of the year, golden sticker that it was, a ten minute walking distance one way.  Among that constrained menu were Taco Bell, McDonald's, Trivelli's Italian Bistro, and Luigi's.  They preferred Luigi's; it's difficult to turn down hot oily cheese pizza and a refreshing coke after three hours of suffering. 

         Following the midday feast, seven minutes of eating like starving orphans, Justin described the night's plan with glee. 

         “We'll meet up at my place around seven.  Then we can head over to Ben's and gather the goods.  Ben said he had enough eggs to cover Mr. Steel's car and about five thousand plastic forks for the lawn.” 

         Mr. Steel was their overbearing math teacher.  To announce the beginning of class, he would smash his fist into the groaning teacher's desk.  Effective though it may be to silence a room, the noise pounded into oblivion that delightful morning haze, announcing the start of another school day and marking the beginning of an early morning headache.  Just because the teacher was ready to draw triangles and belabor the beauty of proofs didn't imply the students were or cared to be.  It was past time that Mr. Steel suffered the painful discordance of someone rudely interrupting the flow of his day.           Justin had added the eggs to the plan, a nice touch that he said would “show Mr. Steel what it's like to have your morning completely ruined.”

         Five thousand forks would complement the sticky yellow goo by glittering Mr. Steel's front yard landscape, like an infestation of plastic weeds gone mad.  The best part, when it came to forking a lawn, was the cleanup it required of the unsuspecting victim.  If Mr. Steel, in an impatient or lazy mood, attempted mowing down the white growth the three prongs at the fork's end would break off creating a miniature mine-field, the demilitarized zone of Korea became the barrier separating Steel from those wise enough to avoid a teenager's ire.  Like the rigor a math proof required, almost poetic, each hand implanted fork demanded meticulous, one at a time, removal.

         “That sounds perfect.  Do you know what you'll be wearing?” Chris asked.

         “Of course.”

         Justin described his killer clown costume as lovers’ reminiscence that first kiss, excitement and prophetic utopia meet reality.  Justin intended to hide behind the white face paint, black colored circles concealing each eye, a green wig masking his curly brown hair, a red nose, a classic addition, and a ridiculous poke-a-dot full body rag.

         “What about yourself?” he asked, slurping the remaining coke at the bottom of the clear glass.           “I meant to this weekend, but I still haven't grabbed one.” 

         “What are you waiting for man?  That Halloween store down the street is almost out of stuff; I heard today is the last day they are open.  You should head over asap.” 

         “Crap; alright.  I think I'll head over now then.” 

         “What about English next period?”

         Justin's mock concern barely concealed his sarcasm; Chris's indifference to attending school neared legendary status: he had pulled off a 4.0 GPA with the commitment of a stoner.

         “It's hardly the first one I've missed,” Chris replied, laughing at the observation and sending Justin a last wave, before departing.

         Bereft of patrons, the Halloween store mocked a ghost town: populated solely by possible facades and a few cashiers cracking jokes to pass the time.  Happily, Chris observed that Justin's dire warning, like most certified high school gossip, ended as a madman's proclamation.  The store's stock stood unscathed despite the stormy rumors to the contrary. 

         Rummaging through several bins, garish red signs screaming clearance above, he discovered the mask to cover tonight’s small act of vandalism; Chris, with the help of the mask, would repay Mr. Steel and avoid future atonement.  After all, a man who regularly beats an inanimate object, that poor desk, is unlikely to show compassion towards hoodlums.  Finally, the search paid off: a black robe, matching hood, tall scythe, and dark mesh to obscure his face. 

         He perused the store for another hour, enjoying the gimmicks decorating every corner.  At last, he ambled over to the counter, the two girls still engaged in idle conversation, blushing at their smiles.  The opposite sex clouded his mind with vague notions of heroism, showmanship, and victory: in a smooth motion polishing the surface of his thoughts till only a tabula rasa remained.  Smirking, blushing, and dazed he handed over his crumpled bills, three months of saved allowance, in exchange for one ticket to mayhem. 

         For all this, the school sought vengeance.  Later that day, exiting the fragrant interior of the yellow bus, a distasteful mix of sweat soaked gym clothes and strong perfume, he breathed deep in anticipation of tonight's escapade: the adventure not to be. 

         The joy fell from his face, shattering on the harsh ground of parental discipline. 

         “I just got off the phone with the school,” Mrs. Patterson said.

         Without the courtesy of a hello, his mother launched into an all out blitzkrieg; her berating voice lashed him for near an eternity, not that later he would recall any of the finer points. 

         Fifteen minutes later, he sat sulking in his room.  He thought about calling Justin; it was only right, but it felt like admitting defeat: the final nail in his coffin of exile.  He remembered her earlier warnings, but, so long as he didn't slip in school, he never bothered to consider her idol threats.  Even worse, twenty minutes later his dad's pearl Corvette pulled into the driveway.  His father, apparently, only found his own adolescent antics amusing; the one hope of escaping the dungeons of a dreary night was crushed by his father's lecture on the virtues of a work ethic. 

         To hell with that, thought Chris.  Why couldn't they all just leave him alone?  He didn't cause the school any problems by skipping out occasionally; in fact, he knew the opposite was the case: just imagine being stuck in that place consistently, you were bound to crack and act out eventually: either escape to preserve sanity or become a zombie. 

         With a heavy heart he lifted the phone from the receiver, dialed Justin's number, and informed him of that traitorous school's Brutus imitation.  Taking turns insulting the schools, parents, and anyone connected, Justin consoled his friend with a promise to pelt Steel's car unmercifully in retaliation. 

         Now, on a silent October night, Chris sat waiting for nothing, expecting as much.  Soft whistling broke his dark reflections.  The tune carried as if the wind itself wished to sing along.  The backyard extended into space farther than he remembered; the fence sank into the distance, replaced by a swirling black vortex.  The wind continued carrying that ageless tune unabated by the swirling hypnotic vortex.  Chris blinked, slamming his lids together: his brain demanded the eyes conform to reason.  Yet, there the vortex turned, unaffected by rational disbelief.

         The tune pitched louder, invigorating his soul with the memories of ancient parties, ancestors celebrating, and joy of an indescribable feast replaying across centuries.  Finally, the silhouette of a man formed against the backdrop of the constant vortex.  Instead of fighting against its tide, the man strolled, a carefree gait, with ease towards him.  The bright circle of a lit cigarette and smoke clouding behind, contrasted the harsh black pit of swirling nothing behind. 

         Whether five, ten, twenty, or forty minutes passed, Chris's mind reeled in awestruck infatuation at the sight.  Exuberant joy heralded this man, creature, god, or demon's arrival.  Stepping out into the mortal plane, the man took a few steps forward before extending a hand.  His top hat, tattered nineteenth-century clothing, and near hobo status felt, odd as Christopher felt it to admit, pleasantly perfect. 

         “Evening gent,” the dark suited man said, with crimson glaze covering his forest colored eyes.           The green clashed spectacularly with the red, but neither asserted dominance; both conveyed two natures, but neither commanded this one man. 

         Wary, with a sense of hallucinogen steadily gaining ground, Chris formed a doubtful smile: “Evening.” 

         “Tell me, why, of all nights, are you here resting like one rests under the dirt?  Are you unaware of tonight's significance?  Why it is none other than All Hallows Eve.” 

         The man anachronistically referenced Halloween; only a chance English lesson earlier this month saved Chris confusion from the strange name. 

         “Why don't you call it Halloween?”

         Chris couldn't help but inquire; he might ask the man about the strange vortex, the enchanting tune, or his strange appearance, but all those risked questioning his own sanity. 

         “First, let me answer your unasked questions: the vortex is real, the tune existed long before your time, and my appearance befits this night's extraordinary company; you and I have business.  But in answer to the asked question, I call this festival by its true christened name, given long before the Christians bastardized my day.  But, that doesn't concern you kiddo.  You may call me Samhain, and I'm here because you and I need to discuss your problem.”

         Samhain smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth below, an orthodontist's vacation in wait.  His endearing charm, homely and understanding, enveloped Chris.  Chris's earlier overriding tension melted into an urgency to confess the world.  Yet, a small persistent voice, that suffocating chicken little in us all, demanded caution. 

         “Why do you want to help me?” Chris asked.

         The creature laughed, chameleon transparency altering his appearance; he faded slightly before solidifying once again. 

         “Ah, you must be careful how you question me; I'm will-o'-wisp fickle in this country.  Sorry lad, it's not your fault, but your country lacks history, my legends gasp for life here.”

         Chris considered the weak figure, almost pitying the lack of substance: an ephemeral man that meant well. 

         “Alright, how about you tell me how you can help me Samhain.” 

         “It's very simple young one, but I need a guarantee from you first; after I help you, you cannot renege the deal without sacrificing a year of your life to me.” 

         “What do you mean?” Chris asked, the worrisome voice flooding his veins with renewed vigor.

         Again, as if to answer without reply, Samhain flickered in the porch light. 

         “Easy child; I don't intend you any harm, but there are certain rituals that must be appeased for my magic to work.  One year in exchange for one wish, and only taken if you decide to negate my gift.” 

         Samhain's crooked smile faltered slightly as he spoke, the age of eons visible beneath the middle-aged appearance.  Chris liked the deal, knowing now what he would soon wish for,  but he couldn't overcome the Faustian tinge to the bargain.  Chris spent more than one dreary morning slandering some of his more religious classmates, sacrificing Sunday mornings to a droning man dressed in black seemed an atrocious waste of time, but sealing a pact with the devil?  Still, Chris weighed the options: if he was simply playing a game with his imagination, then there was little harm in the charade.  However, as foolish as it made him feel to consider the possibility, if this was real…just if – well, he might as well ask.  Convinced, he once more found himself entranced by those gleaming green/red eyes. 

         “You don’t want my soul, do you?” Chris asked.          

         Something, perhaps awe or reverence or a different intangible emotion, overpowered Chris each time he stared into those deep mystifying orbs.  Samhain rubbed his chin, maintaining the unnatural strength of his gaze. 

         “I know what you are thinking lad.  Sometimes I forget your species’ habitual distrust; it has been so long since humanity last remembered my kind.  It’s only natural that you fear what you no longer know.”

         Samhain inhaled a final drag from the slender cigarette between his fingers, then tossed it aside with a careless flick of the wrist. 

         “You wouldn’t happen to have a pipe on you, would you laddy?” 

         Chris, bewildered by the sudden conversation shift, replied with his own question:

         “For, like marijuana?”

         Samhain roared with laughter.  Chris glanced around, checking to see if his parents had discovered the new visitor to their home, shocked to find that the man’s booming laugh had failed to stir anyone.

         “No, laddy, you misunderstand me.  I take it you don’t have one, but I meant a pipe for tobacco.” 

         “Oh – well I’m only fifteen.” 

         “Only?”

         Samhain, grumbling about youth, gestured a wave of his hand, dismissing the exchange. 

         “I don’t want your soul anymore than I want your weed.  I’m not one of those Church types hell-bent on keeping you from eternal paradise or where ever it is you think you’re going after slipping off your mortal coil – No, the deal is just one year if you want me to negate what I’m about to do for you.”

         Samhain rubbed his two coarse hands together, like practicing an old habit; Chris stuck out his hand, excitement cascading through his veins despite his pretense at a passable poker face. 

         “Should we shake on it?” Chris asked. 

         “Indeed we shall.” 

         Chris grasped Samhain’s outstretched palm, still dry from the earlier cigarette.  Immediately after speaking his wish into the cloudy sky, a warm sensation rushed up Chris’s arm, then fell through his body: from neck to navel, pooling in the base of his gut.  Chris imagined that Saturday morning pancakes felt the same as he poured syrup over them; he always woke up later than his parents, but his mother inevitably prepared breakfast for his eventual, sometime around noon, rise.  The pancakes, just south of soggy, gave way to the room temperature maple liquid as its viscous volume slowly overcame the pit gravity had dug in the pancake’s center.  Yes, he thought dreamily, I’m like a pancake, but on Friday night. 

Samhain released his hold, mentally and physically over the youth, chanting a refrain from another language: similar to the sound of gravel running down a metallic slide.  Chris stumbled backwards, dimly witnessing Samhain’s retreat into ephemeral air; whoever left first, they both swiftly exited the backyard, leaving a delicate trail of disturbed currents in their wake. 

         Icy sweat drenched his sheets.  The hair on his head stuck, as if his body had spent the previous few hours producing industrial-strength gel.  There he lay, prostrate on his bed.  Blinking hard, Chris stared at the blurry objects quietly gathering into their proper shapes.  Yawning, he wiped sand from the corner of his eye.  Movie posters lined the walls of his room, and a stunning woman in lingerie posed above him, using the roof as a canvas to adopt her suggestive pose. 

         He got out of bed, slowly rubbing the remaining film from both eyes. 

         What a strange dream, but he had to give it to his imagination: it had style. 

         The night before the strange encounter came flooding back, including the parental excommunication from Halloween’s festivities. 

         Had Justin and Ben been successful?  Was Mr. Steel, even now, cursing the heathens that destroyed his lawn and gave his car a new paintjob? 

         Eight o’clock flashed in green on the digital clock beside the bed; you knew you had a worthless Friday night when you are up before ten, with only Saturday morning cartoons to keep you company. 

         The dream from the night before crystallized in his mind.  Chris played an old game again: could he match the dream to elements in the waking world?  The All Hallow’s Eve reference was obvious: English class.  But where had Samhain come from?  Admiring the strange name and odd character, he remembered the one wish granted.  Leave me alone: simple, elegant, direct.  From this morning on, according to the character of his dream, he need only utter this command to the individual bothering him; after the ‘magic words’ they would forget him, his very presence.  They would leave him alone the way everyone ignores their shadows; no matter how close a shadow follows, the poor shade never evokes so much as a simple hello. 

         What if it were true?  Don’t be ridiculous, the rational part of his mind retorted.  A test then - that would determine whether or not the spell worked while satisfying his analytic opposition.  Exiting the room, Chris surged with anticipation; his mother stood waiting outside, her attempt to rectify her son’s ill temper at the punishment fell on deaf ears.  Teenage rebellion had found its target, the anger, quelled earlier, rose once more at the sight of this warden; Leave me alone: whispered from son to mother. 

         His mother acted as if she had walked into a wall, dazed, while words sat waiting for her tongue to comply.  She formed her mouth, struggling as one struggles to remove stuck peanut butter from the roof of the mouth, but still nothing.  Finally, she regarded her son like he was a small plant or a chip in the paint, acknowledging his existence without granting sentience.  He watched her leave, disbelief coloring the scene. 

         It had worked?  It had worked.

         Victory, glorious victory, resounded throughout the small hall: Chris, baffled and enthused, leapt up-and-down.  Running from the hall to the kitchen, his mother continuing her pretence despite the heavy foot-falls, he furiously dialed the numbers that separated his voice from Justin’s. 

“What are you doing right now?  We have to talk.”

         Chris held the receiver, his hand turning white from the grip. 

         “So you heard?”

         Justin’s heavy reply, offset by languished breaths, diametrically opposed Chris’s mood. 

         “Heard what?  Look, it doesn’t matter, I have to talk to you.” 

         “Fine, but you’ll have to come over here; I’m grounded.” 

         “What, you too?  Alright, no problem; I’ll be over in a sec.”

         Chris threw on a yellow t-shirt, as bright as his mood, and tore through the neglected pile of clothing littering the floor of his room, till he found pants, boxers, and socks of matching color, green. 

         “Where do you think you are going?” 

         His dad’s voice rumbled in a low monotone. 

“I’m going over to Justin’s, and” the whim of the moment, fueled by astonishment and another opportunity for confirmation, “leave me alone.” 

Once more, his father, like his mother before, suffered to express the ineffable.  A few moments later and Mr. Peterson wandered down the hall to the kitchen, looking for his wife. 

         Success!

          Chris slammed the front door, another test of his parent’s reactions.  When no call followed, no banal comment about living in a barn, he took off, as a rocket leaves the earth, with escape velocity.

         Justin lived a few blocks from the school, and a quarter-mile from Chris’s dwelling.  Ten short minutes later, Chris alternated between walking, skipping, jumping, and running on his way, he rang the doorbell.  Justin opened the door, an agonizingly slow affair reminiscent of the moment between dropping a glass and witnessing the shards scatter across the tile floor. 

         “Hey,” Chris said, lightly punching Justin’s shoulder. 

         “Hey” Justin said in a barely audible tone. 

         “You’ll never guess what happened to me last night” Chris said.

         “Yeah same here.”

         Chris knew when Justin was in a mood, the sarcastic remark punctuating sloth-like speech; he would either have to keep repeating himself, Justin’s attention at moments like these rivaled that of a brick wall, or figure out why Justin was acting like a child. 

         “What’s wrong with you?” 

         Great effort and a long friendship transformed the rhetorical question into one of genuine concern, even compassion.  Justin’s face, carved like stone, remained stoically set in a detached grimace. 

         “Ben and I were caught last night at Mr. Steel’s – as if you didn’t already know that.”

         Chris expected anger and sarcasm, just not at him.

         “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Chris asked, a floodgate of anger broke: the venomous feeling seeping into every syllable.

         “You know damn well what I mean.  Just because you were locked inside while we were out enjoying ourselves didn’t give you the right to rat us out; we were supposed to be friends.”

Justin’s reply astonished Chris far more than either his mother or father’s earlier actions.  He began a vindictive reply, but Justin continued.

         “Don’t even pretend to not know.  Mr. Steel, after the cops came, told us who called him.  He said you had, that you had tried to talk us out of it, and that you were only looking out for the best interests of all parties involved.  Saving your own ass sounds more like it.  I can’t believe you wouldn’t even warn us.  Now Ben and I have community service and in-school suspension for two weeks.  But don’t worry about us; you’ll be the kid without any friends.”

         Justin, as he often did, built courage with each word, the last word acting like fuel for the blaze about to erupt.  Chris knew what was coming; if his parents thought their lectures were harsh then Justin’s were devastating.  Yet, Chris, the complement of Justin in times like these, clammed-up: hating every moment of the heated, and now one-sided, exchange.

         “You know what,” Justin continued “you can go to he –“

         Justin fumbled the last word of the malignant advice. 

         Chris hadn’t meant to say it, only anger and frustration gave it passage beyond his thoughts into the wider world. 

         “Justin?”  “Justin, I didn’t mean it; honest.” 

         Chris implored his friend, but Justin stared blankly, neither seeing nor hearing him.  Justin closed the door, not in anger, but in a mild indifference, as one would to rebuff the wind.  Chris froze: rooted to the spot, transfixed. 

         What had he done?  He didn’t know what to do.  Ben, he thought, he had to call Ben. 

         Racing home, Chris dashed into his parent’s kitchen, panting and inhaling globs of air following the three minute sprint.  He picked up the receiver, began slamming Ben’s digits. 

         His mother wandered into the room, saying to his father that she would order pizza:

         “Oh dear.  Honey the phone doesn’t seem to be working,” She said.  “Should I go to the neighbors?” 

         “Hold on,” his father replied. 

         Justin watched the progression as a psychiatrist observes mental patients interact.  His mother had always been inept when it came to technology.  His father entered the kitchen, probably to point out the obvious; instead, he confirmed his wife’s diagnosis, and recommended that she go across the street and ask to use the Thompson’s phone.  Incredulity overcame his urge to laugh: they could not be serious, and yet, his mother exited the home heading towards the neighbor’s.  They were truly leaving him alone, even to their own inconvenience.  He had to figure this out, now, before something worse happened.  He finished dialing Ben’s number. 

         “Hello.” 

         Ben’s voice had only slightly more cheer than Justin’s had. 

         “Don’t hang up.  I talked to Justin, and I swear on my life I didn’t rat you guys out, especially not to Mr. Steel.”

         A long pause broke the desperation, Chris praying all the while for Ben to stay on.  Finally, a voice returned.

         “I’m listening.”

         Ben sounded cold and distant, like frost falling on the horizon, but, for all that, he was still talking. 

         “Okay, you will think I’m insane, but the weirdest thing happened to me last night.”

         Chris recounted the strange man, his Irish accent, old clothing, even his misshapen teeth, and described, as best as he could recall, the deal and its repercussions so far.  Ben responded with exhausted exasperation.

         “I was up till one last night apologizing to my parents and Mr. Steel; I’m too tired for this crap.  If Justin does not want to speak with you, then neither do I.” 

         “Please Ben; I’m begging you; I don’t know what to do.”

         After a few more minutes cajoling, Ben, whose parents were much more lenient than Justin’s, agreed to see him in person.  A short while later a knock echoed from the front door; Chris’s father beat him to it. 

         “Hello, how can I help you?” 

         “Hi Mr. Peterson,” Ben replied.  “I was hoping to speak to Justin.” 

         “Justin?  Justin who?  How do you know my name?” 

         Justin stepped between them before the confusion escalated.  As he did so, Mr. Peterson turned suddenly, mumbling about an errand.  Ben looked as stunned as Chris felt helpless.

         “Was he serious?” 

         “Yeah; I wasn’t lying to you.” 

         “Whoa; I’m sorry I doubted you, but I don’t see how I can help.”

Chris felt a small surge of relief; for the first time all morning someone conversed with Chris in a pleasant understanding tone. Despair threatened again to squelch even this small amount of pleasure.

         “What am I going to do?  They won’t even look at me.” 

         “What about that guy you talked about, that Samhain?  Didn’t he say he could remove the wish?” 

         “Yeah, but he said he’d take a year off my life as a trade.” 

         “Let’s try talking to Justin first; maybe the effect wasn’t as strong because you hadn’t meant to say it.”

         Chris pulled on his tennis shoes, his feet filling the sneakers as doubt plagued his heart.  Ben remained optimistic:

         “Let’s try this before trying anything more drastic,” he said.

         Ben led the way, first across the lawn then the driveway, and Chris followed, as if tethered by an invisible leash.  Chris, his morose mood blinding his sense, did not register the garage door opening.

         Ben yelled out a warning. Too late. The car pulled Chris beneath its lumbering mass.  Mr. Peterson saw no one, felt nothing, as his son was dragged under: crushing his right leg as it traveled, bones breaking to mark the mileage down the remainder of the right side of his body.  Instinct or luck or something else intervened: Chris’s head narrowly escaped imitating a cantaloupe dropped from a supermarket shelf high above waxed tile, the narrow strip separating the concrete floor from the patron’s feet. 

         Ben ran to Chris’s side: the blood and shallow breathing blocking any decisive thought.  Chris faintly watched Ben wave vigorously at his father; his father waved back, like one would from the top of a parade float to a small child, before driving off.  Darkness enveloped him.

                                                                       …

         The room was bright, too bright.  Little lights, like white fireflies, popped into his vision, populating the dark.  Blinking, the scene cleared and industrial light flooded the room, giving it shape, character, and revealing a small portly woman sitting beside him.  His first thought, of his mother, was dispelled as the woman spoke in a heavy southern drawl. 

         “How do you feel?  Hold on, I should get the doctor first.”

         Too weak to disagree, he watched the woman waddle from the room, on her way to see a doctor in this warehouse of the sick and injured.  Chris breathed deep, feeling the small apparatus gently force air in-and-out of his nostrils.  He willed his hand to remove the intrusive device, but found his hand unwilling.  No, that wasn’t right: it didn’t resist – it didn’t move at all.  He tried once more, demanding the hand obey its master, expecting nothing less than complete obedience.  But again, the hand, while not refusing, simply failed to acquiesce: as if it were hosting a sit-in of all the limbs, protesting the mind’s unfair dominance.  A slight panic rose in his chest.  He ordered the other limbs to move – simply move; yet, each in its turn would not, could not, comply.  Panic notched up.  He searched the room; he needed a mirror. 

         The doctor entered the room, swiftly followed by the rotund southern woman, motioning to end their hushed conversation. 

         “How do you feel, son?” 

         The doctor’s question was addressed to him personally; the lurking fear grew in pitch.  Frightened, he responded bluntly, not wishing to endorse pity.

         “I can’t move any of my limbs – I can’t even feel them.”

         Terror began to well up, if not in his body, then in his mind.  The doctor’s forceful gaze, compassion dripping from his eyes, told the ending well ahead of the story. 

         “Son, you were involved in a car accident.  A car ran you over, and the impact crushed the C-5 vertebrae.  I’m terribly sorry, but you are paralyzed from the neck down.”

         The doctor’s worn face, the experience of many years delivering devastating news to patient’s undeserving of such trauma, displayed only pity and grief.

         “Son, do you remember who hit you?”

         The question sought, not for answers, but recognition; Chris struggled to remember.  The doctor, with a steady gaze and side-long glance at the portly women seated to his left, awaited his answer patiently.

         Chris, stunned, a dark pit of death in his gut, tried to forget the last prognosis, concentrate only on the events before.  He remembered leaving the house with Ben, thinking of Samhain and that cursed Halloween night.  There was nothing more; even Ben’s safety was beyond recall.

         “Is Ben okay?”

         “Your friend is fine; he is in the waiting room.  I’ll call him in soon, once you’ve talked          to Mrs. Kare and the officer.  You don’t remember what happened?” 

         “No,” Chris replied.

          The incomprehension of the scene was too much for his weakened state; morbid thoughts climbed into his stream of thought, tainting it.

         “The officer is here,” the caring doctor continued, “because your father backed over you in the driveway.  Shortly thereafter, he fled the scene.  He was picked up at a local supermarket, I’m told, and denies having ever known you.  I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, but your friend, Benjamin, confirmed his identity in a police lineup shortly after you arrived here.  He is being held in custody, and your mother has been brought in for questioning.  I’m sorry, but your mother also claims not to know who you are.”

         A slight disgust permeated his last statement, though the doctor tried to mask his appall at the whole affair by turning quickly to that women seated quietly, politely, beside him.

         “Mrs. Kare works for social services.  She and a police officer will ask you a few questions when you feel ready.  I want to give you some time to rest before this though.  Try to get some sleep, I’ll check back in on you in an hour or so.”          

“Can I see Ben?” Chris asked.

         The doctor smiled, his first of the whole ordeal.

         “Of course, but I need to limit you to a few minutes; you need rest.”

         Both adults left him, his useless body and trapped mind, as they exited the room.  Mrs. Kare took one last look at the fragile boy, concern etched in her face, before following the doctor out.  Chris despised her; he was not about to give in. 

         The room was lit, but outside, dusk had fallen: the sun had given way to the night, its last few rays lighting the world before they too must lapse into darkness. 

         There must be a way to fix this, Chris thought.  He would not accept this horrific sentence, this nightmare, or his damned useless body. 

         The terms of the agreement flooded his mind.  That was the way out, the escape from hell: at a price, but he had to accept – anything was better than this. 

         “Samhain!”

         His cry echoed through the small hospital room, the bleached white tile and walls repeating the wail back to him.  Ben ran in:

         “What’s wrong?”

         Ben’s body froze, like a sculpture of athleticism and friendship.  Samhain gently eased past him, entering Chris’s miniature asylum.

         “Well laddy, I must say it’s rare to hear such a heartfelt summons.  You have, in the course of a day, destroyed your life.  I take it you want your old life back?”

         Samhain grinned, and Chris hated him for it.

         “It was you, wasn’t it?  You called Mr. Steel’s house that night.  You set this up; you destroyed my life you son of a –”

         “Ah, lets watch the language young one.  You should respect your elders.”

         Samhain’s eyes dipped into a deep red dawn, the green giving way as a cat slinks back before the approaching hammer of thunder. 

         Chris’s wrath abated; he needed Samhain:

         “Fine.  One year.  Take it.  I don’t want to live like this.”

         “Alright laddy, but the year is mine to choose, and I want your first year.”

         “My first year?  What do you mean?  I thought you were taking a year off my life?”

         “Not off your life: from your life.”

         The intense beam of comprehension dazed Chris.  The simple man of strange cloth and magnificent eyes had confounded him. 

         “What happens when you take a year from my life?  My first year?”

         “Now,” Samhain’s eyes returning to their customary translucent hue, flushed of equal parts emerald green and sapphire red, “you wise up a bit.  Perhaps you should have asked me that particular question All Hallow’s Eve, but, you can’t change the past.  If I take your first year, your parents will not know you as their own.  They will have had another son, at your birth, in place of you.  Then, after a year, they will adopt you. You will be there son, but they will not love you as they did.”

         A soft breeze washed over Chris, ruffling his blonde hair.  Either live in this world, paralyzed, alone, and without his parents, or accept a world where they would never look at him the same: the twinkle absent from their loving gaze.  Tears fell down Chris’s cheeks.  His nerves, what was remaining of them after the attrition of earlier, acknowledged the wet stream as it slid down, soaking into unforgiving Spartan hospital sheets.  With dew colored eyes, he looked into that ancient cruel face.

         “Okay,” Chris said.

         Samhain, his figure gaining depth, crossed the room. 

         “Lad, remember what I said earlier, when you thought I was a devil?  I’m not.  You have accepted your place, and my part in it.  For too long your kind has neglected my presence.  Instead of taking your year, I’ll restore everything as it was, if – and I mean only if – you promise to tell everyone this story.  Rekindle the flame of legend that flickered and died so long ago.  Remind people of my name, my place, my night.”

         Samhain’s abrupt change, the shift from forlorn adversary to an old man reminiscing of traditions long past, mirrored the shifting color of the irises.  The once red tinted eyes, those grand harbors of the soul, became a brilliant reflection of green pastures on idyllic summer days. 

         Chris, his plight over, agreed to the deal, hesitating only to thank Samhain.

         “Just remember lad, spread your tale far and wide.”



                          …



         Chris awoke, lying in the damp green grass, the color of Samhain’s eyes, exhausted.  His mother called his name again.

         “Honey, what are you doing out here?” She asked.

         Chris ran to her, hugging her tightly, wishing to never let go.

         “I love you mom.”

         “I love you too sweetie.”

         “I thought you were still mad at your father and I for grounding you.”

         She smiled down at him, motherly love embracing him.

         “No, that doesn’t matter now,” Chris said.

         “Well, I’m glad you’re not mad, because your father and I think, if you agree to no longer skip class, you should enjoy Halloween with your friends.”

         “Thanks mom!”

         Embracing her once more, Chris agreed to attend every class from here on out, no matter how boring, and ran inside to call Justin.  The friendly voice on the other end, without a trace of bitterness, agreed to meet at Ben’s house.  He threw on his costume, but, before running out into the festive air of tricks and treats, he found his father, reading in the brown oversized lazy-boy, and gave him a hug; the surprised man laughed, telling his son to be safe and not to have too much fun, all the while a knowing twinkle gleaming in his eye. 

         As the night came to a close, Justin, Ben, and Chris carefully scrutinized their art: a lawn populated by many thousand forks, each shoved deeper into the brown soil than the last.  They congratulated one another, a job well done, before beginning the joyous walk home. 

         On the way back, a strange looking man with multicolored eyes, one red and one green, tipped his frayed top hat in their direction.  Chris waved at the man.  His friends, amused at the man and Chris’s reply, stared at their friend.  To answer their unasked question, Chris told them both of the legend of Samhain: his strange dream, the awful consequences of a wish granted, and the importance of an old god’s story. 



                                                              …



         And so it was that I, a small child in Mr. Peterson’s class, learned of Samhain on the eve of Halloween.  I reveled in the tale. Did any of it actually happen?  I do not know, but I believe it worth the telling: true, false, or somewhere between.  Mr. Peterson passed some years ago, but his memory, and Samhain’s, will endure as long as you remember Halloween’s true name: All Hallow’s Eve.