Speaker 1: This program is intended for mature audiences only.
Speaker 2: You are now listening to Observable Radio.
Speaker 3: Hi.
Speaker 1: There, it's Cameron Suey. Our interim season continues with a
little folk core this month. This story was originally published
in Flapperhouse and was written around the same time as
The Green Tunnel. I'm sure my anxieties are on full display.
We're anxious to tell you more about season two, but
rest assured the machinery is in motion. For more updates,
We'd love to see you over at Patreon, where even
free members get access to behind the scenes information. And
now here's tonight's story.
Speaker 3: Last Halloween, on the last morning I will have with
my son, I will make him pancakes with fresh blueberries
from the community garden mixed in the batter. When the
Patel's from down the street heard the news day, it
brought us a flask of fresh maple syrup from the
trees in the Western Woods, and I've chilled it over
night in the in the fridge. Butter from the community
farm sizzles and and spits on the gridors. Malcolm drags
his feet downstairs outside the kitchen window, perched on the
skeletal frame of an old oak. The crow gazes at me,
his head crooks to one side, and beetle shell eyes
flash in the October sun fixed online. I look away morning.
I grunt, trying to keep the desperate quiver out of
my voice. Thought, maybe you'd like to try some coffee
with breakfast. He narrows, sleepy eyes, skeptical of the offer,
then shrugs. Doesn't stunt my growth. I wins, but he
doesn't notice. I think maybe one cup is okay. I
set the chipped, steaming mug in front of him with
the first patch of pancakes. Just don't tell mum. He
tries to play it cool, like it's no big deal.
I can I can see the excitement in the corners
of this smile. He wraps his small hands around the mug,
half covering the not a rum crest, and sniffs at
the steam. I realized that I'm staring at him as
I look out of the window again, and the crow
catches my eye and nods and takes flight in a
burst of sparkling black feathers. After breakfast, Malcolm lays out
his goblin costume, the itemizing and accounting for each peace
and prop I watch from the hallway, passing by with
the same load of laundry again and again. I want
to make this day any harder than it has to be.
From our bedroom, Annie's tiny cries drift out alongside the
sound of Rose singing gentle lullabies. Rose said her goodbyes
to Malcolm as he slept last night. She doesn't trust
herself not to upset the boy, so she's planned to
stay with our infant daughter until he's gone. I told
her I would cover for her if Malcolm asked. When
I've run out of reasons to pass by his doorway,
I go to the garage. In a box above the
work bench, still packed from our move last January, I'll
find what I'm looking for, a cracked plastic bucket molded
in orange, like a child's drawing over Jack O'Lantern. It
was mine from childhood and her place far away from here.
I'd hoped both my children would have the chance to
use it. But if I sent that out with Malcolm,
ne I know that won't be coming back, and he
won't be old enough to carry it for at least
another year. My throat is tight again, and I clear
it to chase away the tears what's one more lost
tonight in the greater scheme of things. Malcans should take it.
He's always loved it. As I turn back towards the house,
I hear scraping on the rafters above. The fox strides
across the beams and sits on its haunches. I have
an idiot impulse to fling the pumpkin at the animal,
an impotent urge for violence in the muscles of my forearms. Instead,
I sigh and not. It looks at me from pools
of liquid black gray fur, rising and falling with each
patient breath. There is no malice in those eyes, nor
the others. We all know what has to happen night.
Rose and I signed the pact when we came to
this town. We accepted the risk because it seemed worth it.
Maybe it is still. This is a safe town, safer
than anywhere else on earth, and Annie will be exempt
in future years. The fox is gone. When I look up,
I'm surprised to see Rose. When I come back in
the house, Annie bouncing on her hip. Her eyes are
red and raw, but she's smiling as Malcolm shows her
the whole costume she sewed. The shredded burlap tunic together
herself last weekend, before we'd known Malcolm had been chosen.
He slides on each piece the mask, the long fingered
rubber gloves, the hooded cloak, and then poses with mock threat,
straining to make his voice deep as he cackles at
Rose and Annie daughter burbles with delight and reaches out
to touch his outstretched cours. Rose looks to me wordless
and reads the question on my furrowed brow. She nods
just once, and her smile strains with infinite sadness. She
turns and kisses Malcolm on the forehead of the grotesque mask.
I'll get you some makeup, honey. We'll black out your
eyes a bit so it matches the mask. She squeezes
his shoulder and I see the dark wave wash across
her face, eyes dipping beneath the water. Malcolm behind the mask,
he doesn't see it. She hurries out of the room,
and he's still giggling at her side. I clear my
throat to draw Malcolm's attention away from the slam of
the door. Look what I found, I say, holding the
pale pumpkin aloft. Oh, he says, lifting the mask up
just high. Enough to speak. I thought maybe I'm a
little too old for that. It's a kid's pumpkin, right,
I was gonna ask you if I could use a pillowcase.
I hate myself for the flood of relief. I feel
the pumpkin will stay. Malcolm, we'll go.
Speaker 2: Yeah.
Speaker 3: No, that's a good idea, buddy. You can carry more
in a pillow case. He grins, white, his lips splitting
beneath the goblin's face like a slip throat. I turn
away and busy myself with scouring the iron griddle in
the sink. The sobs feel like punches to my soul,
the plexus. But I choke on the sound, and he
doesn't notice. The sun dips, fat and orange to touch
the skeletal arms the trees in the western forest. It's
almost time. My head is swirling masses of dead leaves
as I sit on the porch chair, staring into the
solid wall of trees on the far side of the street.
Malcolm has to tug on my sleeve before I realize
he's standing next to me. Dad, he says, his voice
quiet and tremulous. I don't feels so good. I think
it was Mum's hot coco. Maybe the milk was bad.
I've spent his lifetime feeling a flood of anxiety whenever
there he tells me this. He's always been such an
easy child, never tells me something is wrong unless it's
really very wrong. But I don't feel the anxiety now.
Maybe I do, but it's a familiar rain drop in
an alien swirling storm. What burns in my chest all
the brighter for the contrast between the gloom's hope. Maybe
he doesn't have to go tonight. I put my hand
on his forehead, then kiss the skin to confirm. But
he is cool, no fever. His hands still in the
goblin gloves, presses up against his belly, and his face creases.
The raccoon eye mask of black eyes. Shadow has started
to run as his skin beads with sweat. Not too fast,
too excited at the possibilities to stay calm. But let's
go inside, Bud. We'll see what we can do. I
take him by his gloved hand and lead him too
the bedroom. He lays down on his back and I
leave him, their heart pounding as I go to the
medicine cabinet. This is a sign. It has to be
that they're telling me this okay, we can keep him,
this was just a test. And passing through our bedrooms,
I race towards the bathroom. I see Rose holding Annie close.
The moment I see her eyes, I know what's happened.
She's pleading at me not to be mad with the
crook and angle of her head, and I know the
bottle of expired antibiotics is still open on the counter,
a needless confirmation. My skin flushes hot, and I don't
trust myself to stay quiet or still. I turn away
from Rose, refusing to meet her pleading gaze. She's talking now,
but the roar of my heart in my ears blots
it out. I have to leave before I act, without thinking.
I need to clear my head. I don't know what
comes next. I stumbled back down the stairs, past Malcolm's
room into the living room, and y smell hits me first,
a great galloping blast of wet, green air, the smell
of mud and rotting leaves and tender shoots from the
forest floor. I've never seen the stag before, but I
know it instantly stands in the corner of our heart,
leg splayed broad and challenging, Its great head is dipped
low as if smelling something in the freshly shampooed carpet.
Beneath the shining nut brown pellet, muscles like iron cables
contract and release a coiled spring of implied thread. The
curling mass of its antlers gleam like polished oak. At
the edge of my perception, they seem to twist and
writhe in the last of the autumn sun, a mirrored, squirming,
rawshack blot of bone and light. It raises its head
to me, Oi, your black eyes, rising far above my own,
and snorts. The blast of wet air stings my eyes
and my knees. Buckle limbs cold and distant. As I
slide low, prostrating myself before the stag, the thunder of
its hoofs rattle my teeth as it steps closer, I
see myself reflected in the eyes, mouth open in mute horror.
They're not eyes, I think in some distant corner, they
are poored windows in a vessel, were something from from
far beyond looks back out. It sniffs at me, taste
in my primal terror. It doesn't speak, it doesn't have to.
I know, I'm sorry, I say my voice, just a
distant scratch of insects on bark from somewhere deep inside me.
I'm sorry. I just didn't want to let him go.
It cocks its head to the right, the weaving tangle
of antlers, creaking like the forest at night, and waits.
I'll do it, I say, I give my word, and
I will do it. For a long moment, the only
sound is the great bellows of its breath as it
looks straight through me. And it turns satisfied and walks
through the wall, passing through a plaster and paint as
if it were a waterfall. I watch from the window
as it strides across the road, away from the houses
on the eastern side of the street, into the dark
thicket of westernwards. I'm too tired to cry. Children are
just coming out of doors a parade of home made
ghost costumes, which is hat and bright primary color. There
are no parents with them, even with the youngest groups.
They have nothing to fear tonight or any other night
in this town. The pact keeps them safe. They only
take one each autumn, and the rest of the year
the children are protected. The kelper's eyes, heavy with sympathy,
assured us it's almost never the new family in their
first year. We're just got unlucky it happens. Malcolm is
still bent forward in discomfort, but since he vomited in
the bathroom, seeing his spirits have lifted. He holds the
pillowcase in one hand as we step out onto the porch.
The crisp night air, heavy with the scent of approaching
winter walkt off. I told him, think of all that
candy you'll miss out on, I said, hating myself with
every word. I'm doing it for Annie, I think, But
I know I'm doing it for me, so I don't
ever have to kneel before those atlas again. Rose watches
from a window, eyes fixed on me, not our sun.
Malcolm's already gone for her, and I wonder if we'll
ever recover from this. I meet her eyes and try
to say a thousand things With one small nod. Malcolm
adjusts the mask, obliterating my son's face forever. His black
eyes peer out like coins drop down or well, vanishing
as they go. He starts to walk down the sidewalk
towards the next house. No bad, I say, you should,
you should cross the street. He looks at me, the
goblin face cocking to the side with confusion. On the
western side of the street, there are no houses, only
the great wood. He's about to ask a question. When
I say my last words to my son, the words
that will haunt me till I die, the words I
loathe myself for saying, trust me. He looks both ways,
big silly instincts never lost, and crosses the street. The
woods sway, the hissing sound rising as a thousand branches
shed dead leaves to the wind. On the far side,
there is no sidewalk. The road just gives way to
a thicket wall of trees. He stands before the woods,
the place he's played in a hundred times since we
move to town, a place that holds no danger for
the other children. He sees them in the dark before
I do, thousands of them, a churning mass of silent
life watching him, waiting. He turns back. He turns back,
and I think a stag that he's too far away
from me to see the rising panic in his eyes.
I wave, try to smile. He doesn't deserve to be afraid.
In the end, hey swallow him a tide of fur
and antlers and feathers and little needle teeth. He's swept
along like a cork on water, carried with quiet reverence
into the gloom between the trees. My sun, he's gone.
The great hissing noise of the watchers in the wood,
a thousand bodies sliding in the undergrowth, drifts away from
the October wind. After that, they only hear the children laughing.
Halloween's sound effect records being played from a half dozen
houses in our block, sounds of joy and celebration. Why
shouldn't they celebrate? They're safe. I turn away and back
into the dark and silent house. The bowl of candy
sits on the floor stoop for any one who will
come by. No one will question our lack of festivity
this year. They'll know, they'll understand. Rose and I sleep
on opposite sides of our bed, the gulf between us,
silent and impatient. It comes late that night. I hear
the door open, and I know, with an oily dread,
exactly what it means. Still, I go to the front door.
It stands in the door frame, looking into our home,
still wearing the coblin costume. Behind the mask, the dark
pits of its eyes yawn. One of our good pillow
cases bulging in strange and queasy ways hands in its
gloved hand. Hey dad, it says a voice that is
so like Malcolm's, and fills me with a flash of rage. Sorry,
I was out late. It was a good night. I
can only nod, my breath catching as I try to inhale.
Rose emerges from our bedroom, putting a trembling hand on
my shoulder. I take her hand in mind and squeeze
so hard I can feel the bones grind. She breathed
deep before speaking to the thing in the doorway. Hey,
no sweat, honey, Why don't you hop into bed? It
shuffles forward across the threshold, The movements almost exactly like
Malcolm's gate. I resist an atavistic urge to strike for thee,
to force it back out of my house, but we
sign the fact. There's no going back now. It walks
straight up to me and reaches out for a hug.
I take it in my trembling arms. It is warm
like Malcolm. It smells so much like him. It hugs
me back a coblin mask, nuzzling into my neck, just
like Malcolm. We will make do for the good of
the town. We will endieu.
Speaker 1: You have been listening to observable Radio. Tonight's episode Last
Halloween was performed by the Ensemble featuring Liam Gregory, written
by Cameron Suey, Produced by Cameron Suey, Phil Van hest
Perperina and Wendy Hector. Edited by Cameron Suey. Our psychology
consultant is Doctor Elisa Leal, art by Krinn Fletcher. Our
theme is The back Rooms performed by Mew. Additional music
from this episode provided by John Barzetti, Ana Dodger and
Hannah Exstrom, Luella Grenn, Luba Hillman, Tim Koulik, Sondra Martaloure
and Moreland Songs. Observable Radio is listener supported thanks to
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com Slash Observable Radio. Thank you for listening and stay tuned.
Speaker 3: Scratch all that shit that was just widely and shit
not a bike