Gary A. Braunbeck - Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

“That’s not what I meant,” said Boots. “I’m probably gonna come back to find that the neighborhood kids have soaped every last one of my goddamn windows.” The two women looked at each other and laughed. Marian promised herself to take the time to get to know Aunt Boots better. Wasted time. Lost opportunities. Regrets. Nothing was ever accomplished by dwelling on them.

“You know, don’t you, that we’re gonna have to drive by the cemetery on the way from the hospital back to your folks’s house, right? It’s the quickest way.”

Marian glanced in the rearview mirror to make sure nothing was following them. Going paranoid’s good.

Nothing but shadows and the glowing faces of pumpkins in windows, a few groups of costumed children heading home, stomachs ready for sweet treats.

Only these things.

And the wind. Blowing harder. Whistling. Drawing the tree branches down like arms reaching—

She blinked, forcing the chill away. Boots reached over and snapped on the heat. “Not gonna have you catch your death on top of everything else.”

“Thanks. I guess I’m just tired.”

They rounded a corner. Then another. And one more.

The taillights of the ambulance—as well as its whirling visibar lights—came into view. Boots accelerated slightly in order to keep it in sight. Marian sat up straight, her heart suddenly pounding so hard and fast she expected to blink and see it lying there on the dashboard, pumping blood all over the windshield, blinding her, panicking her, sending her off the road and into a guardrail, over the side and —

— the ambulance’s siren cut off as it began to weave; only slightly at first, then much more erratic and violently.

Dear God , thought Marian.

It’s happening.

Though the car was a good quarter-mile from the ambulance, Marian could clearly see what was going on. The ambulance tried slowing to a normal speed, couldn’t, then veered right and ran up on the curve, crashing into and then plowing over a mailbox before slamming into the side of brick building, shattering the windshield and popping open one of the rear doors, fumes from the engine obscuring everything in smoke and steam.

Boots yelled, “Oh, Holy Mother!” and braked quickly, throwing both herself and Marian forward into the dash. Once they’d recovered, Marian pushed open her door and jumped out of the car just as one of the attendants came out of the back, his uniform covered in blood, and collapsed to the ground. Marian felt her legs go weak as she ran toward the ambulance. The windows were smeared with dripping darkness from inside. The driver scrambled out, his back drenched in blood, and dropped to his knees, softly laughing.

Boots was now beside Marian. “Oh, Dear God— Laura! ” She ran from Marian, who quickly followed her aunt to the opened door in back and looked inside and saw—

—blood, a lot of blood and tissue, but no Laura and no baby, only the blood and tissue and something that looked like deep scratch marks on the inside roof—

“—do now?” shouted Boots.

Marian ran over to the driver and tried to bring him back, but his laugh and the hollowed look of his eyes told her in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t coming home for a while, so she ran to the other EMT and rolled him over—

—a deep gash along the side of neck was still spurting blood, albeit slowly now, the artery severed, his life gone, gone, gone.

Keep it together, for chrissakes!

She jumped in the front seat of the ambulance and grabbed the mic from the radio unit, pressed down on the button, and said, “Hello? Hello? Listen, I’m calling from inside the ambulance that was dispatched about ten minutes ago. There’s been a wreck and—” Her thumb slipped off the button. “— shit! ”

The radio hissed and crackled, and buried somewhere in the noise she heard the sound of singing: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house...”

“Hello!” she shouted into the mic once again.

“... goblin lives in OUR house, all the year ‘round!”

Then Boots was there, grabbing her arm and pulling her from the ambulance. “C’mon, hon, let’s get back in the car and get to a phone, okay? There’s nothing we can do here.”

She didn’t so much guide as almost toss Marian toward the car. In moments both were in and doors were closed and Boots was turning around and then they were moving again.

Too much, Marian thought, pressing closed her eyes as if wishing alone would make it all a dream. Too much, too fast, dearGod make it slow down, make it stop, anything!

“Hang in there with me, hon,” said Boots, reaching over and squeezing her hand. “We’ll get through this somehow.”

Marian opened her eyes as Boots tore around the next corner and accelerated.

Marian saw it first. The street was blocked, filled with dozens, maybe hundreds of people; children, adults, old folks, all of them carrying pumpkins that glowed with a deep, otherwordly light.

Boots jerked the steering wheel to the left and stood on the brake but it was too late; the car fishtailed over the curb, spun sideways, and smashed into a section of Cedar Hill Cemetery’s iron gate, slamming Marian against the dashboard as the windshield exploded.

It took less than five seconds.

Later—she had no idea how much later, but it was later, nonetheless—Marian pulled herself up and wiped the blood out of her eyes. A low pressure in the back of her head swam forward. She felt like she was going to pass out again. She hoped she didn’t have a concussion. Her door was wrenched open. She turned and saw Jack Pumpkinhead. And next to him, wearing her favorite old housecoat, his pumpkinhead wife. Marian began tumbling back toward darkness. “Everything’s going to be fine,” said Jack, reaching for her. “Just fine,” said Mom. Then darkness took her.

7

You still need to go back and cut off the corners to eliminate bulk!

* * *

“I’m so glad you came home.”

Mom’s voice. So near, so warm. For a moment, Marian thought she was back home in bed, eight years old again, with a fever. She grinned, hoping that Mom would fix her a cup of hot cocoa and read to her from her favorite book.

The touch of brittle twig-fingers against her cheek tore her from her reverie. She opened her eyes and saw, at first, only the bright harvest moon above, then a twig-finger touched her face again and a pumpkinhead eclipsed the moon.

“I missed you, hon,” said the thing with her mother’s voice.

Marian swallowed a shriek and kicked back, trying to get away. A sharp pain stabbed her in the ribs as something inside of her shifted. Her chest hitched and she fell backwards, realizing that some of her ribs were broken.

The Mom-thing was next to her then, cradling her head in dry branch-arms. “You’ll be all better soon, hon. I promise.”

“Get a-w-w-way from me.”

The thing froze, then lowered its face. A thin trickle of blood ran out of its rounded, glowing eye. “I’m so sorry I made you ashamed of me,” it said, its voice cracking just like Mom’s used to. Before Marian could try to move again, Alan was next to the Mom-thing, laying a hand on its shoulder. He’d put his baseball cap back on.

“She’s just scared, Mom, that’s all. She loves you, she told me so. Isn’t that right, Sis?” He looked at Marian with pleading in his eyes.

Marian said, “Where’s Aunt Boots?”

Alan pointed toward the church. “She’s over there, talking to Dad.”

Boots, her blouse torn and bloodied, her hair matted with dark splotches, was standing next to Jack Pumpkinhead. He had one of his arms around her shoulders and was leading her toward one of the church’s collapsed walls. Marian could see a staircase inside the church, through the rubble. Jack leaned over and covered Boots’s lips with his crescent mouth, then sent her on her way.