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

Limping and shuddering, Boots began climbing the stairs which, Marian now saw, led to the exposed organ loft.

“Isn’t that sweet?” said the Mom-thing. “He’s gonna have her play a song for our anniversary.” It leaned close to Marian, its breath the reek of rotting vegetables mixed with dirt. “I always used to kid your daddy about how I knew he was gonna forget our anniversary, but he never did. He’s a charmer. And he invited the whole family, did you know that? What a thoughtful fellow.”

“That’s why you married me,” said Jack Pumpkinhead, taking one of Mom-thing’s hands and pulling her to her feet. Two corners of the Story Quilt were tied together under his neck, the rest of it flowing behind him like a grand cape. Jack pulled the Mom-thing toward an open patch in the cemetery. They stared at one another for a moment, then embraced. The brittle sound of wood scraping against wood filled the air. They pulled back, still looking at one another, as a low, deep, throbbing hum crept from the organ loft and unfurled over the cemetery; softly, at first, then steadily louder, the pained cacophony became progressively more structured and only slightly prettier as a tune struggled to break the surface of the chaos.

A tune that Marian recognized.

“The Anniversary Waltz.”

Jack Pumpkinhead and the Mom-thing tossed back their heads and laughed the laughter of Marian’s parents; younger, happier, stronger, a couple in love long before the world had beaten them down. They danced away, gliding and twirling through the tombstones. Mom-thing’s housecoat flowed in the nightbreeze like the grandest and most elegant of gowns; Jack’s Story-Quilt cape flew up and out like the wings of some giant, majestic nightbird. Their laughter cut through the whistling wind.

A black mass the size of a truck bled out from the ruins of the organ loft, then exploded into dozens of bats who squealed, screeched, and swooped down toward the dancers, not to attack, but to join in the celebration, encircling them in a fluttering wind-ballet that flowed up and down, round and round, rippling in time with the music.

Marian looked around, trying not to meet her brother’s stare. The smashed heap that once had been Boots’s car sat under a section of fallen gate. Someone must have seen the accident, so where in hell were the police and ambulance and fire trucks?

“Everyone’s already here,” said Alan. “Look around.”

The cemetery was filled with people, each standing at a grave, either alone or with others, holding their jack-o’-lanterns, looking at the headstone that bore the name of a lost loved one.

It was overpowering.

Though she could not say what exactly it was, Marian could nonetheless feel it all around her; above and under, in the air, in the trees and soil, in the beams of moonlight: thick, sentient, and all-powerful.

The music played on, the organ rasping, crackling, and singing.

Alan removed the stone bottle from his pocket and pulled out the cork. “Party time.” He tilted the neck of the bottle and a thin slow stream of blood dribbled from it onto the soil of the cemetery. He emptied the bottle and then knelt down, using his hands to spread the blood right to left, forward and back, regulating the stream to flow. Marian could almost see the blood mixing down into the soil and mud beneath, blending in, spreading wider, then breaking through the last layer and staining the lids of all the coffins underneath.

The throbbing in Marian’s ribs gave way to something stronger. At first she thought the pounding was only in her head but as she pulled herself to her feet she realized that the noise, the thumping—

— deargod —

—was coming from underneath the ground.

The little girl in her drew a picture of the dead beating their fists against the inside of their coffin lids.

( Let-Us-OUT!...Let-Us-OUT! )

From the grave nearest her the pounding increased, its desperate strength spreading to the grave next to it, then to the next grave, then on and on across the grounds, the rhythmic beating of a thousand dead hearts becoming one.

Jack Pumpkinhead and the Mom-thing stopped dancing and began to stroll among the mourners, stopping to talk with each in turn. Only after they had been spoken to did the mourners move, kneeling at the foot of their chosen grave, taking the magic seeds given to them by Jack and burying them in the soil. Then each mourner placed their jack-o’-lantern atop the spot where they had buried their seeds.

The pounding grew frantic though no less rhythmic.

— thumpity-whump-thump! ... (Let) ... thumpity-whump-thump! ... (Us)...thumpity-whump-thump...(OUT)!

Marian turned toward her brother. “W-what are they going to d-do?”

Alan, took her hands. “This is their night. The important thing is, we’re here for Jack and the whole family tonight. This is the least we can do.” He put his arm around her and began leading her toward the church.

Marian struggled to get free of him but any movement only doubled the pain in her ribs. After a few seconds more of futile struggle she slumped against her brother and let him guide her.

As the last jack-o’-lantern was placed atop the last grave, Alan set Marian by the sealed oak doors of the church, kissing her bloodied forehead and smiling.

“I love you, Sis. Please try to remember that. In the end, it’s the only thing that counts, though fuck only knows why.”

Marian pressed her back against the doors and said nothing as she let herself slide down onto her knees.

The mourners remained still, eyes fixed on Jack and his wife as they stood at the bottom of the church steps. After giving Marian one last look, Alan moved down to join them, leaving his sister in the shadows.

From the organ loft above came the powerful opening chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

From the soil below came the answer of the dead.

— thumpity-whump-thump! ... (Let) ... thumpity-whump-thump! ... (Us)...thumpity-whump-thump...(OUT)!

Marian thought she saw movement beneath the soil at one of the now-deserted graves. Her breath came up short as the pain in her body increased.

Children broke away from their parents and started building the bonfire, clapping their hands and squealing with joy. A few small flames at first, growing higher, then a whoosh! as the fire roared to life, the children dancing in a circle as each tossed in more wood and branches. From the center of their dance came young, giggling voices: “ Beasties on the doorstep, Phantoms in the air/Owls on witches’ gateposts, Giving stare for stare/Jack-o’-lanterns grinning, Shadows on a screen/Shrieks and starts and laughter, This is Hallowe’en! ”

The organ music rose beyond a scream, its music of praise becoming the howl of a wolf raging at the moon, shaking loose a few stones from over the doorway.

The moon seemed to move closer to the Earth, its light so brilliant and silver Marian winced.

And Jack said: “Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead lived on a vine ...”

The dancing children answered: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house ...”

“... Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead thought it was fine ...”

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

— thumpity (Let)-whump (Us)-thump (OUT)! —

Marian saw that she hadn’t imagined it—something was moving under the graves...under the soil...shifting, rolling like small waves, rocking the jack-o’-lanterns back and forth as each mound rose and fell with ease.

It’s breathing. The whole goddamn cemetery is breathing.

The bonfire grew higher and wider, its roar almost equal to that of the church organ, the flames spreading and raging, hissing and popping, scattering sparks that were caught by the nightbreeze and flung across the grounds.