The Forfeit

When I think of Halloween, I often recall the smell of stewed damsons and cat piss. The unwholesome combination takes me back to a late-night episode four decades ago, when I was a skinny and impressionable eleven-year-old. The incident occurred after my brother and I visited our Grandma’s house to listen to her bloodcurdling supernatural stories. It was a seasonal tradition we both looked forward to, especially as she welcomed us with a special hot chocolate topped with marshmallows and we departed with her delicious toffee apples.  

   Grandma often looked after us at the weekend, allowing our parents time to catch up and relax. She inspired us with amusing historical notes or seasonal folk stories and engaged our imaginations with creative diversions. We’d roll up our shirt sleeves and set about crafting masterpieces at her kitchen table; we made cards at Christmas, decorated eggs at Easter and papier mâché masks at Halloween. I recall patching together a grisly mask based on an unsightly beast that hounded my nightmares. The strips of rough torn paper and lumpy paste were ideal for capturing the distorted face. I enjoyed detailing the abomination’s ravaged features and tormented expression. Grandma smiled and put her arm around my shoulder when I explained the abomination’s origins. It was both difficult and exciting to confront my nighttime fears and yet calming to make the mask real. 

   After placing our creations in front of the fire to dry out, she entertained us with a selection of her Halloween stories. Grandma was a gifted storyteller who understood how to pace a gripping yarn and had us begging for more. My fingers tightened into bird claws as she described fearsome creatures on the prowl and Mickey flinched more than once as shadows gathered in her kitchen, fluttering around us in the candlelight. The afternoon trickled away as we lapped up Grandma’s gruesome tales and before we knew it, the daylight had vanished.

   On her doorstep, Mickey announced he’d planned some mischief making with his class-mates. Grandma tut-tutted as she helped me with my rucksack, and gripped my hand. You should go home directly, she whispered. 

No way, said Mickey, it’s Halloween. 

Promise me you’ll go straight home, boys, she said. 

For goodness’ sake, Granny, we’re meeting friends. 

She was concerned because Halloween had fallen on a Sunday. There was a new lunar cycle, too, and she believed the coincidence didn’t bode well. Mickey rolled his eyes and sighed as grandma explained the souls of the dead were restless on such a night. Tradition foretells they’ll use this evening’s alignment to appear beneath the waxing crescent moon and return to haunt their former homes. 

It’s a night to wrap up and stay at home, she said. Mickey laughed, making light of her advice. Postpone your celebrations until tomorrow, she warned, as we donned our homemade disguises. The night abounds with the undead, she added, and it offers little protection to fools who ignore the portent. We waved goodbye and left her muttering about ghouls and foul beings awaiting those who trespass in the town’s darkest places.

   Grandma’s words echoed around my mind as we shuffled off into the night. I was too young to appreciate her concerns and determined to join my brother’s party of trick-or-treaters. No one wants to miss out at that age, especially as Mickey’s friends showed no misgivings. It was all just supposed to be harmless fun.

   As we wandered from door to door, a dense mist enveloped our neighbourhood. The lofty streetlights emitted a sulphurous glow but struggled to illuminate our world and its familiar landmarks. At nine o’clock, only a few intrepid trick-or-treaters were braving the eerie streets of our town. By half-past nine, we were in an unfamiliar environment with few signs of life, apart from an occasional vehicle ferrying weary partygoers back home to bed. Without warning, they’d materialise from the murk like distant memories and evaporate without trace except for their shrill laughter that tinkled like silver pennies cascading down a bottomless pit. 

   We followed a trail of carved pumpkin lanterns to the eastern reaches of town, stopping to knock on doors decorated in skulls and spray-on cobwebs. Everyone complimented us on our disguises and sent us on our merry way with toothsome snacks. Mickey filled my handy rucksack with sticky treats from generous households and we’d disappear into the murk again. 

   Despite grandma’s ominous words, there was no sign of marauding fiends, and we continued to meander into the dark recesses of the night. However, by half past ten, I was trailing behind Mickey and his high-spirited pals. They cavorted across gardens and up pathways like mischievous demons, dipping into our plunder to fuel their gleeful antics. Guzzling sweets by the handful, they left me to carry the night’s spoils on my back. This wasn’t what I’d expected when I set off, but I loved being one of the gang. This was supposed to be fun, right?

#

Hey! What about the Monster Mansion? Mickey said. Yeah, let’s check it, man! Mickey just wanted to spice things up and knew he’d get an enthusiastic response. Let’s see if Grandma was right about the ghouls of Eastlake. Are we all up for it? Let’s do it!

   Everybody called it the “Monster’s Mansion” for no other reason than it looked creepy and there was a disfigured old man who lived inside who nobody spoke to. People seldom saw him, though Mickey told me he’d spotted him once at the front window, gazing out at his orchard. The unkempt garden contained an assortment of fruit trees; damsons, plums and pears. Apparently, he’d wait for windfalls and steal out with a wicker basket at twilight and collect his produce, lest it spoil and rot.

#

To be honest, I wasn’t sure if old Mister Barnard lived there anymore, although I saw someone at the house during the Whitsun holidays. That day, I’d drifted off my normal bike route and pulled up outside the old house in Eastlake by accident. My map reading and compass skills were lacking practice, and I struggled to determine my exact location. I remember shivering and had a sudden notion I was being observed. It was a bright day and not the least bit cold. However, my skin had puckered, the hairs on my arms bristled and I felt a chill travelling up my spine. 

   I looked up to see a tall figure in a dark suit peering at me from inside the house. Standing within the weathered window frame, he resembled a living portrait of a man from a distant era. Motionless, behind the dusty glazing, he cradled an elderly black cat in his arms. Its eyelids were closed tight, and it held its mouth in a grimace of pleasure as he raked the white stomach fur with his gnarled fingers. The man’s deep-set eyes were lifeless and set in pasty skin like two lumps of coal discarded in half-melted snow. His hideous countenance was a patchwork of mottled flesh-tones and bore the pitiful scars from an ongoing battle with a ravenous tissue-eating disease. With no facial feature left intact, it was difficult to determine his age, and I imagined he’d struggle to recognise his own reflection. It was as if his surgeons had dismantled his facial components to keep the terrible malady at bay and struggled to reassemble them in the incorrect order. The wretched man troubled my mind, set my imagination spinning in circles, and I struggled to avert my eyes. During the encounter, my limbs cramped tight, and I felt lightheaded, clinging onto my handlebars for balance. I looked down and fumbled with my map to avoid the defiant stare, and when I raised my head again, he’d vanished.

#

We’d reached the far edge of town when Mickey suggested our impromptu midnight visit to Mister Barnard’s Eastlake residence. The silhouette of the creaking three-floored dwelling loomed in the near distance like a decrepit old steam-ship waiting to be dismantled in a dry dock. The building’s former splendour was a vague memory known only to those who’ve passed on and left nothing to report. 

   The crumbling red-bricked house fell into disrepair when old Missus Barnard passed on, leaving her husband to maintain their Victorian monstrosity. He was from the generation that expected their wives to do everything: cook, clean, shop and sew. Old Missus Barnard did the lot without complaining and left behind a man who could barely boil an egg, let alone run a household and look after himself.

#

Mickey led the way towards the property and marched up the ceramic-tiled pathway to the worn granite steps, pausing below the front door. Moss and mildew had discoloured the stone porch, and its columns were entwined with ivy. It was as if sinuous tentacles were drawing the building into the ground and reclaiming it a brick at a time. When Mickey asked for a volunteer to knock on the door, we all shrugged our shoulders and examined our footwear. He rolled his eyes when nobody offered, sighed, and ascended the steps. 

   I searched the exterior for signs of occupation and shivered at the thought of grandma’s warning. A grimy curtain twitched upstairs, and I caught my breath. Biting my lip, I craned my head back to get a better view. I’m sure I spotted withered hands draw shut the tatty drapes. I imagined some startled creature retreating from view and cowering inside its godforsaken coffin. 

   Mickey raised his hand to strike the corroded doorknocker. After the first hollow clang, the door creaked open to reveal a wood panelled vestibule area. It was empty apart from a basket of waxy looking fruit with a hand-written note attached. Mickey sniffed and leaned down to grasp the jaundiced parchment. We gathered round him and he smiled as he read it. We’re invited to help ourselves to the produce, he said. Looking at each other, we waited for guidance. I say we take the fruit, said Mickey. 

We nodded in agreement. He bit into an apple, but spat it out. Ugh! What the… 

It’s rotten and bruised. That’s rubbish! Let’s pelt the door. 

I backed off from the steps. 

We’re all doing this, right?

It isn’t right, Mickey.

This is our trick our treat moment…

What about Grandma and---

Throw the fruit or face the forfeit!

Forfeit! Forfeit! Forfeit!

And so on this most malevolent of nights, I had to pay for my hesitation.

I must enter the house and return with treats for everyone… 

#

I had no choice but to take the challenge. We all stumbled through overgrown weeds and creepers to access the back of the house and Mickey helped me light the stubby wick inside his glass storm lantern. The sickle moon’s thin light cast a weak shadow as I ascend the wooden steps to the rear door. I tried the tarnished brass doorknob, hoping it will refuse entry. It’s stiff to turn but succumbed to my touch and leaves a hint of verdigris on my fingertips. 

   An acrid waft of stale air greets me, and I choke as the noxious feline stench catches the back of my throat. The ambient light behind me casts an eerie glow over dishevelled piles of filthy crockery. I raise my clenched fist and the lantern illuminates mountains of clutter on the surrounding work surfaces. In front of the far wall, there’s a stove with a cauldron-sized pan of simmering liquid. Clouds of billowing steam infuse the kitchen with a sickly sweet tang.

   A sudden movement on the table beside me sends plates cascading across the scratched surface, and a shadowy beast darts out of sight. There’s a dry hiss around my ankles and I feel a sharp pain in my lower left calf. Looking down, I’m greeted by a ball of mangy black and white fur and the glint of razor sharp fangs. The beast turns tail and scampers away as I stumble in agony into the asymmetrical hallway; my faltering lantern casting dreadful shadows. I raise my arm to improve my view and hear the scrape of leather shoes on bare wood. A shadow passes behind me in the kitchen. The back door creaks and closes with a solid click. I struggle to breathe in the foul air and my pitiable wick splutters. The flame is fighting against the forces of nature to extend its life and gasps an inevitable last breath. 

   From the passageway, I see a figure. It is standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking out of the back window. The glow from the stove has disappeared. The house is in a darkness that’s tangible. It’s oppressive and overpowering like a velvet shroud.

   I hear the sudden thud of something striking the glazing. There’s a cheer from outside and four staggered splats. It’s Mickey and his companions hurling the fruit.

   The silhouette is turning towards me. I feel its anger. Where are Mickey’s matches? I can’t find them. Damn him. 

   This isn’t fun anymore. The lantern slides from my quivering fingers and shatters. My head spins as my legs give way. Arms outstretched, I grope for the walls. I can’t see my hand in front of my face. I try to call out, but my throat has closed. Pain shoots through my knees as I crawl over the broken glass.

   Footfalls approach. They’re dry and heavy. Behind or in front? Which way? Which way to go?

   I feel its presence over me. It’s sucking the air from my lungs. Wheezing. I crawl across the floor. The harsh smell of sour urine crushes the sweetness of the stewed fruit. I’m heading the wrong way. Staggering to my feet, I blunder down the passage. Hand over hand, I feel my way forward. I stumble against something clammy and cold. It gives to my touch. It’s like mouldy leather. Dead flesh. I can’t move. Darkness presses against my eyes. 

My rucksack feels like it’s dragging me backward. The straps are pulling down on my shoulders. They’re holding me back.

Forget the night’s treasure. I wriggle my left arm free from the webbing. Agh! There’s something cold and wet touching my arm. It’s tightening its grip on my wrist. No! It’s holding me. Let me go! 

Twisting around, I wrench my right arm and it slides out of the other strap. 

I lash out in the darkness. Both hands are outstretched. I reach out ahead of me and tumble forward. There’s debris covering the floor. I trip sideways and lurch against the wooden panelling.

   There’s reflected light ahead. I stumble towards it. My feet are useless. They’re heavy like granite. My breaths are oppressive and they’re deafening me. There’s no movement inside the building. I strain to hear any presence. The house’s silence is fragile. I can hear laughter outside. The thuds and splats are more frequent now. 

   My pathway forward is blocked. It’s the inner vestibule door. Where’s the handle? Where is it? Got it! I wrench it open. The fresh air rushes into my straining lungs. I tumble onto the porch and collapse on the outside steps. I glance over my shoulder. The door behind me swings to and slams shut. I can breathe again.

   There’s a splintering crash of glass. Leg it! It’s Mickey’s voice, footsteps and laughter. Their feet trample over the overgrown back garden and scamper through the orchard in front of the house. 

What have we done? 

They find me lying amongst the remains of rotten fruit. My hands and lower legs are covered in grazes and lacerations, but I can taste the clean air. I can breathe again.

Hey, what’s with your bag? Mickey asks, as I strain to see. Ma’s gonna be mad at you.

Mickey has spotted my new rucksack cowering on the smooth stone flooring behind me. It looks filthy and bedraggled, like a miserable sea creature dredged from the depths of the ocean. Through my swollen eyelids, I can see its top flap’s been forced open. 

I stretch my aching fingers toward it. I close my eyes. The darkness is a relief.

Are you all right, kiddo? Mickey asks, leaning down. His fruit stained fingers root through my backpack. 

Hey! He says. Well done! You’ve got more treats. 

Mickey extracts a six-inch-long parcel. He removes its paper wrapping and reveals an attractive candy-glazed treat on a stick. Its shiny red exterior glistens in his lantern’s gentle light and invites further investigation.

Toffee fruit? He asks. Oh, well, whatever… Crunch! He bites hard into the frazzled offering and munches. Mickey chomps his way through the caramelised outer layer. Lovely and crisp. He says. And a soft centre, too. There is an unmistakable crunch inside his mouth. A hard element has caught him unawares. He frowns. His jaw sags. His lips tighten and contort in disgust. Ugh! What the…? Yuck!

The chewed-up morsel flies out of his greedy mouth and splats on the doorstep. 

I bite my lip as his pals console him. He stands and rummages around inside his mouth. There’re bones and bits and… Ugh! Water, somebody, quick! Yuck!

His fingers search for fragments of frazzled rodent.

He spits the taste out of his mouth.

#

I recall turning my backpack upside down and releasing a slurry of the caramelised snacks onto the doorsteps. It was quite a collection - frogs on sticks, peeled fledglings and candied rodents galore - all baked in a brittle glazed exterior for our pleasure.

   The mist was dispersing by the time we left the Barnard’s property. We departed in silence, and I looked back one last time as we turned onto the main road. There was a black cat skulking on the doorstep. Its yellow eyes shimmered in the darkness. It jabbed a floppy paw at our discarded gifts. It straightened its back, and I glimpsed its white fur as it assumed its sentry post between the stone pillars.

  No one wanted to talk about our experience. We walked home in single file along the side of the road. Trick or treat was never quite the same after that night.

   Somewhere on the breeze, hissing caterwauls drowned out the echoes of croaky laughter on a dark and starless Halloween.

THE END