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TRICK OR TREAT
No one believed the curse was real.
Hiccup. Robbie spit out a frog. Again. It was his third one today.
“Ok Robert, it was funny the first time, but that’s enough now,” said his fifth grade teacher, Mr. Jones. The class snickered.
Robbie sighed in frustration. He’d tried to tell them how he’d been cursed by a witch while trick-or-treating the night before, but when you’re the son of a world renowned magician apparently hiccupping up frogs was totally believable. Hiccup. Next time someone asked if he wanted a trick or a treat he wouldn’t be such a smartass. It was going to be a long day.
The Curse
No one believed the curse was real. Oh, there was some loose talk now and again, thoughtful speculation, hushed voices in hallways, an occasional nervous giggle quickly silenced. But the rumors and the idle wondering were always muffled by a comfortable warm shroud of denial. At least this was true among those who had never faced the horror for themselves.
Until today, Mariah had counted herself among the skeptics. She had always considered that it did no good to look for trouble. So even when she’d seen with her own eyes the telltale pale faces, the furtive glances, the soft voiced complaints always followed by the awful disappearances, she had, well, she had chosen not to see. It was easier not seeing. And she’d chosen not to believe, because that was easier too.
She’d never prepared. Complacency and denial had robbed her of any chance. Now it was upon her and she wasn’t sure she could face it, didn’t know what to do. But the change was within her, inexorable as the tide, inescapable as the pit.
She sat very still, adrift along among her closest friends and dearest enemies. She willed herself not to be noticed, even as her vision fogged and pressure built behind her eyes in a thundering crescendo of pain that drowned out sound and sense and reason. It was hard to breathe. Her forehead burned. Terror grew exponentially by the moment, threatening to consume her. And still, still she could dimly register smiling faces and laughing banter all around, with not the merest indication of anything out of place, while her world had collapsed in an unstoppable, inward spiral!
Had they noticed?
Would they notice?
How could they not?
“Mariah? Earth to Mariah.”
She started, turned and looked into the eyes of Beth Ann Vanderhaven. Beth Ann laughed lightly, gratingly, “You were a million miles away. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Mariah stared hard into Beth Ann’s face, searching the quizzical expression for traces of mockery or derision—for any indication that Beth Ann suspected, or knew.
“If you say so.” Beth Ann turned away.
It was growing worse, the need to flee warring with the desire to stave off the inevitable, to pretend it wasn’t happening, to pray that if she ignored it, it would just go away. Please just go away!
She trembled.
She found her feet, legs shaking beneath her.
Ignoring the questions, desperate to escape, her entire body cramped, wracked with dull horror, she began to walk. Her steps were short and wobbling. There would be a price to pay later. The humiliation already burned like live coals in her lungs and throat. Her stomach churned.
Just shy of the door, of escape from one nightmare and admittance into another, she stopped and cleared her throat twice before the words came. Her voice was raw, abraded to a whisper beneath a truth as cruel as shattered glass against bare flesh.
“Mr. Brisco, I...I'm pretty sure my period just started. Can I have a pass to go to the nurse’s office please?”
FADE TO BLACK
Everybody was so bloody rational. No matter how much evidence you lay before them, they refused to accept the truth, chalking things up to coincidence, as if such a thing even existed. Simon thumbed idly through the police photographs wondering how many more people would have to die before someone else would believe in the Hellgate curse.
“You recognise her,” the young man said. It was not a question.
“Of course, I do,” he replied through tightened lips, passing back the glossy prints. “Her name is Sally,” he said, turning his back to the policeman.
“Sally,” the officer repeated, writing the name in his notebook. “Does she have a surname?”
“Did,” Simon said.
“I'm sorry?”
“You mean, did she have a surname,” he explained. “I take it from the angle of her neck that she's dead?”
“Yes sir,” the officer mumbled, “discovered on the set of your film about an hour ago. We estimate her time of death at around half an hour before that.”
“You found her remarkably quickly,” Simon said. “There shouldn't have been anyone at the studio at this time of night.”
“We received a phone-call, Mr. Pembury,” the policeman explained, “from an unlisted number.”
“A phone call?”
“Yes, sir. Telling us to...,” he inspected his notes, “...'come quickly, there's a dead girl behind the Hellgate.'” The officer looked Simon squarely in the eye. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Of course, it does,” he snapped. “She was working on a film – working on my film – Hellgate IX . No doubt you're going to tell me you've never heard of it.”
“Not really my sort of thing, Mr. Pembury,” he replied. “She was found at the bottom of a flight of stairs, just behind the film set. It runs right down from one of the props – a massive door. This would be the Hellgate, would it?”
“Of course,” Simon said with thinly-veiled impatience.
“Any idea what she would be doing there so late?”
“Working, I imagine,” Simon replied. “This is the film industry, officer. We don't work 9-to-5 shifts. Sally is,” he stopped himself. “Sallywas an assistant to one of our editors. The stairs where you found her lead to our editing suite, such as it is.”
“Well, we have a team down at the studio now, Mr. Pembury,” the policeman said. “They'll be as quick as they can, but you may not be able to carry on filming tomorrow.”
“Out of respect to our colleague,” Simon replied archly, “we would not dream of doing such a thing.”
“Of course, sir,” the officer said. “I'm sorry to trouble you with something like this, but we felt you should know about the accident.”
As Simon closed the door on his unwelcome guest, that last word hung in the air like a threat.
Accident.
Sally's death had been no accident. None of them had been accidents. The entire franchise had been plagued with one casualty after another and the latest chapter was proving to be no different. Sally was the second crew member to die since filming had started, but she would not be the last. The curse called for three victims – a blonde, a brunette and a redhead. One of the set designers had been knocked down in a hit-and-run a mere week into shooting, hanging on for six days in intensive care before the curse had finally claimed her. Now Sally had broken her neck, falling down the stairs that stood right behind the Hellgate itself.
Simon began pacing the room and wondered why nobody else had spotted the connection. Hardly the most critically acclaimed series in the annals of horror cinema, the original Hellgate had nevertheless spawned eight direct-to-DVD sequels and had managed to cover its dwindling budget at each step. Surely someone must have pieced together the puzzle by now.
Simon had been involved in each production, moving up the creative ladder from apprentice grip on the first film, all the way to the position of director for Hellgate IX: Rise of the Hellgate . Twenty-six young women had died throughout the series' sordid history and nobody seemed to care. There were dozens of films where members of the cast and crew had died and you could hardly move for websites tortuously elaborating on the most tenuous links to a supposed curse. The Omen trilogy. Rosemary's Baby . Poltergeist . Reams of text had been dedicated to the string of misfortunes suffered by their creators and yet nobody seemed interested in a low-budget series of penny dreadfuls, despite a body count well into double figures.
The phone rang, stopping Simon's thoughts in their tracks. He answered, listening to the breathy, tearful voice at the other end. His response was brief and measured. He told her to stay where she was and that he would come over to her apartment.
Megan Lanser was the star of the film and she had already heard the news, the rumour mill of Hollywood moving fast when it needed to. As director, Simon knew it was his duty to keep his leading lady happy. Sighing, he opened his wall safe and deposited the police photograph that he had skilfully palmed during his conversation with the witless officer. It landed on a pile of twenty-five other prints, each carefully purloined from the authorities, be it by bribery or stealth.
Simon put on his overcoat and felt the comforting weight of the knife in his inside pocket. It was a replica of a ceremonial dagger, taken direct from the film set, but it would serve its purpose well enough. So many deaths and people were only now beginning to talk.
He intended that they would never stop.
Curses, Foiled Again
No one believed the curse was real. So it wasn’t. And Harmynn was running out of time.
“Your head, Harmynn,” the prince growled. “Your curse doesn’t take effect by sunset and we celebrate with noggin for breakfast.”
Harmynn frowned. It was a shortcoming of curses. Someone had to believe in them, even slightly, or they proved ineffectual. The prince was skeptical by nature but Harmynn had never had a problem with simpler folks believing him. Not until lately. Coincidentally enough, ever since the prince’s brother and his consort had arrived in town.
“By sunset your brother will shrivel as a grape in the sun, my prince.” And Harmynn hoped his words conveyed more assurance than he felt.
“Funny, your head will do the same if perched on a pike by my gate.”
Harmynn cleared his throat. “Of course, my liege, but I am hopeful it will not come to that.”
“It will take more than hope, Harmynn.” The prince gestured toward the window. “The day grows long. When next I see my brother he had better be gasping for his last breath.”
Harmynn bowed himself backwards out the door. “It will be so, your highness.”
It had better be so, Harmynn thought to himself as he straightened and headed down the corridor towards his chamber. The Balimoor curse had never failed him before. His wax effigy of the prince’s brother was flawless and empowered with personal effects which had cost Harmynn more than he had wanted to spend. A pittance if it meant the difference between keeping his head or not. He had even carefully leaked the fact there was a curse being laid upon a certain royal figure to all the right people so that soon the entire township was buzzing with the gossip. Out of all those people, at least one had to believe. Even on a bad day. And this was shaping up to be exactly that.
But then why wasn’t the curse taking effect? Which it should have been by now. Before now, truth be told. Harmynn chewed his lower lip as he paced his chamber. He would have to cast it again, just to be safe, and he had better do it quickly. The sun was nearly down.
Lord Gervin, brother to the Royal Prince, shuffled into the hall in the company of his consort at slightly past sundown. He was bent over, wheezing and snorting as he limped toward the dais where his brother stood. Harmynn bit the inside of his cheek to keep the smile from spreading across his face. Gloating would have been inappropriate.
“Brother, are you ill?” asked the prince, admirably feigning concern.
The consort, her hands tucked into her capacious sleeves, slid a glance past the prince and landed it firmly on Harmynn. The expression in her eyes sent a sudden chill down his spine. There was something vaguely familiar about the woman.
Gervin coughed, struggling to talk. “Would it pain you, brother? To see me die?”
The prince attempted a wan smile. “Of course. We are blood, after all.”
“Then you curse your own blood, you vile little rodent!” Gervin straightened, his disguise falling away. “You will both pay now. You’re not the only ones can craft a curse.”
The consort’s hands emerged from the depths of her sleeves, each one holding a carven wax image. A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth and Harmynn’s throat constricted in sudden recognition.
“You’re dead,” he hissed because Harmynn knew for a fact Shelai, if it was truly her, was dead. He had felt the life breath leave her beneath his own fingers.
The woman’s smiled deepened. “Apparently not as dead as you thought.”
“It was his idea!” Harmynn pointed at the prince, his voice raising an octave in terror. “I do only as I am commanded.”
“Who was it commanded you to kill me?” Shelai asked.
“Spineless coward!” the prince roared, stumbling off the dais toward Harmynn. But he never made it. His knees gave out on the second step and he catapulted headlong to the ground at his brother’s feet, gasping for air.
Shelai let one of the wax images drop to the stones beside him and the prince gaped at his carven likeness. “Bastard,” he croaked.
Gervin squatted down next to his brother. “Turn around is fair play,” he quipped. “Apparently there is not room in this world for two of royal blood. So sad. You died so young. Fortunate for the kingdom I happened to be here to step in and fill your seat. Who would have thought you would have been poisoned by your own mage who then, unable to bear his guilt, took his own life.”
He turned his gaze upwards and Harmynn put a hand to his throat. He could feel his skin starting to tighten and shrivel as the curse took hold. He pointed a shaking finger at Shelai. “She’s a witch, you know.”
“Hmm.” Gervin smiled up at the woman. “And far better at her craft than you are at yours.”
Harmynn’s vision was fading to black around the edges. “Spare me.”
“I think not.” Gervin stood. "You are a spineless, treacherous snake."
Harmynn dropped to his knees, his legs no longer able to support him. He put the last of his venom into the look he gave Shelai. “How?”
“How am I still alive?” she asked.
“The curse,” spittle bubbled from his lips. “How did you flout my curse?”
“A curse must be believed to have power, love. You know that.” She leaned over and stroked the side of his face, placed the wax figure in his hand and folded his fingers around it. “I just ensured no one believed in yours.”
No one believed the curse was real. Not Sally Jane, not Monica, and definitely not Billie. The overhead lamp was off in Suki’s bedroom and three girls crowded around the flashlight held by their de-facto leader. The flashlight wasn’t strictly needed, but it lent an air of mystery the girls had come to expect from “the club.” She pointed the light up toward her chin, giving her face a ghoulish mask.
“The Curse visits every month, and extracts its payment in blood,” she said, in her ghost-story voice. It leaves you weak and tortured with pain. There are sufferers in every town and village, but you can’t tell who is cursed and who is not—and there’s nothing that can stop it.
Suki giggled then turned the spotlight on the turquoise blue and magenta box in her lap, while her spellbound audience listened rapt.
“The hapless victims use these to soak up all the blood.” Suki emphasized the last word.
“Every month?” Monica asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible.” Billie rose, crossed her arms across her chest, plopped on Suki’s bed in the semi-darkness, and picked up noisily flipped pages of a Richie Rich comic book.
“It’s not either impossible,” retorted Suki, “My sister told me.” Suki, ten, idolized her fourteen-year-old sister Mariko. Truth-be-told all the girls did, with the exception of Billie. Mariko was beautiful and exotic, and possibly the smartest young woman ever.
“If you always bleed,” Sally Jane questioned, “wouldn’t you be … dead … soon?”
Billie snorted from her position behind the comic’s pages.
“Well, wouldn’t you?” Sally Jane asked again.
“Course not silly. That’s the way it supposed to happen,” Suki said, “but I don’t really believe the rest of it. That part can’t be true.”
“But, why? It doesn’t make any sense at all. I’m sure God never meant for that to happen to us.” Sally always had to interject religion into everything.
Billie snorted again.
“You got something to say Miss Billie Jean?” Sally asked, looking imperiously over her glasses at the recalcitrant girl lying on the bed.
“Yeah.” Billie dropped the comic and pushed off the baby pink bedspread. She flipped the light switch. Three little girls huddled in the center of the lime green shag rug. They looked small and silly in the brightness.
“It’s three weeks to Halloween, and you losers are sitting around discussing toiletries. Are you ready?”
“Exactly. We need to be ready for The Curse.” Suki said, gesturing with the flashlight toward the blue box.
“Geeze! Not that. Your costumes! I thought we came here to plan our costumes?”
And just like that, The Curse was forgotten.
On the afternoon of October 31st, the clock ticked toward 3:20, all eyes in Mrs. Crandon’s 4th grade class riveted to the second hand inching closer and closer to the twelve. Finally the bell rang and 24 ten-year-olds rushed the door. By the time the moon rose over suburbia, streets were overrun with goblins, vampires, cowboys, and princesses. The four girls met on the corner to discuss their strategy.
Billie had dressed in loops of ripped sheets dabbed with red paint. Her face was powdered white with black holes painted over her eyes. She carried a king-sized pillowcase. Monica pointed at the bag and laughed. “Is that going to be big enough Bills?”
“You look scary!” Sally Jane said.
“You watch. This bag will be completely full when I’m done. I’m going to curse, anyone who doesn’t give me extra.”
Sally Jane said, “God says you shouldn’t curse—”
“The Mummy’s Curse!” The other three shouted at her. Billie cackled. Then grimaced menacingly at her friend.
“Oh …”
Suki gathered her acres of princess blue tulle and scooted forward in the high heels she’d borrowed from her mom. “Where should we start?”
“I vote for heading straight over to Lakeland Avenue before the good stuff is gone.” Monica said.
Billie hoisted her empty bag above their heads and all four shouted, “Girls Rule! Boys Drool!”
“Flashlights on!” Sally Jane reminded them as they crossed busy Benson Boulevard toward the ritzy houses on Lakeland, where full-sized chocolate bars surely awaited them.
After six blocks, mummy Billie stopped and dropped her pillowcase.
“Billie? You okay?” Sally Jane pushed her Tinkerbell mask to the top of her head, pointing her flashlight toward her friend.
Billie groaned and grasped her abdomen.
“Ugh. My tummy hurts. Get that outta my face.” She said, shading her eyes from the beam of light.
“Sorry,” Sally dropped the light and put a hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“You should stop eating that candy.” Monica put in. “You’ve been eating all night.”
“Maybe it’s The Curse!” Suki teased.
“It’s not either!” Billie protested, “How can you say that now, tonight?”
“Let’s sit down here a minute.” Suki said. They sat on the lawn of a large house. Billie lay back on her side curling her body around her sack, half-full of candy, and empty wrappers.
“We should take her home. I got enough candy to last me a while. Sally? Monica?”
Monica hesitated, “Yeah, okay.”
“No! I’m not done!” Billie tried to get to her feet, but lay back down, moaning. “I think I’m dying.” She rocked back and forth holding her stomach.
“We’re taking you home, Billie,” Suki insisted, ever the group leader.
Billie moaned again, “Oh God, oh God! I’m bleeding!”
“That’s just paint!” Monica said.
“No! Not that …” Billie raised her palms from between her drawn up knees, and all three girls pointed their flashlights.
Billie’s hands were covered in blood. She patted her loops of painted cloth looking for the wound. Suki lowered her light toward Billie’s crotch, where a widening spread of crimson grew.
“It’s The Curse.” She said with a trembling voice.
“Oh, no! Jesus help us!” Sally cried, and then grabbed her bag and ran toward home.
“Sally Jane!” Monica called, “It’s okay, you can’t catch it.”
“But you’ll get it, just the same.” Suki added.
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