HALLOWEEN'S AUTHOR: Mark Allan Gunnells
October walked alone through the graveyard, his sneaker-clad feet shuffling along the paved pathways. Vibrantly colored leaves scuttled past him, making scritchedy-scratchedy sounds on the pavement. He reached down and snatched a large maple leaf that resembled a crude hand, its pigment a deep red with golden highlights along the edges. Even in death, October thought, beauty can be found.
A morbid and rather philosophical thought for a boy of only twelve, but October wasn’t a typical twelve year old boy. He sometimes wondered if his parents had somehow known he would be a bit odd and that was why they gave him such a peculiar name. Or had it been the other way around, the bestowment of the name leading to October’s oddness? It was one of those chicken-and-egg dilemmas.
He would have liked to have been able to ask his parents about his name, but that wasn’t possible. They had been killed in a car accident when he was only four. He didn’t really remember them at all, just a vague impression of warmth and the loving hum of a voice he thought had belonged to his mother. He had been raised by his Aunt Sylvia, who did not like to talk about her late sister and brother-in-law. A few times she’d referred to them as “hippies” in a tone both disapproving and affectionate, but other than that she was very tight-lipped on the subject of October’s parents. The one time he’d worked up the nerve to ask Aunt Sylvia if she knew why he’d been saddled with such an unusual name she’d just smiled wistfully and said, “It was Lynn’s favorite month,” then quickly changed the subject, although not before October had noticed the dampness around her eyes.
October made his way deeper into the graveyard, occasionally throwing glances over his shoulder to make sure none of the other kids had followed him. It seemed they had tired of picking on him and gone about their way. Still, he would hang out in the cemetery for a while before heading home, just to be sure the coast was clear.
He knew where his parents’ graves were, but he avoided the plot. He didn’t like to be reminded of that which he’d never had to opportunity to have, and he could question the joint stone all he wanted and never get any answers. Instead he made his way to a fountain in the center of the graveyard, an angel holding a trumpet to her lips, a stream of water erupting from the instrument instead of music. Marble benches encircled the fountain, and after brushing crisp leaves from one of them, October had a seat.
He stared at the water shooting up in an arc to land in a pool by the angel’s feet, trying to empty his mind, and yet he could still hear the taunts of the other kids echoing in his ears. They’d followed him after school, calling him names like “Jack O’Lantern” and telling him his parents had named him after the Halloween month because they knew he was going to be a freak. Terry Blackwell, the meanest kid in October’s grade, had shouted that line from the Charlie Brown Halloween special, “I got a rock,” and started throwing rocks at October. One hit him in the small of the back, not hard enough to hurt anything but his pride.
Deviating from his normal route home, October had sought refuge in the cemetery, half-afraid the other boys would follow him in and continue their torment of him. Much to his relief, after one last taunt—“Yeah, go join the rest of the ghouls in the bone-yard, Halloween Boy”—they had let him be.
Not for the first time, October wondered why he was always the sacrificial lamb. It had been so since kindergarten, his stature as class freak, as whipping boy, seemingly predestined. It couldn’t just be his weird name; after all, there was a Penelope in his class and even a Milo, and they didn’t take the kind of flak that October did. It was like there was something inborn about him that singled him out as a target, but nothing that could be seen by the naked eye; maybe a scent the more predatory kids picked up and sent them into a rabid frenzy of bullying.
October shivered as a chill breeze sent leaves whirling around him like a cyclone. The sky overhead was a dull gray, promising rain in the near future. He hoped to be home by the time it started, secure in his room with his comics and video games where he could forget the world outside and all its cruelty.
But still he did not move, as if his encounter with the bullies had sapped him of all his energy, leaving him weighted to the bench. He had forgotten his jacket at school, his thin shirt offering little protection against the air’s autumnal bite. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried not to cry.
“Hey there.”
October nearly fell off the bench, he was so startled by the voice. For the briefest of seconds, he thought one of the bullies had pursued him into the graveyard after all, but the voice was feminine and held no malice. He turned to find a girl surely no older than himself standing just a foot away. She had red curly hair and freckles on pale skin, wearing a dress of light blue. In her hand was a vanilla ice cream cone, her pink tongue poking out every few seconds to lick at the swirly white mound that rode the waffle cone like a silly top hat.
“Where’d you come from?” October said.
The girl giggled, the sound like wind chimes. “I was just walking, getting to know the neighborhood. My Dad said it was okay as long as I didn’t go too far. I live just on the far side of the graveyard.”
“McDowell Street?”
“Yup, that’s it.”
October stared at the girl for several seconds without speaking, as if he were looking at an apparition, a mirage that would soon dissipate. “How old are you?” he finally said.
“Eleven and a half.”
“How come I’ve never seen you around school?”
“We just moved into town. I won’t start school until Monday.”
New girl, October thought. In a small school, a new girl would be big news indeed, and October had the scoop before anyone else. Usually he was the last to know. And she was so pretty, why was she even bothering to talk to him?
But of course he knew the answer to that one. Because she was new and didn’t yet know that he was Jack O’Lantern, the butt of everyone’s jokes. Once she started school next week and learned who he really was, she wouldn’t dream of speaking to him lest she commit social suicide.
So better enjoy it while it lasts.
“Do you want to sit down?” October asked.
With a shrug and a lick at her ice cream, she sat on the bench next to October. “So what are you doing hanging out in the graveyard by yourself?”
“Just like it here. It’s peaceful.”
She nodded and smiled. “I think so too. What’s your name?”
“Oc…er, Bill.”
“Ocerbill,” she said with another musical giggle. “That’s one I haven’t heard before.”
Blushing, October looked down at his shoes and said, “My name’s October.”
“Like the month?”
“Yeah, like the month.”
“That’s a pretty cool name.”
He shot a quick glance at the girl, suspecting she was making fun, but her face held nothing but sincerity. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
“That’s what makes it cool. Makes you unique, special.”
October blushed again, but for entirely different reasons this time. “Thanks. Most people don’t see it that way.”
“It’s been my experience that most people are kind of stupid.”
October found himself laughing easier than he had in…well, his entire life. “You’re right about that.”
“Say, my folks drove me by the school earlier today to show me where it was. I was going to head on over and play on the swings. You wanna come with?”
Fidgeting like a spastic, October said, “I don’t know, there’ll probably be other kids there.”
“So?”
“I’m…well, the thing is…I don’t really have any friends.”
The girl didn’t say anything for several minutes, and October expected her to start laughing. Instead she licked at her cone contemplatively then held out her free hand. “You have one now. Let’s go.”
October tried to speak but couldn’t. It was as if he had a plug in his throat, keeping his voice wedged down inside. Which was probably a good thing; anything he said would probably just sound lame and ruin the moment. Silently, he took the girl’s hand and let her start leading him back in the direction of the school.
“Want some?” she asked, holding out her cone.
October leaned forward and tentatively took a lick of the ice cream; it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. “You know, I don’t even know your name.”
Another trilling giggle then, “It’s June.”
Above them, the clouds broke and a single beam of sunshine fell down upon them light a spotlight, warming their skin. Holding hands, October and June walked out of the graveyard.
Mark Allan Gunnells
3/11/09
Mark Allan Gunnells has been writing since he was 10 years old. His first book, A LAYMON KIND OF NIGHT, was published by Sideshow Press in 2009. Since then he has put out two more books with Sideshow: the two-novella WHISONANT/CREATURES OF THE LIGHT combo, and a short story collection entitled TALES FROM THE MIDNIGHT SHIFT VOL. I. He also has put out the novella ASYLUM with The Zombie Feed, and a digital collection entitled GHOSTS IN THE ATTIC with Bad Moon Books. He still lives in his hometown of Gaffney, SC, with his partner of 10 years.
*NOTE: You can find this story in the eBook collection GHOSTS IN THE ATTIC, published by Bad Moon Books/Crossroads Press.
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