Under A Harvest Moon (Text Version)

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For those who couldn't keep up with a month's worth of leaf-reading, here's the text of this year's Halloween story:

 

 

 

 

Under a Harvest Moon

by

Michael Swanwick

(with Marianne Porter)

 

 

Guilt-ridden,sorrowful, the mourner came to their cemetery. Because both the living lover andthe dead were goths, this was at midnight on Samhain.

 

Strewingdead roses on an all-too-new grave, the mourner said, “We argued, it’s true. Ihave a temper. So did you. But no one could deny our passion, our mutual need, ourlove.”

 

Silence.

 

At last, themourner turned away.

 

A bonyhand burst out of the dirt and seized the mourner’s ankle in a grip like iron. Witha scream, the mourner fell backward, pulling the hand after, and an arm up tothe elbow as well.

 

Kickingaway from the unholy assailant with all available strength, the mourner slowly andunwillingly dredged all of an arm and a shoulder out of the soil. The arm wasbrown and its muscles like leather.

 

“Oh,please!” the mourner sobbed. “No! Don’t!”

 

A heademerged from the grave dirt and after it, another arm. Now the lich was using itsown strength in tandem with the mourner’s to free itself from the grave.

 

One thrawnhand released the ankle even as another seized a knee. Hand over hand, thecorpse pulled itself into the realm of the living. And then raised up themourner so they were standing chest to chest.

 

The lich wrappedits arms around the mourner. Its flesh was rotting. Its nose was gone. One eyehad succumbed to putrescence. Bits of skull were exposed. But there was nomistaking that face.

 

Weeping, forremorse drowned out fear, the mourner said, “I didn’t mean for it to haen. O Yes,it was my fault. But—”

 

“Hush.” Thelich’s face came within an inch of the mourner’s. Its breath stank of rottingtongue. “That doesn’t matter.”

 

It wrappedtough, unbreakable fingers around the mourner’s throat. “Here’s what matters Icannot die without you. Can you live without me? Say yes, and I will releaseyou. Say no and you will die.”

 

“No!” themourner cried. “Oh, please, no! However dire and fearful death may be, I chooseto share it with you. Take me there.

 

Take menow.”

 

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