All Hallows

by Christopher Golden

Chloe tore into the box like it was Christmas morning instead of Halloween, but in the Barbosa house, October 31 was just as important as December 25.

Growing up, his love for Halloween had always been more about the experience than the candy.

Tonight, the woods would be full of screams, and he intended to cherish every last one.

How much humiliation, how much insult, how much heartache did a person have to endure before she was allowed to stop behaving?

brothers in pain, brothers in abandonment. No matter how often they fought, they would always have this to bind them.

“Alice in Wonderland” always had a tendency to let her mind wander. She insisted it was because she had more imagination than the others, but secretly thought she probably had undiagnosed ADHD or something.

Big mood. Me.

Better to know you’re relying only on the real and tangible, on the people you can count on, than to put your hopes on the shoulders of a man who’s cast them aside a thousand times. He’s just not reliable, your dad.”

It’ll be better at home, Cynthia had promised her. Quieter, no more fighting. You and your mom and your brothers will be happier with your dad out of the house. You know it’s true, Jules. And your dad loves you so much. Anybody can see that. You’re like his friggin’ princess, right? You’ll see him plenty. And when you do see him, your mom probably won’t be there, which means none of that stress, right? You’ll have a better time. Trust me, Juju, this is for the best.

Nothing in these woods could be more dreadful, more terrifying, than the selfish cruelty of ordinary people.

She loved this time of year, all the scents and emotions that came with autumn. Sweater weather. Halloween, orange leaves crinkling underfoot, ghost stories.

Being Ruth could be exhausting, but walking around inside the fleshy robot version of herself was the price she paid for the better times, when something soft and vulnerable would be dragged into the dark place where Ruthie lived, the little black fish with its sharp, sharp teeth.

He was free now. He could go anywhere. So why did it feel like he had nowhere left to go?

Steve had known how closely she held this secret, had known that he was the only person she had ever told, and he had revealed it to his parents? His macho prick of a father?

With a smile, he threw back his head and sniffed at the air, searching for a particular scent, of rot and hunger, coppery blood and burning leaves. Of death and autumn.

How many times had they thrown stones at each other’s windows, then had whispered conversations in the dark, like Romeo and Juliet without the romance and suicide?

None of this could be real. None of this was possible. If this were really happening, she thought they were probably all going to die.

And something’s hunting them. The Cunning Man. Broghan, that’s what Arthur called him. They’re afraid of him and out of time.