HALLOWEEN SHORT FICTION by Sophia Gish
“I’ve always despised the summertime.”
That’s what he said to me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, since I happened to be wearing my favorite summer dress that day. When I asked why he bore such hatred, he just whispered, “Summer’s bad for business.”
That’s an odd response, wouldn’t you say? It’s especially curious since there was no prior chat about our careers. This had been the first real conversation we had. I joked and asked if he worked for Santa Claus, like a fool. And like a fool, I got closer to him. We spent time together over many weeks, weeks that turned into months. Talking and laughing, but only just that. We never touched hands or hugged, which led me to believe he was bold when he invited me to his home for the first time. Instead of being cautious, I was intrigued. It was a peaceful autumn night, with the moon and stars clearly sitting in the sky– free to observe and judge at will. We arrived at his home– a quaint, proper Tudor house that reminded me of an apothecary or library of some sort. It provoked pensive thoughts. As we entered, he asked to take my coat, and I simply smiled at him, as you would to a gentleman.
The interior design of the house was clean and calculated, with many earthy, muted and neutral color incorporations, truly a comforting environment.
Furthermore, he seemed to have an interest in ceramics because every corner and shelf had a pot of some kind resting placidly. Each one was unique, I noticed, as we walked through the house. Colors, shapes, and illustrations of all kinds of pottery surrounded me. Some vessels were so bold that they seemed to stare right into my soul. I must have been staring right back at them because he asked me,
“Does my pottery take you by surprise?”
“Your pottery? …No, not at all,” I said. “I find it compelling. I didn’t know you liked ceramics, much less that you make it. Where do you get all the inspiration?”
“Ah,” he replied. “I usually base my pieces on the personalities of the people I meet.”
“Well then, you must know a lot of people.”
And quietly, he muttered, “Yes, I knew a lot of people.”
That alone should have warned me, but yet again… I paid it no mind.
So there we were, on his porch with nothing but a gentle breeze and the innocence of unknown fate. He sat down across from me, but my gaze was drawn above him rather than to him. My eyes scanned over the vast atmosphere.
He asked, “Looking at the stars?”
I nodded. To my surprise, he stood abruptly. He walked around and behind me to turn the lamp off. Once it clicked off, a hushed veil of darkness befell the patio.
I looked to him, confused, and he replied with a joke,
“I thrive in the darkness.” Before I could question it, he continued with an inquiry.
“So, I suppose you like the night sky?”And just like that, we began to talk.
“I really do. My parents were obsessed with astronomy and astrology and things like that, so it sticks with me. I mean, what’s not to like?”
“I’ve never known much about either of those subjects.”
“Some people mistake them to be the same, but there’s a big difference.”
“And what’s that?” He seemed genuinely curious.
“Astrology is… the study of the relationship between terrestrial things and human events. So- horoscopes, tarot readings, psychic readings, crystals, things like that. And astronomy is just the study of celestial stuff. That’s just the general summarization though, it’s much more detailed.”
“Correct me if wrong, but it seems like you know a lot more than just the general summarization…”
“You’re not far off.”
“You mentioned crystals… So is that why you have that necklace?”
He motioned his head toward the pendant hanging loosely around my neck. It was a yin and yang, made with two different kinds of protective stones.
“Oh, this? Yeah. It’s something my mom gave me, supposed to ward off evil omens or something like that. It’s made with onyx and clear quartz. Isn’t it pretty?”
Hesitantly, he nodded. His demeanor was different after he mentioned the necklace; it was slightly skittish. Quickly, the subject was changed.
“On another note, I think it’s quite interesting that we both have such strong passions. And they’re almost connected– you love the stars because you dare to dream. I channel my dreams through my pottery. It’s amazing, isn’t it? I’ve never met someone with such a valuable and genuine soul.” Those words seemed to pour out of him, which was different than the reserved character I had grown accustomed to. I replied,
“Well, I’m flattered. It’s not every day that I meet someone who actually cares, if I’m being honest. And y’know, I wondered if you would ever invite me over. So thank you for this.” I chuckled a little, but no expression crossed his face.
“Of course.”
He focused on me with ruminating dark eyes. And the words came out gently: “If I were to make you a pot, it would be just as beautiful.”
Goosebumps erupted across my skin as one of his hands touched my arm, emphasizing his words. Blood drained from every part of me. His hand was as cold as ice. I didn’t know what to think or what to do– it felt like I was trapped in tar. One chance, I thought to myself. One chance to get out. A beat passed, and I conjured a smile.
“How kind of you. Do you mind if we go inside? I’m a bit chilly.”
He considered my reaction before I stood up stiffly. I focused on nothing but the door in front of me as I walked towards it. The minute I entered the doorway, I whipped around and locked the door from the inside with shaky hands. He was steps away from the door, but ran to it once it was shut. Everything was muffled. I couldn’t think straight, and he banged his fists on the door repeatedly. The door handle rattled violently. We looked at each other, only a mere half-inch of glass separating me from what could be the most dangerous mistake of my life. Oh God, what had I gotten myself into? He settled, shaping his eyes to kindness.
“We can think this through, together.” I shook my head. I don’t care if he meant that if he would make a pot for me, or if he meant that he would make me into a pot. His words had given me a clear and petrifying message, and I made no mistake about misunderstanding. Whatever little credence we had forged through, what, I realized, was just camaraderie– it wasn’t worth my life.
“There is no we.” My voice wavered slightly with the danger of this situation. His jaw clenched, and his eyes no longer seemed so kind. Assurance turned to coercion.
“Do you really want to do this?”
“What did you mean, when you said-” but my breath hitched. Instead, I said, “...What were you going to do?” He simpered, condescendingly.
“If you choose this path, remember: you won’t win. I can break you. I’ve broken people before.” I looked around frantically, trying to find some kind of leverage. On the table next to the door was one of the pots. I paused. Tracing my hand along the rim, out of the corner of my eye– I caught his afflicted face.
He growled, “No.”
Then I understood that it was the one thing that mattered to him. The thing he cared about. After all, he had gone to such an effort to explain them to me. I took the pot in my hands, raised it above my head, and he grew urgent. It fell from my hands, almost in slow motion. The second it hit the ground near my feet, he shook and cowered, as if part of him had died when the pot broke. He leaned against the door and heaved heavy breaths, before looking up at me with a new kind of fire in his eyes. After a second of recovery, he spoke.
“Go on, if you’re so heroic. Kill the damned villain.” Overwhelmed, I snatched two handled pots and held one high above my head once more, attempting to void his needle-like tone. I was trembling so strongly that there might as well’ve been an earthquake.
“Tell me what you were going to do.”
“Go on. Destroy me, piece by piece! But you and I both know I’ll never be gone-” Sharply, his voice halted at the second fall of a pot. His visible pain was just as strong as the first, except this time, the reverberation triggered a flicker of the lights.
“TELL ME!” I cried. The third pot, that I neglected to hold carefully, fell to the ground and shattered not a second after. It must have abused him greatly. At this, he fell to the step of the glass door, just barely managing to look at me with remorse. Power faded from his eyes slightly, and decayed to something softer. He no longer looked at me, but at the remains of the ceramic pot. And he spoke, like a withering candle in the night. “You know what I would’ve done. I see it in your eyes.” He looked up, voice hardening. “Cat’s out of the bag, darling.”
…I think for a moment, I stopped breathing. In that moment, everything seemed to make sense, pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Why he invited me tonight. Why he mentioned my necklace with a hint of unease. Why he was so obsessed with pots- as if they were like people to him. …They were people to him. He had implied that he no longer know them. But the reason they weren’t in his life anymore– was because of him. He stole their stoles. Turned them into pottery. –I panicked, I wasn’t in my right mind. Distressed and unraveled, I went around the room, breaking every pot. All the while, he clawed madly at the door, banging and raging. When every pot was in pieces, he seemed to have settled. He lay outside the door now with glazed eyes. He looked different, almost… fading.
The last thing I remember him saying was incoherent then. Even now, I still struggle to understand him:
“...such a beautiful soul.”
And like that, he was gone.
* * * * *
Several years have passed since that night. Right down to the day, in fact. And it’s been haunting me lately however it can: by creeping into my dreams, or showing itself through my own insecure fears. Odd portents occupy my mind now... and because of them, I’ve been turning every corner with a wary eye. For example, I lost my yin-yang necklace recently. It saddens me, but superstition overpowers sadness, and I cannot help but blame it on the nonexistent man who I once knew. Funny thing is, that house isn’t there anymore. Demolished, bulldozed to the ground, with all the remains of that night residing inside. I shouldn’t be afraid, but I am. I’ve tried to forget it, but the words are burned into my soul. “Summer is bad for business.” I think understand. In the summer, everyone is outside. No one remains inside, where he can prey upon on them in the shadows.
But it’s not summer, and the dark walls whisper to me now, especially during the night. Shadows run their fingers along my arms, sending shivers down my back, as if to say, “I’m still here. I’ll never be gone.” Oh god, it sickens me. In the end- he was right, you know. What I had buried deep down rises again. I am writing this letter because I know something is wrong. Something is going to happen. I can feel it in my bones. My body grows stiff, my arms heavy, my feet feel like clay.
So if you find this letter, remember my story. Most importantly, never mistake seduction for love or allurement for trust. The Boogieman will come for you, and there’s no way to escape. Damn, I should’ve broken every pot. Maybe then, he would’ve stayed gone. But what’s done is done; doesn’t matter, anymore.
He’s not gone… I am.
End.
Comments