a hallowe'en tale...by arkon

Out of the corner of your eye you think you see movement. You quickly turn your head to see, but there?s nothing there. You?re wrong. It?s there, just beyond the scope of our ability to see. You?re lucky. Pray you never see the unseen. Pray it never chooses you. There ARE monsters. There IS evil. Oh, yes there is- I?ve seen it, you see. Not just once, but many times. More times than I wish to remember. Evil is hideous and fearsome- dreadful- yes, that?s the word; the feeling of dread that overtakes me when I see the evil is so overwhelming as to be indescribable. You?ll have to take my word for it- I hope you never find yourself in the presence of evil as I have. Believe me, if you are faint of heart, you are unlikely to survive such an encounter. I sometimes wish I weren?t so strong of heart. I?ve prayed for death to take me, but I don?t deserve such a reprieve. I suppose you want me to describe the indescribable. Very well then- I will try.
There are those who believe that there certain places in this world that are inherently evil, that evil dwells in certain areas, lots of land, even specific houses. Perhaps I am more sensitive to auras of evil than most. Or perhaps evil seeks out certain individuals, including myself. It doesn?t matter. Evil reveals itself only when and to whom it wishes. And, God save me, I seem to be one of those unfortunates. But I ramble too much.
There is a house, the location of which I will not tell you, that I became interested in buying several years ago. It was an unremarkable looking building, a smallish two-story farmhouse painted white and yellow, window boxes full of flowers- actually rather cheerful in appearance. It was vacant when I went to look into it. The realtor had given me the key in advance. Looking back, he seemed a bit unclear, or unwilling to tell me, why he wouldn?t be able to accompany me that day. Squeamish, actually- perhaps he knew something about the house he was afraid, or unwilling, to tell me? Or perhaps the place just gave him the creeps.
I unlocked the door and entered the foyer. It was done in gaudy wallpaper, a large floral print. I strolled through the rest of the house, trying to decide if it was right for me and my young wife, who was pregnant at the time. I was interested, but certainly not excited, about the place. By the time I?d finished my tour of the two stories, I was still undecided. I figured I?d take a look in he basement and call it quits. I opened the door, descended two steps, and suddenly- suddenly like a slap in the face- I was afraid. Not just afraid, but terrified. It wasn?t the primitive fear of a dark cellar full of shadowy corners. The basement was well lit and not the least foreboding in appearance. No, this was primal fear, as if being stalked by one of the prehistoric beasts that preyed on our ancestors. I became filled with dread. I felt as if I were doomed, that I would never leave this place, never to be seen again, that I was about to be thrown into the pit of hell. Yet there was nothing there. Nothing to have caused this feeling of absolute terror. I couldn?t move. I tried in vain to turn and leave, to run! But instead I began to descend the stairs, further into that den of dread. I was certain that to do so would surely be the end of me, but I couldn?t resist. A will far greater than my own was coercing me on- down into whatever fate awaited me. Reaching the basement floor, I was finally able to stop. No, I believe I was ALLOWED to stop.
Slowly something began to appear, to materialize in front of the wall directly across the room from me. At first it was no more than a swirling mass of dark clouds, then it began to take on shape, almost the shape of a man, nearly seven feet tall, and it exuded evil. This surely was the source of my feeling of terror, and o the will had that forced me to descend to the bottom of the stairs. A face began to form, but not anything resembling a human face. Not so much ugly, it was twisted and gnarled into a mask of hatred, cynicism and spite, all of it directed at me. Then it spoke. The voice was guttural, raspy, and had a reverberation to it that made it sound like many voices, all of them tormented, all of them the voices of demons.
?You will live here,? it told me. The words were an order, but stated matter-of-factly, as if it were taken for granted that I would obey, and in that instant, I realized that I would obey. I had no choice, no ability, not even the will to refuse. ?You will bring the slut, and your property, and when the slut gives birth, you will name the boy Luke, and when he is eight days old, you will bring him to me. Now go.? And it was gone, suddenly, as if it had never been there. But it had.
I arrived at our apartment, not remembering the drive. I told Jenny about the house, praising it without understanding why. Oh, I knew why, but not how. How could I do this? And the next day, when I took Jenny to see the house, I tried my best to convince her it was the house for us. There was no hint of the evil that had confronted me the day before, but I knew it was there. Watching us. Listening. Waiting. Jenny seemed rather indifferent to the house, but I sold her on it. Never had I been so convincing. It was as if I?d been possessed with the gift of persuasion. Possessed! That was the word for it, all right.

Weeks later, we had moved in. Everything seemed normal, but I knew better. More weeks passed with no hint of the evil that pervaded the house. There were times when I tried to convince myself that none of it had been real, but that wasn?t really possible. I knew.
My son was born on a brisk autumn morning. We named him Luke. Jenny wanted to give him either my name or her father?s. I insisted on Luke. She gave in with a laugh and added that she claimed the right to name our next child. I could only smile weakly.
Seven days later, as Jenny napped, I wept as I carried our son down the basement stairs. My heart wailed as I laid him on the floor in front of the wall where the apparition had appeared to me months before. I hated myself, I tried with all my heart, my soul, my love, my will to resist. I was powerless. I was not in control. I turned and began to walk away toward the stairs. A voice in my head told me to turn around and pick up my son. Had I been granted a reprieve? I went back to my boy, picked him up, and cradled him in my arms. I looked down at him and nearly dropped him when I looked at his eyes. There I saw the same swirling blackness that had become the monstrosity that had possessed me that first time in the house.
The following days passed without event. I lapsed into a state I cannot describe. Total, complete despair was now my lot. Finally, I had to return to my job. The hours dragged by, each filling me with more and more dread. I called home: no answer. Time after time, I called with the same result. Finally I could wait no longer. I rushed home, flung open the door and found an empty house. I called Jenny?s name, then yelled it, then screamed it, searching the house. Nothing. No one.
They found Jenny?s body less than a mile away, in the woods, her neck broken, an expression of terror still on her face. I knew what she had seen. I knew what had horrified her so, but I said nothing. Who would believe me? The baby was never found.

That happened thirty-two years ago. Every day I pray for death, for madness, for anything to give me an escape from the thing that haunts me. The evil that I brought into the world. The evil that murdered my Jenny. God, I don?t think, hears my prayers any more. My damnation is to keep on living.
And every year, on my son?s birthday, he visits me. It doesn?t matter where I am, where I go to try to hide from him. He knows where I am, and he is there. Every year, I look into those black eyes and witness the re-enactment of the brutalizing of my poor Jenny. I hear her dying scream, that terrible, haunting scream. And each time he visits me, haunts me, he says the same words to me, words that he knows I dread, in that soul-less demonic voice: ?See you next year...DAD!?