By the time he was twelve, Oliver Brown had amassed an impressive collection of curios from around the world. His modest bedroom, one of three in a small Craftsman on Pike Street, was a virtual museum of strange and unusual objects, and its young proprietor was something of a local celebrity. Although Oliver occupied a lower rung on his middle school’s popularity scale, kids from around the neighborhood regularly visited just to confirm the rumors with their own eyes. The eastern wall was lined with a series of shelves displaying zoological specimens from around the globe; each morning’s sunrise illuminated multi-colored feathers, intricately patterned seashells, a variety of horns and antlers—even an emperor scorpion preserved in amber. Opposite this were two wooden cabinets, their shelves teeming with meticulously arranged scrimshaw and arrowheads, tiki dolls and talismans, ceremonial articles of voodoo—
“What a load of crap,” said Suzie, Oliver’s older sister. A high school junior with little patience for her brother’s obsessions, Suzie now stood in the middle of his bedroom, a mini-witch in long black robes and pointy hat.
“Can you stand there tomorrow from about 3 – 5 pm?” he asked snidely. “A couple kids from school are coming over, and you really tie the room together.”
“Funny,” she smirked, opening a curio cabinet. “I just need one last accessory, and then my costume will be complete.” She plucked from the menagerie a small white stone carved in the shape of a human face.
Oliver jumped out of his chair and carefully but firmly removed the stone from her hand. “This is not an accessory. It’s an amulet.”
“But this would look perfect pinned to my hat! Don’t you want me to be the cutest, wickedest girl at the party tonight?”
“Wish I could help you,” he said, returning the item to the shelf, “but this piece holds tremendous power, and I can’t allow it to leave this room.”
“Oh, I get it. The house is actually built on an ancient Indian burial ground, and as soon as I arrive at the party with your amulet, its tremendous power will summon the dead to rise and start terrorizing all of us unsuspecting teens….”
Oliver shook his head disappointedly. “Your ignorance is astounding, but ironically, not far from the truth. This piece was once used by the Asaro Mudmen of Papua New Guinea in their creation rituals. And yes, in the right hands, it can raise the dead.”
Suzie burst into mocking laughter. “Do you realize how completely insane you sound right now?” Groaning, she raised her arms Frankenstein style and hobbled toward him.
As if on cue, a car horn began to honk repeatedly outside their house. Suzie dashed to the window. “They’re here!” She spun around to her brother. “Last chance to come to the party and escape your pathetic, isolated existence. Come on, Oliver, it’s Halloween!”
“No offense,” he said, “but your friends are obnoxious. And Elvira is on tonight.”
“Suit yourself, but don’t come crying to me in thirty years when you’re sitting in front of the TV watching the game, and your wife is hosting a Tupperware party in the kitchen, and you’re sipping your can of beer and wondering where your life went.”
“Did someone say ‘Tupperware party?’” Tall, lean and blonde, Gloria now appeared like a sunflower that had suddenly sprouted in the doorway. As a single suburban mother, she labored intensely to project effortless grace as she ran the travel agency, maintained the home, shuttled the kids to karate and soccer. In truth, she was anxious, fatigued, and deathly afraid of the world into which she’d brought her children. Crack. AIDS. The impending threat of nuclear annihilation. It took a handful of amitriptyline just to pull her through the day.
“Gotta go,” Suzy said, shuffling past her mother.
“Please, honey, be home by eleven. Make sure that boy doesn’t drive too fast. And no drinking!” Gloria could hear her daughter’s voice trailing off, telling her not to worry, as she stared fixedly at a painting on Oliver’s wall—a smiling skeleton in a top hat and dark glasses.
“Baron Samedi, the Haitian lwa of the dead,” said Oliver.
“Repulsive,” she grimaced, unable to divert her gaze. She could hear the front door closing, voices outside, an engine revving. “Why do you have all these horrible things in here?”
“I find it interesting,” he replied, unfazed. It was a question he’d answered a hundred times before. “There’s so much out there that we don’t know.”
“And there’s a reason we don’t know it.” Her voice grew shrill. “It’s violent and, and….” She struggled to find the right word. “Primitive!”
Oliver shrugged.
Gloria took a deep breath and centered herself, as she’d learned from her new yoga videotape. “I’m going to make popcorn and watch President Reagan’s address about the Iran-Contra Affair. These bitter democrats have tried so hard to drag him down. But he’s a strong leader. I don’t believe for a second that he meant to trade weapons for hostages with those thugs in Iran. As for North and Poindexter, well, that’s another story. How about you come inside and we’ll watch together.”
“No, thanks,” he said.
“Come on. We never spend time together as a family anymore.”
“I would, really, but Elvira is on tonight.”
“Elvira,” she sighed. “Another crazy.”
***
Were she an automobile enthusiast, Suzie would have been excited to hop into the Chevy Camaro that now sat growling before her house. Glimmering in streetlight, it drew crowds of trick-or-treaters, all of whom paused their quest for candy to admire its metallic blue majesty. Suzie, however, was indifferent. Instead, her focus remained on tonight’s party and whether Brett Jennings, co-captain of the wrestling team and currrent object of infatuation, would be in attendance. She straightened her pointy witch’s hat.
“You probably didn’t notice,” the driver informed Raggedy Ann in the passenger seat, “but the brake light is mounted in the rear spoiler. Serious design change for the ‘87 model.”
“You’re right. I didn’t notice.” Raggedy Ann, whose name was Emily, turned to Suzie and rolled her eyes (the red yarn wig and painted on eyelashes exaggerated the gesture). “This goddamn car is all he talks about.”
“It’s really nice!” Suzie said.
“IROC-Z.” The driver winked in the rearview.
“You look so cute!” said Emily.
“Aww, thanks!” Suzie gushed. “You, too!”
Having been introduced by a classmate, the girls’ friendship was in its early stages. This was their first night out together.
“This is my boyfriend, Kenny. I’m telling everyone I meet tonight how lame he is because he refused to wear a costume.”
The driver once more winked in the rearview, his signature move. At eighteen, in his dream car, a beautiful girl beside him, Kenny would be hard pressed to name anything closer to perfection. Yet as Emily now leaned in to kiss him, red yarn softly brushing his cheek, a flash bulb burst, and he recalled an old Kodachrome of his parents as high school sweethearts. They were leaning against Dad’s graduation gift, a ’66 Mustang. The cobalt blue coat, pristine as it was, paled before the loving gleam in the young couple’s eyes. They’d be married the following year, and shortly after the honeymoon his father would volunteer to stop the spread of communism in Vietnam. Kenny would never meet him. Vexed, he now slipped Dad’s green flask out from under his seat and took a nip of vodka. He then thrust the Camaro into the raw autumn night, far from the jungle, far from his parents’ haunting eyes.
***
They drove and drove, windows open, music blasting. Suzie grew impatient and began to wish she’d asked where the party was being held. Too late now, she thought. She didn’t want to be a nuisance, especially since this was her first night out with Emily. The clammy October air slapped her face, and she clutched her witch’s hat to keep it from flying away. They eventually pulled up to a shabby house slumped on a dead end street. There were no Halloween decorations or trick-or-treaters in sight. The house was dark, and Suzie noticed that only one other vehicle—an old Isuzu pickup—was parked out front. Kenny turned off the ignition and took another nip from his flask.
The wiry fellow that answered the front door appeared considerably older than the trio. He wore a green t-shirt displaying a winged skull in a green beret. The shirt read “Kill ‘em All, Let God Sort ‘em Out.” Kenny introduced the man as William, a co-worker from the bait and tackle shop. Staring at Suzie, William lingered nervously in the doorway, rocking on the balls of his feet and smoothing his bushy brown hair. “I got beer,” he said finally, as if snapping out of a trance. He stepped aside and his guests filed past him into the house.
They listened to the radio. Kenny and Emily snuggled on the couch, and Suzie sat across from them in a wicker chair. They all drank except for Suzie, who hated the bitter taste of beer. After four cans, William loosened up a bit and ventured to tell a story:
“So it’s a rainy night, and I’m about to close up shop, and this guy comes in wearing a boonie hat, combat boots and a green field jacket. Little guy. Very tense.” He spoke directly to Suzie, who avoided eye contact. “He’s lingering, looking at knives, lures, different things. I’m ready to go home, so I say ‘Can I help you?’ He picks up a big spool of rope and asks, ‘How much of this you got?’ I go, ‘How much you need?’ and he says, ‘Enough to capture a bigfoot—”
Emily stood. “I’m sorry, but this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s a true story,” he added as she walked off, Kenny trailing close behind.
Slumped in the wicker chair, witch’s hat in hand, Suzie sighed. “Anyone else coming?”
“I called a lot of people,” William replied lamely. “Maybe there’s another party.”
"Where’d Emily go?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.
William remained silent, although he knew she and Kenny were now in his bedroom.
He downed another beer, walked over to the radio, flipped through the stations. “I love this song!” he cried out, raising the volume. His back to Suzie, he rocked on the balls of his feet in time with the ballad. When he spun around, he was holding an imaginary microphone. “I just died in your arms tonight / It must have been something you said / I just died in your arms tonight.” Lip synching, he shuffled toward her.
Annoyed and embarrassed, Suzie leaped up, pushed him away and headed for the door.
“Where you going?” he asked over the music.
“Home!” she yelled. “I’m going home!”
***
With little sense of time or direction, Suzie found herself on a gloomy road that snaked along the outskirts of a forest. She passed weathered signs that read “Blue Trail” and “White Trail,” and she vaguely recalled visiting here on a camping trip years ago with the Girl Scouts. Streetlights brightened the road every quarter mile, but between them stretched long swathes of darkness, and she quickened her steps to reach each new island of light. “Find a payphone, call Mom,” the young witch muttered, keeping a brisk pace. “Find a payphone, call Mom.”
She began to hear unsettling sounds—rustling in the fallen leaves, scampering beyond the rhododendrons. “Anything could jump out from behind these trees,” she said, and was reminded of a story she’d read in English class during her freshman year. She’d struggled with the language, but something about the tale made a lasting impression. A young man in nineteenth century New England leaves his wife, Faith, to secretly meet the devil in the woods. As they walk and talk, he is fraught with doubt, but the thought of his wife keeps him strong. In the end, he is shocked to find all the respectable townsfolk at the congregation, dancing around hellfire. And there, standing before the altar, is his own wife, Faith. Like the young man himself, she is one of the devil’s new initiates.
Glancing at her black robes, Suzie now imagined herself a witch rushing to the congregation. She could see the shadows of the dancers around the fire and hear their fervid cries echoing throughout the forest. Everything then was bright and clear, and although there was no streetlight, she could see a payphone up ahead. Ecstatic, she began to run, unaware that the scene before her was illuminated by the headlights of Kenny’s Chevy Camaro. It was approaching from behind at an impressive 88 mph.
***
Suzanne Lynn Brown
October 3, 1970 – October 31, 1987
***
Though exhausted, Gloria felt a great sense of relief. She’d taken the entire week off from work to prepare for this day. Now, as the setting sun bathed her kitchen in golden light, and the rich scents of Thanksgiving drifted through the home, she felt that her vision was nearly realized. The dining room table was set with the family silver, and warming on the counter were stuffing and sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, roasted Brussels sprouts, and—Suzie’s favorite—pumpkin pie. The turkey would be out of the oven within the hour. There was nothing left to do now but wait.
She prepared two small plates with crackers and cheese and brought them to Oliver’s room. He was speaking as she entered:
“The Asaro Mudmen are from Papua New Guinea, and their various creation tales all stem back to the Asaro River. In one such tale, the members of the tribe wanted to cover their faces in mud as part of a ceremony to ward off evil spirits, but they believed the mud from the river was poisonous, so they crafted special masks instead. The amulet is a miniature version of these masks. As you know, it holds tremendous power.”
Sitting on Oliver’s bed, still wearing the pink dress in which she’d been buried, was his sister, Suzie. She listened attentively, nodding blankly from time to time, as Oliver lectured. Though terribly pale and streaked with mud, the young girl was no worse for wear. On Suzie’s head was her witch’s hat, and pinned to it, as requested, was the amulet of the Asaro Mudmen. Reaching up, she touched the stone, and her soft coral lips formed the faintest smile.
* This story first appeared in Ghostwatch
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