As John’s tirade had filled the house, Jake had donned his costume and took solace in the mirror, imagining that it was his reflection that was feeling the pain and crying the tears.

  Those terrible twenty minutes had felt like a lifetime, his tiny heart trapped in a dungeon of fear. All he wanted to do was escape into the street—into Halloween. He’d take fake horrors over real ones any day. If only Billy was still home. His big brother was the only one who seemed able to stand up to John. But Billy was long gone and Jake and Shelley were alone, at the mercy of the monster.

  Jake looked at his bedroom window. He could sneak out; scale the drainpipe and jump down onto the carpet of leaves below. He’d follow the laughs of happier children all the way to the kerb, run away from his fear.

  And before he could give it a second thought, he did just that.

  The street was painted in velvet twilight, the day making way for Halloween Night. Jake felt the chill air through his costume and he quickly pulled the hood over his head. He should have grabbed a coat, but it was too late; he wouldn’t dare go back into that house now. Without even a look over his shoulder he ran to the kerb and made a sharp left turn towards the sounds of Halloween.

  The last night of October became more prevalent with each step, front porches were decorated with candlelit pumpkins and cardboard ghosts and princesses, aliens and superheroes stood on every corner, seeking out candy. It was as Jake observed the other children that he realized he hadn’t grabbed a basket or bag to collect any candy either, but deep down he knew he really wanted to savor the freedom, not knock on the doors of unknown houses. He stopped running and took in the sights and sounds. He knew he was doing the wrong thing, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t help his mother, she could only help herself. As he observed the darkening street, Jake felt a stab of anger when John’s face filled his mind’s eye. He’d never hated someone so much before. If only the slob would just go away… If only he’d just drop dead. Jake clenched his fists, the nails digging deep into his palms. If only he was older, he’d kill John himself.

  Jake stood in the street and took deep, calming breaths. He’d never had such thoughts before; he’d seen people die in movies many times—but could he really commit such an act? Let John come and find him, if he dared, but right now, it was best that he get as far away from that monster as he could.

  The night crept in even faster than Jake had anticipated. Everything turned to grey and he could scarcely make out the houses. The street lights only seemed to emphasize the dark, rather than combat it. As he walked the laughter moved further into the distance and for a moment, Jake considered turning back, but even the shadowed streets were safer than home to him.

  He stopped when he reached a street corner he didn’t recognize. The sign read: October Lane. A wispy fog filled the street and made it hard to see anything beyond, but Jake felt compelled to explore this new part of the neighbourhood.

  “Anything’s better than going home,” he said to himself before moving into the fog.

  October Lane was a long, straight road flanked by rows of leafless, spindly trees. A full moon struggled to emerge through an ever-shifting veil of cloud, but there was just enough light to reveal the facades of some of the houses around him. Every yard was decorated for Halloween with gravestones, coffins, and spiderwebs. Some of the houses looked familiar, like Jake had seen them before on TV. One thing they all had in common was that they were devoid of trick-or-treaters of any kind.

  A low growl stopped Jake dead in his tracks. Amongst the tombstones he glimpsed the silhouette of a large dog peering at him with iridescent eyes. The sight of it sent a chill down into his gut and deeper into his bladder. The boy could suddenly hear every beat of his little heart.

  “Should you be out walking these streets alone, child?”

  Jake gasped as the tall man solidified out of the fog beside him. Swathed in a black robe, he towered over Jake. The boy could discern little from the man’s face, apart from his captivating pale eyes. Jake took a step back, the nauseating sense of fear resting in his throat.

  “Uh…hi…” was all Jake could manage.

  The man’s obviously out for Halloween, Jake told himself.

  “Hello young man. What is your name?”

  The lessons his mother had drummed into him about stranger danger kicked in. He took another few steps back and almost tripped on the kerb. The man slid around him and Jake realized he was surrounded by tombstones, cold stone grave markers, not foam, or cardboard, but actual stone.

  “Your parents are not escorting you?” the man asked. His smile was the color of a fading bruise.

  Jake looked for escape amongst the tombstones. “Leave me alone or…or I’ll call for help!”

  The man smiled wider, revealing pointed teeth. They had to be fake fangs, Jake thought. They had to be.

  “Oh, please do scream, child… please do.”

  Jake broke into a run, brushing past the man. He felt the weave of his robes, but nothing else, almost as if the man wasn’t there. Jake reached the road and followed the dividing line. In the thickening fog he couldn’t get his bearings. He saw house after house, each more decrepit than the last. The surrounding trees were claws lashing at his shadow. In one window Jake saw a large floating eye, its iris flaring with malice.

  “Help!” Jake said to the empty street.

  He looked over his shoulder; he couldn’t see the stranger, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t following. Jake turned about and ran back the way he thought he’d come. His hot breath mingled with the fog. The miasma was a thick wall of grey, all-encompassing. The houses and trees had been swallowed by it.

  “Help me please!” he cried to no one.

  Then the fog split, as if two invisible hands were parting a curtain. Beyond, Jake beheld a wide cornfield with thousands of withered plants and, at its center, a scarecrow crucified. Jake thought his heart was going to stop. The scarecrow craned its hessian neck, the pointed hat atop its head drooping like a broken limb.

  “I can help you Jake…” it said, before breaking into cackling laughter.

  The corn plants began to rustle wildly as something within the crop came to life. The plants bent as the unseen thing came closer and closer. The boy screamed. He turned and ran again, but the street was eternal, the houses returned in never-ending rows. Jake felt tears on his face; he wanted his mother so much. He never should have left her.

  “Mom! Please help me!”

  Then the fog faded again and before him stood Shelley. He could hardly believe it.

  “Mom! Mom! I’m here!”

  The thinned cloud only provided a tantalising glimpse, like Jake was looking through tinted glass. He could see Shelley standing on the street corner—back in the real world. She was sobbing for her son while the trick-or-treating children laughed and cooed with joy, completely oblivious to her plight. None of them knew what lurked on the other side of Halloween.

  “Mom!” Jake said.

  His mother blinked away tears. Her lips were cracked and bloody with John’s latest beating. There were finger-shaped bruises around her throat.

  “I’m sorry, Jake,” she said, her eyes not seeing her son standing in front of her.

  Jake reached for her, but the fog was a burning shroud of ice. He recoiled in pain. “Mom! See me—please!”

  “I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong enough,” she said. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t a good enough mother…to you and Billy.”

  Jake wanted to tear down the fog wall, to take his mother’s hand. “No, Mom, I’m here! Why can’t you see me!?”

  Before his eyes Shelley began to fade, as if the fog was consum­ing her, as if she had never been there at all. Jake stared bewildered and terrified that everything he knew and loved was being wrenched away. Even through the fog he could still make out the movement of the happy children, but his mother was gone.

  “Mom? Where did you go?” he said.

  On the other side, another person stepped onto the corner—John. He stood tall, his whole body seething with anger and exertion. John scanned the street with sharp turns of his head—Jake wondered was he looking for Shelley, or was he looking for him? Jake backed away from the fog, still confused about where his mother had gone and praying that John couldn’t see him.

  “Where the hell are you, you little shit?” John said to himself.

  Jake saw the tension in John’s muscles, noticed the scratches on his cheek. There was fear in his eyes, and Jake knew something had happened. Something terrible.

  “You better not come home, boy…” John said through gritted teeth.

  Jake remembered the sorrow in his mother’s voice before she’d faded away and the marks on her throat. John had done some­thing to her.

  John spoke again, but his voice was like the growl of some rabid dog. “…because if you do, you’ll end up just like your good-for-nothing mother.”

  “No!” Jake screamed at the wall of fog. “No, you bastard!”

  John, oblivious to Jake’s presence, and preoccupied with the ramifications of his sin, turned his back on the boy and the street corner for good. The man just walked away. The fog closed in and plunged Jake’s heart into darkness. He was trapped between monsters.

  “You should never find yourself alone in this place, child.”

  Jake, realizing the horrible truth of his mother’s fate, whirled about and lost his footing, toppling to the gritty asphalt.

  The vampire, the scarecrow, the all-seeing eye and the black wolf loomed in, ravenous and impatient. They were going to devour Jake, soul and all. The boy closed his eyes, waiting for the killing strike: the sting of fangs, the rending of flesh. He was ready for it.

  All he felt was the cruel touch of a cold night.

  He opened his eyes and saw his would-be attackers had turned their backs on him. The lidless eye floated up the street, while the wolf slinked back between the tombstones. Only the vampire remained. The creature peered down upon him, not with hunger, but rather pity.

  “You’ve found yourself lost in this place now, child,” the vampire said.

  Jake saw the others fade into nothing. They’d taken away his desire to die. Why? The vampire started to turn away, exuding only indifference.

  “Why?” Jake said, urging the vampire to turn back. “Why won’t you kill me?”

  The vampire laughed, its body jerking beneath its cloak. “Oh, child,” it said. “You were lost the moment you set foot on this very street.”

  A twinge of fear crept in, but Jake forced himself to his feet. “I wasn’t lost—you lured me in here!”

  The vampire shook his head and offered Jake his back once more. His voice trailed off, into the fog.

  “You are lost, child…just like the rest of us. There’s nothing here but loneliness, guilt and eternity.”

  Jake stood alone in the center of October Lane. His fear morphed into emptiness, like all his veins had been opened. He was hollow and hopelessly worthless. He would have cried…if he’d had even tears to shed.

  He’d lost his mother…his future…and his soul…

  All on October Lane.

  Second Coming Circus

  Father Coleman is saying the Lord’s Prayer before bed when he starts coughing up blood.

  The blood splatters across his bedsheets, scarlet against the white, and for the first time in his sixty-four years, he believes God is calling to him.

  Pressing a hand to his lips to staunch the flow, Father Coleman gets to his knees and runs to the bathroom. He spits fresh blood into the sink and watches it slip down the drain. Thoughts race through his head and he studies himself in the mirror, sees the fear in his deep-set eyes. One thought, above all others, passes from his lips.

  “Am I dying?”

  A knock on the front door draws his gaze. Who on earth is knocking on my door in the middle of the night? He considers the blood, turns on the tap to rinse it away, and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Am I dying?

  Who’s at the door?

  The priest stands still, focuses on his breathing and pounding heart. The knock comes again. He checks his watch, and notices his hand is trembling. It’s almost 1am. He has to hold mass in the morning.

  Why am I coughing up blood?

  The knock comes a third time. Father Coleman leaves the bath­room and steps into the hallway. Slowly, he shuffles along the carpet into the living room. Through the curtains, he glimpses two silhouettes standing at his front door. One of them reaches up to rap on the door.

  Knock-knock-knock

  Whoever they are, they are persistent. Patient.

  “Who’s there?” Father Coleman says, stifling a new cough.

  The silhouettes turn in the direction of his voice.

  “Servants of the Lord,” one of them says.

  The priest steps closer, leaning on his favorite recliner.

  Jehovah’s Witness—at this hour?

  “Please,” he says. “It’s late—”

  “Matthew Chapter 24, Verse 44: Therefore, you must also be ready, for the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect… Padre.”

  The priest frowns and crosses to open the door. “How did you know I was a priest—”

  The sight of the two men leaves Father Coleman speechless. One is horribly scarred, his face, neck and arms reddened and undulated with healed-over burns. The other, a tall, frail man glares back at him with sightless eyes the color of curdled milk. Despite their appearance, they each wear white shirts with black neckties and matching trousers.

  “Your very door declares it so,” the burned one says, indicating the crucifix nailed to the door frame.

  Father Coleman forces a smile and a nod. “Yes, of course. Given that, do you think a Catholic priest truly requires a visit from the Jehovah’s Witness?”

  The burned one smiles back, revealing ridges in his lips. “The Lord always comes to his children in their hour of need.”

  The priest again nods in acknowledgement. “Indeed. Gentle­men, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I am not feeling well and I have to hold mass in the morning. I do admire your dedication, but perhaps your mission would be better serving someone else who truly needs it?”

  The burned Mormon holds his smile, while his partner continues to stand, unblinking.

  “Are you troubled, Padre?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The burned one gestures to his blind companion. “Zachariah and I can sense that you are troubled—that you are holding some doubt in your heart. Not unlike the apostle Thomas, no?”

  Coleman sighs and begins to close his door. “Forgive me, but as I said, I am unwell, not troubled. Goodnight, gentlemen.”

  The Mormon’s voice trails in as the door closes. “Goodnight, Padre, may the Lord bless you and keep you.”

  He watches them leave down the street. Surely they won’t bother anyone else in the middle of the night? He locks the door, walks to the bathroom to rinse out his mouth, prays that the blood is an anomaly, changes his sheets, and suddenly weary, falls asleep.

  Glass shatters, rousing Father Coleman from his slumber.

  He sits up in bed, listening intently to the dark. He knows he heard the sound of something breaking. Through the echoes of the wind and the steady trill of the cicadas, his ears focus on the tinkling of glass.

  He pulls the blankets closer, the beat of his heart and the taste of blood throbbing in the back of his throat. Again, the fear comes, even sharper than before.

  Am I going to die?

  The cicadas cease their song and the silence takes hold. Cole­man considers calling out, and estimates the distance between his bedroom and the phone in the living room. The glass. The glass will be everywhere. All over the floor. He’ll cut his feet. There’ll be so much blood.

  This is my blood.

  He peers at the rectangle of darkness that separates his bed­room from the hall. It’s like a freshly dug grave.

  “Who’s there?” he says to the grave.

  The blind Mormon bleeds out of the black, a ghost from the void. Despite his frailty and blindness, Zachariah seems to know exactly where Father Coleman is.

  The priest screams and tastes his blood all over again.

  Father Coleman awakes to a cacophony of sobbing and fear. He blinks against the dim light, silhouettes of people emerging through the fog in his head. The faces of the people seated around him sharpen with each breath and he sees that each of them is just as terror-stricken as he is. He tries to stand, but quickly realizes he is bound to his chair, the others too. There are four others: a woman, possibly in her early thirties, and three men of varying ages. One of the men bears a bloody gash above his eye. All of them struggle against their bonds. The priest, discomforted by their desperate appearances, looks away to the walls.

  Where am I?

  Who are these people?

  The walls, grimy and flecked with dirt, are adorned floor to ceiling with bands of red and white. The more Coleman examines the walls, the more he believes them to be moving, shifting as if in a gentle breeze. Head swimming, he cranes his neck to look upwards to discover the ceiling reaches a pointed apex above them.

  “It’s a tent,” Coleman whispers. “I’m in a tent.”

  “Please…”

  He turns to the woman’s voice. Her mascara runs like black snakes down her cheeks.

  “Mister, please…can you help me get loose?”

  Coleman pulls against the ropes, his skin stinging in resistance. “How did I get here?” he replies. “How did you?”

  One of the men—the one with the gash over his eye—speaks up, the timbre of his voice wavering.