04 – Daniella

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“That dog’s been following me,” Chris said. “Wherever I go, I see him. He’s probably watching now.”

“So where is he then?” Chuck said, shading his eyes with one hand and making a show of scanning the room. “Here, boy. Come on.” He whistled and patted his lap.

“Try looking out the window.”

“Not now,” the caretaker said, handing out brooms. “Help me get everything off the floor first. Sweep it into that corner. Start from the edges of the room.”

The children did as he said, except for Chuck, McQueen, and Hagman. The caretaker stood behind them with his arms folded until they noticed him. At that point, they shoveled the mess at twice the pace of the others.

The slowest of the group was Daniella, who had the misfortune of wielding the largest broom. Seeing its size, Chuck walked over, snatched it from her hands, and dumped his own at her feet.

“I suppose you have a tale to tell too?” he said.

Everyone glanced her way. Daniella nodded.

“Actually,” she said, “I do.”

Daniella’s Story

When my mother was a wee lass back in Aberdeen, she and her friends had a custom they performed every Halloween. Before I went to bed last night, she decided to show me.

“The clock’s gone past midnight,” Mother said, “so it’s technically Halloween now.”

She opened all the windows, lit a fire, and soaked a sheet in the bath. It was still dripping when she hung it in front of the fire and turned off the lights. Then she sat beside me and told me to concentrate.

“The shadows cast on the wet sheet will determine what your future husband will be like,” she said.

At first, there was nothing but an orange glow behind it. Soon, the warmth of the fire sent ripples across the fabric.

“Hear me, O Spirits,” Mother chanted. “Show me the form of my truest love.”

As if answering her call, the sheet fluttered. The image of a tall man appeared, fleeting and gone in a second, but there was no mistaking it was Father.

Mother stood and told me to repeat the words. Since this was my first time, I had to do it alone.

“Why?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Tradition, lass. Tradition.”

She left the room. I turned back to the sheet.

“Hear me, O Spirits. Show me the form of my truest love.”

Nothing happened.

“Hear me, O Spirits. Show me the form of my truest love!”

The sheet rippled again. This time, a tall shadow appeared. If he was a man, his arms and legs were impossibly long. Another ripple followed, and what looked like a top hat flickered where his head should have been.

“Mother, I’m marrying the Monopoly man,” I said.

She returned with a mug of cocoa and handed it to me.

“I’m marrying who?”

“He was taller and skinnier than the Monopoly man from the game,” I said, “but he did have a top hat.”

“Well, it’s about time someone in our family married into money.”

I turned back to the sheet. “Hey, Spirits. Will we be happy?”

Mother left to get her own mug but paused in the doorway.

“Don’t be asking the Spirits all those daft questions,” she said. “You’ll ruin the surprise. Besides, it’s up to you to make your own happiness, not some man.”

“Then what’s the point of them?”

“Not a day goes by I don’t ask myself the same thing.”

The sheet fluttered again, but this time the shadow looked thinner. Another ripple passed, and it lost more weight. Then the sheet flitted sharply, and I glanced behind it.

The fire was dying. A strange wind blew down the chimney.

The shadow thinned further until there was no mistaking what it had become. Bare bones. A skeleton, shedding pieces one by one as the firelight faded, until only the skull remained.

And it was a skull. I was not imagining it. The shadow of it grew larger, spreading across the sheet. I called for Mother to come quickly.

“Give me a moment, dear. I’m making my tea.”

“Mother, it’s getting bigger.”

“All right. I’m coming.”

The ten steps between the kitchen and the living room echoed like heartbeats in my ears. Too slow. Too far away.

The skull filled the entire sheet. Its eyes and mouth burned brighter than the fire had moments before. When it could grow no more, it opened its jaw.

Razor-sharp teeth parted. The sheet flared white, and as Mother entered the room, it burst into flames.

“Mercy!” she cried.

She tore the sheet down and shoved it into the fireplace. It crinkled, curled, and blackened, smothering the fire with its still-soaked corners.

“Now I remember why we stopped doing this,” Mother said. “You’d never guess how many houses burned down in Aberdeen every Halloween.”

I shook my head. “I saw a skull, Mother. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, lass. I don’t know.”

She hurried from the room, murmuring something that might have been my poor child. She did not look back or say anything else.

I knew she was lying.