Trick Or Treat

Peaceful Dale lived up to its name... Until things changed... for the terrifying A tale that was written solely by Jeff for a contest. I do not own the original image, which has been heavily edited

Trick or Treat

By

Jeff Margavage

Halloween had come once again to the tiny village of Peaceful Dale. The crisp autumn air whistling through the withered and ancient trees whipped their fallen leaves into a mesmerizing dance and they twirled along the uneven sidewalks in the rustic hamlet. Their withered rustling a wispy sound that broke the silent evening.

The moon hung low as it peeked among the lonely streets, behind the trees and between the scattered quiet homes. It’s silvery illumination not falling on a single soul.

The once joyful occasion of Trick or Treating had long since fallen as taboo to the town… ever since HE had come to town. Parents and elders never even spoke of the tradition anymore as it cast a long looming shadow on the day that would and should never be forgotten.

It was said that in a time long passed, Cornelius Warren had made his residence among the peaceful folk and the days began to draw darker even upon his first arrival. Something about him set the town on edge merely at the mention of his name. He had purchased the old Wilmington home on the outskirts of town and very rarely ever mingled among them. The home was in quite a dilapidated state as it had been in disuse from before most could remember. It could be found on the road leading south out of town, passed the old baptist church and the long forgotten cemetery, which had along with the old church, been essentially abandoned in the late 1800’s when for reasons unclear to the townsfolk, the pastor disappeared.

On days he had, everyone would recall it was often on dreary, dismal days when frigid cold rains would fall; and eerie mist of fog hindered the vision of all who would see his form in the mire. He walked with a labored step, some had said. None could even begin to estimate his age or his true demeanor because if anyone would even think to approach, it seemed as though the mists and fog would worsen until all sight of him would be lost.

Shopkeepers in Peaceful Dale often would rue the days he would come to purchase the things he would need. They could scarce recall him buying any manner of food. Merely supplies. Rope, the occasional hammer or other tool, nails, and most oddly cutlery. Whenever he would make his way to the shops he would always purchase two sets,  two knives, two forks, two spoons, and the largest butcher's knife the shop would have. No more, no less. Always two, aside from the butcher knife. The shopkeepers could recall little of the man as he often shrouded his face. What they could recall was his generally unpleasant demeanor, his wheezing gravelly voice, and a peculiar and wholly unpleasant odor about the man. Animals would never approach him, and often the rain and fog would fade as he would leave town.

In the earliest years of his coming to town, very little actually changed. The town went about their normal lives and customs and celebrations. Christmas was always an especially festive time of year but seemed to lose it’s charm as time went on. Fewer and fewer would join in the town caroling and lighting of the town Christmas Tree. Last it was celebrated, the tree lighting was attended by no more than three adults. So disinterested in the entire celebration the town never even took the tree down. There it stands to this day… a withered husk of forgotten happiness.

It was noted that all life seemed to drain away from the sleepy little town over time. No flowers bloomed. Trees would barely produce leaves and often long after their normal growing season. No birds would be heard among the town or forest. Cats which had once flourished in the town had utterly disappeared. Not a single home was graced by the presence of a cat or over time any pets. All would seem to perish mysteriously long before their customary lifespans. Some families had larger breeds of dogs as guardians for their homes, they too would fade over time as most would refuse to leave their homes for any reason and more than likely die mysteriously as well.

Something had gone wrong in Peaceful Dale… terribly wrong. They all spoke of their fears in hushed conversations, but none had the courage to investigate Mr. Warren or the old Wilmington house. None had the courage to even approach that end of the town anymore. Not since… the night that ended all joy in Peaceful Dale forever…

It was Halloween 1957…

Halloween was the last celebrated holiday in Peaceful Dale. For all the darkness and apathy growing in town, it ironically seemed the last bright spot on the calendar. Families still carved jack-o-lanterns and children would still go door to door Trick or Treating. Some might say the townsfolk had clung to the hope that the old pagan traditions were still powerful enough to drive away the evil spirits which seemed to have manifested in town.

As unfortunate chance would have it, that particular night Cornelius Warren had decided to come to town…

The otherwise quiet town was alive with the laughter of children. The children had been out and about noisily going door to door when the mists and chilled rain had begun to roll into town from the South. Engrossed in their adventures, the little ghosts and cowboys and princesses were not to be dissuaded by such trivial things as rain and fog and carried on about their pursuits of treats and mischief. Despite the warnings to not be out and about during such times they reveled in blissful ignorance of what had also come to town as the adults never spoke of him with children present.

Slowly but surely, the town was growing silent once again. As the mists intensified the laughter seemed to be swallowed into it. Some concern began to fill the adults as the trick or treaters eventually stopped coming to the homes. Soon the streets were filled once again, not by the laughter of children but by the distressed calls of parents whose children never returned home. The nature of Cornelius’s visit to town was unclear as he had not visited the shops. Most were closed by the time events had begun unfolding that would darken the town for time immemorial.

No one could say for certain that they had even seen the old hermit in town that evening, merely what seemed to be a shadow resembling his form that would quickly disappear into the mist. Quietly as the mists had come, they faded away. No trace of the children out that night was ever found. Only the children that had not gone out for whatever reason remained among the citizens of Peaceful Dale.

As the sun broke the next day all the citizens were in ferment of the disappearance of their children. The constable Alexander Scotts called a town meeting that noon to discuss at length what had gone on that night. Search parties were formed and sent out throughout the town and surrounding forests in hopes of finding any evidence of the whereabouts of fully forty-seven children. The most upset of the families spoke out concerning the children and insinuated that Cornelius Warren was behind all of this. Constable Scotts tried to dissuade the families from such thoughts as he had never actually caused any trouble and by all accounts, he was far too old to be able to abscond with any children much less forty-seven of them. Would that foul play was involved, some shred of evidence would have to be available to put some sort of truth to the accusations.

A party of what had to have been none but the bravest of souls among the citizens returned after searching the southern end of town in the direction of the old church and graveyard… and eventually the old Wilmington house. None had dared tread quite that far but they did happen upon strange tracks in the muddy lane leading out of town that lead not to Cornelius’s home, but to the church. The tracks ended short of the church itself and had gone off the paths into the graveyard itself. None could even begin to speculate what might make such tracks, but that was all they could find as the church itself was thoroughly boarded up and entering was impossible. On the spot, the brave constable stood and assured the people of Peaceful Dale that he and he alone would go and investigate not only the church and graveyard but that he would also venture up to the Wilmington house and have a talk with Cornelius himself. Several of the fathers volunteered to accompany him, but he sternly advised against it. He would not have a mob of anxious parents following him to the home of a man no one knew anything about.

Against his orders, several of the families did, in fact, follow him as far as the Church. They remained outside the wrought iron fence as he had demanded, suggesting they might in fact accidentally destroy evidence or tracks. The families waited patiently as the constable circled the church looking for any way that anyone might gain access to the decrepit building. He could find none. As he circled the building he carefully looked to the ground and surrounding area for any sign of tracks as well. He indicated he could find nothing aside from the strange tracks that led into the graveyard itself. He then set about following those tracks, so odd and misshapen… as if whatever was making them could not actually move one of its legs… but half dragging it.

He diligently followed any trace of the mysterious tracks he might come across. From the looks of them, whatever had created these tracks had taken the same path numerous times. He was fairly certain that they were made by one… person…. or creature. They most closely compared to human but they were odd, malformed. The path was nearly lost several times by the good constable but he would find new markings that would keep him on the trail which most others would surely have missed. The constable was not a young man, but he certainly had his wits about him and was physically well up to the task. His eyesight keen enough to find the slightest trace.

Soon the constable came to the realization that these tracks were leading him to the farthest corner of the time-worn cemetery. Here among the graves of fallen Civil War soldiers perhaps some even older, the constable came upon a distressing site. Several of the graves had been violently disturbed. Headstones shattered and in some cases, the constable feared the bodies themselves might have actually been stolen as well. At least a dozen such graves had been vandalized. This truly unsettled Constable Scotts.

As he neared the fragmented and rusted remains of the elder fence surrounding the funerary grounds, he spied something well out of place. Beneath the broken remains of a memorial stone, he discovered a tiny plastic tin-star style badge worn by a child as part of their costume. Finding it here ignited a flurry of questions in the constable's mind. How did it get all the way out here? How was it beneath a broken tombstone? Even if it was there as long as the stone appeared to have laid there… why did it shine as though brand new?

One final clue truly upset the constable, the tracks he had been following led between the bent and broken posts of the old iron fence… and beyond that, he could clearly see the old Wilmington home. It would appear that old man Warren may have some part to play in this after all. Between the fence and the old home laid a murky bog the constable would just as soon avoid as traverse. He committed to getting to the bottom of this with every fiber of his being as he returned through the graveyard to the waiting parents. The constable related his findings to the assembled group in explicit detail. One father wailed in grief as he produced the shiny plastic tin star. The man’s son had opted to dress as his hero from television and the cinema, Gene Autry, the singing sheriff.

Constable Scotts rounded up the grieving assembly and convinced them all to go home to their families while he went to question Cornelius. All present reluctantly did so as darkness began to fall on Peaceful Dale. In the waning daylight, Constable Scotts began the trek down the lonely road to the Wilmington house, a battery operated torch in his hand. Undeterred by the impending darkness, he shouldered on, “well armed and prepared for just about anything,” he assured the last people he spoke to that night. But on that fateful night, the Constable did not return.

What happened that night may forever remain a mystery… It was not until the next evening when the fog rolled into town and passed straight through the town without hesitation, leaving behind the broken and mentally catatonic husk who until recently was recognized as Constable Scotts, clutching his torch to his chest staring into the light and rocking back and forth in a seated fetal position that he would never willingly move from. He looked as though starved for many days. His eyes bloodshot and dry as though he refused to close them. His skin was pale and frail, not unlike the brittle hide of the recently deceased. He shivered and constantly muttered words that no one could decipher. This once proud and strong man was broken to his core. His mind forfeit.

Examined by medical professionals the next day would find the man was exhibiting symptoms of exposure as though trapped in a wintery hell for weeks, while at the same time he suffered minor burns to a majority of his exposed body. He was suffering from dehydration and malnourishment as though he had not eaten in perhaps weeks.

Most of Constable Scotts had not returned that night. He had been hospitalized for several weeks in a complete catatonic state. Unresponsive to stimuli, barely responding to the regimen of intravenous medications that solely comprised his diet. The prognosis was bleak. Doctors feared they may never find the cause of his state. Until one night he woke… screaming until he could barely make a sound. In the dead hours of the night, his raving screams so harsh his throat literally began to bleed. Waking everyone on his floor. For hours he screamed as though unhinged. Tranquilizers seemed ineffective, in his weakened state the nurses on call feared overdosing Alexander. They would have to wait for a proper doctor to arrive in order to correctly address the situation.

It wasn't until two hours later in the early morning hours a local doctor finally arrived and managed to subdue the man with what he would later admit was far more than a man in his condition should require. Possibly an even fatal dose.

Alexander finally ceased his croaking screams but still remained conscious. By all rights, he should not be awake, but he was. The doctor very calmly sat down and spoke with Alex in his only semi-lucid state.

“Hello, I am Doctor Chatterton,” he began, “do you remember your name?”

“Alexander, Alexander Scotts,” he quietly croaked in reply.

“Good,” Doctor Chatterton replied, “do you know where you are, Alex?”

“This is Cadmille Hospital, Sommersette County… I recognize the paint,” Alex painfully replied, “been here lots of times… Accident victims from the highway mostly.”

The detailed reply pleased Doctor Chatterton. The coma apparently had no impact on his memory. “Are you a doctor, too?” Chatterton asked, knowing full well that was not true.  It was a standard type of question. Ask people who have suffered serious trauma a question you know to be false to see if the patient had cognitive impairment and if they were able to differentiate between truth and fiction.

“I… No…” Alex stammered a bit, “I was a constable. Constable of...of… “ Alexander paused a moment. As quickly as it had come, Alexander’s moment of clarity began to fade away.

Seeing that Alexander was regressing, Doctor Chatterton urged Alexander to relax. Alexander clutched his torch to his chest and had begun rocking like a child again. “Peaceful… Peaceful Dale,” Alexander whispered through coughs of blood.  Alexander began to sweat profusely. “I… I saw...oh god… I saw... Them”

“Them… Who? The missing children?” Doctor Chatterton asked anxiously. He had been briefed but no details could be gleaned from the constable before. This was the first information anyone knew. “Oh god… The children… The children,” Alexander cried almost incoherently, “so many… So many broken children… the blood so much blood everywhere… They were eating the children.”

Doctor Chatterton sat in terrified awe as Alexander fell into another coughing fit. He handed a tissue to Alexander to wipe the blood from his mouth. His breathing had become ragged. The doctor attempted to fit him with an oxygen mask but Alexander refused. He had so much to say but he knew his time was growing short. “Who constable?  Who is eating the children?” Doctor Chatterton stammered as he asked the question he could scarce believe he had uttered.

“Cornelius… Cornelius Warren...and… And a thing… Of shadow … Shadow and fog… It’s eyes blazing… Saw right through me to my soul… It sat there at the table shoveling their tiny arms and legs into it’s mouth… Reeking of evil and of death as it laughed between bites it… It said…” Alexander began to list …

“Alexander,” Doctor Chatterton asked concerned for Alexander’s well being, “Alexander, what did it say?”

Alexander struggled on his final breath, “it said… Trick or treat…”

The end