David Wilson laughed at the idea of becoming Jack the Ripper for Halloween.
"I'm a gambler not a killer."
His neighbor, Maybelle Marino, a professional hypnotist, had asked him to be her assistant for a party about a half-mile down the beach in Gulfshore, Alabama. Her usual assistant, Sheila, wasn't available.
"It's just pretend. I'll fake hypnotize you. You don't have to wear a costume."
"I'm also not an actor. I don't know nothing about Jack the Ripper."
"You know as much as anyone. Make something up. Sheila does Lizzie Borden."
"The woman who chopped up her parents with an ax?" Yeah, with forty whacks. See, you know things. Sheila makes up something different about Lizzie each time."
"The only thing I know about Jack the Ripper is that he carved up a bunch of hookers."
"That's a start." Maybelle winked. "After the show we'll come back to my house and I'll show you my sex magic."
That did it. A beautiful woman could pretzel twist David with sex hints.
"Sounds like fun. Especially, the part at your house."
He would have been nuts to refuse. Sleek and tan, Maybelle had pointed apple breasts and what he called a bubble butt. She had long raven hair, fawn brown eyes, a wide smile, and straight white teeth. He was ten years older at forty, but had always been muscular and could pass for thirty.
David had laid back a big score from a Biloxi casino and decided to rent a beach house for two weeks. He had to travel or do something else for a while after a big hit or lose the money back again. He compared casino gambling to a bad drug addiction, maybe worse. Skill and luck had paid off recently, and experience had taught him to take a break. Maybelle could help ease the gambling withdrawal symptoms before he went back for another fix.
She lived next door to David's rental, year round, and spent most days in a blue string bikini. He had stared at her for two days on the beach before she surprised the hell out of him by knocking on the door. She mistook his lack of nerve for either being cool and mysterious or playing hard to get. He had figured she was out of his league.
David only told her what he did for a living. He assumed that's all she really wanted to know since the attraction seemed physical. He probably wasn't the first transient neighbor she had snagged as free help. No man would ever trust such an outgoing woman. David figured that's why she remained unattached. He could deal with it.
About twenty minutes before total sunset, they headed down the beige-white sand under a pumpkin orange sun and a cool breeze. Behind them, condos and hotels lined the beach. To their left, private homes on stilts flanked the sand. The surf lapped their feet in places as they moved at angles to avoid water. A strange crane type bird stood on a solitary wooden post several feet out in the water, staring unmoving at the orange horizon as if waiting for a partner lost at sea. The beach remained pretty much deserted, except for a few people who smiled and waved or mumbled trick or treat.
Maybelle, dressed as a witch in a black baggy dress, including a pointy hat, wore flip-flops. Her black hair blew wild off her shoulders beneath the hat. She carried a large black purse slung on her right shoulder.
David wore black pants, a black muscle shirt, and flip-flops. He had a rubber, white skull mask in his back pocket. He carried an olive-drab duffel bag full of soft lumpy things that Maybelle called party favors. Their slapping flip-flops and the surf added soothing ambiance. On the horizon, lights from a passing ship faded in gray mist.
"Your last name is Wilson?" she said. "Is that English?"
"I believe so."
She stared in his face as they walked. He imagined her wondering why he didn't talk much about himself. His gambling habits had always been a stigma.
"Your eyes are real blue in the orange light, David."
Compliments embarrassed him so he stepped around some scrambling tiny crab and changed the subject.
"Marino is Italian?"
"Bingo," she said.
"I've never heard of an Italian named Maybelle."
"My real name is Maria. I changed it when I started doing these shows. Maria is too common."
"Your shows must pay good."
"Lots." She probed his face again, then shrugged. "Oh, you mean the beach house? It was my parents. They died in an automobile accident three years ago. I was an only child so I don't really need to work much. Hypnotism is kind of a paying hobby now."
"I'm sorry about your parents."
"What about your mother and father?" she said.
"Alive and kicking, I imagine. I haven't seen them in years. They don't like what I do for a living."
Maybelle adjusted her pointy hat.
"We all do the best we can, David."
Faint dance music drifted toward them on the wind.
"What happened to your regular assistant? Sheila, right?"
"We had sort of a fight. Nothing I want to talk about."
"Okay."
Maybelle hit him playfully on the arm.
"It's not that big of deal. Just an argument."
David shrugged and shifted the bag strap.
"I haven't been to a Halloween party since I was a kid."
"You'll have fun."
"What do I have to do before the hypnotist part?"
Maybelle moved her purse from the right shoulder to the left. The music volume increased and they heard voices and laughter.
"Just hang out in the crowd. After we're there about an hour or so, I start the show."
"You strip down to a bikini?"
"No, silly. I hypnotize people back to former lives."
"You can really hypnotize people?"
"Sure, some of them. That's where you come in. After I hypnotize a few people, I'll fake it with you."
"And I pretend to be Jack the Ripper?"
"Right. I'll ask you a few questions about Jack the Ripper and you make something up, except for the last part."
"Okay. What's the last part?"
"You say you killed all those women because you thought they were witches, and the only way to make sure a witch is dead is to cut her up in pieces. Then you'll chase me to the back of the stage and act like you're slicing me up. I'll scream and moan. I'm good at it."
"I'll bet you are," he said.
"You'll find out later at my house. But at the party, that's when you toss the stuff in that bag into the crowd."
"You mean the party favors, like bags of candy?"
Maybelle laughed. "Not hardly. There are slimy rubber fingers and toes and ears and a heart. The fake tongue and the eyeballs with a dangling vein are the best. In the dark it all feels real. It scares the hell out of people but they love it. I'll hand the things to you and you toss them into the crowd."
"So I act like I cut you up, and people know it's phony. It's kind of like some sick game."
"Not everyone knows it's phony, unless they've seen my show. It's been part of my Halloween act for awhile now, and I've done a few Halloween parties around here."
"So you're kind of like the Rocky Horror Picture Show with a cult following."
"I guess you could say that."
"Anybody ever have a heart attack or anything?"
"I've had people faint, but nothing drastic."
"I don't know if I can do this without a practice run. This is pretty bizarre."
The world had gone twilight black and gray. Costumed figures danced to jungle music under floodlights on a ground level house patio and an upper deck.
"You'll do fine," Maybelle said. "Time to put on your mask. Relax and run with it."
"Kiss me first."
"What?"
"I just want to kiss you."
They stopped and Maybelle removed her purse and wrapped her arms around his neck. She had soft lips and a gentle tongue. David felt a rush from his groin up his stomach. He pulled her closer. She nipped his lip and pulled away.
"Later," she said, reaching to pick up her purse.
That's when something struck the sand hard next to her and bounced to a stop between David's feet.
"What was that?" Maybelle said.
David reached down and picked up a jagged rock the size of a baseball.
"Damn, this thing could have taken your head off."
They looked toward the dark empty houses above the beach. Nothing moved. Maybelle jerked up her purse.
"Let's go, David. It's probably some kids playing trick or treat."
"Those are some dangerous kids." David pulled the skull mask from his back pocket. Dropping the rock, he looked behind him as he walked, but saw nothing.
* * * *
Orange and black streamers hung from the ceiling. The place reminded David of a large wedding reception hall without windows. It had a twenty-foot by thirty-foot band stage. A single extension cord light fixture with a red bulb and a pull chain hung from the ceiling near the front of the stage.
Paper brooms and pumpkins decorated the wall behind a bar, where two bartenders dressed in striped convict suits mixed drinks. Everyone wore an elaborate costume or a mask. A beach house this big in Gulfshore had to be in the high six-figure range or more. The stereo system alone probably cost ten grand.
George and Patricia Lunsford owned the house. Already drunk, they were dressed as Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy. Maybelle pointed them out in the crowd of witches, werewolves, and assorted demons as David followed her through the patio door and he stashed the duffel bag against the wall behind the two-foot high wooden stage next to two buckets. She put her purse upright on the stage and opened it. Other than a few glances, no one seemed to notice their entrance.
"They made a pretty strange costume choice for a Halloween party," David said.
Patricia Lunsford wore a blonde wig and heavy makeup to go with her slinky black dress. She looked like Marilyn Monroe, if she had survived another twenty years of drug abuse. George wore a bloodstained white shirt and tie and a rubber Kennedy mask with a huge hole in the head. The music and loud voices made talking difficult.
"They seem like nice enough people," Maybelle said. "They saw my show at another party and paid in advance."
"Hey," George Lunsford yelled in a mock JFK voice. "You know why us Kennedy's never became pro boxers?"
"Why?" several monsters yelled in unison.
"Because we can't take a shot to the head."
A few people groaned and others laughed. The group drifted outside to the patio.
"They must be Republicans," David said to Maybelle, watching her remove a sheathed knife from her purse.
"Put this in your waistband. It's your prop."
The mask blocked his side vision and his breath hissed, making his face damp. The rock incident bothered him. It probably was a bunch of kids, but kids would have probably made some noise. He stuck the knife in his waist of his pants. Maybelle tapped her lips with her right index finger and frowned.
"Are you okay?"
"Pre-show jitters," she said, then smiled. Her big fawn eyes bored into him. "I could use a vodka and orange juice."
"I'll get the drinks."
* * * *
When David returned, Maybelle was in what looked like an argument with a short, bulky blonde with a buzz haircut. She had a green face and painted red circles around the eyes. She wore jeans, boots, and a biker jacket over a black T-shirt. David couldn't tell what they were saying because of the loud music and crowd noise. Maybelle shook a finger at her and the blonde brushed it away. That's when David noticed the hatchet held by leather straps inside the blonde's coat.
Lizzie Borden, David thought. He handed Maybelle her drink and managed to sip his through the open mouth of his skull mask.
"This is Sheila," Maybelle said.
Sheila snarled in a husky voice. "I don't want to meet your new lover. I want to know what you're going to do about us."
"There is no us," Maybelle said.
"You're not dumping me that easy, bitch."
"If you don't leave, I'll have the owners call the police."
Sheila glared at both of them. "You would do that to me? Over this piece of male trash?"
Anger knotted David's stomach. Had Sheila been a man he would have punched her between the running lights. She had probably thrown the rock at them. This was more than a job argument. Maybelle went both ways. He had thought she might, but knowing for sure caused his flaming desire to sputter out somewhat. The man in him rejected the idea of competing with a woman for another woman. What a mess, he thought. I should have stayed in Biloxi.
"Get out of here," Maybelle said. "It's over."
Sheila turned and dodged through costumed dancers toward the sliding patio door. Before she went outside, she turned and gave them the finger. No one else even noticed amid all the noise and music.
"She has an attitude," David said.
"Sheila also has a few outstanding drug abuse warrants," Maybelle said. "She won't bother us anymore tonight."
"She also has a hatchet."
"She didn't think I could find a replacement so soon. She came ready to work."
"Was she your lover?"
"I'm sorry, David." She tried to probe his eyes through the mask. "Does that matter right now?"
David downed his drink and turned toward the bar.
"I'll get over it."
Maybelle half-smiled. "We still have all night."
* * * *
The crowd had come inside. The patio doors had been closed and the black drapes closed. The stage remained bare except for two folding chairs under the red light. The entire room was dark except for the space under the red light.
David, slightly unsteady from his fourth vodka and orange juice, mingled in the crowd in front of the stage. The patio door opened and closed as stragglers pushed through the heavy drapes. Maybelle told him everything was ready; he just had to come up on stage when she called him.
It took a few minutes to get the music turned off and to calm all the drunken pretend monsters down, the worst being George Lunsford and his repeated yelling into a PA system behind the bar that it was show time. Maybelle handled a crowd quite well. A staggering gorilla pushed toward the front.
"Hey, are witches tits really cold?"
"Come on up and find out, sweetie," Maybelle said. "And I'll show you how gorilla nuts make good soccer balls."
"Whoa, go for it, Frank," several people in the front said.
"No, thanks. I'm afraid of witches."
Maybelle worked without a microphone and her now bubbly voice asked for volunteers. She got two trashed male vampires and a sober young woman dressed like a good fairy complete with wings. She hypnotized the vampires one at a time, making them stare into her eyes while speaking softly to them to put them under hypnosis.
During regression, the first vampire claimed to have been a German farmer executed for witchcraft in the thirteenth century. He even spoke German with a heavy accent before she brought him back.
The second claimed to be a cowboy named Bob Thornton who knew Jesse James as a child. He claimed Jesse James always had head lice and couldn't fight a lick. Bob Thornton said he was killed during a stampede.
The sober fairy she didn't regress, but under hypnosis, made her cluck like a chicken and bark like a dog. Maybelle took the two folding chairs and placed the back of the woman's head on one and the heels of her feet on the other until she was balanced straight as a board between the chairs. She told the fairy she was a piece of steel that would not bend. Maybelle stood on the woman's stomach and even jumped up and down. The fairy stayed board straight.
Maybelle now had everyone's total attention. David couldn't believe what she had just done. It seemed impossible. After Maybelle brought her back, the fairy smiled and showed no ill effects.
"I need one more volunteer," Maybelle said, and pointed at David.
The crowd urged him up on the stage. David tried to walk straight, but he staggered twice before sitting on one of the chairs where Maybelle stood in front of him.
"Look into my eyes."
David did, but he couldn't quite focus. After a minute had passed, she prodded him for information.
"Who are you, skull man?"
"Jack the Ripper."
"The famous unknown killer?"
"The same."
"How did you die?"
"Rabies. I was bitten by a dog and died sixteen days later."
"So that's why you stopped killing?"
"Yes. I didn't want to stop."
Maybelle winked at him as if to say you're doing fine.
"Why did you murder prostitutes?"
David glared at her. "Because they were witches like you, and the only way to kill a witch is to cut her up in little pieces."
"So you would like to cut me up?"
David pulled the knife from his waist and stood, all according to plan.
"Yes. It would give me much pleasure."
"No," Maybelle yelled and pulled the chain on the red light as she backed away. The room went totally black and quiet. People murmured. David turned his head from side to side, trying to adjust to the sudden cave darkness. A long shrill scream started from behind the stage and ended with crunching thuds. Maybelle was right; she could really scream her ass off. David moved in that direction, blind and stumbling.
People started chanting, cut her up, cut her up. They knew it was a game.
"Take this," a voice said, startling him so he dropped the knife.
"Okay," he whispered. "Jesus, I can't see nothing."
It was a bucket full of sticky objects.
"You know what to do."
David turned toward the front of the stage, barely seeing outlines of moving figures chanting in the dark. He flung handfuls of the stuff into the crowd until the bucket was empty.
"Find the witch heart," George Lunsford yelled over the bar microphone. "One-hundred dollars to anyone who finds the witch heart."
"Oh, my God," a woman said. "What the hell just hit me?"
"Find the witch heart," others chanted.
David made three trips and people were going nuts with passing and feeling the objects being dropped and tossed at them.
On the fourth trip, David waited but no one filled the bucket so he set it down. He thought he heard the sliding patio door open and close several times. Some people probably didn't want to take part in the frenzy.
"Maybelle," he whispered. "What do we do now?"
No one answered.
David put down the bucket and stumbled forward off the rear of the stage and tripped. He fell with his back sliding down the wall until his butt hit and sank into the mushy thing that had tripped him. His slimy hands probed the object, hesitated, and then he puked inside the mask while people screamed and laughed and scared the hell out of each other looking for the heart while passing and dropping fingers, toes, and eyeballs. He tore the mask off and wiped at his face with his forearm. The alcohol high had jolted right out of him.
He could have sworn it was Maybelle's voice he had heard, but wasn't sure now. He didn't want to know.
"I think this is the heart," someone yelled.
David Wilson waited in the pitch dark, sticky hands pressed to his forehead, for some drunk to get bored and finally find the main light switch. That's when Halloween would begin, when the big lights came on.
He couldn't do it.
So he sat and cringed and smelled his own vomit, on the still full and unopened bag of slippery rubber party favors, and tried not to imagine what he had really tossed into the crowd.
About the Author:Dennis Latham has published stories inThe Palmer Writer ,Live Writers ,VietNow ,Byline ,Far Sector SFFH , andDeep Outside SFFH . His novelsThe Bad Season andMichael In Hell are now available from Clocktower Books through http://www.fictionwise.com/eBooks/DennisLathameBooks.htm.. A U.S. Marine Corps combat veteran of the Vietnam War, he writes a bi-monthly newsletter for combat veterans, The S-2 Report, dealing with VA benefits and the psychological affect of war. He is working on a third novel,Something Evil . He has been, among other things, an ironworker, a bar bouncer, and a lead singer in a professional road band. Entering the University of Cincinnati at age forty, he graduated as an English Major in 1992. He lives in Guilford, Indiana. E-mail at Dennis dlatham@suscom.net.
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