Horror Stories

The Halloween House

Of
the many strange encounters I have had over the years, there is one that stands
out to me as a testimony to the oft-forgotten human side of the supernatural,
the normal, as it were, of the paranormal. When I was a student at university, I
was acquainted with an elderly, eccentric professor. I should stop now and say
that there were, in fact, any number of elderly, eccentric professors at
university, but the strangeness of Professor James stood head and shoulders
above the rest.

Professor
James taught anthropology at Yale University in the United States. He had
studied with some of the greats like Radcliffe-Brown, Malinowski, and
Lévi-Strauss. But James was a standout in that crowd for the extreme lengths
that he would go to prove his theories. His specialty was European folklore from
the Iron Age to the Early Modern. He was especially interested in its material
culture.

Professor James took a special liking to me I think because I grew up in Britain, site of some of his specialized research. In those days, it was not uncommon for
professors to dine with their students, and Professor James had invited me to
his home for just such an occasion. I should mention that the date in question
was October the 31st, All Hallows’ Eve, or as they call it these days, Halloween
Night.

As
I approached the wide front porch of Professor James’s old Victorian home, I
stepped over a curious line of white powder that snaked across the stately lawn.
Professor James met me at the door in a state of extreme agitation. I was
quickly hustled inside to an empty house. It was then that I learned that I was
to be the only guest that evening. He had even dismissed his man for the
night.

I
was rather dismayed as Professor James could monologue at length on the subject
of Roman charms and Celtic tomb mounds and it was so much easier to escape when
one had an accomplice. Even so, I sat in the chair offered and girded myself for
an enlightening, if not lively, evening.

Professor
James stood at the great fireplace hanging his head. The flickering shadows on
his face carved lines of worry and even fear. The fire’s soft sputtering was the
only sound. After some time he turned to face me.

“Do
you know what day it is, Randolph?” he asked me.

“Of
course, sir,” I replied. “It’s the last day of October, the
31st.”

“Do
you know what happens on the last day of October, Randolph?”

Back
home in England, the modern Halloween tradition was not widespread, but I had
been in the states long enough to know about the practice of guising-up and
asking for treats.

“It’s
the night when the youngsters dress up and ask about for sweets,” I
answered.

“Yes,”
he said. “But it’s also the night when the world of the dead coincides, as it
were, with the world of the living. Do you think that’s true,
Randolph?”

“No,
sir, I do not,” was my reply but I admit I was lying because even then I had
already seen some strange things in my short life.

“Maybe
it’s a metaphor, Randolph,” he said. “Some days, I wish it were. Tonight the
dead live again, the meek become the powerful, the king goes begging in the
streets, and,” he paused and turned away from me, “all debts must be
paid.”

I
wasn’t sure what to make of this statement; it was rather dramatic for Professor
James. I didn’t have time to respond as I was whisked away to the dining room
for a surprisingly truncated dinner of ham sandwiches and nearly cold
soup.

James
sat and watched as I dined. In his hand he fingered a trifle, a small coin that
caught the dim light. He saw me looking at it. “Do you know what this is,
Randolph?” he asked me.

“I
must confess that I do not, sir. A lucky coin perhaps?”

“A
good guess. You always were a most perceptive student.” Professor James held the
coin up to the light. “It’s called a touch piece. It’s a kind of sympathetic
magic, in it operates on the basis of its association with something else. This
particular piece was once owned by Emperor Vespasian.”

“Good
heavens, sir!” I nearly spit in my soup. “Vespasian’s amulets are a myth;
they’ve never been found!”

James
put the coin in the pocket of his smoking jacket. “Never reported
to have been found.” He smiled coldly and stood. “Nevertheless, its power to
protect its bearer is quite real.”

I
quickly finished my soup under Professor James’s quiet stare. He led me back to
the study and we settled into a pair of overstuffed chairs. The fire crackled,
sending shadows across the walls. James stared into the flames and asked “Do you
believe in witchcraft, Randolph?”

“There
are some interesting –” I began but was quickly cut off.

“Necromancy,
conjuring, sorcery, Randolph. The power that turns the wheel of the universe.
Magic.” James quickly rose and pointed to the window. “There, you see?” he
asked. A thin, scruffy flower hung suspended in the curtain. “The wild rose, it
repels evil, just like the line of salt that encircles the house. You saw it, no
doubt.”

Professor
James retrieved a small stone from the mantle. “This stone was painted by the
ancient Picts and infused with a power.” He pointed to a larger rock that rested
on the hearth. “This is a fragment of a Punic betyl that once protected the
great temple at ruined Carthage.” He glanced my way with a wild smile. “It may
not have been a complete success.”

I
returned the smile and tried to interject but James was already off on another
subject. “Do you know the Merseburg Incantations? Eiris
sazun idisi, sazun hera duoder; suma hapt heptidun, suma heri
lezidun!
Do you think it will work?”

I
was beginning to suspect that James was more unhinged than usual, and that it
was now my responsibility to see that he didn’t hurt himself. Is that why he had
asked me to come, I wondered? James struck a match and lit a small bowl. A
sickly sweet incense permeated the air.

“It’s
kyphi from ancient Egypt,” he told me. “Used to placate the dead and their pagan
masters. I also have a small pot of mummia, ground from the bones of ancient
Egyptian mummies, although I am not sure it will be of use to
me.”

Professor
James patted his coat pocket. “I have here the bone of a black cat. I have it on
good authority that it is a powerful mojo, but I have my
doubts.”

He
opened a small box on a side table and picked up a thin, curved rod with great
reverence. “And this is my prize, this is a 2,000-year-old ivory wand dedicated
to Hecate Chthonia, mother of witches.” I could see the fine lines of airy
script delicately carved along the yellowing surface.

Suddenly,
we heard the sound of a quick knock on the front door. Professor James jumped
and nearly dropped his beloved witching wand. Seeing his fear, I rose to answer
it, but the professor caught my sleeve. “Do not answer the door tonight,” he
commanded.

“But,
sir,” I began, “it’s only the local children asking for their sweets. Must we
disappoint them?”

James’s
eyes screwed together in disbelief. “Children? They are most decidedly not
children, although they may wish that you think them harmless.” My befuddled
stare impelled him to add: “The door is made from the wood of a rowan tree; it
cannot be breached by the forces of darkness.”

I
knew that the poor professor was having what we call a breakdown, but being a
student, it was not at all clear from whence I would derive the authority to
intervene. I was, as they say now, along for the ride.

James
was now waving his wand and reciting something in Old English: “Sitte ge,
sīgewīf, sīgað tō eorðan, næfre ge wilde tō wuda fleogan.”

I
could hear more knocking now, not from the front door, but from the back of the
house.

“Beō
ge swā gemindige, mīnes gōdes, swā bið manna gehwilc, metes and
ēðeles.”

Now
they were knocking on the windows and I knew that Professor James was right:
they were not children. Something sinister was afoot. Amidst the rattling and
knocking, James fingered the old Roman touch piece and waved the ivory wand in
the kyphi smoke. He cut a figure both mad and wild, an ancient wizard born of
standing stones and dragon’s blood.

I
went to check the doors, to make certain whomever was attacking the house was
not breaking in. I found the ground floor to be secure and as I returned to the
study, both the knocking and the professor’s chanting suddenly ceased. I found
Professor James slumped in his chair, his hand clutched to his chest. He was not
breathing.

I
raced to the telephone and told the operator to send a stretcher. I knew it was
probably too late for old Professor James, that whatever it was that was after
him had succeeded in finding him. I wondered if I had somehow let him down, if
in my ignorance of the ancient practices, I had inadvertently let the door open
for evil.

In
retrospect, I can say that it has been my experience that men do not ward off
evil by trying to keep it outside, that evil exists already inside of all of us,
that we are in fact, the source of much of the evil that plagues the world, and
the best that we as weak and imperfect humans might be able to do is keep the
evil in our hearts locked up securely inside.

In
postscript I must add that as I waited for assistance to arrive, I spied
something on the floor in front of Professor James. It was the touch piece that
had belonged to Vespasian. A priceless artifact, if it could be authenticated,
or merely a trinket. A fool’s burden in either case. There was a knock on the
door.

It
was not a knock like before. This was a quiet rap, a child’s knock. Without
fear, I opened the door and there on the step stood a child of no more than nine
or ten. He was dressed in a ragged red suit and to his face had been applied a
red pigment and on his head he wore a crown of paper horns.

He
held out a limp brown sack. “Trick or treat,” the little Devil
said.

“Neither,”
I responded and tossed the ancient touch piece into his bag. “Happy
Halloween.”