by D. Matthew Urban
(1000 words)
Oh yes, I’ll be sure to give her the pills every morning. Thank you for coming all this way, Doctor, and on Halloween, too.
I’m sure you’re eager to get home and take your children trick-or-treating, but could you spare a minute to join us in a game before you leave? It won’t take long, and it would make Sarah so happy. We don’t get trick-or-treaters out here, and I can’t take her to town, not with her condition. A holiday game would make it feel like a real Halloween.
Thank you so much, Doctor. You’re so kind, so generous.
The game is simple. All we need is an apple, a string, and a hook. I bought a beautiful red apple at the market this morning, and there’s a hook in the ceiling where Sarah used to hang her plants. I’ll cut a string from my old apron, and we’ll have everything.
My grandmother taught me this game when I was Sarah’s age. Grandma grew up very poor, and this is the kind of game even the poorest can play. Nothing fancy, just an apple you can pluck from any tree, a string you can dig from any trash-heap, and a hook—well, in the hovel Grandma grew up in, there must have been hooks sticking out all over.
How that old woman loved Halloween! The one night of the year, she used to say, when all the poor children go to the big houses and demand their due. A shadow of the reckoning where the last shall be first. A pious woman, my grandmother, in her way.
There, I’ve tied the string tight around the stem of the apple. Here’s the other end of the string; would you mind looping it around the hook? It’s a bit too high for me. I’m lucky to have such a tall playfellow!
Before I fetch Sarah, let’s have a quick practice round. I’ll set the apple swinging, and we’ll take turns trying to hold it. The rule is, you can’t use your hands, only your mouth. Bite the apple and hold it. Ready?
Oh, Doctor, didn’t I just say you can’t use your hands? How did you ever get that fancy degree if you can’t follow a simple rule? I’m only teasing, of course. I know how hard it is, when that apple comes swinging right at you, not to reach up and grab it. Goodness knows how many times I grabbed the apple when I was a girl. Grandma used to smack me right across the face. “No hands, child!” she’d shout.
I won’t smack you, Doctor, but if you’ll allow me, I’ll cut off the other string from my apron and tie your wrists. Not a tight knot, nothing you can’t get out of. Just to remind you of the rule.
There, how’s that? Good. Let’s try again.
Why, Doctor, you’re a natural! Such healthy teeth. I’ll bet when you were a boy, you went to the best dentist in town. Not like me. When I had a toothache, my father would take me into the garage and yank the tooth out with a pair of pliers. I’d wake up the next morning with blood all over my pillow.
I know you’re anxious to get back to your big house and your children. Two girls and two boys, isn’t that right? Such a lucky man. So blessed.
Wait one moment. I’ll fetch Sarah.
Sarah, honey, don’t be frightened. This is the doctor, the one who took your temperature and felt your pulse. He’s going to play a Halloween game with us. Isn’t that nice? Aren’t you grateful? No, don’t speak. I know it hurts to speak. Just smile. He’ll know what you mean.
I’m sure your children look wonderful in their expensive costumes, Doctor, but can any of them match my Sarah? Look at her thin arms and legs, her sunken, shiny face, her eyes so big and bright in their sockets. Have you ever seen anything like her? My darling skeleton girl.
Sarah, put your arm around my neck. I’ll hoist you up. Now reach out and take the apple. Ready, Doctor? All right, Sarah, give it a good, strong swing!
Well done, Doctor! Another excellent bite.
Sarah, why do you suppose the doctor’s gone pale? Why are his teeth clenched around the apple like that? Is that sweat trickling down his forehead? Are those tears in his eyes? What do you suppose is wrong with him, Sarah?
I know what’s wrong with him. He’s bitten the apple, and he can’t let go. His hands are tied, and he can’t break free. He’s caught.
I really can’t thank you enough, Doctor. You came all this way to see my Sarah, and you stayed to play a game and raise her spirits. You’re been so very generous. There’s just one more thing I’ll ask from you.
I know you’ve done your best to help my girl, but what she needs isn’t medicine. She needs life, new life in her veins. Every creature that breathes deserves life. And you’ve had plenty, Doctor, with your big house and four beautiful children. You’ve had enough. I’m only asking for what’s due.
Sarah, do you remember what I told you about your great-grandmother? How she taught me to summon and bind? How she taught me Halloween isn’t a scary time, it’s a wonderful time, when the thieves and tyrants who rule this world feel the breath of the coming reckoning?
Do you remember what else she taught me, Sarah? That the blood is the life?
Look at the doctor’s throat, Sarah. With his chin tilted up to bite the apple, look how his throat is stretched out. Can you see his pulse throbbing there, fast and strong? Can you see the redness beneath the skin? Doesn’t it look so sweet and delicious, Sarah, like a beautiful, shining apple?
END
D. Matthew Urban grew up in Texas and now lives in Queens, New York, where he reads weird books, watches weird movies, and writes weird fiction. His stories have appeared in Shredded (Cursed Morsels Press), Annus Horribilis (Bag of Bones Press), and The Theatre Phantasmagoria (Night Terror Novels), among other venues. He can be found on Twitter @breathinghead.