He was stunned by the sight of figures, just merely visible through the glass doors, milling about their dining room. A peek into the kitchen window, which was veiled by mother’s handmade curtains, revealed similarly obscure shapes shifting, gesturing, talking. Some of the figures were familiar to Will, having seen their photoshopped life moments many times on Dylan’s social media page. The pattern of the lace curtains seemed to pixelate their faces.

The din of this unbidden gathering was audible even through the storm. The wan afternoon reduced the house’s interior to a cave, but Will guessed that these guests numbered in the dozens. He scaled the steps of the deck. He wanted nothing more than to see his brother.

Moving to the glass door, Will suddenly stumbled. He looked down to see Dylan’s shoes sitting tidily side-by-side. The downpour had already rinsed away much of the river mud. Will reached down to collect the shoes but discovered that they had been nailed to the wooden deck. The spikes that pinioned them were chunky and black, akin to the ones that pinioned the effigy to its casket.

The glass door slid back on its own. The susurrus was instantly silenced.

Something whimpered from the recesses of the house, something that sounded pained.

One of the figures stepped into the half-light and reached a flickering, blurry hand through the open doorway.

Will attempted to flee but found that he too had been rooted.

Fragile Masks

Fragile Masks

“Woolf.”

The word caused Paige to flinch in the passenger seat. She scanned the leaf-carpeted banks of the road, looking for signs of movement.

“It was Virginia Woolf who took her life that way, not Brontë,” Jon explained, “my mistake. Wait, did you think I saw an actual…”

“You gave me a start,” she said brusquely.

Jon’s mouth hitched into a grin, which made him look more pained than amused. “Maybe you have some Halloween spirit after all.”

Paige made a noise with her throat, then stared out at the drabness that surrounded them. The road was all clay and ugly stones, and the trees that flanked it had lost their foliage. They passed a pumpkin patch, a cornfield, both of which had been gleaned of their growth. Even the sunlight was filtered through strips of gray clouds that reduced it to a vague glimmer, the way the features of the dead grow indistinct beneath the shroud.

“Any of this look familiar?” asked Jon.

“The country all looks the same to me.”

“Oh. Well, according to my phone we’re less than three miles from the bed-and-breakfast.”

The final bend was riddled with potholes, forcing Jon to slow the car to a crawl. The phone app instructed him to turn left.

“Hmm,” he muttered, “that doesn’t seem correct.”

“Why not?”