Samhain

“So, ur ye aw ready fur the morra night?” Norma asked. She was a tall woman, with a bob of red curls covering most of her head and was staring across the desk, impatiently waiting for an answer. It didn't matter that Stewart was in the middle of a call, there she was looming over him, asking another dumb question.

He ignored her for the thirty or so seconds it took to finish the call and then looked up at her and asked “What?”

“I was just saying, you got yourself sorted for tomorrow?” Norma asked again, keenly.

“Why what's so special about tomorrow night?” He asked.

Norma pointed past him, he turned in the vague direction her finger was pointing, but could only see the wall, and clock with showing the date. Oct 30^th. Tomorrow was Halloween, was that what she meant? Did she think they didn't have Halloween in Denver? He had to know. “You mean Halloween?”

Norma nodded nervously, and looked around the room like a skittish mouse catching whiff of a notorious cat. “That's right, you've been in Glasgow long enough now, someone's filled you in, aye?”

There it was, she really did think he was from a different planet. “Norma, we had Halloween back in the U.S. I think I can handle it.”

“No, I mean that's... I know that, it's jist, well it's different here.” She persisted.

He was getting annoyed now, and could see their manager glaring at them both with that look that said “give me one reason, please.”

“Whatever.” he shrugged and returned to talking calls. She was always getting him into trouble with her stupid questions.

Stewart remained in an off mood after that and it took until lunchtime before he could properly vent his spleen to his two friends Jim and Eddie. When the time came he was surprised by the looks he got back from them. Jim was first to respond. “Whit, seriously Stewart, no one's told you about the procedure here? That's bad news mate.”

When this confused Stewart, Eddie joined in. “Aye, ye need tae know whit's whit, this isnae Disneyland, know? Git doon the pub the night, me an' Jim will put ye right.”

“You're putting me on too, right?” Stewart said with a grin on his face, certain this was all a wind up.

“Scouts honour 'n shit, man. There's things you need tae know aboot the morra night.” Eddie said, his face cold and sober. He stabbed at the table with his forefinger for emphasis. “Drinks, the night. We'll tell you.”

Jim nodded in agreement with a look that Stewart was concerned about all day afterwards, a look of deep worry. He couldn't wait to figure out what the hell that was all about. He'd obviously offended Norma, no more of her stupid questions, he could live with that. The rest of his day went on as similar to the day before, call after call after call. The job wasn't taxing unless customers were being arseholes which was roughly a one in five chance. Today he'd been lucky, arsehole free, but he still stared at the clock begging the minutes away. He wanted to get home, get changed, get a bite to eat and get down to the pub to listen to what Jim and Eddie were on about.

Finally, he got what he wanted, replete with an ice cold ale. It tasted lovely. Jim and Eddie sat across from him, both looking pensive as if not knowing how to approach the subject. He decided to broach it first. “So what's so different about Halloween here?”

“No so loud.” Jim hissed, his eyes wide with panic. Eddie was already looking around to see if anyone had overheard, but he doubted old Mr Ferguson could hear them, he seemed hypnotised by the sport on T.V. The old man stared up at the screen, his eyes, as ever, hidden under thick, black sunglasses.

“Right, the thing is, right? The Thing is Glesga's where the Crossin' takes place.” Eddie tried explaining.

“What crossing?” Stewart responded none the wiser.

Jim and Eddie looked at each other with each of their faces displaying a complex mixture of shock, exasperation and smugness. As if each were expressing the sentiment “He didn't know anything, that's bad, but I told you so.”

“You do know what Halloween is don't you?”

“Yeah, it's when kids dress up and go door to door for candy. Trick or Treat, right?”

“Is that really what they told you, jeezus. No mate, Halloween's the night the Crossing opens.”

“You said that before, what crossing?”

“Between this world and the other world. The crossing of the Aos Si. Tomorrow night, they'll be aw oor the place, the only sensible thing to do is stay home.”

“Ashshee?” Stewart said, a chuckle, of disbelief more than anything else.

“The Folk fae the other side o the hills, the Fae, the Dark folk. No dark like you, you know whit I'm sayin' right?” Eddie said.

“Is this some folklore thing?” Stewart asked.

“Aye.” Jim sighed, “but insteed o' kids comin' knockin' fur candy this is evil spirits knockin' aboot tryin' tae fuck you oo'er.”

Stewart grinned, he'd try to charm it out of them. “Come on you guys, evil spirits?”

Eddie frowned. “Yer no listenin'”

He turned to Jim. “He's no' listenin'”

Jim nodded. “Ah know. This is serious Stewart, we're no oan the wind up. All manner of spooky pricks are gonny be floatin' aboot the morra night, man the fuckers will even try yer door, just don't answer. You don't have time to prepare the gifts, no even at a push. I know this sounds mental, I know you're havin' a hard time believin' anything I'm sayin' but for the love of God, listen. Go to work tomorrow, get the bus straight home and lock yourself in until morning, don't answer the door no matter who you think it is.”

Stewart's smile wilted into uncertainty. “You're serious? You want me to believe that fairies will stalk the streets of Glasgow? I just can't buy that.”

“Keep yer voices doon fur fuck sake.” Old Mr Ferguson yelled across the pub at them.

Using his Zimmer frame he angrily propelled himself towards them. Each of his sunglass lenses seemed bigger than the screens on their phones. “They have sharp ears those yins. Sharper knives mind you.”

“It's okay Mr Ferguson.” Eddie said, attempting to quieten the old man. “Stewart's new in toon, he disnae know.”

“He disnae believe.” The old man answered with a sneer. He slowed his pace until he was almost at the table. Stewart could see his reflection on those great big sunglasses. Mr Ferguson was staring right at him. “It's a pity when out-of-towners get caught up in our yearly shame, but better them than us eh?”

The old man was creeping Stewart out. “Come on, how am I supposed to believe the gate between dimensions opens here on Halloween. I mean that would be massively important news, not some little secret.”

“It's no' the little secret, it's the big wan.” Ferguson hissed and dragged over a chair. He planted his arse down. “See the thing is, everybody who needs to know aboot it already does. Ye think they don't know aboot this in Westminster? Course they do, but this stuff needs contained, controlled. There's a whole bunch of people who make sure this never gets oot.”

Stewart didn't think that particularly compelling. “Why?”

Ferguson sighed. “They teach you lot nothing these days. It wis the Kirk. They were the wans who got rid of most of the fuckers in the first place. People stopped believing in bogles an' started believin' in Jesus. The other folk, they didnae like this new situation. They thought they were in charge of us and suddenly aw these monks are tellin' everybody there just a pack of villains to be chased out. They left, the lot of them. They come back on Halloween, usually just to ruin oor day.”

Stewart was inclined to believe the old man, even though it all seemed like bullshit. Mr Ferguson didn't sound like he was making up a yarn to dupe the naive foreigner, he sounded like a tired old man explaining how things got so bad. He nodded and said, “Let me buy you a drink Mr. Ferguson.”

That was all it took to get the old man on his side. Stewart went to the bar ordered four pints and listened to the other three's concerned mutterings. He couldn't make out exactly what was being said but when he came back he had a question. “So if everyone stays in, how do you all know these things come through the crossing?”

Eddie winced when he asked the question. Jim shook his head and said “come on man.”

Old Man Ferguson just chuckled, much to the horror of Jim and Eddie, who, by the looks of it, expected him to explode. “No everybody stays in, pal. I didnae, wance. I wis like you, pure sceptical of awe that hocus pocus shite, I mean who widnae be? So, wan Samhain, oot I go, bold as fuckin' brass, despite ma maw giein' it ladly. streets wur deid, aw the shops were shut, it wis eerie as fuck but there's me, walkin' aboot, nae sign of nothin'. I expected that, so walked aboot not givin' a fuck. Then it came oot the shadows, I didnae see it right, it wis wee, dark and screamed as it shot towards me, then it did this.”

Ferguson removed his big sunglasses to reveal the mess of raw tissue behind them, his ruined eyelids opened and behind them were empty holes. “I passed oot, but no before I felt the blade cuttin' at me an' the high pitched laughter o' the cunt. Woke up in hospital next day. Polis didnae even bother investigatin', said I should've known better.”

Stewart felt the blood run cold in his veins. “Holy shit, that… are you for real?”

All three nodded as Mr Ferguson placed his big glasses back on his face. “Jist stay indoors the morra, it's fur yer ain good.”

Stewart decided that was exactly what he was going to do. The universe, unfortunately, had other plans.

His five o'clock finish came and went as Stewart had to deal with a customer whose complaint seemed to be less genuine than his insistence on keeping Stewart late by being as unreasonable, aggressive and obnoxious as he possibly could. Stewart was so angry at the abuse he received that he kept the guy's number and address, he didn't know why, just knew that if he could, he'd get revenge on the prick somehow. The consequence of this prolonged call was that when Stewart left his work, the dark and cold had somehow managed to congeal into a thick fog, an orange, sodium-lit haze the likes of which he'd never seen, even having been raised in Denver, where fog was both common and impressive.

He finally hit the street at quarter to seven and already it was quiet. The few cars that remained were either parked or raced by at dangerous speeds, given the fog. The bus stop was empty and he sat in the freezing dampness waiting for his bus to arrive. According to the timetable it was due but it never arrived. By ten past seven he was so angry and frustrated he decided he'd catch the first taxi that passed. He needed to get home, to get out of the fog, to get into safety, just in case the lads last night were not taking the piss; nor could he dismiss the image of old Mr Ferguson's ruined eyes. He had to get home.

No bus nor taxi was forthcoming. He tried to call a private hire, but none of the five companies had any drivers available. By twenty past seven he knew he was going to have to walk home. This was not ideal but it was all he could do. He had not seen another living soul in almost half an hour, which given he was in the city centre was unheard of. There were always people milling about the city, office workers, neds, drunks, council cleansing, jesus freaks, not that night though. It was unsettling to say the least.

His walk was fast paced, accelerating into a jog as he crossed the bridge at the Broomielaw, over to the south side. The fog now so thick he could not see the water beneath nor ten paces in front of him. Breathing it is seemed to be like inhaling frost, he felt cold in and out and just wanted to get home. At the other side of the bridge was where he first heard the sound of a bell.

The noise was a deep distant clang, dulled and muffled by the fog that stirred and swarmed around him, but it was regular, and its volume increased as he realised he was heading toward the sound. The sound perturbed him so much he decided to nip into the Laurieston pub, but it was closed. That was the last stop on Eglinton Street, beyond the pub was only the long empty road which he had to walk until it crossed with Victoria Street and became part of Pollokshaws Road. The distance wasn't long, about half a mile but in the fog and cold it seemed longer, especially given what he'd been told the previous evening, especially given the loudening bell.

It was now accompanied by other noises, mostly the heavy hollow clopping noise which sounded like a clock or horses hooves. He could not tell which, the fog seemed to be thickening, as if the Brownian motion was slowing down, turning it solid. The clopping sound seemed to be painfully slow, as if in rhythm with the sombre sounding bell. When he finally saw the distant shadows approach he realised after all it was a horse, with a tall rider upon it. At first he wondered if it was the cops, the only people who rode horses in Glasgow city it seemed but his relief was short lived when he saw the crew of other shadows on either side of it, an entourage of sorts. They were small figures, like children and he considered this might actually be children being escorted around, doing the whole trick or treat thing after all. This thought seemed to be borne out by the excited mutterings coming from the group, the elaborate shapes of the figures and as they grew closer, the distorted features of masks.

But there were no masks, nor children, nor police. As they came out of the fog, they surrounded him. A dozen small creatures, draped in black cowls, with wizened grey faces, eyes that were like nothing he'd seen before, their red mouths grinned rows of tiny sharp fangs. They muttered in some language he could not understand until Stewart, by this point terrified, ran. The little goblin-like things had been bad enough, but what really got him moving was the horse, and more specifically, it's rider. She rode the horse in ribbons, yet was naked save for the small sheet that covered her head. He could see the bones and muscle beneath her rags of flesh. The white horse was soaked along it's ribs with the dark blood seeping from this tortured figure. His mind stopped working and he switched to some primeval mode of self-preservation, no fight or flight options for Stewart, he just ran.

“Stad!” the voice boomed. Deep but feminine, echoing through the amber night, through his skin and bones, into his very soul. Stewart became motionless, try as he might to fight it, to keep moving, to run from this carnival of horrors. She had told him to stop and he had no option but to stop. Frozen in the freezing fog, the little creatures cackled and dashed over to him, ransacking his pockets. His mobile phone clattered and shattered on the ground below, his house keys were jangled, curious prizes examined by the group of terrors. The figure in the horse paced over to him as, with long thin knives the child-like monsters stripped him of his clothes. They were not tailors and so he felt himself bleed in the ice cold night.

“What manner of thing are you?” The ruined rider asked with such total contempt that Stewart felt ashamed of the colour of his skin for the first time in a long while.

“Praps it got burnt, y'r Grace?” One of the creatures offered.

“You were not given leave to speak, so stay silent.” The rider warned. “Answer me, creature, what is this that pretends to be a man?”

Rage, disgust, an almost autonomic reaction to being so questioned surged through him. “Fuck you!”

“What are these words you speak, thing?” it asked.

“I am a man you freakish bitch.”

“A man? Men do not have such skin, men are pink and pale, do not try to deceive me. I have lived long enough to know your clans. Again what are you?”

Stewart sighed. “I'm a black man, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He felt terrified and worried his anger might exacerbate a brutal fate. He saw old Ferguson's eyeless holes in his mind and had to manually hold his sphincter, to stop him from shitting himself.

“A black man. Duann Claith mentioned seeing one such as yourself once, when the Romans were here. I dismissed it as intoxicated ramblings. So what caused you to be so deformed?”

“Deformed?” Stewart yelled. “You racist piece of shit, I'm not deformed, this is my skin colour. There are billions of us.”

The creature upon the horse seemed to be confounded by this information and sat silently. This introspective moment seemed to cause its gang of goblins to pause, waiting in anticipation for the next move.

“Egypt” it said.

“What?” Stewart asked in stunned disbelief that he was engaged in a conversation with a racist ghoul.

“You hail from The clan of Egypt?”

“No from Denver, Colorado actually.” It occurred then that this thing had no knowledge of Africa, of black people, of the slavery of Stewart's ancestors. This was some ancient thing out on a jaunt, not something that dwelt in time. It needed an explanation “My ancestors were from Africa where Egypt is.”

“Black men.” It said with a small, delighted laugh.

One of the goblin things poked at him with a knife, leaving a small bleeding hole in his upper arm, causing him to yelp.

“Desist.” The rider hissed and the creature who hurt him screamed in pain.

“Well black man, this is our night and thus you are ours. I shall have you stuffed and mounted, a curiosity which will delight the rest of the Unseelie, for a while. Take him.”

“Wait!” Stewart pleaded.

The figure on the horse stretched out a long thin arm, flesh flapping in rags against bone. The creatures who'd been ready to attack, stopped. There was a collective frustrated sigh from them.

“Speak your last, black man.” the rider said

His mind reeled trying to think of something to say, something that would preserve his life, something to make them leave him alone. He could think of nothing but, for some reason he could not understand, his mouth spoke anyway. “Trick or treat?”

“Oh.” It said.

“Interesting.” It said.

“Kill it now Master!” one of the little demons squeaked in a distressed high-pitched voice.

Stewart feared he'd blown it, fucked up and was about to die here. The rider stretched a ragged arm forward, strips of flesh spattering the street. The arm grew longer than was possible and grabbed the desperate sounding creature by the face, it's fingers pushed through the tiny thing until it squealed and turned to dust.

“You know our ways, black man.” The rider stated. “I am impressed, then what have you to offer other than yourself?”

Stood there, naked and bleeding with his possessions in tatters or broken, Stewart could think of nothing, nothing but Old Ferguson's eyes, his anger at losing them. Anger. The anger reminded Stewart of his own at being kept back at work by that contemptible arsehole, reminded him he had his information, reminded him he wanted revenge. “I was tricked earlier this evening.”

“And?”

“Well… The man that tricked me, he doesn't know you, or your ways, he has nothing but contempt for you, for this night of yours. He can be your treat.”

“I am listening.”

“I have his information, his address, will that do?”

“You wish him to receive your fate?”

“I don't care, I wish only for you to leave.”

The rider nodded under the black sheet. “You play this game well, black man.”

“Stewart.”

“Pardon?”

“My name is Stewart.”

This resulted in a single laugh from the Rider. “How amusing. Very well Stewart of Denver, give me the name and the whereabouts of this person, we shall visit him this night.”

Stewart reached down and pulled the post-it note out from the pocket of his shredded jacket. With trembling fingers he passed the note to the rider, who took it between badly slashed index and middle finger. The note immediately vanished and the Rider motioned it's horse to move. The large beast slowly trotted away from him

“Come.” It said, to the others.

The crew dispersed from around Stewart, giving him angry looks, as if he'd ruined their fun, one spat on the ground at his feet, but they followed their leader. Stewart felt like he could cry as they were slowly swallowed by the night. The rider stopped perhaps ten yards from him and turned “Go home now Stewart of Egypt, there are others abroad this night who are not as gracious or kind to humans as I. You do not wish to entertain them.”

With that it turned again and the whole lot of them disappeared into the fog. The bell began ringing, getting quieter as the distance between them widened. Naked, terrified and bleeding Stewart picked up his discarded house-keys and then walked, then ran, hardly able to keep himself from hysterically laughing at his luck. He didn't care that he was naked, only that he had to get home, he did not want to spend another moment out in this fog, not during the crossing, not while, as the rider said, there were “others abroad”.

He made it home unmolested and after slamming the door, sat on his sofa, staring at the TV, not really taking any of it in, relief had so overwhelmed him that his mind was buzzing as if with electricity. Somewhere he collapsed into sleep.

He woke to the thumping and beeping of the BBC news tune. It was half past seven in the morning and the local news was on. Catriona Shearer stared out from the screen and he listened to the stories. A corruption scandal in Aberdeen Council, a fatal car accident in Newkirk and a man's mutilated body found in Glasgow Green.

He recognised the name instantly.