A young writer’s quest for small-town folklore takes a dark and unexpected turn when she encounters a reclusive veteran with chilling secrets that threaten to blur the lines between myth and reality.
“And what happens later that night… might be a judgment from God… or a jest of those older gods who men worshipped from the safety of stone circles on moonlit nights.” –Stephen King
In October 1975, freelance writer Rita Zook arrives in Millholm, Pennsylvania, to research local folklore for a story Her plans take an unexpected turn when she meets Tom, the manager of a local bookstore, who mistakenly assumes she is there to write about the 20th anniversary of the mysterious killings that took place on Halloween night in 1955.
Intrigued, Rita becomes curious when Tom tells her, “It was the best Halloween the town ever had.” Tom tells her Jack Harper, the reclusive owner of the bookstore, knows more about the killings than anyone in town. This leads Rita to seek an interview with Jack, a veteran who leads a quiet and solitary life, carrying the weight of his past.
What begins as a straightforward interview quickly becomes unsettling as Jack’s guarded revelations slowly unfold about the events of Halloween 1955. Jack speaks of corruption, fear, and the dark justice that fell upon the town, hinting at powerful, mysterious forces at play. Rita is increasingly drawn into Jack’s haunted memories, learning of his experiences during the war and the price he has paid ever since.
The story builds to a chilling climax where Rita must confront the shocking truths that Jack has revealed, leaving her—and the reader—grappling with the blurred lines between myth, legend, and a terrifying reality.
Intrigued? Here’s the story…
01
PROLOGUE
Eyes glowed like embers in the dark, a telltale sign the beast was near.
–Sabine Baring-Gould
October 1975 Millholm, Pennsylvania
Shit.
The old man stood at the mouth of the dead-end alley, his breath pluming in the October night. The stuttering ruddiness of streetlights cast ragged shadows over the damp concrete and a scene he’d rather not have seen. The night’s chill crept into aching joints, a stark reminder of past damage and aging’s clawed grip on his body. His left knee protested as he shifted his weight, and his right shoulder throbbed. Ghost of pains from old bullet wounds. Ghosts of choices, good and bad.
None of that mattered now.
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The woman was down; her muffled cries echoed off the brick walls. The brute towered over her, his laugh a harsh, hollow sound, his massive frame blocking any chance of escape. The blade he wielded caught a sliver of light, a gleam in the murk. He cruelly struck her again, a backhand that split her lip and sent her sprawling against a trio of garbage-men-abused trashcans.
The old man’s hands clenched into fists. He glanced up, his eyes seeking the moon hidden behind a veil of clouds. Once, its radiance would have birthed a strength within him—a power that tore through enemies like paper.
But those days were gone.
Now, he was just a man.
An old, battered man.
Shit.
He tugged the cord around his neck, drawing it from his shirt. He finger-traced the engraving—mouthing the old, now bitter words—on the back of the shield-shaped silver pendant and the circular tag attached to the same cord. Done, he tucked them back under his shirt.
Reluctantly—drawing a deep breath, shaking his head, shaggy gray hair veiling eyes flickering a lambent amber—he stepped into the alley. His heightened senses caught the sharp iron tang of blood, the acrid stench of fear. Something within stirred at the scent. “Let her go,” he called out despite his doubts, his voice steady though roughened by years of smoke and bourbon.
The thug turned, surprise flashing across his scarred face before twisting into an amused leer. “Walk away, old man,” he snarled, flashing the knife casually. “Or are you looking to get cut?”
The gray-maned man limped closer, a hitch to his gait that brought a sneer of contempt from the big man. “I’ve been cut before,” he rasped, his narrowed eyes tracking the knife while assessing the brute. The big man looked strong but sloppy—relying on force rather than skill.
“Suit yourself,” the tough snarled, lunging forward with a swift stab at the old man’s midsection.
Despite years of disuse, combat instincts triggered. He sidestepped the thrust, his movements economical, conserving energy, and trapped the thug’s wrist with his left hand, twisting sharply. The knife clattered on the concrete as pain lanced through his shoulder. He ignored it. Using the thug’s momentum, he delivered a precise elbow strike to the man’s jaw.
Blood splattered brick. The thug stumbled back, surprised, eyes tightening. He spat more blood. “You’ve got some fight in you.” He stooped to pick up the knife.
“You have no idea,” The old man growled, chest heaving.
The big man charged, slashing wildly. The old man parried forearm-to-forearm, the blade’s withdrawal slicing through his coat sleeve but missing flesh. He countered with a side kick to the man’s knee—his own protesting the movement. The thug staggered but recovered, swinging the knife in a wide arc.
Amateur. The old man ducked the slashing knife, the blade scything a lock of silver hair from his head. Capitalizing on his lower position, he delivered an upward palm strike to the man’s nose. A satisfying crunch signaled broken bone. The thug howled, reeling as blood streamed down his face.
Seizing the moment, the old man advanced. His right leg betrayed him—a half-second’s warning—knee locking and then buckling. The thug’s knife found his forearm, carving deep. Searing pain spread, and warm blood soaked his sleeve. His nostrils flared; he felt the beast surge against the silver restraint he wore; it stirred and grew warm—near hot—against his flesh.
“Not so quick now, are you?” the thug sneered, his voice nasally from the broken nose.
The old man gritted his teeth. The wound was superficial, but blood loss would weaken him. He needed to end this Goliath-fucking-Philistine. Drawing on remnants of old power–not supernatural strength, but the relentless determination that had seen him through combat before the change–he feinted left.
As the thug committed, the old man pivoted sharply, joints screaming. His bootheel crushed the man’s instep. In the same motion, his elbow found the brute’s throat. The knife dropped as meaty hands clutched for air.
The old man hooked his foot behind the thug’s leg and shoved hard. The brute toppled backward, skull meeting concrete with a dull crack.
Breathing heavily, the old man stood over him, watching for movement. The big man groaned and shifted as if to rise. Fucker. His precise drop-kick to the man’s head silenced him.
“Are you okay?” He turned to the woman, much younger than he. She clutched her side but managed a nod. “Let’s get you out of here.”
She looked up at him, tears streaking her face, eyes wide with fear and gratitude. “Thank you.”
The gray-haired old man offered his hand, helping her stand. “Just an old habit.” One I thought I’d broken, he muttered.
As they stepped from the alley onto the sidewalk, sirens wailed closer—someone must have heard her earlier screams and called it in. He gestured her toward the sound, waiting until she could walk steadily before he slipped back into the alley’s shadows. Gingerly, he slid his wounded arm from his jacket. He peeled back the blood-sodden shirtsleeve and wrapped his hankie around what would become another scar among many.
Carefully slipping his arm back into the jacket, he squinted up again, and acknowledgment curled his lips. The moon peeked from behind the clouds, casting a pale light over him.
Maybe the moon had helped after all.
The smile faded as a burning—different—pain shot through him. His right hand clutched his chest as his left arm reached for the wall he hoped was behind to catch him as he sagged backward.
Gasping, the old man leaned against the alley wall as his eyes flared with something more than pain and then dimmed to banked embers. He caught his breath as his eyes went from fiery amber to dull russet. Then—as they always did near the structure—they went to the theater across the street. The moon above The Corvinia—tonight, it was exactly as John had seen it and told him about back in ’43. Exactly.
It was why he’d stopped in Millholm back in 1946.
Why he’d stayed.
He stared at the theater’s vertical signage. His eyes climbed to where—on its backside—the maintenance platform wrapped three-quarters around with its steps down to the terrace atop the marquee. Daggers of early-winter ice draped from it like a broad mouthful of teeth. Twenty years ago, it was there that he had caught the moon for the second time.
John ‘Jack’ Thomas Harper shrugged, gritting his teeth at the old, familiar sting of a new wound. The icy wind bit deep, too. He settled his jacket around once muscular shoulders and arms that seemed to have shrunk overnight. He turned toward his apartment in the opposite direction the woman had gone.
Jack looked away from the sky but felt it as he had since a doomed night in October 1943. He muttered a quote from one of the books found then that he wished he’d never seen: “As the moon rose, so did the beast… casting aside the fragile shell of humanity. He prowls by night in the guise of a man, driven by a thirst for blood that cannot be quenched.” The author’s words… a harbinger of his fate. He thought the wind would carry away what he’d uttered, but it didn’t. Time hadn’t. Sometimes, once you speak words… they linger… and haunt. As he walked, his hunger climbed with the moon.
02
Two Days Later…
Steam fogged the bathroom mirror as Jack cleaned the straight razor his grandfather had left him and returned it to its worn leather case. Checking for any missed ‘five o’clock shadow,’ he splashed water on the remnants of lather, sluicing it into the runnels of his seamed face. After years with a beard, a complete shave was still novel. He took a towel from the rack. His gaze drifted past his reflection through the window to The Corvinia, looming over the intersection like a brooding sentinel. The theater had caught his eye that first day in ’46, causing a red DeSoto S-10 sedan to blare an angry horn as he’d stopped at the green light. He’d circled back, parked, and studied it properly.
The structure echoed New York’s Roxy Theater on West 50th, where he’d seen Lugosi’s Dracula premiere in ’31 with his grandfather. Same Baroque and Renaissance Revival style, with arched windows framed by intricate stonework. Carved glyphs, too weathered to read from street level, ringed the facade. Twin doors sprawled beneath a wide marquee while THE CORVINIA’s faded letters climbed the rectangular spire that pierced the sky.
Local gossip painted Steven Batory, the builder and former owner, as an eccentric who’d vanished in ’36. Some whispered about hard-faced foreigners who’d come seeking him that autumn. The theater had stood abandoned since. What use was such grandeur in a town where most folks preferred Shankweiler’s Drive-In’s cheap tickets and privacy.
Ten years of neglect showed in every crack, crumble, and faded finishing that first day. Yet he’d recognized it instantly from John’s description in ’43, a conversation about purpose after the war, shared 4,667 miles away. The theater’s forlorn beauty had made him stop. Made him stay. Made him buy it years later, compelled by his friend’s prescient words.
Now, in ’75, The Corvinia matched John’s portent perfectly. The angle of moonlight, the play of shadow, every detail exactly as described that night in Romania 32 years ago. It brought back memories of that damned vault they’d found back then, the books and relics they should have left sealed. The warnings they’d ignored, treating eldritch artifacts like props in their psychological warfare games.
He checked the time on his Bulova A-11 on the shelf above the sink. Needs must, he thought, interrupting his brooding. It was near time for that reporter from Pittsburgh, Rita Zook, who had visited his bookstore that morning looking for Halloween stories. She’d explained to Tom, his manager, that with the library closed by a fire, she hoped to collect written or even unwritten tales passed down by old-timers and housewives… research for her article.
Jack understood the urge to document the undocumented, though his journals would never see light. Who’d believe them? Tom had pestered him for a decade to share what filled those pages, what secrets lurked in the books he studied. Jack never had.
Maybe that’s why he’d agreed to this interview. Tom would appreciate him contributing to a story others could actually read. This time of year was always hard on the boy… man, Jack corrected himself. At 37, Tom was grown, though somehow still Jack’s responsibility since taking him in 20 years ago. They’d become an odd pair, like Lemmon and Matthau in that movie. Locals probably had theories, but none voiced them. Over the years, they’d developed a wariness of Jack instead. Some instinct warned them, those smarter than he’d given them credit for.
The mirror had cleared enough to show the erosion of years. Gray hair racing toward white framed a face carved by time and pain. Sometimes, what haunted those eyes frightened even him. No wonder he disturbed the townspeople.
Sharp hearing caught the preemptive knock, then the entry door to his apartment opened, and two sets of footsteps entered. Tom’s voice gave instructions–probably repeating Jack’s stipulation about meeting alone–then the sound of Tom leaving. Jack drew another deep breath as he studied his reflection one last time. Time to face the reporter.
Time to decide how much truth to tell.
* * *
“Your name’s Rita, huh? Like Rita Hayworth…” Jack entered his apartment’s sitting room, studying the young reporter–couldn’t be more than 25–as she circled the space. Moonlight spilled through open windows, catching dust motes that danced in the glow of the 1928 Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann Art Deco floor lamp beside his desk.
“Who?” She turned from examining his bookshelves, notebook clutched like a shield.
“Never mind. Hayworth’s before your time.” He moved into the arc of the floor lamp’s light, hoping it would draw her closer, away from darker corners. “Your surname’s Germanic… means ‘to search’ or ‘to seek.’”
“I didn’t know that.” Her eyes swept the room’s walls of books, professional curiosity evident in her expression. “Are you an academic?”
Jack snorted. “Hardly.” He tracked her movement toward the shelves, tensing as she approached the chest in the corner. Two feet of oak bound in iron, its carvings dulled by time, its patina dark as dried blood. Despite its weathered appearance, St. Cyprian’s Chest remained uncompromised, its purpose intact. “Don’t touch that.”
Rita straightened, turning instead to an eye-level shelf where dust-covered photographs sat: five men in uniform with two women and another showing three battle-worn soldiers, bandaged and hollow-eyed. White ink labeled them: Bad Jack, Lonely John, Curran… The Hoia Baciu. The man marked ‘Bad Jack’ could have been her host, decades younger. “You served… in World War Two?”
“I did….” Jack held up two fingers—Churchill-style—in a reverse peace symbol, the victory sign.
Jack almost smiled at her use of ETO… European Theater of Operations. It was how a veteran who’d served there would refer to it. “How long?” Jack knew from experience the difference in many men who served later in the war.
“He enlisted in January 1942… and retired three years ago with 30 years.”
“A long time to serve.” Jack nodded, remembering his 18 years of service, and moved closer to her.
“It was. I’m glad he was too old and senior for Vietnam.”
“That conflict was a mess. Not anything like my—and your father’s—war. Six months ago, that Saigon evac, Operation Frequent Wind, was a poignant success.
“Yes…” she agreed. “I’m glad it’s over.”
He watched her pick up a frayed patch depicting an angry soldier-beast gripping a dagger. Block letters spelled ‘THE FERRETS.’
“This was your unit?”
Jack nodded and stepped away, hoping she’d follow. Let the memories settle back into their dull ache. He wished he’d put away those photos of his OSS Team and of….
“Who’s she?”
Jack stopped and then turned back to the reporter… not wanting to. The 5 x 8 photograph she held was framed in bloodwood. Rita’s fingers had left marks in the dust on the frame, and where her finger had traced a circle on the glass around the woman’s face.
“What big eyes she has… she’s beautiful—”
Jack snatched Nyx’s photo from her hands. “She was.” Their eyes locked, and he saw unexpected understanding of his pain. “I took this the night I lost her.”
The image brought back Catrina–‘Nyx’–reading from Baring-Gould’s Book of Were-Wolfes: ‘It was not the bite that doomed them, but the curse carried in the blood that turned men into monsters.’ She’d mocked the author’s assumption only men could be werewolves and had wondered at the book’s inclusion in a vault containing far older, actually eldritch—some historically forbidden—knowledge. That same night, John had described The Corvinia precisely as it stood today.
“She looks like she’s wearing a uniform. Was she killed in the war?”
“No.” Jack returned the photograph to its shadows. “She disappeared.” Moving to his desk, he sat… pale moonlight from the window, a splash on his chest. “Let’s get this done.”
03
“I’ve never talked with a reporter before.” Jack leaned to his left, turned on the radio on the side table next to the desk, dialed the volume low, and then sat back and crossed his arms.
“Journalist,” Rita corrected, pulling her chair closer.
“What?”
“I’m a journalist… not a reporter.”
“Semantics. They’re the same.”
“Not to editors….” Rita opened her notebook. “I always have to check out bookstores every place I go. When I couldn’t use the library, it seemed that it could be my only source for research. That’s how I got to talking with Tom. He told me you owned the bookstore and know about what he called ‘the best Halloween this town ever had.’”
“What newspaper do you work for?” Jack asked and watched Rita’s face twitch.
“I’m writing a story about small-town Halloween in Pennsylvania. Now, I have some questions—”
“You didn’t answer. What newspaper… or is it a magazine?” Jack saw the twitch again, the awkward reset of expression and shift of her posture.
“I’m freelance… but editors are interested.”
“If you write it first.”
“Yes.”
“If you write it well.” He watched her stiffen.
“I’m a good writer.”
“I’m sure you are.” Jack nodded. “Your idea, or an editor?”
“Mine.”
“Why? It’s a curious topic.”
“For a girl?” Her tone sharpened.
“Didn’t say that. I’ve known several strong women,” his gaze flicked to the shelf of shadowed photographs, “some more capable than most men. I supported Martha Griffiths and the ERA she reintroduced to Congress in 1971.”
“That’s great if they actually ratify the amendment.”
“Politicians… most of them suck.” Jack offered dryly. “Especially the men.”
“Yes. They do….” Rita reassessed the old man with the longish gray hair, dressed in what looked like freshly-pressed army surplus fatigues and spit-shined boots she’d wrongly prejudged. “Anyway, the story’s my idea.”
“Okay, but why?”
“I was born on Halloween… and it’s always been my kind of thing.”
“Three weeks from tonight’s your birthday?”
“Yeah,’ Rita raised her notebook. “Can we start now? I’m on a deadline.”
04
“So, what all did Tom tell you?”
“You’ve been here… in this town for nearly 30 years.”
Jack nodded and pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his pocket. The bullseye logo, a dull-red on white in the dim light. He dug deep in a pants pocket and brought up a clapped-out, black-crackle Zippo, an engraved near-effaced insignia on one side and a brief line of text and numbers on the other.
Rita pointed at it. “My Dad has one like that, but it’s not so….” She stopped.
“Beat up?” Jack’s fingers brushed the textured, non-reflecting, dented metal of the Zippo. Then rolled the lighter—like a magician rolling a quarter—from long-fingered knuckle to knuckle. He quickly grip-flick-snapped the lighter to ignite and raised to the cigarette he’d talked around in his mouth. “Yep… it’s been around.” The wick flamed, and he drew in a lungful of smoke, holding it a moment, then let plume out. “Smoke?” he offered her the pack.
“No. I’m trying to get my Dad to stop.”
“Good luck with that,” he nodded, prompting her to continue. “Go ahead, what else did Tom say.”
“That you came to Millholm in summer 1946… he said it was on his 8th birthday. July.
“Yeah. The 18th.”
“That he helped you unload 48 large, heavy boxes, most full of books, and you opened a bookstore,” she pointed a finger down… toward the street-level floor of the building, “in the storefront his foster mother rented to you… along with this room.” She paused, then continued. “He said some you unpacked had leather bindings with symbols engraved on the spine and covers. Not like any books he’d seen in the local library.”
“And what about me?” Jack asked.
Rita wondered who was interviewing who but answered him. “He said you were—are—a quiet man, a reader, and like to write. He said you keep a journal and write in it as you sit behind the counter of your bookstore, stopping only to help customers. When I was talking with him, a customer overheard and commented she sometimes saw you in the evenings and even later in ‘the deep dark of night’—her words—writing at your desk,” she pointed at it, “at the window… framed by the glow of a lamp.”
“You have a flair for language, very descriptive,” Jack replied, his eyes narrowing.
“I told you, I’m a good writer,” she remarked, then hesitated. In the quiet, she faintly heard the song on the radio—a new one she’d not heard much—and was surprised when the old man reached a long arm to turn it up.
“Yes. I thought you’d be all… Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey… big band or swing music. Stuff my Dad likes; you know, oldies. All AM radio… not FM. Not new music… not rock-and-roll.”
“A friend of mine, who told me about this town… well, not precisely the town… something he’d seen here but didn’t know the town by name. John loved music and had the finest memory of anyone I ever met; hear a song once, and he’d know it by heart. Too bad his singing sounded like someone killing geese.” Jack gestured at the radio. “He heard the song while here and returned singing the words to it and others. The first time I heard it was a few days ago, and I remembered John singing it. I have to catch it when I can… I’m learning the lyrics.”
“What… wait… you moved here in 1946, but a friend—who, before then, learned this song—told you about this town?” She blinked and began to think she might be talking with an old man going senile… or already gone.
“So, what else did Tom tell you that made you think I was the person in Millholm to interview?”
She let his ignoring her questions pass and her puzzlement with it. There was too much potential for some ‘Alice—Rita—going down the rabbit hole’ in what he’d just said, and she didn’t have time.
“Tom said that you wrote things down… and maybe you did—write—about the killings in 1955 on Halloween. He thought their 20th anniversary was what I came here to write about. But I’d never heard of those killings before.
“When he told me that, I asked if the library had copies of the old newspaper articles from the killings. I planned to read them, when I could, then Tom said, ‘I got ‘em right here.’ He took clippings from a bulging wallet. I read them, and then he told me that you probably know more about that night than anyone… maybe even more than what’s in the newspaper articles. Tom said though you never let anyone read what you write, I should talk to you.
“Tom kept remarking, without details, ‘It was a good Halloween… the best the town ever had’ when so many men died. Will you tell me about it?”
Jack studied her, noting her word choice… ‘will you’ not ‘can you.’ Had Tom known more than he thought and then talked more than he should? All his life’s pieces—the stories Jack had kept separate, private—seemed to demand weaving into one. He felt an urgency… and an urge even more potent than those he barely curbed. Could he control the memories pressing hard, forcing their way to the surface? He thought about Catrina’s—Nyx’s—photo from just a few minutes ago and about what happened two nights before… and over three decades ago during the war.
“I started writing it down,” the old man muttered, he thought to himself.
“About Halloween 1955?” Rita asked.
“No. 1943.” He reached for the pack and lighter again.
“Here… in this town… before you got here in 1946? What’s that got to do with 1955?”
Jack shook his shaggy head, wreathed in fresh smoke. “No. In Romania… in the war.”
Rita blinked, aware she’d done that a lot since entering this room. The old man seemed to have gone down his own rabbit hole. “What happened?”
“For years, I was too shit-worried to write it. Why bring it all up… that’s near-like reliving it. Didn’t think I could… And if I did, how much would be the truth? Could I be honest even to myself? Still, I finally sat down and picked up my pen. That first time, I felt a wet chill like I’d sat in ice water… nearly pissed myself. Turned so cold I got the shakes.”
“I mean, what happened in 1943?”
“That’s a story I’m still working on … and can’t tell… yet. Maybe I can—will—before I die. Leave it behind… if I stay dead.”
“What do you mean… if you stay dead!” Rita wondered again about the man’s stability… maybe she should….
The old man shook his head. Maybe it’s time… at least for the story she wants. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you about here… in 1955. You’ll need to pardon my language.” He swiveled in his chair to ease it away from the desk and toward her. Jack began, “It was the best Halloween this town ever had,” as he rocked amid a haze of smoke in the shadows.
05
“In the Spring of 1955, a young woman, Anna, moved to town and worked at the diner across the street from the bookstore. Anna was pretty. I didn’t know at first—later on, she told me—she’d made the mistake of believing the lies of the older man who got her pregnant and abandoned her. Then, she had an illegal abortion and moved away from her hometown. Running from her past, hoping to make a future.
“But the Millholm gossips, suspicious at such a lovely young woman arriving with few belongings and not knowing anyone, began the rumor mill. So they went off about her. Their men were quiet, but their eyes were busy watching Anna.”
Rita’s pen scratched across paper.
“Soon, some—mostly younger men, what was called juvenile delinquents, JDs back then—did more than watch her. The bad seeds who’d been too young for the wars: World War Two and Korea… too young to ‘get in on the killing.’ Raised by some who had served and bragged about not just the killing but also the women… the easy screw in liberated towns… the women who let pig-men like them fuck them just to survive. Them and the men not hard enough for some Gotham, you know… a bigger city… that sought a smaller pond to be the big fish in. They had the run of the town.
“As had the gossips, they sussed out that the young woman, Anna, had gotten knocked-up—in their parlance—got a back-alley abortion and been run out of wherever she came from. She must be an easy lay, some men thought.”
Jack’s voice hardened. “I watched Anna harassed every day. I could see out the front of the bookstore right into the diner and evenings from my room window, but with less visibility because of the angle. I ate breakfast-lunch-dinner there and kept telling myself, Stay out of it, Jack… live quietly… don’t draw any attention. But watching that silent—suffering—tableau of Anna’s life gnawed at me. The women’s body language as she served them… the men’s side-eyed glances, head bobs, and pivots as she took their orders, brought their food, or passed their booth or table. I started calling them ‘the Botherers’ to myself… though that’s too light—innocuous—a label. Later, it proved that some of those men were done fantasizing… they wanted Anna to serve in other ways.”
“You have a flair for language… you could be a writer,” Rita said wryly.
“You got some smart-ass showing….” Jack squinted at her, then continued. “The now 17-year-old Tommy, not the sharpest pencil in the box but a good kid, was on the fringe of being one of the JDs.
“Frustrated from living at the whim of old Mrs. Kreider, who had taken him in during the war, she’d proved she’d done it for less than charitable kindness. Tommy was pretty much an indentured servant. Mrs. Kreider worked him hard.
“Anna and Tommy developed a ‘big sister – little brother’ relationship. Maybe he was sweet on her, too–she was pretty. They were young… only a few years apart. But they gave each other something they both needed. At any rate, Anna—and to a degree, I, too—steadied Tommy.
“Anyway, the Botherers soon grew serious, more hurtful… the looks and comments cast at Anna… became touching, groping hands when no decent folk were watching. Who’d believe complaints from a friendless girl with a past?
“Anna took it for a while; she didn’t want to create a scene—make things even harder—then she finally slapped a man. Carl Bender, the deputy sheriff in line to replace old do-nothing Albert Keller when he retired. The deputy outwardly seemed a good church-going man. But some knew that a façade.”
Jack swiveled and took a bottle from the back corner of the desk. About a third of the bottle of honey-amber liquid sloshed—a second’s moonlit backlighted reveal—and he pulled a coffee cup from a drawer. He poured, brim-filled, knocked it back… setting it down empty, and wiped lips with the back of a hand before he continued.
“One morning, Anna didn’t show up for work. I got worried and went looking. I found her. She’d been slapped around, punched… and I tended to her cuts and bruises. I asked her why she didn’t leave and go somewhere else. ‘Where would it be any different?’ she asked, crying on my shoulder. She told me to not get involved. Which is something I preferred. I did not want a battle to fight… I’d fought too many.
“Weeks passed. I could see her breaking… shoulders slumped, steps heavy, hair dulled. Then several men raped her. Tommy tried to stop them but got badly beaten. She wouldn’t go to the police–Carl Bender had been first man to—.”
He filled the cup again.
06
“I found out when I saw Tommy’s battered face. Anna begged me to let it go—or they’d do worse to her… to Tommy… and maybe to me.”
Jack stopped for a deep breath and a sip from the cup. “When I came to Millholm, I never thought I’d have to fight again. Never do IT again….”
“Do what” Rita waited through his silence, finally asking, “What happened to Anna?”
Jack’s face darkened, the lines deepening. “The morning of October 31, she was found dead. The police said she killed herself. I knew they lied.” His hands tightened into fists on his knees, the knuckles white. He raised the cup. No sip this time; he emptied it.
Rita watched the old man withdraw into himself again. She heard the radio DJ announce a song. It began, and, in a minute, she heard the old man whisper-sing along.
“Take away, take away my eyes… sometimes I’d rather be blind. And the night may pass me by… but I’ll never cry.”
She saw the glisten on his one cheek angled toward the light, his other in shadow. He fell silent once more.
* * *
Jack knew Rita was there, but all had become still—that suspension of the seconds and minutes when time does not move—as if you’re in Hell. Einstein, whose stolen, enigmatic, watch Jack had once held in a Nazi bunker in 1945, was right when he said: “When a man sits with a pretty girl for an hour, it seems like a minute. But let him sit on a hot stove for a minute, and it’s longer than any hour.”
His mind boiled with memories of what he’d done that darkest night.
He’d gotten the names of the men from Tommy, come to this room, and opened St. Cyprian’s Chest. Where he kept what he’d found in Romania, in an ancient manor—an abandoned Nazi SS facility—among its half-destroyed equipment, mostly burned documents and records, and a hidden repository of…. things he’d rather not remember. Where the walls whispered and cried… and shadows danced and threatened.
The chest contained several ancient-looking leather-bound books, an SS officer’s personal journal, and an old, oddly-marked mirror. He’d moved aside a gold bar—the last one—and removed one of the ancient books, the Nazi officer’s journal with the translations, and the Lupan Mirror. What he’d used on another fatal night in October of 1943 to save his OSS Team.
He remembered that nightmare aftermath of his one-time use of the mirror and incantation, the blood, and the chewed body parts strewn outside and within the ruined mansion. The following dawn, puking blood and gristle, surrounded by the shredded remnants of what had once been Nazi soldiers. But if what Nyx—who had revealed her secret, guided his use of the mirror, and helped him—had told him that night in the Hoia Baciu was true: If you didn’t dismember them, any wound would heal, and they would rise and become werebeasts themselves at the next full moon. The killing didn’t bother him—he’d never hesitated before—but it was the ‘how’ … the rank aftertaste that still came to him in the mornings, a spectral, preternatural sensory haunting from the past. It was that he woke knowing he now had a beast within him… that wanted out.
He’d kept the mirror, the old books, and the SS officer’s journal… thinking they shouldn’t pass into other hands. Along with $100,000 in a mix of Bearer Bonds, gold, and US currency found in a floor safe he’d cracked in the SS commandant’s office. He’d decided once the war was over—should he survive it—to find a peaceful town, and there he’d settle.
Nyx had warned him how using the mirror again would change… no… condemn him to an endless hunger. He’d sworn he never would… until that night when he knew he must. Needs must.
To avenge Anna, he ended the false peace he’d found. He had taken the mirror and journal, entered The Corvinia he had seceretly bought and restored the year before, reached the roof, and….
* * *
Jack looked up at Rita as the song ended. She blinked at him several times, her pen poised, motionless over her notebook as she waited.
“That night, Halloween 1955, a beast screamed at the moon atop The Corvinia theater, above the marquee—Showing Now: Rebel Without A Cause—scared the fuck out of everyone.” Jack leaned toward her, forearms on his knees.
“The next day, the men who had gang-raped Anna were found torn apart. The town’s first murder in years. The first-ever mass murder. The killer was never found.”
“The bad men that ran the town were killed….” Rita wrote quickly now. The pen flew across the paper.
Jack’s hand swept hair from his eyes as he straightened and leaned back. “That’s why some think it was the best Halloween this town ever had.”
“What about the later killings? Tom had clippings on them, too.”
Jack looked at her; he’d gone too far already… why not the rest of the way? He reached into the desk drawer and took out the mirror, needing to hold it, knowing the silver pendant caged the beast. “The morning after Halloween 1956, Paul Rau—the local dentist who some suspected fondled kids—was found dead, ripped to pieces like the men from the previous Halloween. The killer was never found.
“Each year—for the next 14 years, 15 counting the first in 1955—in Millholm and some of the surrounding small towns, a man or men were found torn to shreds the morning after Halloween. And information always came out during the homicide investigation about the men’s secrets; awful, terrible—some of them sadistic—things they’d done to others that some locals suspected, few talked about… and none ever said publicly.
“The killer never caught….” Jack glanced in the empty cup, started to reach for the bottle… then returned his hand, becoming a fist, to rest on a knee.
“And it became a legend that’s lasted years… it became a thing. Kids thought it a thing to do. They made a big deal out of scaring the shit out of people by dressing up like they imagined the killer to be, a beast that could rip grown men apart. Perverted, sick-fuck or mean-shit men that got what they had coming.” Jack’s voice tapered off.
“Then, five years ago, it stopped—so Tom told me. I wonder why.” Rita shook her head. “This town must be like any other… no shortage of bad men.”
Jack stared out the window, his eyes on the theater across the street. The Corvinia, its shadow stretching across the square, the marquee long dark; he’d shut the theater down after Anna’s death. He could still see it that night in 1955, the moon high, the wind howling, and him standing atop it. The mirror in his hands, catching the moon and the power coursing through him. Under his breath, he quoted words that still haunted: “As the moon rose, so did the beast… casting aside the fragile shell of humanity. He prowls by night in the guise of a man, driven by a thirst for blood that cannot be quenched.”
He leaned into the moonlight reflected from the old mirror in his now-taloned hand, his face in the mirror a snarl of age-stained fangs framed by patchy gray hair… and answered her.
“I got old…”
07
EPILOGUE
Though the werewolf may tear his way out of the grave, the mark of his curse never truly leaves him.
–Sabine Baring-Gould
New Year’s Eve 1975
Millholm, Pennsylvania
As she had driven to Millholm—with snow chains on her metallic orange Datsun 240Z—it was much slower this time because the roads were coated with icy sludge. Rita had thought of her last words to Jack that evening with him. She’d been unsure what to say and how to end the meeting, which had become much more than she had ever anticipated. Something no one would believe.
She’d looked at Jack, his figure framed by the dim light, and for a moment, she saw not just the old man but the man he had once been: the soldier, the avenger… the monster. “I hope you find peace,” she said finally, from the doorway as she left.
Jack had smiled a sad, tired smile. “Peace? There’s no peace for men like me. Only the waiting.”
So, it had ended.
So, she thought.
Then, two days ago, the letter came. Jack had something for her that she had to pick up in Millholm.
Now, she was there.
* * *
The door to the bookstore chimed softly, and Tom looked up from behind the counter. Rita entered, her face pale, her expression distant. She moved toward him, her eyes not quite meeting his, and she didn’t know why.
“He left you this…” he handed a package to her.
“Where’s Jack?”
“I don’t know… he got an international call last week and asked me to leave him alone after it. The next morning, he’d packed a bag, and I caught him as he was leaving. He told me he’d be in touch… if he still could.”
“You didn’t ask him where he was going and for how long?”
Tom gave her a flat—veiled—look and darted a hard glance at the package in her hands. “Jack was never much for answering questions; you got more out of him than he ever told me. He said once that was best… since I was closest to him. Still….” The bitterness in his voice was distinct, sharp. “Before he left, he said… ‘the evil’s crept back in… and it’s spreading… getting stronger.’”
“I’m sorry.” Rita apologized, but again, she didn’t know about what or why.
Tom nodded as if he understood what she didn’t. “I read your story.”
Rita felt her throat tightening. “He told me about Anna, what happened to her, and what happened afterward.”
Tom sighed, leaning against the counter. “I was just a kid then. I remember Jack leaving that night, his face changing… different. Like he wasn’t really Jack anymore. I heard the stories after. People whispered about the beast on the theater. But no one knew. Not even me, for sure.”
“But you thought it was Jack?
“Yes.”
Rita frowned. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Tom shook his head. “Who would believe me? Besides, Jack… he did what he had to. He got revenge for Anna… and saved this town, whether anyone wants to admit it.”
Rita studied Tom’s face, his eyes clouded again. “Do you think it was worth it? What he did?” she asked.
Tom hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I do. The men were bad people. The kind who would have kept hurting others if someone hadn’t stopped them. I know that sounds… monstrous. That’s the word, right? But sometimes, you need a monster to deal with the real monsters.”
Rita swallowed, her heart heavy. “Jack said there’s no peace for men like him. Do you think that’s true?”
Tom looked away, his gaze drifting to the old photographs now hanging on the wall. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I think, in his own way, Jack found something close to it here… for a while. He found a purpose. And maybe that’s enough.”
Rita nodded, the weight of the story settling on her. She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “Thank you, Tom. For everything.”
Tom gave her a small, wan smile. “Take care, Rita. You know, Jack told me once: ‘Some stories are meant to be told, but some truths are best left buried.’”
Rita stepped out into the frigid December air, the sky darkening as the sun dipped below the horizon.
Looking back at the bookstore, the shadows growing long, she wondered where Jack had gone. What other secrets did he bury deep? Would the package she carried reveal any of them?
She walked away, her footsteps echoing in the quiet, her mind filled with the haunting tale of a man who had become a monster to avenge an innocent’s death.
New Year’s Eve 1975
Vienna, Austria
Jack sat alone, the mirror resting on the table before him. The silver surface gleamed, reflecting the dim light of the lamp, the glyphs around its edges seeming to pulse with a life of their own.
The mirror wouldn’t let him go. It called to him, whispered to him in the dead of night, the voice soft and insistent. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold surface, tilting it toward him.
The room darkened, the shadows deepened, and the air grew heavy. Jack closed his eyes, the familiar pull drawing him in, the promise of power, vengeance, and something more. He opened them, his reflection staring back at him, but it wasn’t just his face he saw. It was something older, darker. Nietzsche’s abyss you stared into… staring back. The thing he had become that night in 1943 and on Halloweens from 1955 to ’70. The thing that dwelled… not-so-deep inside.
Jack pulled his hand away, the mirror’s surface rippling like water, the image fading. He leaned back, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
The mirror was a Faustian—Devil’s—bargain offering power… and some measure of healing even when not used fully.
It was what kept him going when a normal human would not have survived the wounds and injuries to him during the war and afterward.
But he wasn’t immortal. The inexorable grip of time had him as it did any human. He might live a long time… longer than most and grow much older. But while bearing all the infirmities age—and a hard life—brings. And the ever-present hunger … always the hunger within.
He must try to end that… or end himself.
The words from the book came to him, Nyx reading them as part of her warning: “Though the werewolf may tear his way out of the grave, the mark of his curse never truly leaves him.”
Tomorrow, he’d begin the 323-mile journey—a stealthy transit as he’d done in the war, into a controlled nation, what they now called a Denied Area for operatives—to meet someone who might help him… or end him. And only she’d know how to do it so he wouldn’t come back.
Because if he rose from the dead… it wouldn’t be him. Nothing human would remain… he’d be nothing but rage and appetite incarnate.
To force the issue, he’d given up the Blood Moon Amulet that—with the mirror—had kept him in check. He had only 29 days until the next full moon.
She must help him… the one person he’d longed for… for decades. The person he thought he’d never see again.
New Years Day 1976
Pittsburgh Pennsylvania
Fireworks had cascaded in the sky outside the night before, and Rita had ignored them and the heralding of the new year. Tired but unwilling to wait any longer, she had opened the package. Inside, she found an old military-style journal. On its flyleaf:
OPERATION: UNDEAD | Romania September 22 to November 11, 1943.
Beneath the journal was an envelope and inside a folded sheet of paper and a silver shield-shaped pendant on a silver chain. The front of the amulet bore the image of a moon with a wolf’s head superimposed upon it, its eyes made from glinting red garnets.
The shield-shape’s perimeter was an unbroken line of intricate engravings, symbols of some kind.
On the back, words in a language she didn’t recognize: ‘Lupii nu vor cunoaște sângele tău.’
Rita had fallen asleep after reading the note and some of the journal, which was difficult to read. Just before dawn, she’d drifted off, the journal splayed open on her chest.
She set it on her kitchenette table, poured coffee, and snugged her woolly robe tighter around her.
Her chill was not just from the icy draughts of air that poked through the loose-sashed old windows of her apartment. She picked up the note from Jack, which included what must be the translation of the pendant’s inscription:
Rita,
I read your piece, The Best Halloween The Town Ever Had, and appreciate how you turned it into ‘fiction’ without naming me.
I can’t leave this—what accompanies this note—with Tom; I’m not sure what he’d do with it. Anyone I had faith in for this… is long dead or disappeared. Still, maybe—I hope—you’re someone I can trust. So, I’m taking this chance.
Keep this journal and pendant for me until I ask for their return. Give it six months… and if you don’t hear from me… then what I’m trying to do has gone wrong. Take what I’ve written in the journal and make what you will of it. Or don’t.
But you must wear the silver shield pendant for protection. Wearing it, ‘The wolves shall not know your blood.’
–Jack
ENDNOTES
Stephen Batory was a 16th-century Prince of Transylvania and kin to the Blood Countess.
ABOUT The Chest of Saint Cyprian – (lore developed for the story):
The Chest of Saint Cyprian is said to be a medium-sized, intricately designed wooden chest, though its appearance reflects both Christian sacredness and the arcane powers it was built to contain. Here’s a detailed breakdown of its features:
Materials and Craftsmanship:
Wooden Base: The chest is made from dark, aged oak or possibly cedar, chosen for its durability and sacred qualities. Oak, in particular, was often associated with strength and protection in both Christian and pre-Christian traditions in Romania. The wood is polished but shows signs of ancient wear, hinting at its great age.
Iron Reinforcements: The chest is reinforced with iron bands at the edges, designed to strengthen and symbolize the binding of whatever power lies within. The iron bands are carved with arcane symbols and Christian crosses, blending both Christian iconography and occult seals to ensure that no one opens the chest without the proper rites.
Hinges and Lock: The hinges and lock are made of black iron and are finely crafted with Byzantine-era embellishments. The lock itself is intricate, requiring a key imbued with ritual significance. It is said that the lock was designed by Cyprian, using Christian blessings and occult knowledge to ensure it remained sealed.
Size:
The chest is approximately 2 feet long, 1.5 feet in width, and 1 foot in height, making it portable but heavy, symbolizing the weight of the knowledge it contains. Its size suggests it was meant to hold books, manuscripts, and smaller artifacts or talismans.
Decorative Elements:
Crosses and Christian Motifs: Carved into the top and sides of the chest are intricate Christian symbols: a large Byzantine cross on the lid, surrounded by smaller crosses and icons of saints. The presence of these symbols was meant to sanctify the chest and prevent evil forces from escaping.
Runes and Arcane Symbols: Interwoven with the Christian imagery are occult symbols, possibly Coptic, Greek, or Dacian. These symbols are believed to have been used by Saint Cyprian in his sorcerer days before his conversion to Christianity. Some scholars suggest these runes are binding sigils designed to trap and suppress the dark forces within, blending Christian and pre-Christian traditions of magical containment.
Worn Appearance:
Over centuries, the chest has developed a weathered appearance. The once-bright carvings and iron bands are dulled over time, and the wood has developed a dark patina as if absorbing the power and mysticism of the objects inside. Despite its worn look, the chest remains sturdy, its purpose of containment unbroken.
ABOUT The Bathory Blood Moon Amulet (Amuleta Sangelui Lunii Bathory) – (lore developed for the story):
The amulet—pendant—Nyx (Catrina Mădălina Novac) gave Jack, October 31, 1943, in the Hoia Baciu, Romania:
The amulet is centuries old and passed down through generations of the Novac family. It is said to have been crafted by an ancestor who belonged to the Sisterhood of the Wolf (Soratia Lupului), a secret order of protectors and warriors with a deep knowledge of both werewolf lore and ancient magical rites.
The silver, a traditional bane to werewolves, is imbued with protective magic specific to Romania’s werewolf legends. This magic deters werewolves and makes the wearer invisible to their heightened senses, ensuring they cannot track or recognize them as prey.
Symbolism and Purpose:
The Wolf’s Head: The wolf is both feared and revered in Romanian culture, symbolizing power, freedom, and wildness. However, in this context, the wolf’s head acts as a guardian, strengthening the wearer and serving as a defensive symbol against werewolves.
Silver: Silver has long been associated with warding off dark forces, so this amulet’s material enhances its protective qualities. Silver is traditionally linked to purity and the moon, aligning with werewolf mythology, where it acts as a force of purification against lycanthropy.
The Inscription: The Romanian phrase protects from being harmed by werewolves and implies they cannot recognize the wearer as one of their enemies. The phrase is a key to the amulet’s magic, meant to cloak the wearer from their instincts and aggression.
STORY TIE-INS
This story (TBHTTEH) is a complement to the larger prequel story, OPERATION: UNDEAD, coming in 2025, which is also a tie-in to a series of stories in our QUONDAM universe of ‘What Ifs?’
The camera used for the WW2 photographs in Jack’s room is the Leica from Through a Lens of Dark & Light that John Devel—toward the war’s end—wrongly gives to a combat photographer, who brings it home with him.
Einstein’s Watch is a future short story that centers on a fictitious timepiece invented/created by Albert Einstein with the unique ability to give its holder 24 hours back in time on a specific date.
There’s even a tiny tie-in to Little Red Riding Hood (did… or can you… spot it, Reader?).
This is a multi-year development project (some already in their second and third year of work) where several of the planned stories (below) will be completed in their entirety before any are released and published:
