Jack-In-The-Box by GavinHetherington
‘She’s coming for you,
On Halloween night.
She’s gonna scare you silly,
Give you quite a fright.
Nowhere to run,
Nowhere to hide.
You’re not gonna live,
Even though you tried.
Can’t call your mum,
Can’t call your dad,
If you try to run,
Then she might get mad…’
Nothing scared 12-year-old Jack Langston – not spiders, not ghosts, and especially not silly little Halloween rhymes. They were for scaredy-cats and babies. Jack was all grown up now, and what better way to mark his journey into adulthood than going trick-or-treating all by himself.
It was Halloween night, of course. The air was frosty, the night was dark, yet Jack could not feel the cold, nor fear the shadows on the street. He was brave, braver than his mother, who didn’t want to let him out by himself, but he begged and pleaded for months. All Hallows’ Eve has always been his favourite holiday, and trick-or-treating by himself was the most important thing in the world.
The street he lived on was tucked away in a secret little suburb. Orange orbs of light poured down from streetlamps. Jack passed them one by one. They briefly surrounding him with light, providing him with an odd warmth. The cobbled street was uneven beneath his feet yet he still managed to walk with determination.
Every house in the street was decorated extravagantly – ghosts hung from stone windowpanes, black and orange banners streamed the frames of every house, and pumpkins lay proudly at the foot of every garden. The pumpkins were accompanied by tiny garden gnomes that barely reached the full size of the fruits they stood next to.
For the most part, the street appeared empty, with each house as a willing conquest for Jack’s trick-or-treating adventure. But from the times he went trick-or-treating with his dad, he knew which homes were good with their candy.
He floated through the street, rushing to get to the one house he knew would give him the best candy. He passed several parents with their children. Jack realised the parents were terrified to let them out of their sight. The poor kids – they only want to go off and have fun. He wondered if his dad ever kept that close an eye on him. Do the grown-ups not trust them?
The end of the street soon came and Jack turned onto the next one. More houses and less people, all too wrapped up in their own sweet-collecting to notice a very determined boy on his way to score the Halloween jackpot. On this street, he kept near the small stone walls and away from the road. This area was less familiar to him, and he didn’t want to admit that he was getting scared, just a teensy little bit scared.
More Jack-O-Lanterns appeared, all lit up with candles to respect the spirit of the spooky season. Their faces were all different, from happy and silly-looking, to downright terrifying. Jagged teeth were carved into them, with hollow eyes that appeared so deep that they could have been portals to Hell.
Happy pumpkin. Scary pumpkin. Happy pumpkin. Scary pumpkin.
And so the pattern continued until little Jack bumped into a woman at the very end of the street. It was dark here, with barely any streetlamps or Jack-O-Lanterns to lit up the cobbled path. Still, he could see her, and she could see him.
She was robed in black, from head to foot, that he couldn’t tell what shape or form her body took. All he could see was her haunting face. She was crying; her whimpered and frantic moans were loud enough to be heard from his home street. With her eyes scrunched and her nose wrinkled, she allowed the tears to drench her cheeks.
Little Jack didn’t know what to do. ‘Are… are you okay, m-miss?’ He stuttered, his voice rather high-pitched, and it squeaked a little as if it was rusty and hadn’t been used in a while.
She continued to cry, without saying a word, and revealed something from under her robes. A baby. It was as white as she was, but it was sleeping peacefully, deaf to its mother’s screams.
The crying woman held the baby out and pressed it against Jack. He didn’t react, so she continued to push the baby against him. Still holding his empty bag, ready for candy, he took the baby from her cold hands.
Even with the baby up close, he could not tell if it was a boy or a girl. He tried to work it out, maybe from some defining feature, but it had a plain face, not indicative of gender. The longer he held the baby, the more the woman’s cries quietened.
In fact, he had forgot to look up at all, and when he did, the woman was gone. He looked up and down the street frantically, the weight of the baby gradually weighing down his arms. ‘Excuse me!’ He shouted, his voice panicked. His bravery was slipping. ‘Where did you go? You left your baby!’
Jack looked down at the silent baby, only it wasn’t a baby. He was holding a pumpkin, and he slowly turned it around to discover a face on it. It had his small, narrow eyes. It had his button nose. It also had his thin mouth. It was his face.
Gasping in fright, he fell backwards and dropped the pumpkin to the floor. It smashed into thousands of sticky orange bits that exploded all over the ground. The juice stained the bottom of his homemade Mummy costume. He groaned as he backed into a garden wall, his hand almost knocking over the Jack-O-Lantern that sat peacefully there.
The flame inside it had been extinguished, and smoke escaped its carved-out eyes and mouth. He watched it for only a little while before rushing away from the end of that street.
He deliberated returning home to his worried mother, who would welcome him with open arms and a relieved sigh, excited that her little boy was home early. But he stopped himself. If he returned home now, and he showed her how scared he was, then she would never let him go trick-or-treating again.
To a 12-year-old boy who loved Halloween, there was nothing in the world that could be worse than that.
Bravery once again crept into little Jack and he changed course again. Instead of heading in the direction of home, he continued to the house that he visited every year. After that, he promised himself he would return home, but not before collecting his reward.
The streets were darker now and not a single soul was in sight. He kept an eye out for the crying woman, for he had a terrible feeling that she was nearby, watching him. He couldn’t shake the feeling, even when he finally arrived at his destination.
A house to behold every single Halloween, it never ceased to amaze Jack how much effort old Mrs. Ravencroft put into her home. She made it look absolutely horrifying, year in and year out, all for the children that came to collect their candy goodness. A smile crept onto his face. He made it.
Unlike the other houses on the streets leading up to it, this house sat isolated atop a hill, and further remote by a huge iron gate. It was always a struggle for Jack to push the gate open, and every time he tried, his father would push it open for him.
This year, he didn’t need to. The doors opened before his hand could even touch it. A shiver ran down his spine – and he loved it. The old lady was improving the tricks to her haunted house.
Jack made his way into the garden and kept to the twisted path that weaved its way to the front porch. Dead leaves covered the ground, and more fell from a lonesome Oak tree nearby. It slanted downwards, towering over the boy as he passed. A bird or two cawed from its empty branches and took flight at the sight of the new presence on the property.
Without his father, the house and its garden appeared bigger and more frightening than ever before. Still, he persevered and walked onto the wooden porch. His footsteps echoed. The outside world became quieter and more distant as Jack reached out his hand and rang the bell.
Old Mrs. Ravencroft must have been expecting him, because as soon as the ringing of the bell stopped, she appeared at the door. It took him by surprise as the door swung open, and he was greeted by her thin, smiling face.
‘Ah, Jack! Has it really been a year already?’ She said in her usual cheerful and friendly voice. Her skeletal and frail hands reached forwards with a large bowl of candy. There was so much colour inside, with sweets of all kinds. And chocolates too. Jack’s eyes widened.
‘A whole year, Mrs. Ravencroft. I’ve missed you!’ Jack replied. He gave her a glowing smile in return for her gifts, as she always said she was very fond of his smile. It lit up her life, she once told him. He could tell she was lonely since the passing of her husband.
Jack enjoyed the effort she put into her Halloween costume. She wore a medieval dress, with a pointed witches hat and a cape of purple bats. Last year, she was a Mummy. Maybe that’s where Jack got the inspiration for his costume.
‘Open your bag, my dear,’ she said, and Jack obliged. She tipped the bowl and candy – and all of it poured inside his bag.
‘All of it? Really, all of it?’ Jack cried in glee.
Mrs. Ravencroft laughed. ‘Yes, my boy. You deserve it, you’re such a joyous child. You remind me of my husband, have I ever told you that?’
‘You may have mentioned it once, maybe twice before,’ Jack answered. She said it to him every year. ‘I’d best get going.’
‘Yes, it is rather late, get yourself home – before the boogeyman gets you.’
This time Jack laughed. ‘There’s no such thing.’
‘Hopefully it doesn’t take a whole year before I see you again, little Jack,’ she said with a solemn sadness that she tried to supress. Jack felt a twinge of empathy, and responded by giving her a meaningful hug.
She accepted it gladly, wrapping her hands around his head. He was very small compared to her, and for a 12-year-old boy, he was the shortest in his class by a head. If only he had another head, then he would be the same size, instead of being teased for being a ‘munchkin’.
Jack pulled himself away and waved the kind old lady goodbye. The light from inside her house allowed him safe passage down the creaky steps of the front porch, but once she closed the door, the garden appeared dark once more.
The chill of the night gave him goosebumps, up and down his entire body. His feet crunched over the dead leaves on the path. It appeared as though more had fallen, making it difficult for him to see where the path was and if he was walking on the grass.
He paid so much attention to the ground that, at first, he did not see the woman at the gate. It was the crying woman, and she had returned. Jack kept walking towards her, not realising she was there, not until she began her familiar wailing.
Jack froze on the spot. He looked up at the shadows that engulfed the iron gate, and only the ghostly white face of the crying woman could be seen. Her entire body was concealed by the darkness. Her wails were scratchy and cut right through his ears; it was painful to listen to.
She held out another baby, only this time Jack knew better than to take it from her. He screamed, turned, and ran back towards Mrs. Ravencroft’s house. It sounded as though the woman was following him, as her cries never changed in pitch or volume.
His little legs gained as much speed as he could manage. He panted, but fear pumped through his veins, allowing him to reach the porch and ring the bell for the old lady one more time.
She immediately appeared at the door, still with a smile, until she looked upon Jack’s terrified face.
‘What ever is the matter Jack?’ Mrs. Ravencroft asked. Jack ran inside before he could manage a reply, and slammed the door shut.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Ravencroft. I think somebody is following me.’ He told her, his voice shaking. Fortunately, she could understand every word he said.
‘Who, my dear boy?’
‘A woman, she won’t stop crying,’ he said. He hated it, but he was letting his bravery slip. His face and broken voice were dead giveaways that he was frightened.
‘Maybe it’s your mind playing tricks on you? Or someone in a costume? It is Halloween after all, Jack. My, I have never seen you like this before. Do you want to call your mother?’
Jack nodded, trying with all his might to keep himself from crying. She showed him to the telephone, and what an ancient telephone it was – he had never seen anything so old. Besides Mrs. Ravencroft, of course.
He used the pad to dial the number to his house, placing his small fingers into the circular holes and dragging it to each number. It took some time for it to go through.
Before long, someone picked up.
‘Mum! Mum, it’s Jack! Please come pick me up,’ Jack yelled before his mother could have a chance of asking who was on the phone.
The person on the other end started to cry, and the familiar voice of his mother shouted, ‘Don’t ever call this house again, what a cruel, cruel prank, you should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘But Mum…’ Jack began, but his mother put the phone down before he could finish.
Jack began to whimper. He slowly turned to Mrs. Ravencroft.
‘Why is my Mummy crying?’
A sinister smile spread on Mrs. Ravencroft’s face. ‘Because you’re dead, Jack. You’ve been dead for ten years.’
Jack shook his head. ‘No, no I’m not.’
She nodded, and opened up the door to the cupboard under the stairs. There were boxes – dozens and dozens of boxes – but she pulled out only one. She opened it, and lifted out his preserved head in her collection of other little boy’s heads. His eyes and mouth were lit up like a Jack-O-Lantern.
‘You forgot to finish your rhyme, Jack.’
And so she sang the chilling Halloween tune that haunted the neighbourhood, as all the neighbours lit Jack-O-Lanterns every year in respect to the little boys that have went missing on Halloween.
‘Can’t call your mum, can’t call your dad. If you try to run, then she might get mad. You’re already dead, there’s no going back. You don’t want to end up like poor little Jack…’