Day of Rejuvenation by M. Blain-Hartung
They say the man came in through the front door. That was the scariest part, for the residents of Lakeview — he came off the street, through the entryway, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. No one ever saw him, not once. Three years in a row, during the golden hours of Halloween, those precious moments when the red and orange leaves blazed like a celestial bonfire. Kidnapped not in the dead of night, or from the street while trick-or-treating, but in the afternoon, for heaven’s sake! One child per year, for three years straight. He was never caught, and the poor kids — or their bodies, if the parent’s darkest dreams were confirmed — were never found. But the ‘he’ never materialized again, as if ‘he’ never existed at all.
I stared up through the towering oaks and smiled as the harvest sun flickered, those same broad leaves glowing with cozy autumn hues. I thought of Mother as she walked this same route eighteen years ago. I thought of Mother as she walked right up to my door, never glancing left or right, always staring straight ahead. Opening the door with purpose. Divine purpose, she would always say, stroking our heads, recounting the tale as we donned Halloween costumes. Every year, she would spend the morning decorating the windowless cellar, spindly fingers covering the walls with paper skeletons, scattering the ceiling with bright white cotton spiderwebs, placing plastic cauldrons overflowing with mist in each corner. On this day, Mother laughed; on this day, Mother was happy.
We, too, loved Halloween; year after year, celebrating gleefully with my two siblings, the one true day of unbridled joy for us kids. As per tradition, I played the friendly ghost. A simple affair: two holes cut through Holy Cloth. Inside this cocoon, the smell of woodsmoke, rusty blood, and tangy sweat would nearly overwhelm my senses. Nonetheless, I cherished each moment — the only day of the year devoid of the Rituals: meticulous and arduous on the good days, chaotic and painful on the bad.
Walking briskly, my fingers absentmindedly touched the twisted scars under my woolen sweater, handling the familiar groove where the restraints curled nightly around my wrists. The motion brought me a mote of comfort on this day of adrenaline and anxiety. Asher had confided to me that she was worried — worried that the new additions would occupy all of Mother’s love and attention. I tried to reassure her, to tell her we would be preoccupied with our duties. That we labored as a family unit. In the corner, I had seen Thomas roll his eyes and scoff at my words, but he knew better than to voice his thoughts. Mother was always listening.
What is there to be nervous about, David?
This was my town, after all, and I felt at home — even though I had only been allowed to surface three years, one month, and ten days ago. Lakeview had need of an assistant postman, and I was up for the job. Integration: just as Mother had done before us. We needed time to integrate, Mother repeated every morning before Rituals. We needed practice and routine before the Day of Rejuvenation. Before this sacred Halloween. Before today.
I passed by Thomas as he crossed the street in the other direction. As usual, I proffered the most casual of greetings, just as Mother had taught us. Hand raised, fingers outstretched, arm extending into a tiny wave. Head down and proceed. Thomas was better at this game than I: Mother’s golden child and Lakeview’s most cheerful grocer. I did not pass my beloved sister on this wide avenue. Asher would be out for a stroll on the north side, a large canvas tote bag swinging lightly in the autumn breeze, packed with a tiny sweater, tiny socks, tiny hat, and a tiny glass syringe. I patted the side of my own leather satchel, reassurance flooding into clammy palms.
This street led out of town, and as I walked — leaves cheerfully crunching underfoot — I peered into the distance. Thoughts raced through my head; the type of thoughts that Mother had taught us to destroy. But Mother wasn’t here, and I allowed a few to trickle out into the crisp afternoon air.
Run David. Run straight out of town and never look back. Just run! Run!
But I didn’t run. Legs aching with jittery energy, I forced them to regain a confident gait. Almost there, no time for deviations.
I have walked this street every day for two years now. I knew the folk. I knew their routine. I knew that the Evans family ate dinner at 6:15 on the dot. I knew that Mr. Johnson smoked on his porch for eight minutes starting at 6:20. I knew that Mrs. Reynolds’s lover jumped over the back fence at 6:45. Checking my watch, I nodded in satisfaction. Two more houses to go: the one with red trim and the one with white. And so, as I arrived at the house with the blue trim, I didn’t need to look to either side of the street. I knew that the Cortez backyard Halloween BBQ was in full swing, and that the Ashtons were at the baseball tournament over at the high school.
And I knew that Mrs. Martinez worked in the garden until the infant woke from his afternoon slumber. I wondered if Mother felt this same terror, eighteen Halloweens ago. Windchimes tinkled somewhere down the street, calling my name from the underworld. The echo made my spine tremble and my heart collide against my ribs. Fighting nausea and breathing through my nose, I turned left, and walked up the gray stone driveway. The doorknob was ice against my feverish palm. I twisted it, and the door swung open without so much as a creak.
—
M. Blain-Hartung is a Berlin based molecular biologist/biochemist. The author of many scientific manuscripts, M has recently polished off his latest novel, The Memory Mule. In addition, three of his short stories have been accepted for publication in the past few months, due to debut before the year’s end.
