Creator

You don’t carve pumpkins at Grandma’s house. That’s something I’ve known from a very young age.

My earliest memory of Halloween was at age six, walking into Grandma’s kitchen and seeing two perfectly white spheres sitting on the polished surface of the island. They were just a little bigger than my head, and I remember thinking they looked very heavy.

Grandma patted a stool. “Come up and take a closer look, Tommy.”

I did so, mesmerized by the shine of the objects. They were spotless. I’ve never seen anything that white, before or since. I was afraid to touch one, not wanting to sully it.

“Go ahead,” Grandma encouraged. I reached out and took the nearest one in my small hands. It was light, almost weightless, and I thought that, whatever it was, it must be hollow.

“What is it?” I asked.

She winked and touched the end of her nose. “Family secret. I’ll tell you one day.”

My mother told me later that even she didn’t know what the objects were or where Grandma got them. But for as long as she could remember, Grandma had carved one every Halloween.

Grandma handed me a sharp looking knife with a bright silver handle and then lifted an identical one herself. She sat next to me and I watched in awe as she delicately chopped away at the sphere. With expert cuts, she seemed to mold the object like clay. I was surprised to see that the object turned out not to be hollow after all. Its insides were just as clean and pure as the outside, and I gazed unblinkingly as she worked.

She saw me watching and chuckled, that dry sound like the soft scraping of wood.

“Try it,” she said.

I eagerly picked up my knife and tried to cut into the sphere I held. The material wouldn’t budge. Despite the object’s weight, the outside was hard as a rock and impenetrable for me, no matter how I pressed my blade.

Grandma chuckled again, “That’s alright, Tommy. I didn’t think you’d be able to do it this year. You need a few years growing up first.”

I tried three more times before I turned fourteen, each time with the same result. Grandma would just smile and say that I needed to grow up a little more first. She never seemed disappointed, but I was. Her finished creations were always beautiful, faces of creatures with strange features. Scowling trolls and grinning goblins, devils and monsters and demons of every sort. She’d place them out on the porch, lighting a candle in each one. The result put the neighborhood jack-o-lanterns to shame. A white light shone from each ghoulish face, almost too intense to look at directly. I’d survey them with equal parts amazement and envy. I wanted a face of my own for trick-or-treaters to point and gawk at.

This year I would to do it. I was determined and would not give up until I’d shaped that sphere the way I wanted, even if it took all night.

I walked up the steps alone, my parents off trick-or-treating with my little sister. The light was starting to fade, and I paused to imagine what my bright, shining ghoul would look like sitting on the rail of the porch. Then I knocked on the door.

Grandma greeted me with a hug and shepherded me once more to the kitchen island, with the two pale spheres already sitting in the usual place.

“This is the year,” I said.

She put a hand on my shoulder and smiled down at me. “I hope so.”

I sat and lifted the silver knife. With trembling hands, I raised the sphere and pressed the knife to it. It slid into the outer layer as if it were butter and my jaw dropped. I turned to Grandma and she nodded, smiling in satisfaction. Then she turned to her own sphere and began to work.

As if in a dream, I started to shape the object in front of me. Impenetrable before, I found that it now cut with an ease that made my plight in previous years seem ridiculous. The ability to form a face from the spheres seemed to have little to do with physical strength. What had changed from the previous years that suddenly allowed me the ability I didn’t know. My mind focused entirely on the task before me and I lost myself in the softness of the texture and the thickness of each trim. Perspiration dotted my brow, but I didn’t stop to wipe it away. I couldn’t.

After an eternity, I placed the finished object and the knife back on the island and surveyed for what seemed the first time the face I had created.

In almost all artistic endeavors, the amateur can expect a first attempt to end in failure. I had fully anticipated my first sculpture to be the same, but in this I was wrong. The face I had created was as flawless as any my grandmother had ever made. It had wide eyes, empty and staring holes. The mouth was stretched open, sharp teeth exposed as if trying to smile, but showing agonizing frustration instead. The nostrils were flared, an upended, angled nose allowing me to look all the way back to the hollowed-out skull. There were no ears, but I’d placed two holes on the side of its head, as if the ears had been amputated, leaving only sad little openings with which to hear.

I should have felt proud of my achievement. I should have beamed at my creation and showed it eagerly to Grandma. But truth be told, I was a little frightened by what I had just experienced. The trancelike state that had resulted in this hideous white face filled me with unease. Was this normal? Did all artists enter this kind of automatic motion when working?

I turned to Grandma and saw that she had already finished, a long-nosed goblin staring up at her. She was nodding approvingly at what I had created.

“Very good. Very good, Tommy. That’s a fine first figure.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I only gulped and nodded.

“Your mother never was able to carve one, but I knew you would.” She looked deep into my eyes and smile slipped from her face with the intensity of her gaze. “I always saw it in you.”

I began to feel uncomfortable. “Well, should we put them outside?”

After a moment or two, the smile reappeared and she stood up, shiny white head in each hand. I followed her outside. It was fully dark now, the crescent moon providing just a sliver of light on the empty street. I looked at my watch and found that it was nearly ten o’clock. I had been working on the carving for much longer than I’d thought. Most trick-or-treaters were likely home enjoying their candy. I was too old for that, but I was looking forward to stealing some from my sister while she slept.

Grandma placed each face on either side of the railings that led up to the porch and used a match to carefully light the candles, first in one, and then the other. The street was now more illuminated, and each sculpture burned with a hot, white flame.

An eerie feeling crept over me once more and I suddenly wished very much to be home with my family, away from this strange, ethereal light.

“I should probably go home now, Grandma. It’s pretty late. Thanks for letting me come carve with you.” I began to walk down the steps, but she caught my arm.

“Didn’t your mother tell you, Tommy? You’re sleeping over here tonight. It’s tradition to sleep in the house where your head stands after the first carving.”

“Oh.” I suddenly wanted to be there even less but could think of no good reason to leave. Tradition was important to Grandma and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Besides, I’d stayed with Grandma before and the feeling of foreboding I had was ridiculous. This was my grandma, after all.

“Alright,” I said, and followed her inside.

#

It was just before midnight when the door to my grandmother’s guest room opened and she stood silhouetted in the doorway. She was still in her day clothes and so was I. Sleep wasn’t an option and I hadn’t even tried. The feeling which had scared me so much before had changed in subtle ways. I was no longer afraid. Something was building inside me, a longing the source of which I didn’t know. It was a discontent deep in my chest as if I was anxious to do something, an irritability that wouldn’t go away. I was neither surprised nor alarmed when the door opened. Somehow, I had expected it.

“It’s time,” she said, and stretched out a weathered hand. I took it and we walked to the front door.

The faces still shone where she’d left them, but now the night had grown darker, the moon behind a cloud, and only the twinkling of distant porchlights was visible beyond their glow. The night was cold and still; a brisk chill bit at my skin.

We stood on the porch in silence, waiting. I didn’t ask what we were waiting for. No movement or sound broke the spell woven by the darkness. We both stared straight ahead expectantly.

A church bell struck the hour in the distance and I vaguely wondered where the sound came from. No church existed for miles, let alone the type of old church that would have a bell. The thought left my mind quickly. For some reason, it didn’t seem important.

The midnight hour signaled change. The night was no longer still, the wind whistling softly, deliberately increasing in power. The distant porchlights flickered and went out, giving up in their losing battle with the night. The only light now came from our carved faces, and before my eyes, that light changed suddenly from white to emerald. Tongues of preternatural jade fire cast strange shadows that danced along the road. Still, I remained where I was, unafraid. I felt my grandmother’s hand clench over mine in anticipation.

The wind was blowing more fiercely now, the rattling of trees obscuring all other noises. I saw dead leaves and branches hurl through the air, the sky now swarming with foliage.

Another sound filled the air, a wailing sob of despair. Low and soft, it was soon joined by others and I looked around to see where the cries were coming from. My grandmother stepped forward and pointed to the sky, answering my unspoken question.

I gazed up and saw that the skies were filled with bright, translucent beings. Ghosts, I knew they were. On other nights, such a vision would have filled me with overpowering fear. But not tonight. Tonight, I was filled with wonder and even a hint of sadness. The former beings of this world wailed in sorrow, fury, and frustration. Allowed on this plain for just one night, they gnashed their teeth in anguish and regret. No matter what they did, life was now beyond them. Or they were beyond it.

I saw among them a boy about my age. He wore a pair of ripped and ragged overalls; no shoes covered his pale feet. Hands clutched the sides of his bony arms, hugging himself as if to keep warm as he soared among the other spirits. His hollow eyes met mine, only for a moment, and the agony I saw there threatened to overwhelm me. I thought of dying that night, as I was, having experienced only the beginnings of a life. I shivered as I followed the boy with my eyes until he was too far away to distinguish from the others.

I was so engrossed in the sight above that I might have missed what was happening below, if not for my grandmother’s hand on my shoulder. She pointed again, this time down the dark, empty street. But no, not empty. I squinted into the darkness and saw dozens of dark shapes crawling across the road towards where we stood. I couldn’t make out their shape at first, though each appeared to be about the size of a large dog, which is what I suspected they might be.

They were moving slowly, creeping forward, almost jerking in pain. The staggering motions of the shapes caused me to listen for similar sounds of pain to those of the apparitions overhead. I heard nothing. No whimpers of pain or cries for help. Whatever sort of creature these were, they made no noise as they approached.

When one finally came into the ghostly green light of the carvings, I gasped. It was manlike, two clutching hands and two clawed feet gripping the road as it staggered forward. The body was leathery and dark, naked, scaly, and inhuman. The starkest difference between its form and that of a human was the lack of a head. This explained the silence in their approach. The creature crawled because it could not see, smell, hear, or think. It clutched the ground as its only tie to reality.

I thought that the creatures would turn and enter Grandma’s house, or perhaps attack us there on the porch (though I felt no alarm at the idea). But they continued on, oblivious to our presence, moving on their sojourn to who knows where. The parade of the damned was undeterred by the wind or the howling of the spirits above.

Then one of the demons, perhaps a bit larger than the rest, stopped before the porch. Grandma once more grabbed my hand and an excited gasp escaped her. Unsure of what to do, I waited to see what would happen next.

Before long, another creature stopped beside the first and turned toward us as well. Partners in misery, the two headless things began to creep as one up the porch steps with clumsy, shuffling motions. I didn’t run, though the thought flitted through my mind quickly. I was still unafraid, the expectant feeling I’d had before now reaching its climax.

The things reached the top step and began to twist up the railing posts, climbing to the white faces glowing green fire. Arriving at their destination, their legs clutched the posts to hold them in place while the arms greedily drew the carved spheres to them. I now understood what I had created several hours earlier, and with understanding came even greater expectancy.

Each creature placed a carved skull (for so they were) on top of its leathery neck. Dark cords of flesh seemed to appear out of the nowhere, binding skull to body as scaly flesh crawled up the glowing faces. With the coming of the flesh, the emerald light extinguished slightly, though it still shone from their eyes. A tongue shot out of the one with my grandmother’s skull and a throaty bellow erupted from its mouth.

I gazed in wonder at the face I had created, tears coming to my eyes. It was mine. I’d made it. Given it sight and smell and voice and life. At only fourteen, I had become a creator. The barren sockets I had carved now contained eyes of green flame, the once frustrated smile now a grin of triumph. Small, sharp ears had formed to cover the sad little holes on the side of the skull. It was alive. I had given it life.

The formerly headless creatures crawled down from their posts and looked up at us, their masters. They bowed to us, deep and respectful, faces almost touching the floor. My grandma bowed her head slightly and I mirrored the action.

Without a word to us, the creatures turned and ran down the steps. Howling with glee, they joined their fellows. No longer on all fours and crawling, they rushed through the middle of the others, knocking many sprawling as they raced away into the night. The rest followed, their bodies still pressed to the ground.

At last the end of the procession appeared and we watched the last of them crawl out of sight. The ghosts were now fewer in the air and within moments there were none at all. The wind had calmed and the howling ceased. All became still once more.

I continued to stare down the road after the creatures, wondering if they would return. Wanting them to. I wanted to see what I had created one last time.

But they were gone.

The twinkling porchlights reappeared, and moonlight once more illuminated the street. I looked out over the other houses and thought of the people inside, still asleep in bed. I thought of my parents and my sister.

I turned to Grandma. “They don’t know, do they?”

“No.” She shook her head. “None of them do. Just you and me.”

What a sad and delightful thought.

THE END