AN: I have an admission to make... it wasn't until very recently that I understood fanfic prompts and their origins. That does explain a lot about the sudden fad of book burning, and the multitude of spitched eels tales out there! And boy, don't I feel dumb :)
Inspired by the fantastic Halloweeny entries already published, I'd like to submit one of my own. I scribbled this while watching Terrance Zdunich musicals, which might explain why it's corny as heck. Despite not being all that spooky at all, I hope it meets the qualifications for some light holiday entertainment!
"Ten minutes till opening!" called Riley J. Grande, Master of Ceremonies of the self-proclaimed 'best traveling act in the world', knocking on caravan doors and thrusting open tent flaps on his way. "Vera, where's your mole? What are you waiting for, sunset?"
"Doesn't take ten minutes to draw a spot," Vera drawled lazily at his retreating form. The bastard son of a Roman priest and a direct descendant of a witch burned in Salem, he had inherited ancient Celtic pagan powers; but the angel who'd visited him in the womb had blessed him with a touch of divine...
What a load of tripe, Vera rolled her eyes. He might enchant whatever curious audience their odd parade drew, especially the ladies: with his glossy golden brown locks grown a roguish length, and piercing blue eyes which he boasted could see into a world in which no mortal be. As far as Vera was concerned, the only thing Riley could see was money, and how to make more of it. Besides, seeing was her act: she hated when he claimed it as his own.
"Excuse me?" a timid voice called. The first client today... likely to be the only one. Hadn't she told Riley not to waste the troupe's time in remote one-church villages such as these? And this one wasn't even catholic! The MC's supposed Italian roots would be as offensive here as his heathen ways, and it was only a matter of time before they were all driven out of town with pitchforks. But no, the stubborn man had insisted that they would do well for themselves in PEI: Islanders were known for their superstitions, and was PEI not an island? Just leave the thinking to me, Ver', and worry about your own act.
"I'll give you something to worry about," she muttered under her breath, then called "Coming!" to whatever errant fool had already invaded her tent. Dipping the fine tip of her brush in the charcoal powder, she dabbed on a grotesque dot on the right side of her nose, and quickly straightened the scarf on her head.
"Welcome," she announced in a throaty voice as she burst through the dark front of tent in a flurry of earth-toned silk and crepe, shoulders raised and chin down, eyes smoldering as they adjusted to the dim candlelight.
"Are you the Great Vera Verita?"
Wasn't this just wonderful? Her single customer was a child - a scrawny-looking thing, in simple clothes and muddy shoes. A country girl, no doubt escaped from her chores - Vera doubted she'd make enough to buy a spool of thread today. Oh, well, she shrugged inwardly. Best get on with it.
"It is I," she intoned, reining back her annoyance. "Take a seat, and I shall read your fortune."
"Begging your pardon, Miss Verita, but I was hoping you might be able to see my past instead. The sign outside says you communicate with the dead - might you be able to do so for me? It's my pa-"
She cut the girl's rant short with a sharp gesture of her hand. "I can do this for you. Sit, and open your mind to the impossibilities you are about to witness."
"Oh, it is!" the scraggly thing plopped itself down her designated seat at the small round table. "My mind is very open, really. I've never had any trouble believing. After all, what would be the point of myths and legends and fairy tales, if not to make one believe-"
"Silence!" ordered Vera, gratified to see the scamp clamp her trap shut at last. How was she supposed to work if the target wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise? Breathing in the heavy fumes of incense wafting from each corner of the tent, she sat down and exhaled forcefully. "Now," she said, a bit more patiently. "Let me see your hand."
A scrawny thing it was before her, pale and freckled skin where the sun had kissed it. Big grey thirsty eyes staring back avidly: no fear, she noted. Just excitement and curiosity, inside big grey pools of yearning. For what? Vera wondered. A lost childhood, being made up for too slowly? She wanted to speak to the deceased: they would start there.
"You wish to contact someone near and dear to your heart: someone passed before their time."
The head full of red nodded eagerly, her lips trembling under the strain of holding back a thousand words. So, the kid was a bit attention deprived. A servant girl, then? No, too much confidence in her posture, and the clothes - while simple - fit her too well.
"You've lost a piece of your heart, but none of your spirit. A strong soul such as yourself will be pining for..."
If the girl's delight at being complimented was painfully obvious: had she been a dog, her tail might have wagged itself clear off her body. This was really all too easy. "...your mother."
"And my father!" cried out the rusty twig before recalling her promise to stay quiet. "Please," she added meekly, and lowered her head.
"Very well. You will close your eyes, and I will count backwards from ten: when I've reached one, you will breathe in deeply three times. And you will stay quiet," she threatened, "or I won't hear the voices from the netherworld!"
Another enthusiastic shake of the orange head, and the countdown began in a slow, dragged out voice that would signal to the boys outside. "Ten...nine..."
This was the part she loathed. Ironically true to her stage name, The Great Verita did nothing but tell people the truth. Fluent in body language and an apt reader of facial cues, all Vera ever did was observe and remark. It was an honest job: so what if she didn't unearth the world's deepest hidden secrets? People paid her to say what they wanted to hear, and she provided that service. They gained in comfort, and she in pennies.
"...six...five..."
It wasn't enough for Riley, though - it was never enough. The man insisted on everything being a tacky theatrical farce, down to her own reading sessions. The goons making the 'dramatic wind' sweep against the sides of the tent were going way overboard. Those drunken idiots were going to blow out the candle before she was ready!
"...two...ONE!"
The child blindly took in a deep breath, and immediately choked on the spicy smoke of freshly lit incense. That's right, kid - take in a good whiff of the occult, thought Vera as she extinguished the candle.
"Spirits near, spirits far," she chanted over the coughing. "Come to me, speak through me, wherever you are. Or if you cannot, make your presence known. I command you, spirits, show yourselves now!"
The wind stopped (about time!), and they were plunged into darkness, and silence. Even the twig of a girl was barely breathing, lest she cough over the main part.
"I feel a presence," said Vera. "Give me a sign, spirit! Tell me you're here. I feel you - if you will not speak, then make yourself known!"
Where the hell was Riley? Vera was going to murder that son of a donkey. Knocking over the third chair had been his idea, and all he had to do was pull the fishing line hooked to the leg! The candle going out was his cue: if the dratted man insisted on her act being all gimmicky, the least he could do was follow through with the plan.
"Spirit, give us a sign! Speak through me!" And you'd better explain yourself later, buster.
Finally, the chair gave: the girl yelped, and Vera sighed, the beginnings of a headache throbbing in her temples. A chilly gust wafted through her skirts, raising goosebumps all over: hadn't the boys stopped with the wind, already?
"Oh, my precious girl. How you've grown since I've last held you!" The words practically fell from her mouth. Lying had become second nature, Vera supposed, easy as breathing.
"Mother?" the greyish eyes popped wide open, gazing unseeingly through the dark in her direction.
"You are just beautiful, Anne. And so grown up! Your father and I are very proud of you." What in the world? Vera struggled for control - of her body, her voice, anything - but found that she had none.
"Mother!" she exclaimed tearily. "It is you! Oh, how I wish I could see you."
"We never meant to leave you, baby girl," her voice was crooning delicately - since when did she croon?
"But we had no choice. And we wanted you live, more than anything." A second voice came through Vera's throat, now: deeper, and unmistakably masculine.
"...Father?"
"Now, mind you behave, child. No more dying your hair green, you hear?"
"And do try to keep your focus, especially in the kitchen. We wouldn't want another mouse incident, now, would we?"
"I'll be good, I promise," the youngster sobbed through what sounded like a smile.
"We'll be watching over you, Anne."
"Keep courage - everything will work out, you'll see."
"We love you more than anything in the world!"
"Mother, Father! Please, don't go! Father?"
The first thing Vera did when she found herself once again master of her hand, was light the candle with shaky fingers.
"That is all," she rasped, desperate to chase the frissons away. "Leave. Now!"
"Oh, thank you, Miss Verita - thank you!" the skeleton-thin girl exclaimed exuberantly, and ran out of the tent. Vera waited several seconds before storming through the back.
"Riley, what the devil was tha-...Riley?" He must have already left, she thought. Probably out ruining someone else's show, or charming the crowd. "Controlling bastard," she seethed, removing the dreadful scarf from her sweaty brow.
"Oh, Miss Verita? I'm so sorry, I nearly forgot!" Vera peered back in the front, where the maple sapling of a girl had come bursting back in. "These are your three cents, I meant to pay earlier - is it enough? Here, let me get that for you!"
"Don't touch that!" barked Vera as the catastrophe on legs reached for the upturned chair. The ache in her cranium increased, knowing that the wire would tug and the trick would be revealed, thus marking the end of her days with the troupe.
Somehow, nothing of the sort happened: the long, lanky limbs set the chair up neat and straight, and with a final farewell, the odd girl was gone.
Vera wasted no time: she quickly lit one of the gas lamps and brought it up to the chair's own limbs, to better see the wire...
"...but wire, there was none."
Nan's whispered finish was met with a series of shrieks.
"It's all right, it's all right! Let's all quiet down, now," an adolescent Jem called over the bonfire to the younger present, most of which still screaming and crying. "It was just a story. Nan didn't mean to scare anyone, now, did she?"
"Of course I di-" managed the indignant brunette before Di clapped a hand to her mouth.
"I'm not a'scared," Carl Meredith's stout declaration rang, though his darting eyes spoke otherwise.
"Me neither!" Rilla competed gamely. "And I don't much appreciate my name being used for a mean, lying drunkard!"
"His name wasn't Rilla: it was Riley," defended Shirley.
"And besides, he wasn't named after you," argued Di.
"Yeah, not everything revolves around you, Spider!"
"I told you not to call me that!"
"I'm still scared," Una's muffled admission came from within her sister's apron.
"It's just make believe, silly!" said Faith lovingly as she rubbed her shivering back.
"It wasn't even frightening," boasted Fred Arnold loudly, tired of the way the Blythes and Merediths always hijacked the bonfire conversation. "I can do one better."
"We'd like to see you try!" retorted Walter, never one to let his sisters be insulted - though a part of him wished Fred would give it a try. Nan's story truly hadn't been the least bit frightening, and it was Halloween! Oh, how Walter longed for a real good scare.
"Well-"
A great loud pop resounded from the embers, followed by a shower of orange sparks towards: Fred hollered and jumped to his feet, heading the crowd that went rushing back towards the house, where Mrs. Doctor Blythe and Susan were sure to have enough monkeyfaces and hot cocoa to go 'round.
"I thought it was a real hoot," Jerry tried to cheer Nan as they trailed at the end of the parade.
"It wasn't meant to be funny!" replied Nan hotly, her voice growing louder as the argument unfolded.
From the bonfire, the last remaining two figures watched as the children filed in. "She does an excellent impression of you, dear!" laughed one.
"She's got my shapely nose, that little one," bragged the other. "A fortunate thing, really."
"And the other one's got your coloring to boot!"
"They're both beautiful."
"They all are, dear. Their mother did well."
"That she did." A cloud passed over the moon as the night beckoned them back.
"Oh, Walt, how I hate to leave..."
"Let us go now, my love. They're looking after each other: all is well."
"Till next Halloween, then?"
"Till next Halloween."