"Go on, dear," the man spoke in a soft voice, "place your offering for Papá Diego."
At his side was his daughter, clutching a basket that was almost as big as her, full of bread, cheese, crackers and homemade jam. She was such a small, fragile work of art; her long hair and red dress shimmered in the candlelight. She took off as fast as her little legs could carry her, bobbing up and down toward a nearby tombstone with the name Diego Hernandez carved into the face. The engravings were still fresh, even after two years.
As the sun sank low on the horizon, painting the sky in a vast array of calm, the entire graveyard came to life in hues of golden light. Candles, ornaments, flowers and marigold petals adorned every inch of space, turning the area into a beautiful spectacle. The exciting drum of music and the delectable scent of freshly cooked food wafted from the plaza. The Day of the Dead was almost upon them.
Everywhere was decorated and everywhere was lined with food and drink, all except the crypt of Ernesto De La Cruz. His once proud resting place was usually drowning in offerings from all across Mexico, but now stood desolate and decrepit ever since the truth of his crimes came out the year before. The title of his most famous song – the one he stole – Remember Me had now been replaced with a wooden board with FORGET YOU painted on it in thick, white strokes.
Many people – the living – treaded around the headstones, carrying handfuls, baskets and bags of treats for their deceased relatives, setting them down meticulously by their stones.
The girl stopped before the resting place of her grandfather and found an empty spot at the foot to place the basket while her father placed a bottle of red wine and plate loaded with Pork Carnitas beside it. They both stepped back and the girl felt her father's warm hand caress her shoulder.
Together, they remembered. The girl remembered the grandfather who loved to tell her stories and sang her lullabies. The man remembered the father who was always there for him growing up, who always found time to watch his junior soccer matches, who comforted him when Maria dumped him, and for generally being a cool guy to talk over a nice cold cerveza. Sometimes, he found to hard to remember how his face looked, even though his father's picture stood on their ofrenda.
"Thinking of you, grandpa," the little girl said.
"Miss you, Dad," the father whispered.
They imagined it right there: Diego walking across the marigold petals and helping himself to the essence of the food and drink left for him. Little did they know, their Papá Diego was about to do just that a couple hours time.
Just then, from out the corner of the girl's eye, she was drawn to a silhouette leaning against a tree by the edge of the graveyard, drenched in shade. The shape was unmistakable, definitely a person, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat. The figure stood completely immobile, but positioned as if looking right at her. If it had any eyes, they were hidden beneath the dark shadow of its hat.
The girl slowly flinched, grabbing her father's hand for warmth as a chill ran down her spine. "Papá…?" she whispered.
"Si?" her father asked, then noticed her girl was shaking. "What's up, mi pequeña calabaza?"
The girl didn't say a word, but pointed at the hunched figure. The father followed her direction. After a couple seconds, he saw what she saw.
His nostrils flared. "A scarecrow? Here?" he asked, puzzled. "Who put that up, and over there of all places?"
Skeleton decorations were not unheard of, especially during Los Dias de las Muertos, but it was in a bad spot; not out in the open but hiding in the shadows as if to scare someone. He remained fixated on it for the longest time, half expecting it to move and half expecting it to topple over. He did not want to admit it, but something about it made his veins run cold with impending dread, as if the longer to looked, the more likely something bad would happen.
"It's… it's nothing," he said finally. "Just someone thinking their funny." He took his daughter's hand in his own. A small part of him sought her for comfort. "Come on, let's go home. Hopefully, it'll be gone by the time we return later with the rest of the family."
The two bid goodbye to their relative of whom they would return next year with more of his favourite food and drink, and together they made their exit, walking in a respectable manner around the headstones, eager to make as much distance they could from that thing. The scarecrow remained still by the tree, with its head down and shoulders stiff.
The head rose. Two blue eyes pierced the shade from under its hat.
"Funny, hmm?"
He scanned the expanse of the cemetary and the innocent souls meandering about. His burlap lips parted, revealing a grin of crooked, yellow teeth through stitches of thick, weathered string. It was impossible to tell where Doctor Jonathan Crane ended and where the scarecrow outfit began.
"We'll see who's laughing," he whispered, chuckling as he observed the scores of people flocking to the graveyard and the plaza, "once the night is over."
Miguel Rivera took a glass of water and a plate topped with steaming cobs of corn and made a space for them upon his family's ofrenda, taking a couple moments to position them just right before taking a step back and gazing up at the monochrome faces of his relatives between a display of candles, adornments, flowers and a selection of sustenance. He traced his eyes across the portraits of Papá Julio, Tío Oscar, Tío Felipe, Tía Victoria, and Tía Rosita before resting it on Papá Héctor, now reunited with his wife and child.
"Hola, mi familia," Miguel said, knowing they even thought they could not see or hear him yet, they still existed in the land of the dead. "Got all the things you love right here, waiting for ya. I know you'll like it." He pulled a small smile as he thought of them, of their encounter last year, and how they were sure to visit soon. "I should know."
As long as their pictures graced the ofrenda, they would be free to leave the land of the dead for that one night. His smile lasted until his eyes fell upon the crispest photo nestled in the freshest frame. That of his great grandmother, Mamá Coco. Two pictures of her stood: one at the beginning of her life, the other near the end.
Miguel sighed. He knew she was in a better place, and he knew – he hoped – that Héctor was still around to meet her, and how happy he must be to hold her in his arms once more.
Father and daughter, he thought, together again after all these years.
It was a long overdue reunion, one that should have happened a long, long time ago before he was even born. Back when Héctor was alive and had his entire future ahead of him; a long life with his family by his side. But he had it all torn from him in just one night, all because of…
Miguel blinked and shook his head. "No, no, don't think of him," he said in a quiet voice. "He doesn't deserve to be remembered."
Just the thought of that man made his heart heavy. How he once looked up to a murderer and a thief, how he once thought himself related to someone who wasn't content with taking just one life so tried to take another, all to protect his precious reputation.
His thoughts turned to the memorial. The truth was now out, and Héctor was finally getting the recognition he deserved. He could only hope that his murderer was now facing consequences for his actions, and had gone from having his own mansion to owning nothing more than a dilapidated hut in the forgotten district where he would likely remain for many years to come, shunned and ridiculed by everyone.
Miguel's fingers twitched. His guitar, and a song he had poured his heart and soul into, awaited in his bedroom. He intended to play it tonight, for his family, for everyone, both alive and dead. His way of moving forward.
I will play for the world… Miguel thought. But I will never forget my family.
Miguel closed his eyes.
I will remain true to myself. I will never walk down the same path he did.
His hands clenched into fists.
I will… I will…
Ernesto De Le Cruz whispered from beyond the blackness:
"Seize your moment."
"Miguel," Enrique called from outside, snapping Miguel out of his thoughts, "could you give us a hand setting the table? Your Mamá has her hands full with Coco."
"Sure, Papá," Miguel answered. "Be right there."
As he backed out of the room, treading across a trail of fresh golden petals, he gave the ofrenda one last glimpse, thankful that the entire setting hadn't collapsed or spontaneously combusted during the couple seconds he had turned away. The last thing he wanted was for another macintosh to suffer under the wrath that was Mamá Imelda's boot.
"Guess you'll be seeing us tonight." He gave the ofrenda a wave before he left. "Hasta luego."
Down at the plaza, a crowd had gathered around the gazebo, ready for the annual music contest to commence. Men and women with their children, their friends, and family alike, all awaited the spectacle from under the gaze of stars. The air was alive with the din of many voices, soon to be drowned out by rhythmic strings and brass instruments.
A firework launched into the air in a contrail of silver before exploding in a burst of red, blue, orange, yellow and green. Dias de los Muertos was officially in full swing.
The announcer took the microphone and gave it a couple of taps which echoed from corner to corner of the plaza.
"Uh, test. Testing," she spoke into the mic. "Uno, dos. Uno, dos."
Once she was content that everything was working, she subjected the audience to some lovely throat clearing before she continued:
"¡Buenos noches! Who's ready for some music?"
The crowd cheered.
The announcer cupped her hand around her ear.
"I can't hear you. Who's ready for some musica?"
The crowd cheered louder. Hands punched the air.
"Let's give it up for our first contestants." The announcer glanced down at her clipboard, ran her finger across the first name, and then returned to the mic. "¡Los Dragones de la Imaginación!"
She hurried off the gazebo just as a band of four mariachis barged past, all hauling their robust frames and their female-named instruments up the steps altogether. They took the stage and began to set themselves up, adjusting guitar strings, making sure the pipes were clear, and that their shakers shook.
From a dark alcove, the scarecrow from the graveyard watched in silence. He looked at the faces of those in the area; none of which acknowledged his existence, believing him to be part of the decoration. So many people crammed like sardines in a tin in this humble little town in Mexico. Jonathan Crane could hardly hold back his excitement. Honestly, who would miss a place like this? The only notable person to come from Santa Cecilia was that De La Cruz character, and look what happened to him – a once loved and respected figure, now thrown away like garbage. He examined the sun-bleached walls – the very construction around him – finding it archaic by a few generations, like this place was immortalised in the past.
He observed the faces before him, full of life and not dying in the slightest. This apparent day of the dead had a surprising lack of death in it.
Eventually, Los Dragones de la Imaginación were finished preparing, and after a brief count, jumped right into their song. Already the contest had started off with a bang. The four members were in sync, and the music poured like a waterfall, washing over the crowd like a wave, garnering many cheers and hollers.
His time had come.
Crane exited the shady shelter the alcove offered, stepping into the starlight and in clear view of the entire plaza. At first, nothing happened. Everyone was encapsulated by the music, dancing and clapping along, offering the man dressed as a scarecrow no heed.
As he made his way across, that soon began to change. He forced aside the first soul in his path, and then a second, who both turned and reeled in surprise at the dummy that had came to life. One person in the crowd noticed him, then a second pointed and said something to the guy next to him. Jonathan Crane stuck out like a sore thumb. Tall. Slender. His face draped in a burlap sack with two eyeholes and a wide, crooked grin. A rope, tied like a noose, hung limp from around his neck. He continued his beeline toward the gazebo, no longer needing to push as they parted like the red sea.
All eyes were on him now. All voices fell silent, save for a few whispers:
"Who is this guy?" someone wondered. "What's with the get-up?" another muttered. "Hey, hombre," one shouted, "Halloween was two days ago!"
People were confused. People was unsure. People were concerned, anxious and even disgusted. However, the band up on stage went on, too engrossed in their art to notice the approaching effigy.
The announcer began to frantically scan her clipboard. "Um, excuse me," she said, "are you on the list?" Crane paid no attention to her and ascended the steps, much to the surprise of everyone. "Wait, you can't go up there!"
"Hey, hey, hey, muchacho," The lead vocalist fumed, face to face with the man. His voice bounced off every wall in the plaza. "Wait your turn. Can't you see we're playing here?"
Jonathan Crane grabbed the microphone and yanked it from the stand to an ear-piercing screech. The band came to a stop in a jumbled mess of notes. The people began to protest in a rising chorus of jeers and heckles.
The lead singer, Elvio, having just had his moment to shine snatched from him, eyed the scarecrow not with fear, but anger. He tore off his own hat in frustration, revealing his bald spot.
"¡Ay dios mío, Idiota!" he yelled as he threw his hat to the ground. "Complete idiot! What is wrong with you? You ruined our—"
Crane brought his fist up before Elvio's face and delivered from out his sleeve a shot of green gas. Elvio recoiled, inhaling out of instinct and immediately feeling a deep, burning sensation in his chest. He collapsed against the railing and began to cough, hacking without control, much to the shock of the rest of his band mates. The crowd reacted with terrified gasps.
He guy with the maracas, Sergio, jumped, almost dropping his instruments. "Whoa, whoa, Elvio," he cried. "Are you okay? W-what did he just do?"
Elvio swung his gaze back to Crane, having caught a slither of breath, and what he saw made the irises of his bloodshot eyes narrow. The eyes and mouth coroded in flames, and his mask only grew larger and its smile wider. His entire form grew, as did the ceiling of the gazebo, which rose as the scarecrow did. His apendages manifested into grotesque claws. Insects scuttled from everywhere, from every crevice, from out his eyes and mouth, his coats, and then Elvio's clothes. He felt spiders, cockroaches and bettles scurry all over his body, over his arms, legs, body and face, urging a scream out of him.
Doctor Crane smiled. "I wouldn't be too concerned over him," he hissed in near-perfect Spanish as he glanced at the guy with the maracas. "It's you I'd be more worried about."
"What?" Sergio muttered as Elvio turned to him.
The toxin coarsing through the singer's veins transformed Sergio into something truly demonic.
"You're… you not taking me…" Without any warning, Elvio charged like a bull. "You're not taking me!" He tackled Sergio so hard that it sent both of them tumbling over the rail and to the ground in a painful heap.
The crowd erupted with a sudden cacophony of horror. Men scrambled toward the two band mates, tearing Elvio away before he could tear something off of Sergio. The announcer cried out for someone to stop this madness while someone in the crowd screeched that someone call the police.
Three burly men from the crowd acted and made a dash for the steps, intent on taking down this monster before he could do anymore damage. They were halfway to the platform when Crane span around.
"Back off," he shouted as he sprayed a wide arc of gas which caught all of them at once. They broke down upon inhaling those fumes; three strong men reduced to screaming like children. Any other would-be heroes stopped dead in their tracks, hesitant to approach lest they ended up like those three men.
Doctor Crane chuckled. "Such brawn," he said, "but nothing can outmatch fear."
The remaining two band members stood rooted in place, pressed against the railings, too terrified to run or fight.
"O-okay, okay… you got the stage, amigo," the bass guitarist said, relinquishing his string-box. "Um… what instrument do you play?"
Crane shot a sideways glance. The bassist had no idea how foolish that question was. "Glad you asked."
He faced the horrified crowd and brought the microphone up.
"Santa Cecilia," he boomed across the plaza. "Please understand, this is not my audition." From out his pocket, he procured a device that fitted in the palm of his hand. His thumb hovered over the single button on top. "It's yours."
He pressed down on the button, eager to see all his planning come into fruition. Nothing happened at first – his threat seemed to have been a bluff – then the people felt a tremor rise from under their feet. It grew more and more, they feared they were in the midst of an earthquake. Suddenly, the gutters all around them blasted wide open from the powerful gushing of green vapour, erupting as high as geysers.
"People of Cecilia," Jonathan Crane announced. "Sing!"
The people screamed and ran as a fog descended upon them. A fog of fear. They scrambled, tripped and fell, desparate to escape. The air burned their throats and their vision of reality disolved.
Music to his ears.
The bassist scaled the railing and attempted to make a break for it, but didn't get very far before he blindly crashed into a vendor of street food, scattering tostadas across the ground.
Two people remained on the gazebo: Jonathan Crane and the trumpet player, a man in his mid-thirties named Rafael. He trembled. His back deep within the gaps of the rail, wishing he could crawl back further.
"I… I knew of you. Tu… are him," he stammered in smattered English. "The madman from America… Doctor Crane."
This earned him a cold, emotionless look from the Doctor. The gas rose above the platform, engulfing their feet.
"Crane?" He resounded in his native tongue as maggots began to spew from his eyes. "You must be mistaken. There is no Crane here."
Rafael's breathing became fast and shallow as the thick air enveloped his body. This was one nightmare he wished he could wake up from. The gas lifted higher and swallowed him whole.
"There is only… Scarecrow."