THE JACK-O'-LANTERN MEMOIRS

©2001, 2011 Stephen Mark Rainey
Previously published in
Octoberland, Flesh & Blood Books, 2002
 

         If you lived in Chicago in the late 1960s, you heard all about me--probably more than you could stomach, unless you somehow managed to isolate yourself from all televisions, radios, and newspapers. For the three years prior to the new decade, I sent the general population into a dread-ridden frenzy with every October’s onset; conversely, I earned the wholehearted, if unexpressed, gratitude of the news media, whose seasonal profits in those years soared to unprecedented levels. It’s true, I did make bigger and better headlines than just about anyone since Capone, at least until John Wayne Gacy came along. But despite the profound effect I’d had on the city, the news of my being gunned down by the police on Halloween night, 1969, was rather anticlimactic. And say what you will, but I have it on good authority that my exploits were sorely missed the following year--not by just the media but a fair percentage of its audience.

         Or so it was until the copycat murders, as they were (erroneously) called. The season again came alive as bodies began turning up bearing the singular marks of my trade at Halloween, 1971, then again in ’72, ’73, ’74, and so on up to now. Here it is all these years later, and the world is just as baffled by the perennial murders as they were then. But unless my arrangement with Smith takes an unexpected turn, this year it’s all going to end, one way or the other, once and for all.

         It’s not that I’ve never wanted to mend my ways--really, I’ve tried--but there’s this handy term, pathological, I believe it is, that I’m told applies to me, so taking the initiative to modify socially objectionable behavior is a bit more difficult for me than for ordinary people such as yourself.

         As anyone can attest, the Jack-o’-Lantern killer died that night in the Loop. The medical examiner on my case (I forget his name) would be the first to tell you that my body had absolutely, positively shut down after John Law’s guns did their work. The cops who kicked me after I was down, the reporters on the scene, the bystanders who watched the proceedings with unadulterated glee...all of these fine specimens of the human race would swear on everything sacred that the Jack-o’-Lantern was dead. Incontrovertibly D-E-A-D. Therefore, logically, the killings that followed had to be the work of someone else; someone whose knowledge of the Jack-o’-Lantern’s methods was intimate beyond any traceable error.

         Well, it is a reasonable assumption. But those who make such assumptions have not met Smith (not yet, anyway). Smith is one of a kind, and that’s no mere figure of speech. He would probably not balk if I were to tell you that “Smith” is not his real name; however, he might feel less than charitable if I were to mention the name “Smiert Galgalith” to you. Woops, I’ve put my foot in it now. But seriously, it is best not to carry on much about Smith. It would certainly never do to say anything about what he looks like. Suffice it to say that Smith is pretty weird.

         Smith is like a security guard. He stands at the door between here and there--mainly to ensure that those who are there don’t come here, though going over there usually isn’t a problem, even without an appointment. The most interesting thing about Smith‑-and most people would never expect this--is that he has a sense of humor. Sure, you say, the guardian of the gate of death itself is a funny man. Well, check it out.

         I had been over there for quite a while, and it is not a happy place, I can tell you. Time passes differently there than here; slower. Much slower. By the time I came back, less than two years later, according to my generally reliable internal clock, eons had passed. Contrary to some stories, there is light there, although one tends to wish there were not. The things you see are pretty ghoulish, and when Smith himself takes one of his casual strolls, the place looks like Tokyo when Godzilla comes calling. All that panicked screaming gets nerve-wracking, even to those of us who enjoy the sound at less tumultuous moments.

         Apparently, Smith had taken a shining to my modus operandi, for it reminded him of the sort of thing he had done back in Old Testament days. That’s the only reason I can think of that he would have singled me out among the billions. With the benefit of hindsight, I can only take it as a cruel joke, but late one particular eon, he sent me a message that said, “Tell you what, Norris. I’ve an inkling to place a little wager with you. Let’s say I send you back to Earth for a day-- at Halloween, of course. If you can go that whole day without killing anyone, I’ll let you out of here for good. That’s a solemn promise.”

         Now, the old clichéd concepts of devilish guile be damned. Everything I’d seen of Smith indicated that he was an entity of his word. If he said he was going to lacerate your flesh, fill the wounds with burning coals, and sew them up with barbed wire, then that’s exactly what he did. If the idea of forcing you to drink a cocktail of molten bronze and lead so much as entered what passed for his brain, then by God, you might as well work up a good thirst. If, in his judgment, you were uniquely suited to scrubbing the intestinal lining of a Great Old One who’d taken to feeling irregular, then you might as well suck in a deep breath and get ready to take the plunge.

         And--take it from one who knows--Smith and his cohorts simply aren’t quite like the “sell-me-your-soul-and-I’ll-give-you-riches” caricatures popularized by Christianity, kith and kin. So when he said I had a shot at getting the hell out of this corner of Kadath, then by God I believed him.

         Well, his offer to set me loose for a day was bona fide; no sooner had I agreed to his wager than I found myself back in the chilly Chicago air, on the evening before Halloween. What a feeling! I had been in the land of the lost, the place of the damned, the underworld, Hades, Hell, Sheol, Gehenna, Infernus, whatever (inappropriate) label one might wish to apply...yet here I was, back in my favorite place at my favorite time of the year, and he had fixed me up looking as fit and trim as I had in my finest days. Gracious, my excitement was palpable.

         I’ve never known exactly why Halloween has such an unusual effect on my psyche; the best thing one might postulate is that it’s an aberrant form of lycanthropy, where the time of year, rather than phase of the moon, moves one to engage in certain antisocial activities. All I knew now was that I had a chance to remain here, alive, healthy, and happy, if only I could resist the pumpkin’s pull, so to speak, for the next 24 hours.

         Simple, you might say--especially after having only just quitted an environment so inexpressibly foul that even the Pope might say “God damn!”

         “Hey, amigo, what time you got?” came a Spanish-tinged voice from behind me. I turned to see a thin, dark-haired, black-eyed lad, maybe 16 or 17 years old, dressed in his glorious gang colors and accompanied by a brawny Latino whose eyes reminded me uncomfortably of Smith’s. Giving my surroundings a more thorough inspection, I realized I had materialized on the near-west side of the city, in a neighborhood that was not known for its hospitality toward Caucasians.

         The young man, nonplused by my lack of immediate response, tapped his wrist with his fingers. “Time, amigo, what is the time?”

         “Man,” I finally said, “where I come from, they don’t give you a Timex.”

         “You trying to be funny?”

         “No, I’m quite serious.”

         He tapped his wrist again, this time with a gleaming switchblade. “You don’t got the time, maybe you got enough money to buy me a new watch.”

         Now, here’s something about me that you might not know, and maybe it’ll be of interest to you. I’ve never been entirely random in my choice of victims, even when under the Jack-o’-lantern’s strongest influence. Having a discerning eye has always been a matter of pride with me, and thus I’ve always endeavored to dispatch only the most violent, parasitical, and antagonistic members of society. For this  reason, I can say with certainty that more people than would ever admit to it were sorry to see me go on that unfortunate night in ’69. Back in my prime, this pair would have been splendid candidates for stalking and carving; but then, unlike now, I always had the advantage of time to prepare, scope my surroundings, and choose my quarry with scientific precision.

         Yes, this had to be Smith’s doing. He had put me here, at this moment, knowing full well that an encounter with temperamental gang members could only lead to a bad end for one or all of us.

         That Smith.

         Still, I fully intended to walk away from this; after all, I had a vested interest in a nonviolent outcome. But then the little chap with the knife grabbed me, and I saw the gleam of the blade as it rose like a viper preparing to strike.

         Well, what would you have done? I was never a slouch at self-defense (I was trained by the U.S. Marines, in case you’ve forgotten), and having apparently lost none of my edge, I quickly disarmed the young man and slashed his jugular. I then pounced on the heavier lad, who screeched like a frightened girl when he saw the rich red river of blood pouring from his friend’s throat. It took only a moment or so for me to fix him, and that was that.

         Did I mention that I could be impulsive?

         Well, it wasn’t ten seconds later that I saw a mass of shimmering light not far away, and out of it, a pair of Smith’s goons came slithering toward me with their tools at the ready. Cripes, but they were good and fast with them, and before I knew it, I was back in the big house, looking all messed up again, and Smith’s raucous laughter was shaking the walls. I should have known, since for Smith it was a win-win situation. He got me to deliver him a couple of fresh ones and then just reclaimed me, as he knew he would all along.

         None of this should imply that Smith would ever renege on a bargain. I knew better than that. So several eons and Great-Old-One-scrubbings later (which by your time was just about one year), Smith’s messenger came scrabbling down again with yet another and even more tantalizing offer: “Norris, if you can go eight hours without killing anyone, I’ll boot you out of here forever.”

         Well, now I figured he was pushing his luck. I’d gone twice that long on any number of occasions while in the land of the living, even on Halloween itself. But he was one to go for the challenge--a lot like me, which again is why I believe he chose me to engage in this sport. So I said, “Sure, Smith, I’m game,” and he tossed me back into your world.

         This time he put me in Cabrini Green, which in those days was probably the single worst place on Earth for a self-respecting white man to hang out, except perhaps Hanoi. Frankly, I probably would have preferred Hanoi.

         Anyway, this time it was three menacing black men who came after me (one of whom had to have been bigger than Gentle Ben), and when it was all over and done with, they were carved and appropriately displayed on a street corner. Naturally, before I knew it, the damned goons were back. This time one of them had the audacity to actually speak for Smith (I wonder if he knew this, and if he did, did he whoop the offender?), saying how disappointed he was in me. But when we got back to the big house, the old boy was laughing up a storm.

         I imagine that after the previous relating of events, you’re saying to yourself, “Well, the man is simply prejudiced. He only works on minorities.” Yeah, I’ve heard all that before. But think again, you idiot. The nature of my avocation required me to visit places where the lowest common denominator was the greatest common factor, and those are oftentimes the places that minorities inhabit, if usually not by choice. And remember, in the above-mentioned cases, it was Smith who put me there. So before you go casting aspersions, think back to ’68, if you’re old enough to remember. It was my finest achievement: carving one of Evanston’s highest-ranking city officials and displaying him in front of the Varsity Theater, which was showing a Halloween double-feature. (Sadly, this grand theater has long since been leveled; you poor blind fools, who know not a good thing even when it’s gone.) But, anyway, just remember: “high-ranking” and “lowest common denominator” are not mutually exclusive terms. Think on this and learn.

         And so it went; the eons passed where I lived, and the years passed where you live. Every Halloween, Smith would send his little message, eventually getting more and more daring. Last year I came this close; he gave me two hours and set me in a relatively innocuous neighborhood in Chinatown. Please. Chinatown was always a favorite locale; every now and then, on Sunday morning, I’d go there and have a nice Chinese breakfast at one of several very lovely, very traditional eating establishments. If you’ve never had the Sunday brunch at the Triple Crown restaurant on West 22nd Place, you don’t know what you’re missing.

         Anyway, not five minutes before I was set to be sprung from eternal damnation, a pair of Hong Kong Phooeys came looking for trouble and found it. And, of course, the goons were not far behind.

         This year, Smith came around personally, looking more jovial than ever, which led me to believe right away that something was up. He said, “Hey, Norris. You’re going to love this one. If you can go one hour without carving someone, you’re sprung forever. But one hour is as low as I go. You blow this one and you’re mine. This is getting old.”

         “Sure, Smith,” I said. “One hour’s a cinch.”

         “You said that last year when I gave you two hours. Gotta hand it to you, though, you almost made it.”

         “This year, definitely.”

         “Okay then. Well, out you go.”

         And so I found myself standing in Logan Square, on the city’s northwest side, which, back in my day, was a reasonably lush neighborhood. It went to seed for a couple of decades, but the residents eventually began to grow tired of the gangs, the violence, the drugs, the garbage in the streets, all that jazz. Landlords began sprucing up their buildings, the cops started clearing out the undesirables, and for the last few years, it’s been a right respectable place. Still it had a fair number of shadowy corners, and it was into one of these that Smith deposited me. He was not going to make this easy, I could tell.

         But this year, I had a little plan. Just a while ago, I walked over to a drugstore on Fullerton (taking special care to simply ignore the passersby, especially anyone who gave me a sidelong glance) and picked up a spiral notebook and a Bic pen. For the last 45 minutes, I’ve been jotting down these memoirs, figuring I could easily drag them out for the full hour. I guess I need to write slower, though, because there’s still a few minutes to go.

         Well, bother. You know what I hear? I hear a bunch of clanging and banging down this alley over here, and I hear kids hollering and fussing, so I guess it’s a gang fight. They like to beat on trashcan lids with baseball bats just before mixing it up. We all have our rituals, I suppose.

         Excuse me a moment.

         I’m back. And it’s bad news. Yes, it was a gang fight, and you’d be surprised how quickly combatants will put aside their differences in the face of a common enemy. As if a lone white man like me looks like such a threat.

         But that goddamn, wise-ass Smith pulled a good one. He never told me they couldn’t fucking hurt me! If I’d known they couldn’t hurt me, I might have managed to stop myself acting in self-defense and been sprung years ago.

         Anyway, these gangs. One side was black, the other Latino. Yep, they were mixing it up with their baseball bats, trashcan lids, switchblades, and chains, and they came pouring out of that alley and they saw me. Rather than just ignore me and carry on, they came after me. How stupid is that, anyway?

         Well, when it looked like I was going to get soundly trounced, I took a blade off one of them and cut him. I even had the chance to do my thing--jab his eyes out, cut off his nose, and slice his lips off so he’d look like a jack-o’-lantern--before they fell upon me in earnest. And that’s when I discovered they couldn’t do shit to me. Nothing hurt me. Baseball bats to my arms and legs, switchblade jabs to my face and neck, chains to my temple. Nothing. You should have seen their faces!

         Well, knowing now I’d blown the big one, I did the only thing I could do.

         I carved the lot of them.

         So, anyone who’s reading this, if you get here before the cops take it all down, there’s a dozen or more nice, fresh, bloody jack‑o’‑lanterns hanging on a wire-mesh fence near the corner of Kedzie and Fullerton. I figure if I’m going to get thrown back in the big house for blowing it, I might as well go in style. But you can’t possibly know how much I resent Smith never telling me I wasn’t entirely mortal again. I guess I should have known. ISometimes you think you’re just the smartest thing going, and then you find out that some wisenheimer Great Old One has been getting the better of you all these years. It’s disheartening.

         Well, the goons are taking their sweet time getting here this year. Guess they’re letting me sweat out my last few minutes. If this were truly my final opportunity, I’m sure Smith is going to do something creative. He’s a clever one, too, and he enjoys irony. Several eons back, he jabbed out my own eyes, cut off my nose, sliced my lips off, and hung me up right at the doorway to Kadath, figuring it would be pretty disconcerting to the new arrivals. Well, it was, and you can’t possibly know how unpleasant it is to be put on display like that when you’re in such physical misery. I can’t say as I look forward to what he has in mind for me this time.

         Well, there’s the light, and here come the goons. They didn’t even bother to bring their own carving tools. I reckon this time they’ll just be using mine.

         Of all things, the hour is up. I was ever so close. What a tragedy. Gracious. Goodness gracious me.

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