Midnight Masquerade

Introduction

By Lisa Morton

I should probably start this with a full disclosure: I’ve done an introduction before for a Greg Chapman book (The Last Night of October, when it was released as a stand-alone novella by Bad Moon Books).

If you think this means I like Greg’s work, you’re dead on. I’ve liked it from the start, and it’s been a distinct pleasure watching him grow and garner acclaim over the years that we’ve known each other.

What do I enjoy about his work? Well, first off, I think it’s no coincidence that he’s a gifted artist because his written work is also visual, painting with words instead of brushes or pixels. He often writes about colorful, even strangely gleeful locations, whether the ethereal stage of dead troubadours or the Halloween town of Octoberville.

But I think what I enjoy most about Greg’s writing is that it all seems deeply rooted in morality and choice. Horror fiction is often described as the most transgressive of genres; apparently, we’re not supposed to talk about subjects like death or bodily breakdown or fear, so those things have become the grist of horror and the subjects that make it the unruly child of the literary world. Many writers use this get out of transgressive jail free card to create horror fiction meant to gratuitously shock or disgust, and although there’s certainly a place for extreme horror, it’s not my thing.

It’s not Greg Chapman’s, either. His characters may experience these transgressive events, or even engage in them—see, for example, the terrible thing the protagonist of The Last Night of October did once, or the almost casual act of childhood cruelty that forms the background of Thirty Years Later—but that’s not what his stories are about. Yes, the tried-and-true horror trope of a villain who receives a comeuppance figure into these stories, but Greg’s work is too smart to simply end with a supernatural force delivering justice at the story’s climax.

Instead, these tales often give the perpetrator of some past sin a chance at forgiveness. The person who once caused terrible harm is offered a shot at repentance…and the surprise—maybe even the ultimate transgression—is that they don’t always accept, or even want, that offer. The aging clown who is finally pushed too far in the bleakly funny Happy Daze is given multiple chances to put his rage aside, but he doesn’t…although perhaps his final act ultimately redeems a life of unhappy passivity. The woman who is buffeted between moral choices in the title story is told by the mysterious forces controlling her, We gave you a choice: either salvation or damnation. It’s how you chose. The stranded motorist of Octoberville triumphs over his nightmarish situation simply by accepting. In the final novella, Vaudeville, a boy does take an offer of salvation, but soon discovers he’s made a terrible mistake…or has he? Making the right decision isn’t always as easy as it might at first seem.

Speaking of morality, Greg is plainly suspicious of organized religion, especially in Second Chance Circus, when a priest finds he fits right in among torturers who refer to religion as a shared madness, and The History of Halloween, in which a Halloween expert (whose name happens to sound strangely like mine) is caught between her rigidly fundamentalist upbringing (which is something I thankfully do not share with this character) and the pagan roots of Halloween. In much horror fiction Christian values triumph over the forces of darkness, but Greg—like his spiritual father Clive Barker—finds that true morality is often ground under the heel of godly righteousness.

I had read a number of these stories before, and it was a pleasure to revisit those I was already acquainted with as well as partake of the new offerings in this collection. If this is your first time sampling Greg’s work, welcome; if you, like me, are already a fan, you’ll find Midnight Masquerade a fine reminder of why Greg is one of horror fiction’s true dark delights.

Lisa Morton

Los Angeles,

December, 2022

The Last Night of October

1

Every Halloween, Gerald Forsyth’s worst fear would come a-knocking.

His existence was one of silent dread: a slow, steady tick of days until that last night of October. It was his every thought, every beat of his tired, old heart.

Gerald sat in his wheelchair, inside the living room of his modest home, slumped and breathless, oxygen mask clamped over his mouth, and stared at his front door. It would come soon: the very moment the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. It came without fail and, without fail Gerald would cower in the corner of his living room and pray for the sun to return.

He took several deep breaths, trying to subdue the anxiety swelling inside his chest. Ironically, the oxygen became too much for his wasted lungs and he was forced to pull the mask from his face. He began to cough, his old body bucking with each exertion. Gerald Forsyth was drowning on his own lungs. A moment later and the coughing fit passed. He sucked in more air and the action quickly equalized him—at least temporarily. He wiped the sweat from his leathery face and refocused on the front door.

It will be here any minute, he thought to himself. You have to be ready. You’ve handled it many times before and you can do it again. Gerald checked his watch—5:31pm. Through the lace curtains over the front windows Gerald could see children, dressed as ghosts, princesses and zombies, parading around the street. Pumpkins, mutilated, yet smiling, sat on porches, gatekeepers to the underworld. People were laughing and frolicking, filling the children’s baskets and bags with sugary junk, while others waited gleefully for the chance to open their doors to complete strangers.

If only they knew, Gerald thought. If only they knew like I do what Halloween is really all about.

The machine connected to Gerry’s wheelchair beeped and it dragged his gaze away from the door.

Damn it! he said, his voice hoarse from the bout of coughing. The syringe driver needed to be refilled and if it wasn’t refilled then things would get a whole lot worse for Gerald. Pain would set in like a thousand glass shards in his chest; pain so debilitating he might just relent and let it through the door.

He checked his watch again—5.44pm.

Where the hell is she? he said to the empty room. He scanned the door again and hoped she showed—before it did.

Doreen was his visiting nurse. Every second day she came to check his morphine driver, change his oxygen canister, take his blood pressure, listen to his chest, without fail. Doreen was the only other constant he could rely upon turning up at his front door. So where was she? Tonight, of all nights, she was late.

With some effort, Gerald wheeled himself over to the television table and retrieved the cordless phone. He had to find out where Doreen was. She had to get here so she could do all her stupid checks before it came. He’d dialled two numbers when there was a knock at the front door. He jumped in fright and the phone fell to the floor. His old heart beat out a staccato rhythm.

No—not now, he whispered.

The shape of the figure on the other side of the front door was blurred by the frosted glass. Gerry wheeled himself behind the lounge chair and examined the silhouette. It was too tall to be it.

Hello—Mr. Forsyth? the visitor said.

Gerald didn’t recognize the voice. Who is it? he said. If you’re trick-or-treating, I ain’t interested.

There was a laugh; a woman’s giggle. No, no—I’m from Pastoral Care. Doreen sent me.

The old man frowned, concerned. Doreen—where is she?

Could you let me in? It’s getting quite chilly out here, she said.

The idea of opening the door terrified Gerald, but there was no sign of it, so if he moved quickly, opened the door and got it shut again, he would still be safe. Gerald wheeled up to the door, pulled the bolt back and opened the door until the chain latch caught. Through the gap he saw a fresh-faced brunette of about forty years of age smiling back at him.

Hello, she said. My name’s Kelli. Kelli Pritchard.

Gerald saw the costumed children in the street behind her and shivered.

Doreen sent you, you said?

That’s right; she went home sick, so the manager asked me to check on you. So, can I come in?

Gerald looked her up and down; she was attractive, he admitted, but he couldn’t help but feel she was far too young to be a nurse. A gaggle of squealing laughter floated in from the street and the instinct to close the door reared over Gerald with the force of a tsunami.

Come in! Come in! he said, unlatching the chain in a flurry of hands and wheeling back to clear a path for her.

Thanks so much, Kelli said. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Forsyth. She held out her hand and after a moment, Gerald shook it.

So, you’re with Pastoral Care? Gerald asked as he closed the door, resecured the chain and slipped the bolt firmly in place.

I’ve been working there about a year now, actually, the nurse said, laying her handbag down on the lounge.

Gerald wheeled past her, back to his position directly in line with the front door, but far enough away so he couldn’t be seen.

Right, he said. So, you should know how to change a syringe driver then?

Kelli’s face went blank and her jaw dropped; she stared at the machine and, right on cue, it beeped in alarm.

Oh no, she said, putting her hand to her mouth. I’ve never had to do that before.

Gerald’s expression suddenly matched hers. I beg your pardon?

Instantly Kelli’s face lit up with the widest smile. Oh, Mr. Forsyth, of course I know how to change a driver—I’ve done it about a hundred times now!

The old man’s shock turned to scorn; he didn’t like being made a fool of. That’s not funny, he said. I should report you to your manager for a prank like that.

Kelli knelt down and started to open the lid of the driver. You could do that if you like, but I’d wager Marci would tell you that you should just let me do my job.

Gerald’s eyebrows rose, which only served to twist his mouth further. Oh, you think so?

Kelli flashed him that smile. Come on Mr. Forsyth—I was just trying to have a little fun. That’s what Halloween’s all about.

He scoffed and stiffened in his wheelchair. The nurse frowned.

Now what did I say wrong? she said.

Just hurry up and change the damn driver!

Gerry glared at her; Kelli was appalled and she stood up, hands on her hips.

Now Mr. Forsyth, there’s no need to talk to me like that—I’m only trying to help you…

Well, if you want to help me, why don’t you just do your damn job already and get going?

Mr. Forsyth, I don’t appreciate your tone…

Stop patronizing me goddamn it and refill the driver!

There was a heavy silence and Kelli looked away from him, instead kneeling again to work on the driver. Gerald knew he’d offended her, but he couldn’t afford to get caught up in idle chit-chat and of course, she just had to be one of these new age kids who adored Halloween, didn’t she? Naive, every one of them.

In a few minutes Kelli had changed the driver. Gerald noticed she’d done it a lot faster than Doreen would have, but then again, she was probably keen to get the job done and leave.

Good, he thought; the sooner the better.

I have to take your blood pressure now, Kelli said. Her demeanor was flat now, clinical. Gerald lifted his arm and she wrapped the cuff around it, giving it a few vigorous pumps. You’re a little on the high side, she told him.

Hmm, Gerald replied, his eyes back on the front door, thumb­nail between his teeth.

Kelli removed the blood pressure cuff and put it away, then retrieved a stethoscope.

Could you lift your shirt please? He did so and she listened to his chest. How’s the coughing? she asked.

Not too bad.

Any blood in the phlegm?

Gerald shook his head and checked his watch—6.02pm, minutes from sundown. Kelli put the stethoscope away and then studied him. For a second their eyes locked, but they quickly turned their faces. In that moment he witnessed a determination in the nurse’s expression.

You know, just because you have emphysema doesn’t mean you can boss people around, Kelli said suddenly.

Excuse me? Gerald said, taken aback.

Kelli packed her medical bag. I’m here to help you, just like Doreen would if she were here. Sure, I’m a lot younger than her—and a lot younger than you—but that doesn’t mean I can’t do her job just as well.

Really? Gerald said, flustered; the girl had nous, he admitted.

Yeah, and as a matter of fact I know everything Doreen does—because she trained me.

She folded her arms then, doubly proud of herself. The old man could see she had tons of that. He felt a smirk cross his lips, but he quickly concealed it with his hand.

Did she? he said.

Yeah, she did. Is that okay with you?

Sure.

Good.

Kelli gathered up the rest of her instruments into the bag and gave Gerald one last look. He knew she would have been thinking he was a son of a bitch, but he didn’t care—he’d stopped making friends a very long time ago.

Your oxygen is only half full so when I get back to the office, I’ll arrange for a fresh one to be delivered tomorrow. Hopefully Doreen will be back and she’ll be able to take care of you. Try not to exert yourself too much and you should have enough oxygen until then.

Gerald sighed. I know what to do with the cylinder.

Kelli nodded decisively. Good, she said. Well, if that’s that then I’ll be on my way.

Gerald could see she was just as stubborn as he could be; so be it, he wasn’t about to apologize. Goodbye, he said.

As Kelli turned and walked to the front door, a rumble of noise—a clamor of feet—rolled up Gerald’s front porch.

Oh look, Kelli cried. Aren’t they adorable?

Gerald froze in his chair, unaware of how tightly he was gripping the arm rests.

Oh no—what is it?

Kelli’s smile had returned. Trick-or-treaters!

Don’t open that door! Gerald said. He saw confusion overwhelm the nurse’s face.

Sorry?

Get away from the door!

Now Kelli wore a mask of disgust. They’re just kids—after some candy.

I don’t have any damn candy!

Kelli waved him away. Oh, I’ve got plenty in my bag—you always have to be prepared for Halloween I say…

Gerald slammed his fist down on one of the arm rests. There’s no damn Halloween in my house!

He saw disdain cross Kelli’s features now, but he didn’t care; this was his house—his rules.

Well, it may be your house Mr. Forsyth, but I’m leaving and it’s my candy. She put her hand on the door handle.

No, don’t—please! Gerald said, his voice desperate. He gasped, but his breath was cut short; his saturated lungs suddenly refusing to work. His heart retaliated, initiating a beat that slammed it against his rib cage. Spots flashed before his eyes and a heavy darkness loomed.

Mr. Forsyth? he heard Kelli say.

Tell them…tell them to run… he murmured. Tell…them to stay away from Washington…and Blake!

The last thing Gerald saw before the blackness swarmed inside his head was Kelli slamming the door on the trick-or-treaters and rushing toward him.

2

Old Gerald Forsyth’s lungs sounded like a percolator in overload to Kelli, but it was his heart she was most concerned about.

Kelli surveyed the old man’s face as she listened to his heart pound out 120 beats per minute. His skin was the color of a bedsheet and slick with a film of sweat. She hoped he would come out of unconsciousness soon; the last thing she needed was for a patient to deteriorate in her care. She couldn’t afford to lose her job.

She shook her head, silently chastising herself. Focus, god damn it—this man needs your help! She retrieved her sphygnamometer and took another blood pressure reading. Still high, but not dangerous. She saw Gerald’s telephone on the TV table and was about to reach for it and call 9-1-1 when her patient suddenly came to.

Run! he said, his eyes wild and jittery.

Mr. Forsyth—can you hear me? It’s Kelli.

What? his eyes locked on the nurse and widened further.

You fainted, she said. Do you remember?

Kelli watched Gerald press the palm of his hand against his chest.

Are you having chest pain? she said, but the old man shook his head lazily.

No…just…hard to breathe.

Kelli grabbed the oxygen mask and placed it over his face. Okay, just take some slow, deep breaths for me—that’s it. That’s good.

She watched Gerald suck in air for several minutes and his blood pressure began to improve. His complexion, however, was still the characteristic paleness of someone with emphysema. Kelli breathed her own sigh of relief when Gerald’s pulse dropped to ninety.

Good—you’re getting much better now, she said. Now, are you sure you’re not having chest pain?

Gerry nodded. Yes… his voice was lost within the oxygen mask.

I should call a paramedic, just to be sure.

The old man squeezed her arm. No—I said I’m fine.

Kelli frowned; Gerald’s attack was so sudden, but she knew emphysema could be unpredictable, immobilizing a patient’s breathing without warning. Yet she remembered how anxious he appeared just before his breathing failed him. There were trick-or-treaters at the door.

So, what brought all that on? she said.

He shrugged. I…uh…don’t know.

You know those kids are gone now—you told them to run away.

She watched him crane his neck past her shoulder. Good. He huffed.

You don’t like kids?

The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose and then knotted together. He sighed and a great plume of moisture obscured the down­ward turn of his mouth.

Did they rock your roof or something, Mr. Forsyth? You were pretty adamant about chasing them away.

When Gerald didn’t answer, Kelli was annoyed, but equally intrigued. While he sat there, steadying his breathing, she studied the contents of the living room. There was a worn leather recliner, cracked at the corners