A black mass the size of a truck bled out from the ruins of the organ loft, then exploded into dozens of bats who squealed, screeched, and swooped down toward the dancers, not to attack, but to join in the celebration, encircling them in a fluttering wind-ballet that flowed up and down, round and round, rippling in time with the music.

Marian looked around, trying not to meet her brother’s stare. The smashed heap that once had been Boots’s car sat under a section of fallen gate. Someone must have seen the accident, so where in hell were the police and ambulance and fire trucks?

“Everyone’s already here,” said Alan. “Look around.”

The cemetery was filled with people, each standing at a grave, either alone or with others, holding their jack-o’-lanterns, looking at the headstone that bore the name of a lost loved one.

It was overpowering.

Though she could not say what exactly it was, Marian could nonetheless feel it all around her; above and under, in the air, in the trees and soil, in the beams of moonlight: thick, sentient, and all-powerful.

The music played on, the organ rasping, crackling, and singing.

Alan removed the stone bottle from his pocket and pulled out the cork. “Party time.” He tilted the neck of the bottle and a thin slow stream of blood dribbled from it onto the soil of the cemetery. He emptied the bottle and then knelt down, using his hands to spread the blood right to left, forward and back, regulating the stream to flow. Marian could almost see the blood mixing down into the soil and mud beneath, blending in, spreading wider, then breaking through the last layer and staining the lids of all the coffins underneath.

The throbbing in Marian’s ribs gave way to something stronger. At first she thought the pounding was only in her head but as she pulled herself to her feet she realized that the noise, the thumping—

—deargod—

—was coming from underneath the ground.

The little girl in her drew a picture of the dead beating their fists against the inside of their coffin lids.

(Let-Us-OUT!...Let-Us-OUT!)

From the grave nearest her the pounding increased, its desperate strength spreading to the grave next to it, then to the next grave, then on and on across the grounds, the rhythmic beating of a thousand dead hearts becoming one.

Jack Pumpkinhead and the Mom-thing stopped dancing and began to stroll among the mourners, stopping to talk with each in turn. Only after they had been spoken to did the mourners move, kneeling at the foot of their chosen grave, taking the magic seeds given to them by Jack and burying them in the soil. Then each mourner placed their jack-o’-lantern atop the spot where they had buried their seeds.

The pounding grew frantic though no less rhythmic.

—thumpity-whump-thump!...(Let)...thumpity-whump-thump!...(Us)...thumpity-whump-thump...(OUT)!

Marian turned toward her brother. “W-what are they going to d-do?”

Alan, took her hands. “This is their night. The important thing is, we’re here for Jack and the whole family tonight. This is the least we can do.” He put his arm around her and began leading her toward the church.

Marian struggled to get free of him but any movement only doubled the pain in her ribs. After a few seconds more of futile struggle she slumped against her brother and let him guide her.

As the last jack-o’-lantern was placed atop the last grave, Alan set Marian by the sealed oak doors of the church, kissing her bloodied forehead and smiling.

“I love you, Sis. Please try to remember that. In the end, it’s the only thing that counts, though fuck only knows why.”

Marian pressed her back against the doors and said nothing as she let herself slide down onto her knees.

The mourners remained still, eyes fixed on Jack and his wife as they stood at the bottom of the church steps. After giving Marian one last look, Alan moved down to join them, leaving his sister in the shadows.

From the organ loft above came the powerful opening chords of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

From the soil below came the answer of the dead.

—thumpity-whump-thump!...(Let)...thumpity-whump-thump!...(Us)...thumpity-whump-thump...(OUT)!

Marian thought she saw movement beneath the soil at one of the now-deserted graves. Her breath came up short as the pain in her body increased.

Children broke away from their parents and started building the bonfire, clapping their hands and squealing with joy. A few small flames at first, growing higher, then a whoosh! as the fire roared to life, the children dancing in a circle as each tossed in more wood and branches. From the center of their dance came young, giggling voices: “Beasties on the doorstep, Phantoms in the air/Owls on witches’ gateposts, Giving stare for stare/Jack-o’-lanterns grinning, Shadows on a screen/Shrieks and starts and laughter, This is Hallowe’en!”

The organ music rose beyond a scream, its music of praise becoming the howl of a wolf raging at the moon, shaking loose a few stones from over the doorway.

The moon seemed to move closer to the Earth, its light so brilliant and silver Marian winced.

And Jack said: “Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead lived on a vine ...”

The dancing children answered: “A goblin lives in OUR house, in OUR house, in OUR house ...”

“... Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead thought it was fine ...”

“... a goblin lives in OUR house, all the year round...”

—thumpity (Let)-whump (Us)-thump (OUT)!—

Marian saw that she hadn’t imagined it—something was moving under the graves...under the soil...shifting, rolling like small waves, rocking the jack-o’-lanterns back and forth as each mound rose and fell with ease.

It’s breathing. The whole goddamn cemetery is breathing.

The bonfire grew higher and wider, its roar almost equal to that of the church organ, the flames spreading and raging, hissing and popping, scattering sparks that were caught by the nightbreeze and flung across the grounds.

“...First he was small and green,” said Jack.

“...He bumps and he jumps and he thumps around midnight...”

“...Then big and yellow...”

—thumpity (Let)-whump (Us)-thump (OUT)!—

“...a goblin lives in OUR house, all the year round!”

“...Ol’ Jack Pumpkinhead is a very fine fellow,” all sang as one.

Marian struggled to stand again, letting the pain compel her, readying herself to make a run for it—

—and the organ music grew even louder, tinged at the edges with a dark majesty that soon gave it richer form and deeper feeling as it began “Let There Be Peace On Earth”—

—and Marian watched as a scene right out of her grainy childhood nightmares unfolded before her.

As the fiery sparks bounced against the soil, each grave split open and the thin, pale, rotted hands of its tenant reached up to touch the night air.

Marian felt her legs starting to buckle but she did not—would not—fall. She slowly pushed herself up, the pain pushing her forward, moving along the smooth oak doors, covering her head as bits and pieces of stone and plaster fell from above, steady, old girl, steady, that’s it, keep moving, no one’s looking at you, they all think you’re down for the count so don’t you dare stop moving, that’s good, just...a…little...farther...and...you...can...there! You can get through that gap in the gate and sneak back to the house, grab your car keys and drive away from here and—

—Boots.

She couldn’t leave Boots, not here, not now.

She looked over her shoulder and saw the hands from each grave grip the jack-o’-lantern left for them and pull it beneath the soil.

Then came the sounds of tearing and snapping.