The Greens of Jericho

The dark layers of shadow and shape were interrupted suddenly with a shock of glowing eyes.

The woman turned quickly away from the window, letting the curtain fall as she held a hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath.

Her panic abated slightly as her mind finally happened upon the word. Halloween. Of course. How had she not realized it?

More slowly this time, she reached her hand to grasp the curtain, scolding herself for the tremor as she pulled aside the fabric and looked out again. Yes, she thought, breathing out in an almost chuckle. The eyes were carved, as were the grins of malice stretching across the pumpkins lining the street. She would never admit to having been spooked by the decorations, but the sight of so many bright orange spheres dotting the desolate landscape of Main Street had been startling.

Once, the sight of Halloween on Main Street had been a welcome one, one she had anticipated in the early weeks of October, even something she had participated in. But since the bombs, she had adjusted to a new Main Street, a dark, mostly underpopulated place, where her fellow townspeople darted quickly across the sidewalks and road, like strangers, avoiding the cold, avoiding the vulnerability of being caught in the open. Aside from the bar, still noisy as ever, most of the buildings had a haunted quality. They bore the signs of surviving a time past electricity and landscaping crews, but also the fainter whispers of their occupants, still making their way to trade, drink, and complain, but quickly, quietly, adapting to this newer mode of living, never announcing their presence as they once would have.

But not tonight, apparently. Tonight, the pumpkins, and she saw now, plastic skeletons, paper spiders, cobwebs and tombstones, cheerfully proclaimed the presence of human hands. She supposed the holiday had brought it out in them, a burst of nostalgia perhaps, convincing them to forget for a moment that they didn't live in the old world anymore, but a new one with no rules. Or maybe it was about bringing a piece of the old world, their old lives, with them. A small smile crossed her lips.

She could understand. If anything could make you miss the old days, it was Halloween. Halloween on Main Street had always been special. She had always enjoyed decorating the store in October, hanging cutouts of pumpkins, decals of a black cat and a witch, and one year she'd even hired Sharon Nottingham's son to paint a mural on one of the windows. The night of, she'd make sure to have a big bowl of chocolates ready, and she'd stay late at the store to hand them out, marvelling over the children's costumes from the doorway, and usually chatting with the neighbours, who were as enthusiastic as she was. The kids always talked about picking up their souvenir buttons and flags along with the bags of potato chips they would get at town hall, and Gail would usually come by towards the end of the night, bringing the candy apples she'd set aside for the adults. The kids came with her, before they got older and took off to their friends' houses after trick or treating. Jerry would stand in front of the hardware, giving some convoluted speech while dressed up as some famous movie character no one would recognize, Ginger and Lou sometimes had apple bobbing in front of the Pizza Garden, and Patrick gave out candy in front of the bar and when the kids went home, hosted a Halloween party for the older Halloween enthusiasts.

Of course, things changed on Main Street like they did everywhere else. Patrick's daughter hosted the parties after he died, usually wearing one of her outlandish costumes and, many years, turning the bar into a haunted house. Ginger and Lou, after their retirement, moved the apple bobbing to their kitchen, and though she didn't attend, she usually wished them a happy Halloween when they came into the store to stock up on Chiclets. The new guy was a good sport, and handed out toffees in front of the Cyberjolt Cafe. Jerry played his movie roles til his knees were too bad, but he still got his staff to put up decorations. With the kids grown and his reputation as mayor long solidified, Johnston handed the task of giving out the town hall treats to his son, instead spending some quiet time at home with Gail and a bowl of popcorn. Things changed, but there was a pattern to them, something that was somewhat dependable.

As dependable as this town still trying to make a fuss over a holiday, for the kids, even after the end of the world. She allowed herself a wry smile, and if someone had been there, she might've given them a sarcastic grumble, but it would've betrayed affection. She was all alone, however, so instead, she held onto the curtain a little longer, let out a sigh, and let it drop.

She was used to loneliness, and usually she tried to make the most out of it. Tonight, for instance, she could make herself a nice cup of tea and sit in the office, enjoying the shelter from the late October winds. That's what she would do. She made her way over to the counter, absently reaching for her favourite mug. Her hands grasped at nothing. She looked and made a quick search of the shelves above, and the other counter. Her mug was nowhere to be found.

She wondered if the boy had moved it, or a customer, but she had a nagging suspicion it was another instance of her own forgetfulness. Lately, she'd been misplacing things left, right, and centre, and she had occasionally blamed him, only to feel guilty later when she realized it was likely her own fault. He didn't even answer her accusations anymore, just got that sad look on his face, and then she'd have to stammer an apology and stomp out before he saw her looking too sorry. Or scared. It was disconcerting, having these forgetful moments. She wanted to blame the times. Surely the others, all over town, were finding their minds wandering a lot of the time these days. Hard to keep track of the little things, when the big things lay in ruins, wasn't it? There was another more convenient explanation, but it was more troubling. She could still hear her own mother, making her self deprecating cracks about going batty in her golden years. She had resisted being identified with anything batty, or golden, long enough, and was hardly ready to give in to such restrictions now. If someone else misplaced a mug, no one would say they were batty. It would be the stress, wouldn't it?

She shook her head, as if to dispel this uneasy train of thought. She would find another mode of passing the night. She didn't need to be restricted to tea and cosy nights in. She glanced toward her window again. Through the glass, painted with words advertising the products that used to come on the train, she could see the lights, brighter tonight than any night since the bombs. There was comfort, because there was still that light, even though they kept it hidden most nights. She waited a few moments, imagining the silence inside the store was punctuated with the laughs coming from down the street. She gave a small nod, and that was that. She was still as sharp as ever when it came to making up her mind. She crossed the store, buttoning up her sweater as she prepared to brave the fall winds. Stepping out into the darkness, locking the door behind her, she turned her face towards the bright, cheerful display down the street.

There was a maze, set up with bales of hay, and she wondered briefly if the Richmond siblings had anything to do with it. Their corn maze had always been the stuff of legend. The carved pumpkins stretched along both sides of the street, casting flickering shadows on the pavement. The sounds suggested a good crowd: voices of adults were mingling with higher pitched shrieks and laughs. From this distance, she could only make out shadows, but she hesitated to approach. She had spent very little time out here, since the bombs. Truth be told, she was uncomfortable with the crowds. People had changed. The adults wore ravenous looks, grim looks, with eyes that told stories of hard choices that would have to be made. The children were different too. What was it about them that made them so different from the children of last year? It had been hard to see their faces when they were scared, but somehow, it was harder to see them now that they weren't scared. What did it take them, to have already adjusted to this world where no one knew anything, not even whether they would make it through the coming winter? She wouldn't admit it, but she didn't feel adjusted at all. Perhaps this was why she felt so strange, among them now. She had never felt more like a relic, a remnant of a time past, than she had this year. She wasn't ready to admit that things weren't going to get better. That she wouldn't be giving them back their watches and candle sticks and music boxes when the trains started running again. But they were, and she felt a strange sort of uneasiness when she was around them. She preferred to stay inside, in her domain, where things were still within her control.

Yet tonight, there was something that had drawn her outside. Perhaps the holiday enthusiasm was catching. Maybe the sounds and smells of the night air, so reminiscent of those days she sometimes thought were fading even from her memory. A wave of nostalgia, sending her looking for a familiar face, hoping that they could forget their more recent disagreements and share something for a moment while they remembered the Halloweens past.

This is perhaps why she veered away from the crowd in the distance, with its alien new laughter. That part of the street was filled with parents and children of the new era, playing carnival with the less horrifying inhabitants of their world now, the ghosts and witches they knew rather than the faceless attackers somewhere out there. She glanced sideways. The Cyberjolt was completely dark. Ginger and Lou were perhaps still apple bobbing, over on Wyndam Street. She crossed the street, pulling her sweater closer around her, peering up at the darkened steps of town hall. No one was there, though it wasn't surprising. Without the bags of chips and colourful buttons, town hall probably couldn't generate much interest on a night where you could run through a hay maze a few buildings away. She had to smirk just a little, though, that Gray Anderson hadn't taken the opportunity to pass out pamphlets. Never one to miss an opportunity, that one.

Beside town hall, Bailey's was equally dark, but that didn't mean much for a post apocalyptic bar. The candy and treats might be gone but perhaps, if the children were being given their celebration now, the adults would still be celebrating the holiday tonight. She could go inside and see how many familiar faces there were. At the very least, she could have a drink and catch up on the gossip.

She entered the bar quietly, wondering at the strange hush that seemed to have come over it, in a way she had never noticed on any of her prior visits. She was surprised to find it empty. All the lights were out, the air felt strangely stale without the usual crowd of occupants talking and laughing, and no music issued from the jukebox. Instead, a strange series of noises punctuated the air, seeming to emanate from the ceiling and walls. She supposed she was hearing the goings on of Main Street, oddly distorted as they slipped through cracks in the windows and doors.

She shivered as she stepped through the room, making her way towards the bar. Not even the bartender was anywhere to found. Where had that girl gotten to? Of course, she knew that Mary had been a grown woman for longer than she'd been a girl by now, but she still remembered the not yet teenager with her torn denim and huge headphones over her ears, finding interruptions so tedious one moment and talking your ear off the next. The adult though, took care of this place like it was a baby, and now it was strange to find it abandoned. Perhaps everyone was at the carnival. Maybe they would be arriving soon. It couldn't hurt for her to sit down for a moment, now that she'd gotten in here. She made her way closer to the bar.

As she stepped around one of the booths, she had a shock that nearly made her shout. A little girl was crouching underneath the pool table. The girl looked up with wide eyes as the older woman gave a sputtering gasp and took a step back.

“Oh, you scared me!” she exclaimed as soon as she'd caught her breath. She let out a laugh. It sounded unnaturally high in this empty room. “What are you doing in here, sweetheart? The carnival's just out there.”

The little girl gave a quick nod, and gripping the edge of the pool table, she stood up. She was dressed in white (though what was her costume? Perhaps an angel, though she was missing all the usual accessories) and her size suggested she was maybe four or five years old. She smiled shyly, and in the dim lighting, her pale features and white dress created a strange contrast with everything around her. The woman got the odd feeling that she was sizing her up in some way. Children of today. Not afraid when they should be.

“Sweetheart, does your mother know where you are?” she asked, giving the kid a friendly smile and bending slightly towards her.

The girl gave a quick nod, and spoke. “Yes.” Her voice seemed to break that spell that had hovered in the air moments before. The woman mentally scolded herself for being so easily shaken. There was nothing strange about this moment. Children got separated from parents on Main Street all the time. She reached out a hand. “I'll help you find her.”

The girl shook her head. “It's alright,” she said quickly, and suddenly as she had appeared, she was marching towards the door.

“Well...stay safe,” said the woman, feeling a certain hollowness in her words as the girl disappeared into the street. Probably it was safe, to be wandering about Main Street on a bright, crowded night like tonight. The outside world was up in smoke and swallowing trains, and the streets were quieter and hungrier, but not everything was gone. This street had been a home to her for forty-two years. It was always protected by the people usually found walking across it. Shopkeepers warned each other about shoplifters, people stooped to pick up each other's groceries when paper bags ripped, and she once brought bandages to a sobbing Stanley Richmond, assuring him that his bike could be fixed and she'd seen worse knee injuries that fully healed. They had lost so much, but surely they hadn't quite lost that way of making things safe for each other.

Yet she had an odd feeling tonight, that she couldn't quite put a finger on. A strange, foreboding feeling as she looked around the bar that she had frequented often enough over the years. She wondered if something had changed. She hadn't been inside its doors in a while. It had been quite the struggle to keep her own store going, and right after the bombs it had been so much more crowded than usual. A stark contrast from tonight. Something seemed off, but she couldn't figure out what it was. The odd emptiness. The quiet.

Almost quiet. There were the muffled sounds coming from outside, but she caught herself jumping slightly at a rustling sound that seemed to be coming from within. She looked around, but couldn't see its source. Like a whisper, or windswept leaves, but she was in an empty room. She could feel the anxiety within rising, though she told herself it was silly. She peered through the barely lit room, trying to steady her mind with the solid room and its contents, the same as they'd always been, or at least, they had been for a long time. In the dim light, the shadows across the floor seemed strange and different, but she tried to list the things that were familiar. There was the jukebox, waiting idly but still advertising the same songs. There was the plaque from the Jericho Chamber of Commerce. She had one similar back at the store, though hers wasn't displayed next to a photo of Larry Walker. And on the wall close to the bar were those framed concert tickets Patrick had always bragged about. She reached a finger to trace along the edge of the smooth black frame. She wasn't a fan of the Doors, Frank Sinatra and Patsy Cline were more her style, but that concert was famous and she was certain there was more value to the set than her former neighbour had seen in the testament to his short lived wild youth. She felt a slight pang of guilt as she remembered how she had wondered at one point if she would see them in her store cupboard. The last Bailey had avoided making trades since the one time early on where they'd disagreed over how many candles one bottle of gin should fetch. Wherever Mary was getting her supplies, she seemed to be managing, though how long that would last was hard to say. Everyone had to adjust to the new system of value at some point. They would run out of what they had and they would have to see her.

A loud creaking noise startled her out of this train of thought. She whipped around, searching for a source, and glanced with horror at the door as it slammed shut. Gasping, she blinked quickly. The door had moved, but she saw no one. The unease got the better of her for a moment and she retreated behind the bar. Gripping the edge, she tried to calm herself, but the strange sounds continued. Shuffling. A whispering sound, too staccato to be the wind. There was a chill in the room, but she tried to remain completely still, waiting for whatever had made the noise to come into plain sight.

The room was nothing but shapes and shadows. There was the photo of John Elway. Same as ever. There was the sign telling customers that they must be twenty-one to be served alcohol. There was the lamp that reminded her of her piano teacher's house. No. She blinked. Where was the lamp? The side table near the pool table was where the lamp was supposed to be. There was no lamp. Her eyes searched again and again but that lamp was gone.

A sharp sound of laughter rang through the room. Clear and unmistakable. She dropped all pretences and hid behind the bar. She ducked down low, quicker than she thought she could with her stiff knees. Gripping the edge of the shelf below the counter, she listened as quietly as she could, though her heart was pounding. The laughter died down, but then began again. She could almost distinguish a voice, interspersing words. Almost, but it was unnatural, hollow, and it made the back of her neck tingle.

She breathed in and out. What was this? Or who, if that was the more appropriate question? What was this who? And did it, or he or she, notice that she was there? She clung to the wooden ledge, listening. She strained to try to distinguish words from the strange voice. For a moment there was nothing, but then she heard it.

“Alone!” Clear and chilling. Laughter again. Softer, then louder. Then, “Anyone here?”

She didn't dare. She would not draw attention to herself. All the times she'd laughed at her brother for being afraid of the dark, all the times she'd thanked heaven she had sense enough to make her own way in the world, to not be afraid as a single woman running her own place alone, seemed distant past as she stared at the shelf below the bar, willing the disembodied source of the noise to go away.

She didn't pick up coherence in the next words of the voice, something about no one watching. She tried to focus on what her eyes were seeing, rather than her ears. Eyes were sometimes more reliable, as ears, she had come to think, colluded more often with the imagination. Why else was the gossip she traded over the counter less truthful in the long term than the secretive looks and clumsily covered up reactions she noticed when she watched the people around her? Now, she let her eyes linger over the cutting board, the worn paperback book left open the way librarians forbid, the stack of dish cloths, and a jar of what seemed to be some kind of cleaner, that had definitely not come from her store. It was nearly gone, and she allowed herself a little smirk. They would be coming to the store, when they needed more. She might see the tickets after all. They'd be better to trade than whatever alcohol was left. Besides, she -

Chilling, shocking cold, shot through her in dizzying waves. Accompanied by a horrible invading feeling somewhat akin to vertigo. A voice so near it could have been in her head only it was so completely, instantly alien and separate and wrong. And one of the glasses on the shelf in front of her was moving, rising into the air, and she knew it was one of them, there was more than one of them, for this was a different voice, this was a he. He was in her space and lifting a glass, and she turned, despite her fear, to watch the glass moving through the air, and felt he had moved out of her space and was going back into the area on the other side of the bar.

The voices were talking to each other, they were having a conversation, moving objects, and she had to admit by now that it seemed Bailey's was being haunted by something. Someone. But who? Patrick seemed an obvious choice. Her old friend had loved the place and perhaps he'd had trouble letting go of it, or had returned to watch his only child manage surviving the dangers of post apocalyptic living. It didn't seem likely though. Patrick had been gone so long already, surely someone would have noticed him by now, and she was certain if he had remained in the place he'd loved, which had fared just fine after he was gone, the presence people would notice would be a jovial one. She would not be trying not to gasp at the bone chilling, dizzying space invasion. Listening as the voices, the higher female and lower male, carried on speaking and answering each other, she tried to think back to the bar's history before the Baileys. It had been a restaurant at one point, but she couldn't recall the stories going further back, as they now mixed with Patrick's stories that seemed to border on legend. He claimed rum runners, and even underground railroad ties, explaining away the passageways rumoured to exist in the basement. Who knew what other forgotten stories, what other lonely people, had passed through the building without being remembered in the greater history?

Though her mind still raced with the shock and fear of it all, the practical side that had allowed her to succeed as a business owner for so long made an appearance. How had she tackled the problems that arose at the store, or solved the riddles so often tantalizingly offered to her through the gossip she picked up? She had needed to find out more. Swallowing, understanding what she would do moments before she could steel herself to do it, she reached up to grip the edge of the bar, and she pulled herself up and glanced over the side.

She saw two outlines, two figures standing closely together, and though they seemed insubstantial and incongruous with the solid lines of the tables, chairs, and walls, she could make out limbs, faces, movements. They were strange, and she realized quickly that the strangest part of their appearance was the odd way that they seemed to be dressed. They wore plain, unremarkable colours in plain, unremarkable fabrics, but perched on the tops of their heads they seemed to have...horns? She blinked. No, it was more like antlers. What kind of creatures were these? They sounded like humans, she had been thinking about ghosts from the past moments earlier, but she couldn't place this strange sort of human into the building history she had been constructing. Instead, her mind went to the old stories her grandmother used to tell to scare them all into behaving. They had included horrible spirits and creatures that mimicked humans and other animals, but were anything but human. Usually, they'd worn these disguises in order to trick foolish people. Her grandmother's stories had been from her childhood home, over in Cornwall, and hadn't seemed to belong on sensible Kansas soil. She had usually laughed and asked for more stories, but never had they scared her the way the urban legends about killers, or even the stories on the six o'clock news, had. Half human, half animal creatures consorting with devils and evil spirits came from fairy tales. The real humans were the ones you should watch out for.

But now, these two animal humans with blurred outlines and strange laughs were standing close together, talking about something with excitement. One was thanking the other for coming. She wondered what their plans were, what they could possibly be expecting to do in Bailey's tavern. They stepped even closer together, and suddenly they were embracing, their antlered heads together in a blazing kiss.

She had always loved gossip, scandal, and all the high dramatic moments she could observe in her day to day existence in the heart of Main Street. She had witnessed a scandalous kiss or two, right on Main Street, in her time. Yet somehow this seemed indecent. She looked past them, to the windows at the front wall. She could still see some light coming from the street. The living were still out there, oblivious to the odd supernatural tryst occurring in front of only one witness.

She heard them speak again, this time more clearly than ever before.

“We should go get the others,” the female was saying. The witness focused her eyes on the strange pair again. They were still touching, their arms intertwined, but had stepped apart enough to gaze at each other. “They kept saying they were dying to see your look.”

The male voice let out a soft groan. She shivered, thinking about the moment earlier when they had occupied the same space. The room had been filled with cold since the spirits had appeared, and it only seemed to be getting worse. “They'll be here soon enough,” the male voice said. “Can't we enjoy having the place to ourselves while they're still out having their carnival fun?” He pulled his companion closer again.

She shuddered, but her mind raced over the things she'd heard. They thought they were alone, so was it possible they didn't realize they had a living person among them? Perhaps she could sneak out, go back to her store and her tea mug and quiet, and put this strange chapter of her life behind her. She began to stand, but stopped. What if, in trying to escape, she drew attention to herself? She remembered then, the other ominous thing they had said. There were others. Others who were on their way. Would they be even more terrible, more chilling, than this pair? On this matter, her apprehension far outweighed her curiosity. Keeping her eye on the amorous set of ghostly creatures, she walked as quietly as she could towards the door, taking each step slowly and pausing often to see if she was noticed. She wasn't. She had almost made her escape when she heard it. Another set of voices, on the other side of the door. Loud, excited, getting closer.

She retreated, as quickly as she could, pressing herself up against the closest wall and watching in silence as an even stranger group of spirits came through the door. These ones didn't look like animals, though their clothing seemed to suggest another time and another style than any she imagined had existed in Jericho history. There were more of them, at least three of different heights, dressed in flowing, flamboyant ensembles with glittering accessories. They seemed to notice the first pair, as they broke out into a fresh peal of laughter, begrudgingly joined by the animal lovers.

“Looking good,” said the tallest one. It was a bearded man wearing a grin beneath a big black hat with a gold trimmed brim. As he came closer to the animal-persons, clapping the taller one on the shoulder, she realized the emblem on his hat was a skull and crossbones. The rest of his outfit, the loose fitting white shirt, the belt with the big buckle, and the boots, suggested the high seas as well. The taller animal-person made a noise that sounded like a snort.

“I think they look darling!” came another voice, and the shortest of the pirates, a woman (though their unnoticed witness wondered if female pirates had often cut their hair in such a short bob) came across the room to place a bundle on one of the tables.

The male ghosts were making faces at each other but the animal-man shrugged and said “thanks.”

“Of course, dear,” said the shortest pirate, with a mischievous look on her face. There were snickers around the room. The woman waiting quietly against the wall felt her uneasiness intensifying at all their laughs, ringing through the empty bar. “The others will be excited to see your outfit.”

“I'm sure they will,” said the man-animal with a grimace. “Drinks, anyone?” He turned to glance at the third pirate, who was depositing a shoulder bag at the table. “Hope you don't mind I started us off.”

“Yeah, sure. You're welcome to help yourself,” she said, shifting a bundle in her arms. The silent witness realized now that technically, there was a pirate shorter than the redhead who'd teased the antlered man. This curly-haired pirate was holding a small child in her arms, and the child seemed to match them in swashbuckling attire, bedecked in a striped jumper and vest.

“Did you guys have a good carnival?” asked the antlered man, reaching to touch the pirate baby's outstretched hand for a moment before passing a glass to one of the other pirates. The pirate baby was staring up at him, her eyes wide. The woman watching the scene wondered if a half-human, half-woodland-animal would seem strange to a pirate baby under normal circumstances. Perhaps they were all familiar to each other, since they all seemed to come from the same strange spirit world.

“It was great. So many great costumes this year,” said the taller pirate woman, rocking the baby back and forth as she shifted her weight. “She was smiling at all the kids.” She motioned her head down. “You should've seen Woody and Sam. They came as a plane and a train. Said they tried to get Sally to be an automobile but she wanted to be a scarecrow.”

“They all did a parade outside the market,” added the redhead. “Everyone was in it, even some of the bigger kids.”

“I'm sorry I missed that,” said the animal-man. She wondered if animal-human spirits were especially sarcastic by nature.

“You should be,” teased the animal-woman, poking his side. “There was, in particular, an awesome royal family.”

“You'll get to see them soon enough,” smirked the pirate man. The woman shuddered as again, the spirits laughed. Their words were strange and curious. They had been mingling at the carnival? In amongst the living? Perhaps it was a Halloween thing. It seemed, from their speech, that there were more of them out there still, watching the families of Jericho celebrating and playing on Main Street. Her mind reeled at these revelations, and she wondered if this had always been happening and she had never looked closely enough to see.

They continued to talk about the carnival, and she began to notice in herself the strangest feeling of familiarity. They were so bizarre, so unnerving and unnatural, standing in the midst of this ordinary bar in their animal and pirate clothes, but as they talked and laughed, she felt for moments that their voices sounded familiar. The way one of them would stand, the gesture another would repeat, were jarringly familiar. She considered her earlier thought about the reliability of vision. These strange spirits sounded a lot more familiar than they looked, but their movements were confusingly familiar sometimes. She turned her attention to the pirate baby again, who was watching the other inhabitants of the room with curiosity, rewarding them with a smile when they glanced her way. Oddly, she looked familiar, though the woman could not place where she might have before seen a pirate baby with those bright brown eyes and curls, that most resembled her strange pirate mother, more than anything that could be placed within the woman's own history. Still, she felt like she was gazing on something she should know, or at least link with something familiar.

Her mind went over again the inhabitants that had been known to pass through this building's walls. The Baileys. The restaurant owners. The rum runners. The escaped slaves. Nowhere in the legend did there exist pirates and deer people. Yet these spirits didn't talk about history. They spoke of costume contests and carnival games. They didn't seem to be lost in time, but perennial as the fall season itself.

“And you should have seen Gray's face!” the animal-woman was saying, to laughter again. “I don't think he'll be volunteering for that booth next year.”

“And you didn't even win her anything, for her first carnival?” the animal-man was asking, shaking his head at the pirate man.

“We didn't even get a chance at the bean bag toss,” the pirate man said with a chuckle. The pirate women both shook their heads, smirks on their faces. “It was too much fun for someone else we know.”

The pirates exchanged devilish grins. “I thought they were right behind us when we left,” said the brunette pirate, glancing over her shoulder. “I don't know how we lost them.”

“Wait'll you see, Stanley's got this bit he's getting everyone to-” the pirate man was interrupted and the woman held her breath and braced herself as another group entered the bar, adding to the dizzying energy of the spirit gathering already underway as they greeted their companions. The woman couldn't help but marvel, for she'd never seen a stranger set of associates in life. This new set of strange and wondrous spirits, who seemed perfectly content to mingle with the bawdy pirates and earthy animal-persons, wore crowns and robes, and the female of the pair in particular held herself in a stately manner as she exchanged greetings. She wore a delicate tiara that glittered more subtly than the pirates' garish outfits and she swished her cape around her in a dignified manner, though the raucous laugh she let out when she approached the animal-humans offered a sharp contrast. Perhaps this was why she preferred the company of ruffians and beasts.

“Shut up,” glowered the animal-man, though no one seemed too worried to invoke his wrath. Of course, they were all from the spirit realm themselves, why should they be afraid?

“That's 'Shut up your Majesty,'” said the male noble, who she saw, was cradling another small child, this one seemingly asleep against his chest, with one arm as he made a grand sweeping gesture with his other. “And I just want to pronounce you and your costume as totally awesome, man.”

“What's this I hear about you commandeering the bean bag toss?” asked the animal-man, seeming thoroughly unimpressed with the compliment.

“Wanted to give him, well, both the kiddos, a good first Halloween carnival to remember,” shrugged the king, motioning again at the child, who seemed even younger than the smallest pirate. He was attired like his parents, in a velvety sleeper and small crown, his dark eyelashes and round features still as he slept through the commotion.

“Well, they're not going to actually remember,” the royal female cut in, but the father continued.

“We had to try everything. Even got an honourable mention in the costume parade.” He beamed proudly as his companions smiled.

The woman who now found herself somehow in the midst of a gathering of, she counted, nine spirits wondered at the strangeness. Surely a king wouldn't be interested in boasting about a simple carnival to this group of rag tag subjects. The king's cape was perched crookedly across his broad shoulders and his sandy haired swagger reminded her more of a school boy she might have watched carefully in the candy aisle at the store. Again, the woman felt an uncanny sense that she should recognize something in his dimpled smile as the animal-persons congratulated him, or in the grudging eye roll of his freckled but regal companion.

The animal-man's skeptical smirk made her uneasily certain she should be able to tie it into something in the stories she held in her memory. “And your costume is supposed to be -”

“It's a tie in with our adventure last year,” said the king excitedly. “You know, a – a -”

“An homage,” supplied the queen, patting his arm.

“Correct as usual,” he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “But you just wanted to do it so people would have to call you Your Majesty.”

“I don't know what's scarier, you two on a power trip or the fact you're reminding us about that freak -” The animal-man cut himself off at a look from the shortest pirate, and glanced suddenly at his cervine companion. “Er, I mean...”

“No offence taken,” shrugged the animal-woman. “She's only related to my brother.”

“But it is kind of weird for you to call it an adventure,” finished the animal-man, turning back to the king and queen. “I just remember a busted ankle and a lot of worrying.” He glanced carefully this time at the pirates, gauging their reaction, though the king spoke first.

“Yeah, things were dicey, but some good things came out of it.” He shared a glance with the queen that the woman watching would have interpreted, had they been townspersons in her store, as a hint to seek out the latest gossip around them. She had a strange, distinct feeling that there was something off. Their attire matched, but she had an inkling that there was something incongruous about the way they stood, their elbows touching, their eyes saying things she wouldn't want to repeat out loud. She glanced again at the animal-man, who was still watching the pirates.

The tallest pirates were sharing a meaningful glance too. The woman felt a ripple of shock. Again, she was feeling a strange sense of deja vu. There was something about this pair, she was certain, something more than meets the eye, something that could be rather scandalous if word got out... She stopped herself. These thoughts made no sense. Even less than watching spirits consort in an empty Bailey's.

“Yeah, we were okay, weren't we?” asked the female pirate holding the baby pirate. Her question seemed to be for the rest of the room but she was only looking at her companion. He nodded, a small smile on his face. “Yeah.”

“Don't you mean 'Aye, matey'?” asked the king, breaking the solemn mood as quickly as he'd started it.

“Actually, it'd be “Aye, me proud beauty,” said the pirate man with a grin.

The animal-man rolled his eyes. “Only you would know the real pirate way to say it.”

The pirate man rolled his eyes too. “Better believe it, scurvy dog!”

“Oh, speaking of real pirate way!” exclaimed the king, gesturing so excitedly that the little one woke up, fluttering his eyelashes and squawking. “Did they show you the dance?” He rocked the baby back and forth and the witness was almost certain she heard him murmur “It's okay, Prince Tuesday.”

The animal-man had an uncertain look on his face, but the animal-woman exclaimed in delight. “Oh, show him the dance!”

“I royally command you,” added the king. “The dance was seriously one of the top carnival moments.”

The pirates and the animal-man protested, though the woman watching was sure it was just for show.

“Here, I'll take her, you do the dance,” insisted the animal-woman, reaching for the pirate baby. The pirate woman laughed, handed over the tiny buccaneer, and the three pirates stepped into the centre of the room as the others stepped aside to clear a space.

The woman watched in confusion, jarred by the pirates' odd talk about being real but strangely comforted by their voices as they began to sing. It turned out that the dance was a lively, foot stomping, hand clapping, swinging around sort of dance, accompanied by all three pirates raucously singing. The song was familiar to the woman, but not what she was expecting from them. She almost tapped her foot along with them as they came to the chorus, singing the words she knew were coming, “Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me.”

They swung their fists in the air in unison, then taking turns to link arms and swing around as they broke into the next verse. The others in the room were laughing, clapping in time, and in the case of the king, shouting out “Drink up, me hearties, yo-ho!” in the right intervals.

The pirate man had looked slightly self-conscious as the dance had begun, but by now he was enthusiastically shouting out “We're devils and black sheep, we're really bad eggs, drink up, me hearties, yo-ho!” and laughing with his fellow dancers.

The woman smiled and then suddenly, felt herself laughing, in spite of herself, in spite of the strangeness, the things that didn't go together in the scene before her. No one seemed to notice her, even as she heard her own laughter mingle with theirs. The others watching seemed mostly to be enjoying it too, as the queen was laughing, the animal-woman was lightly jiggling the pirate baby along to the song, and the king was still joining any parts he knew.

Only the animal-man was still watching with a look of dismay. As the king glanced at him, he muttered “I am so not related to these people.”

The king chuckled. “Dude, you're the one dressed like a deer.”

She glanced again at the animal-man, standing with his arms crossed and a scowl of martyrdom on his face, and a jolt of surprise hit her. Somehow, his reaction, more than anything she had seen that night, sent warning signals through her brain. Warning of a feeling of recognition. Almost as if a name was just there below the surface, on the tip of her tongue. She shook her head. It was ridiculous. Animal-men with names she would know?

“Here, take Prince Tuesday,” said the king, pressing his son into the animal-man's arms and rushing forward to link arms with one of the pirates on “We're beggars and blighters, and ne-er do-well cads!” He motioned to the queen, who laughed and pointed to the drink in her hand. The king gave a nod as they all shouted “Drink up, me hearties, yo-ho!”

“Aye, but we're loved by our mommies and dads – especially you,” cut in the pirate man, pointing over at the pirate baby in the female deer's arms. The child was watching, smiling seemingly with the amusement of the very young for the silly antics of their elders. The animal-woman laughed and joined in for the last chorus, singing loudly and bouncing the baby. The animal-man, it seemed, couldn't hold back a smile.

“Yo-ho, is this another American tradition?” came a voice in the doorway.

The woman was not surprised anymore that more spirits were joining the gathering, though she still found herself staring in awe at the two newest arrivals standing near the entrance now. A man and a woman it seemed, her with pale hair and skin that seemed to glow in the dim light, he with a darker complexion and sparkling eyes, both attired in strange clothes like all the other guests. They were not animal-humans, not pirates either, and their clothes seemed to most resemble the king and queen, though the silky, loosely fitting fabrics and intricate footwear seemed to suggest yet another time and place – perhaps, she thought to herself, that book about Arabian Nights that her father had read them when they were kids. Both walked confidently and carried themselves with airs befitting the characters of classic adventure tales.

The other spirits were enthusiastic in welcoming them, especially the king who rushed forward and lifting a hand to his crown, gave them a little nod. “Prince Aladdin and Princess Jasmine, I presume.”

The male, who she supposed had taken his name from the most famous Arabian tale, chuckled. His voice, she noticed, had a sort of accent. “Yes, but who are you supposed to be? That mascot they used to have on those commercials?” He turned to his companion. “When I first arrived in Vegas, they had him on a billboard. I think it was for one of your fast food chains.”

“No, no, no,” groaned the king. “Here,” he motioned to one of the pirates. “Show them how it goes.” He drew himself up in a most dramatic fashion and said, “Eric the Red-Beard, I presume.”

“Correct as usual, King Friday,” smirked the bearded pirate.

“Seriously?” asked the Arabian Nights princess with a laugh. The king ignored her and turned towards the animal-persons. “Doe, the female deer I presume.”

“Correct as usual, King Friday!” said the deer woman with a laugh.

“And who are you guys?” asked the princess, surveying the woodland couple. “Baby-snatching were-elks?”

“We're not elks,” said the deer man, passing the baby in his arms to the queen.

The king gave a nod. “Jake the two-antlered, I presume.”

The pirates were bringing drinks to the newcomers and the deer woman went over to join them as her companion grimaced and folded his arms. A smile crossed his lips then as he surveyed his royal friend. “Yeah, well, you're supposed to be a puppet, aren't you? Doesn't that mean we should just shove -”

“Johnston Jacob!”

The woman froze. That name. Shouted at a deer-man by a redheaded pirate who was sipping cider with one hand and clutching a pirate baby with another. But that was his name. That was her friend's name, the mayor, one of the ones she thought she might see if she ventured out tonight.

For a moment it was as if the spell was broken. She was reminded of the very real world she had been immersed in until very recently when she had happened accidentally on this moment of overlap with the spirit world. The world of Jericho, Kansas, after the bombs that had changed everything. A sometimes dark and scary place, but a place where there were still real things to hold onto. The familiar comfort of Main Street. The things she hid in the storeroom for safe keeping. Above all, her friends. Her neighbours. The girl with the headphones, the boy with the scraped knees, the father and son handing out the civic souvenirs with the Halloween treats. And the father, that was his name!

She peered at the man, with the antlers on his head, who was now muttering “I'm a stag, okay. She said it would be sexy.” At his friend's chuckle, he added, “Fine, laugh all you want Stanley. Enjoy the party while you can.”

“I will,” said the king. The woman reeled. Stanley. That was the name of the boy with the scabby knees. Of course, she'd seen him grow up too. Seen him come to Main Street on many Halloweens, basking in the afterglow of the success of his corn maze and knocking over decorations at the Bailey's Haunted House party. She remembered in particular, for some reason, the time a few years ago, when he had come dressed in high-waisted pants, a buttoned up and tucked in shirt, thick round glasses, and a bow-tie. She'd asked him what he was supposed to be and he'd answered, “One of those nerds who works with numbers and files all day,” chuckling as pre-teen Bonnie stood beside him wearing a vampire costume and a mortified expression. Now, this man had the same name, and she decided, he did have the same eyes, same hair, same swagger and smile. But he couldn't be the boy with the dented bicycle.

“Anyone for popcorn?” The female pirate, the taller one, was circulating among the guests now, holding a big bowl.

“Anything stronger?” asked Aladdin.

“Saving the strongest stuff for when the crowd gets here,” she said. “But I'll get you something.” She went behind the bar, and reached for a glass. Again, the woman felt an uncanny certainty she had seen her do this exact motion before.

“Thanks, Mary. So when does the party start?” the blond princess was asking as she and her companion accepted drinks. Mary. The last Bailey. The woman struggled to explain to herself how it was that the girl with the big headphones could be here amidst the consorting spirits. She'd seen her the other day hadn't she? She'd looked much the same, same hair and eyes, same expressions and gestures.

She laughed with the same laugh her neighbour remembered. “It's already started, but if you mean when are the other adults getting here, I think we'll start to see more people soon.”

“What, this isn't the main party?” asked the king (Stanley?) with mock horror.

“This is our party,” shrugged his regal companion. He shrugged. “Correct as usual, Sarah Saturday.”

“Ours too,” said the pirate. Eric. They had called him Eric! How had she not remembered? She'd seen him sing and dance in three Jericho High productions. “I'll eventually have to head up with this one.” He motioned at the little pirate.

“Aw, you guys aren't staying?” asked the princess.

“It'll be up to you who can sleep in tomorrow to set the tone,” shrugged the pirate man.

The woman noticed the princess and the antlered man (Jake!) were sharing an uneasy glance. Where had she seen that?

“And I'll be here, Em. Working night,” added Mary the pirate. “But for now, let's have fun!”

Em. The blond. Emily. One day throwing snowballs and whooping, running in the park behind town hall. Another buying napkins and flowers for a fancy dinner.

“Couldn't agree more, sweetheart. Candy apple?” asked the other female pirate. Those candy apples. Gail Green was famous for them.

The woman took a shaky breath. It couldn't be. There were too many of them. Too many of them to be a trick. Not a gathering of unknown spirits. Their faces were familiar. Those were their voices. The Greens. Well, most of them. The last Bailey. One of the last Richmonds. Some others...

“I, for one, am thankful for caramel,” said the animal-woman, eyeing her candy apple before taking a big bite.

“Heather, I believe you're one holiday off,” said the Aladdin. They all chuckled.

The deer woman - she was the school teacher. Yes, the one who Emily had introduced three years ago as “Heather, she's from New Bern but she's teaching third grade here!” That meant she was a neighbour really. It seemed strange now. They hadn't heard from New Bern since the bombs, so it seemed so far away now, but back then it had been their closest neighbour. And the teacher was one of theirs now, her hometown a world away. And an animal-woman. But how?

She clutched her arms around herself, trying to make sense, feeling a strange dizziness. What was going on? She had come out in search of these familiar faces tonight, but had believed them to be a terrifying gaggle of spirits. How had she made this mistake? What she had wanted had been right in front of her face, yet she'd shivered and worried and tried to explain the simple with the language of the fantastical.

She put a hand to her head. Something was wrong, that was clear. It really was happening like it had with her mother, though she refused to call it going batty. Besides, her mother forgot where she put her keys and tried to cook a handbag instead of a turkey once. She never envisioned regular people to be ethereal spirits. Perhaps something to do with the times. She'd certainly observed some erratic behaviour from her fellow townspeople, watching them through the curtains in her office window. She would normally be loathe to admit it. She hated not being able to take care of herself. But this was frightening, and she had been so alone tonight, she was ready to give up all pretences and ask someone to help.

What would she ask for? “Someone help me, I'm confusing reality with stories?” “I'm batty enough to mistake your costumes for echoes of the past?” Maybe just somewhere to sit down. She was starting to feel woozy. A glass of water and somewhere to rest. She took a shaky step forward.

“Mary,” she said, hearing her voice ring out clearly, for the first time tonight. “Mary, could I bother you for a glass of water?”

She stepped right up to the bartender, who was collecting glasses to refill. She didn't seem to notice the request. “Excuse me, Mary,” she said a little louder. She followed her towards the bar, but couldn't seem to get her to turn around. “Is it too much to ask?” She could hear her voice getting more annoyed. She'd always hated when someone kept their back turned.

“Mary Bailey, I've known you since you were a girl! Why won't you look at me when I'm talking to you?” She was near tears she was so exasperated. Mary turned, and for a moment she expected to finally be recognized. The bartender smiled, but there was something odd about her gaze. The woman wondered if the no-longer-a-girl was looking at her since it seemed like she was focusing on something farther away. “Thanks,” said Mary.

“I'll get the rest, you go enjoy the non-working time.” It was Eric. Eric, stepping in and touching Mary's arm, with absolutely no consideration for the woman still waiting for a glass of water.

And Mary had no consideration either. It was clear the look on her face was meant for Eric as she said softly “Thanks, hon,” and kissed him quickly.

Her outrage was somewhat abated by this odd familiarity. Johnston's boy and Patrick's girl. That's why they'd seemed scandalous earlier, when she couldn't quite recognize them. It wasn't a complete surprise, though. She'd seen them just the other night. The lights had lit Main Street for the first time and they'd stood there kissing like they were in an epic and the story was about to end. She had wondered briefly at what kind of talk there'd be next time the store was open, but it wasn't as if they'd kept it secret. The value of the gossip depreciated significantly the more people who knew.

Certainly everyone in this room seemed to know, seemed in fact, nonplussed. It looked natural for them to go back to the group and mingle with the others, who all seemed comfortable with each other. She followed, trying to ignore the growing panic rising in her. “Mary!” she said, as loudly as she could. “Eric!”

Mary paused for a moment and turned to look around. “You feel that?” she asked quietly.

Eric raised his eyebrows. “What?”

Mary glanced around again, and shook her head. “Nothing, I guess.”

Eric stole a glance over his shoulder, and though he was looking right at his neighbour, the one who could remember his Halloween costumes from the time he'd dressed as a clown and dropped all the oranges that were too big for his little hands to juggle, to last year when he'd handed out candy and buttons while dressed as a cowboy. You'd think he'd remember her, she thought to herself, but just like his apparent lover, he turned back to their friends.

The forlorn woman tried to get Gail's attention. Gail had been her friend for years. Gail looked strange, balancing a baby and a tray of candy, dressed like a pirate, surrounded by one half of the family. Were the others expected as part of the later crowd coming to the party? Gail was too enthralled with her guests and that odd pirate baby, though the woman did get the strangest idea for a moment that the baby was looking at her. But none of the others were looking at her. They were wrapped up in a conversation, in which it seemed they were explaining Stanley's costume to the stranger with the British accent.

“You mean to say your costume idea comes from a puppet show?” he was asking.

“They weren't all puppets. Only the ones from the land of Make Believe,” Stanley explained.

“Not even everyone in Make Believe was a puppet,” said Heather. “Remember Lady Aberlin? Though it seemed like she was related to the puppets, weirdly enough. King Friday used to call her his niece.”

“Hey, that's right,” said Stanley. He turned towards Gail and gave a nod of his head to the baby. “I guess there's a part for my niece after all. Niece Aberlin, I presume.” He glanced at his queen, who wore an expression of dismay. “What? Isn't that better than suggesting she be Wednesday?”

“Like Addams? That was just mean! I just think there are enough weird day of the week people,” said the queen. “And I clearly got the best day.”

“Tuesday's a good day,” said Mary, now holding the little boy child in her arms and making a funny face at him. He stared with eyes like saucers.

His mother smirked. “You get Tuesdays off,” she said. “Anyway, at least there were no Sundays in Make Believe that we had to account for.”

“Not like Saturday couldn't kick her ass,” said Stanley. She smiled at him.

The woman puzzled as she watched his interaction, momentarily forgetting her quest to get their attention. Who was this Saturday queen? How is it that Stanley had gotten so close to her without showing up on the Main Street gossip meter? She peered at the queen some more and had a faint realization that she'd seen that eye roll before. From a snarky woman in business wear refusing to listen to a shopkeeper's warnings. Yet, Stanley was laughing with her, dressing like her, and seemed to be raising a child with her, as the little prince unmistakably had his dimples and her eyelashes. This couldn't have all happened since she'd last seen him, days ago, arguing about how to protect the town and where to store the corn for the winter.

The others, they were different too. Jake agreeing to dress in that costume, making grimaces at his friends and eyes at that girl. Heather, in the thick of things instead of being introduced in. Emily, relaxed and laughing instead of looking worried it was all going to disappear. None of that had been true last night, had it? She wondered herself if this strange world would disappear in a moment too and she'd be left alone in an empty Bailey's.

And then there was the stranger in their midst, the one from England, trying now to understand an American nostalgia for children's programming.

“So you aren't really royalty, you're puppets?”

“We're still royalty,” protested the business queen.

“As royal as you anyway. You're just a cartoon king,” added Stanley.

“Not so,” protested the British Aladdin. “I'll have you know, the story of Aladdin goes back centuries, and many versions have been told. It's known throughout the world, not just on American television.”

“Well,” countered Stanley, “Aladdin's not even really a king, is he? He's really a street kid who gets lucky.”

“That depends,” said Emily, which elicited a laugh from several of her friends, but the two kings were now staring each other down.

“I don't want to have to pull rank, but King Friday's the boss,” said Stanley.

Perhaps they really were ghosts, the woman thought to herself, as she experimentally reached a hand out to touch Stanley's shiny cape. Her hand slipped through the fabric like it would a stream of water descending from a tap. He kept talking like he didn't notice.

“Seriously, he was in charge of their neighbourhood and all the ones nearby too. He was badass.”

“I doubt he could exert that much power, he didn't even have a magic genie,” the protesting prince countered.

“Are you guys just going to keep trying to outrank each other or are we going to have some fun?” asked Emily with a bemused look on her face. “It's not like it's a contest anyway. We have a palace and gold and tigers.”

“We have an amazing castle with a trolley,” said Stanley.

“Everyone is royalty if you really think about it,” piped up Heather. “You know, you guys are ruling over Make Believe and palaces and stuff, but we're king and queen of the forest.” She motioned to her antlers. “So really, we're all the same.”

Before the kings could respond, Eric raised his fist in a mock-threatening gesture. “Yer all scallywags to us. We'll make ye all walk the plank, whatever your rank!”

Stanley played along with a look of mock horror. Mary added, “Except Prince Tuesday. His pirate aunt will keep him safe.” She smiled down at the prince, who seemed to have fallen asleep again.

Gail nodded. “Me too. Grandma pirates are softies. But the rest of you landlubbers better look out!” She shifted the baby pirate into one arm so she could make her own threatening pirate gesture.

“Aye, me hearty!” nodded Eric.

Jake rolled his eyes, but glanced at Stanley, who was giving him a significant look. “I know, dressed like a deer,” he said, but he smiled as he glanced at Heather, who was watching this with an amused expression.

The woman watched them continue to tease each other as they passed around more food and drink, and wondered to herself about these visions that seemed so real. Perhaps they were ghosts of the people she'd seen going about their lives only yesterday and last week. But it couldn't be as simple as that. Not only hadn't she heard of anything happening to them, and she supposed she would have heard something if tragedy had befallen even one important member of the Jericho community, but these were different versions of the people she knew. Not only did they speak differently to each other, organize themselves in different pairs and groups than she expected, but they looked changed. She couldn't quite explain why, but Eric looked different. Something about his eyes. Jake looked different. The way he was standing maybe. Gail, Stanley, Mary, Emily, Heather. They didn't look much older physically but something suggested they had seen more than the people she spied on as they ran around Main Street. Then of course, there were the children (Gail had called herself a grandma!) and the other partners whose names she didn't even know. They seemed to be from another time.

She wondered if maybe you could see ghosts from another time. After all, ghosts would exist outside of time, wouldn't they? Perhaps somehow (maybe it was the night, Halloween), she was getting a rare glimpse not of the past, but of the future. She shuddered, wondering suddenly if she should be afraid for them. They seemed happy, talking and laughing, but what if they were here because something had befallen them in the future? Or could they be a vision of the future, but not necessarily dead? She tried to think back to all the supernatural stories she'd ever heard, but most of them seemed to involve moments stuck in the past, not the future. Perhaps mortals such as herself had experienced things like this before but never been able to wrap their minds around it enough to describe it.

She found herself frozen as she contemplated what it could mean, watching the friends, her neighbours, celebrating and teasing each other, feeling lonely at the same time as she worried that she was seeing this for a reason. Perhaps she was meant to go back out there, and find the real versions of these people, and warn them about something? But what was the reason for this? And when would they all laugh and celebrate like this again? She remembered, as if it were long ago, the signs of the Halloween carnival she had spotted earlier in the night. Those moments were few and far between these days, as rare maybe as seeing a gathering of vision people who could prophetize echoes of that which was still to come.

She sighed. Was it that she longed to join them? Whether they were real or not? It had been so long, this dark, cold time. Her friends, neighbours, familiar streets, they were the same but changed. She felt weary on waking and restless each night. These bright and happy shadows, they seemed to beckon her towards a warmer time, a hopeful time so removed from the one that seemed to be upon them in the present day that she started considering whether they were a hallucination and nothing more.

This seemed the saddest possibility, sadder than imagining them as ghosts basking in celebration after an unspecified future event. She hugged her arms to herself again, shivering and rocking back and forth on the spot. The visions continued to converse, unaware and un-acknowledging of any cataclysmic events that had put them there, and unknowing the fears and cold worries of their current selves, no doubt shivering and fighting the night somewhere else on Main Street.

Much easier, to hold onto them like this. Stare at their faces and impossibly bright, gracefully moving bodies, unburdened somehow of the things outside this bar, this street, this town. Music was playing now, the friends were seated at tables, the children being passed from lap to lap, the food being passed across tables, the drinks enthusiastically clinked, sloshed, brandished. It was entrancing.

A high pitched giggle, a sound that seemed of a different quality, less blurred than the rest, broke into the bright buzz. Out of the corner of her eye, a movement caught her attention. A flash of white. She turned.

Disappearing around the corner of the bar was a tiny figure. White-clothed. Flame-coloured hair.

The woman could hear the little footsteps, somehow louder than the many adults' voices. Curious, she took a step towards that side of the room, and then another, walking around the oblivious shadow persons, half expecting the strange little figure to have vanished by the time she made her way around the bar.

But she hadn't. The little girl was standing, plain as day, holding her hands behind her back, bending her knees slightly so that her skirt swished from side to side. She stared back at the woman, a shy sort of smile on her pale little face. The woman blinked, but the little girl was still there. So was the gathering of spirits, their music and voices still floating amiably in the atmosphere. Only one, though, was looking at her.

“You can see me?” asked the woman in a shaking voice.

The little girl nodded. “Don't worry. You're real as I am,” she said in a cheerful voice.

She looked at the woman for a few moments longer, then stepped right up to the bar, gripping the edge with one hand and holding a small plastic horse with her other, galloping it across the surface and humming to herself, looking around the bar to watch the scene unfolding.

The woman waited a moment, wondering if either sight, the girl or the group, would vanish. When they didn't, she decided to brave another question.

“What about them? Are they real?”

“Yeah,” said the little girl, with a hint of amusement in her voice. “Real as us. But they look funnier tonight than usual.” She giggled and continued to play with the horse.

“They're...always here?” asked the woman, wondering why the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up. “Do you see them often?”

The little girl nodded again. “I come here all the time, and play with my little sister.” She pointed towards the people celebrating. “I watch her sleep, and make Chestnut dance for her,” she held up the horse. “And I play with her hair, and sing, and make her smile. Her hair is darker than mine, and her eyes, but I think we have the same smile.”

“You...” The woman wondered where this little girl had come from. Was she from her own time, or only theirs? Yet she seemed like she was from both, or maybe neither. “Do they see you?”

“My sister does. Mom says she might not always, but I think part of her will always know. Her mom and Daddy know, even though they don't see usually.” She shrugged. “That's just how it has to be. Makes it too hard if they see us too much. But one day they will. We'll all be together. Not yet though, now I get to visit and play. She's going to laugh any day now, and I think she'll sound like me.” The little girl smiled, and the woman wondered if the smile was like anyone else she knew. The girl peered at her then, and asked a question of her own. “Who are you visiting?”

“Visiting?” A question that made sense, she supposed, but also was strange. “I just came out for the party. To celebrate.”

The little girl nodded. “My mom and stepdad went to a party tonight too. They're superheros!” She grinned. “I helped them pick their costumes.”

“Do...do they know you're here?” the woman asked. The only question she could think of. The only thing that seemed to make sense, when presented with a small but articulate child. And yet was obviously so strange.

“Yup, some of my grandpas are watching me.” She reached out a little hand. “Do you want to meet them? You can come with us.”

“I...” the woman had a strange feeling. The little girl was too confident. Too calm. There was something too reassuring about her way of inviting her. Instinct was taking over, the instinct that had allowed her to get by, alone, a business woman and survivor, all these years. “No,” she said, backing away. “No, I don't think so.”

“You sure?” asked the little girl. “You can come visit us. Nobody should have no one to visit.”

“I'm just fine, thank you,” she said, making her way back through the bar, around the partygoers. She glanced over her shoulder a moment, where the little girl was still playing, humming in an unconcerned sort of way.

Taking a breath, she turned towards the door. She let out a shriek.

A true, bonafide ghost was standing there. His clothes were more scraggly than they'd usually been, but she knew those features, the left hand still stubbornly wearing a ring after all these years, and that laugh as he saw her. Patrick Bailey was beaming at her, as though she were a sight for sore eyes, as though he were unaware that the sight of him could give someone a heart attack.

He looked no different than he had almost fifteen years ago. That last summer before he'd taken a turn for the worst. He laughed again and stepped towards her. “Well, long time no see!” he exclaimed.

She backed up quickly, back into the bar, back in the direction of the partygoers and, behind them, the little girl. What was this? A gathering of spirits from the past and the future? Perhaps it was the end. A hallucination brought on under the physiological strains of cardiac arrest, or maybe a stroke. Everything she'd survived, the bombs, the darkness, the cold, the dealings with so many people, the careful arranging of all that was hers in the world, and it would be a simple killer, stress or age or fear, a usual death.

Unusual. The dead and the not yet alive, apparently here to guide her towards it. Patrick looked confused now, and the little girl was watching, she saw, with a serious expression. She would not go easily. Not for nothing had she fought tooth and nail to keep the store open, thirty years ago when the bank had been on her case, ten years ago when they'd built the Costco in New Bern, last week when Jonah'd first come to see her. No, it would be harder to get her to give it up, than with a strange performance.

“No!” she shouted when she'd finally gained her voice. “No, no, no!”

Patrick was advancing slowly, raising an arm, perhaps to calm her but she moved further away. She held her arms in front of her as if to shield herself. “No, I won't believe it! None of you are here! I am not going batty!”

“Hang on a minute, no one's going batty!”

Another familiar voice. She looked towards the door. Relief, white, hot, relief sprang from inside her and she could nearly feel herself in tears as she looked at the familiar face. Johnston Green stood in the doorway, and he wore a calm, businesslike expression she recognized from some of the speeches he'd given while trying to calm down the panicking townsfolk every time disaster struck. He was looking right at her, and he looked nothing like the bright and shining revellers who were even now still carrying on, oblivious to all that was going on around them. “Gracie? What's going on here?” he asked.

She let out a small laugh. Someone talking to her, someone she knew to be alive and well and here and now, looking right at her. “Oh, Johnston. Thank God!”

Johnston came into the bar, though he came to stand beside Patrick, and she vaguely registered that he too was dressed in much messier clothing than he usually donned. Still, he was solid and real like her, and she needed someone else to know, to see, what she had experienced. “Johnston, Patrick Bailey, he's right beside you! I can see him!”

Both men chuckled. Odd. Johnston glanced towards Patrick, so he could see him too. “Who do you think makes the better hobo? I think I've got the authentic beard going for me.”

“What?” she asked.

“Get me a guitar and I can play the hobo road songs,” said Patrick.

“I think you're both great!” exclaimed the little girl, who was coming over to the men.

“Why, thank you darlin',” said Johnston with a smile.

“Did ya see them, Grandpa? Isn't she cute? Aren't they great pirates?” asked the girl.

Johnston nodded. Patrick smiled. “Pretty great, but I also think the doe and deer are really something. I would've given them a prize for being unique in the costume contest. If she could convince your boy to enter.” He grinned at Johnston, who chuckled.

“I think Jake would insist on leaving the field open for the other worthy competitors,” he said. “But still, she just might convince him.” He turned back to the woman, who had been watching this with an open mouth. “Gracie, it's great to see you. We've been wondering where you'd gotten to. How'd you decide to come out tonight?”

“I...I thought, Halloween, nice night to come out and see old friends...” she almost laughed, it sounded so funny. But she had gotten so much more than she'd bargained for, hadn't she? “I don't understand,” she said. “How...you can see Patrick?”

“Sure can, though he still manages to pull one over on me sometimes when we play poker,” he said with a chuckle.

“You...spend a lot of time together, do you?” she finished lamely. Both men were still grinning as though this were the most natural set up in the world.

“Yeah, that's the nice thing about it. Having time to spend with old friends. And family.” He smiled over at the little girl. “I take it you already met Tracy.”

“I like your name,” said Tracy, flashing her a smile.

Gracie glanced at the men, the little girl, the other friends who couldn't see them, and back at Johnston. “What is this, Johnston? What's happening?”

“Well, Patrick and I are taking advantage of the chance to spend a night with the granddaughters,” he gave Tracy an affectionate pat on the head, and nodded in the direction of the pirates, “and check in on the kids and Gail too.”

“The kids and Gail...” repeated Gracie. “The granddaughter...daughters?” She glanced towards Patrick's daughter, now balancing her curly-haired mini-pirate in her lap. “They can't see you either, can they?”

He exchanged a quick look with Tracy, and winked at her, before turning back to Gracie. “Most of them, no. Not usually.”

“Why?” she asked in a small whisper.

“I think you know,” he said, his blue eyes suddenly soft.

Patrick and Tracy, she noticed vaguely, had moved aside, Tracy holding Patrick's arm and leading him over to the juke box, Patrick hoisting her up in his arms, pointing to songs and then over to a frame on the wall. Johnston stepped closer to Gracie, with a look she remembered from the last time she'd seen him. He was trying to reach out. She felt vaguely a twinge of her earlier urge to run, but focused on her friend's eyes, staying rooted to the spot.

“I don't know,” she said, in a quiet but determined voice.

He paused, and a soft smile came over his face. “I shouldn't have forgot how stubborn you are,” he said. “Not that that doesn't make me a pot talking to a kettle, of course.” He glanced for a moment over at Gail, who was happily telling a story, a mug of cider clutched in her hands. A wistful look seemed to come over him, but he smiled. “They can't see me much,” he said. “Because they need to move on, and live their lives that are happening now.”

“And why aren't you in there too?” she asked. She felt she should know the answer, but needed to draw it out. He was right. She was a kettle listening to a pot.

“We fought New Bern. Well, they attacked us,” he said. “I didn't make it through.”

“You died?” she asked. She knew the answer but was glad he confirmed it with a nod.

“Why didn't I hear about it?” she asked.

“It happened after you were already gone,” he said.

She said nothing, but looked at him. He held her gaze steadily. A long time passed, a thousand thoughts flying through her head, but her old friend never faltered but looked steadily back. Finally, she whispered, “How?”

He reached a hand to her arm. A real hand touching her. When was the last time someone had touched her? “Does it really matter?” he asked.

She nodded. She had fought tooth and nail. It was all important.

He squeezed her arm. “Close your eyes and think about it.” He noticed her hesitation. “We'll all be here.”

She hesitated some more. Standing at the edge of a staircase in the dark. Stepping off the edge. Patrick had come back over, and so had the little Tracy. He gave his old friend a little nod, and the child sent her a bracing smile. Taking a breath and then another, she closed her eyes.

In the darkness, she could hear the kids and Gail, their music, their world, as if through a wall, but it was still comforting. Then, as if through another wall, that night. The lights on Main Street. Epic ending lovers. Families with arms around each other. Cheers. Someone waving. Thanksgiving. No, nothing more. No, no, nothing more.

Through it all, their voices still. Stanley bragging. His wife's laugh. Jake telling him “You're going soft.” Mary telling someone “it's okay.” Gail sending a witty retort to Emily's question. Heather asking for a dance encore. A good natured groan from Jake. A laugh from Johnston. Tracy neighing like horse.

She clenched her fists, and unclenched them. A baby was squealing. A mother was comforting. A friend was assuring. A voice was singing. She felt the knife. The shock. The cold.

She took a shuddering breath and opened her eyes. Her old friends were still there, looking back at her. “Who?” she asked.

“Mitchell Cafferty,” said Johnston. “He's gone now too.”

She nodded. “And me? Am I supposed to be gone?”

Johnston shrugged. “It's up to you. As you've shown, if you're stubborn enough you can stick around here.” He glanced towards his family again. “Or, you could come with us. You never know what you might find.”

“You can meet my mom!” exclaimed Tracy.

In spite of herself, Gracie found herself smiling a small smile. Taking in the girl's hair and eyes, glancing towards the pirates and back at her, she envisioned an energetic doctor with a calm smile. “I think I already have, sweetheart.” She smiled a little more. “Of course I'd love to see her again.”

“You can meet my stepdad too! He's a doctor and he writes books! And you can meet all my grandparents, well, the ones you don't already know.” She giggled.

Gracie hesitated. She had left tonight because she'd had a feeling, hadn't she? That there was a chance for something different to happen, something new. She hadn't expected this. What they were asking. Leaving everything behind. She wanted to be angry, at the one who'd taken it away from her. Angry to see the living like they were in a fishbowl, and only the dead like solid, real people. She was, she realized, mostly weary. Sad, to think of leaving the place she loved. Afraid though she hated to admit it.

Patrick cleared his throat. “We know it's hard to let go, at first. Can't tell you how much I just wanted to hang around here, when it was finally over. Be there, up close, while my daughter handled things, see if I could let her know she wasn't all alone.” He sighed with a somewhat ironic smile. “In the end, I figured it was better if we both moved on. My girl's had enough haunting, and they have incredible music there.”

“It's different for everyone,” added Johnston, and Tracy nodded. “But one thing I can tell ya, you won't be alone.”

She looked between them, wanting to return their smiles, but faltering. Johnston touched her arm again. “I promise, Gracie. It'll be okay.”

She was too overwhelmed to say anything. They waited for a moment, and then Johnston said “Well, it'll be up to you of course. Tracy baby, we have to get you home soon so your mother lets me babysit again. Make sure you put that horse somewhere safe.”

Tracy looked down at the plastic horse figure. “'Kay, Grandpa. I'll put Chestnut somewhere Daddy and Mary won't step.” The little girl dashed back to the hallway.

He chuckled. “Took your dad a while to learn that lesson.”

For a moment, Johnston and Patrick both seemed lost in their own private thoughts, watching the scene in silence. The footsteps approached and Tracy came back, smiling brightly. “Ready?” she asked.

Johnston nodded. “Say your goodbye for now.”

Tracy nodded and took her grandfather's hand, waving over at the living. “Goodnight, everyone. Goodnight little Chickpea!” she chirped.

Patrick gave them a nod and Johnston smiled before they turned to the door. “Coming?” asked Patrick.

Gracie took a breath, and took the first step.

Following them out the door was easy. Finding herself on Main Street, seeing the building that she had cared for for so many years, was another thing. In the distance, she could still make out the shapes of the bales of hay, even though the carnival seemed to have died down. She turned towards her friends.

“What about my store?” she asked.

“It'll survive,” said Patrick.

She gave a small nod. The other buildings on this street were still standing, though so many of the people who had once inhabited them had moved on. Hell, they'd told her New Bern had fought a war with them, yet somehow the buildings still stood. There was something else nagging at the back of her mind though, something more fragile.

“What about...” Johnston turned to look at her, and she felt the others doing the same. The poor boy. All this time, she'd been confused. He'd been working so diligently. She'd been annoyed. The way he acted like it was his place. But if Gail managed to tell him of their meeting that day after the bombs, it was his place. “Dale?” she asked. Johnston looked serious but didn't answer. “Is he okay?” she asked.

A pause. “He's working on things,” said Johnston. “Figuring stuff out.”

She stood still. What had become of him? Suddenly she wished she had spent the evening looking for him instead of looking for old friends and neighbours. There were important things she needed to teach him. Things he should know.

“You can come back and visit,” said Patrick.

“But what if...what if he needs me?” she asked.

Johnston surveyed her. Though it was dark out, she could read his careful expression clearly. “Last year, just around this time, my son finds out he's going to be a father. He and Patrick's girl, they're excited, and they can't keep the secret from Gail for long. Then one day, my son has himself a moment and lets himself get in a bit of panic when he's remembering Tracy and how he lost her and her mom. Wonders if he can take it if it happens again. Remembers how it felt when he thought he was going to lose her, and the rest of the family, a week before. I wished I could step in. Tell him not to worry. I'd seen him go through so much, and it was awful to see it happen. But you know what I would've missed out on?”

She shook her head silently.

“I wouldn't have gotten to see him worry through it and pick himself up again. Deal with everything and remember he's got people around him. He thought about this little baby,” he motioned towards Tracy now, “and promised her he wouldn't forget her and he'd be a good father to her brother or sister like he would have liked to be to her.” Tracy gave a little nod. Johnston smiled. “If I tried to connect the dots for him, before he could, it wouldn't have meant as much.” He paused, glancing towards the store and back at her. He spoke softer now. “If you let it, it can be great. And you can always visit.”

She nodded, though she felt a small tear sliding down her face. It was so rare that she cried. The last time must have been the night of the bombs. Was that years ago now? “Can I say goodbye?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Johnston and Patrick both looked slightly surprised, but pleased. “Of course,” said Johnston.

She left the trio behind, taking the familiar steps across the street, a walk she'd done so many times. It was hard to imagine this being the last. Not the last, she reminded herself. They'd said she could come back. But she could never come back the way she might have wanted. She had an understanding now that would keep her from ever living like she had, ever since the night the lights had gone on and Mitchell had come to the store after hours. She could come to watch the men and women surviving, talking and wading through good days like they'd had tonight and other ones too, but she'd never be one of them again. She wouldn't be able to pretend she couldn't see.

She stared at her store, her home and livelihood for so much of her life, and tried to burn its image into her mind, so that it would stay with her if it looked different next time she saw it. She considered, stepping back slightly. It looked different now. A window was boarded up. Signs, written by hand, hung in the window. Things she hadn't been able to see before. It was bearing signs of surviving, on Main Street after the end of the world, just like all of them. But it was still standing. She let out a breath.

The door opened, and a pair of figures were stepping outside. They seemed to be wearing costumes too – he was wearing a suit jacket and a fedora, she was wearing a dress reminiscent of the roaring twenties, with a glittering head band. They were laughing and, she realized as she listened carefully, talking about a Halloween party. The man locked the door carefully, giving the storefront a quick glance over before offering his arm to the woman.

She smirked to herself. So he was still with that girl. She watched as they walked together, arm in arm, crossing the street and going towards the bar she'd just left. They were a little bit older, they seemed a lot more confident, and maybe even, calm. She let out a breath. The girl was still there. They were still there. She supposed that was something.

She watched them make their way up to the bar, and through the door. For a few seconds after they were gone, she watched the door, imagining them in her mind.

She became aware the two old friends and little girl were approaching. Each of them wore a quiet smile. Johnston had hoisted Tracy up into his arms.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I guess I am,” she said, and she began walking with her friends, trusting them to lead the way. They walked along Main Street, past the buildings she knew so well, that she remembered not for their safety but because they'd housed the moments and people who had made up a life.

The carnival was over but the pumpkins still smiled back at them, and lights still glowed up and down the street.

Inside Bailey's tavern, the mood was jovial. The family party had been winding down into a comfortable lull but with the arrival of Skylar and Dale, a new energy seemed to enter the room.

“Look out everyone, it's Bonnie and Clyde, I presume,” announced Stanley.

“We're Daisy and Gatsby,” shrugged Dale. “So this is the big party?”

“More people will be showing up soon,” said Gail. “But since you're here early, candy apple?”

Skylar and Dale quickly accepted their treats and took seats with the rest of the guests.

Stanley and Mimi were gathering their capes around them and pushing their chairs in. “About time for us to head out,” Stanley was saying.

Mary pressed a kiss to the little prince's head before passing him to Mimi. “Safe trip home!”

“It will be, I'm driving,” said Mimi, giving her friend a quick one-armed hug. “Good night everyone!”

“Party on! Paint the town red! Dance one for me!” exclaimed Stanley, exchanging hugs and shaking hands quickly with everyone.

“You're not doing the dance in front of the adult party guests are you?” asked Jake.

Mary smirked and leaned slightly towards him. “Be glad we didn't have time to learn the Pirates of Penzance routine,” she said quietly.

Chuckling at Jake's expression and waving one more time as the royal Richmonds closed the door behind them, Eric said, “Don't worry, I'll have to head up to bed soon. You'll be spared by the new dad curfew.”

“Mom, you sticking around or do you want me to walk you home?” asked Jake.

“I don't have a curfew,” his mother answered with a chuckle. “I think I'll stay for a while, and I'll probably go up to the guest room.” She shifted her granddaughter in her arms.

“Okay,” said Jake with a nod. He turned to Heather. “Can I get you another drink?”

She shook her head. “I'm good for now, thanks. Oh, I think I'm going to go pick a song.” She moved towards the juke box, where Emily and Kenchy were now pouring over the selections.

“Careful Jake. I'm not sure the dancing will be over just because we leave,” said Eric, sending his brother a teasing smirk. Jake sent him a pretend menacing scowl, but was smiling a moment later, watching Heather bob her head slightly to the song Emily had picked.

The music and laughter was punctuated by the sound of the littlest pirate, letting out a squeal. “I think it's getting a bit late for us already,” said Mary, reaching for her daughter as Gail passed her over. She held the baby to her, bouncing her slowly. “Can you take over til Darryl gets here, hon?”

Eric made a move to get up, but Jake held up a hand. “I can watch the place for a bit if you both want to go.”

“You sure?” asked Eric.

“You got the king and queen of the forest looking out for you,” he said with a smile. “The dream team. We'll handle it.”

“Okay, thanks!” said Eric, clapping his brother's shoulder.

“I'll come back down after I get her settled. And can you let Darryl know we're not doing the costume contest judging til midnight?” said Mary quickly, adding another “Thank you,” as her brother-in-law nodded.

After more goodbyes, some hugs, and a kiss from Grandma, they made their way through the bar and into the hallway, opening the door leading to the stairs.

Eric held the door open, and followed Mary into the stairwell. “You going to give Jake and Heather a prize?” he asked.

“I haven't seen everyone else yet and it'll be a fair competition,” she said with a shrug. “And I'm not the only judge, but I'd say they have a good chance in the unique category, if they enter.” She smiled and reached for the railing with her free hand.

A few steps up, Eric paused, looking down the stairs, and back up again.

Mary turned to look at him, her eyebrows raised.

“Did things seem...did you feel like the bar was crowded tonight?”

She shrugged. “More than usual?”

“Well, you know...” he trailed off. “Crowded like there were...special visitors? The kind we seem to get for special occasions, and maybe other times?”

A small smile played at the corner of her lips.

“You know what I mean, right?” he asked.

She smiled again, and reached her free hand to touch his cheek. “Yeah,” she nodded.

He stepped up to put his arm around her shoulders as they completed their trek up the stairs. She opened the door, hoisting her sleepy daughter to her shoulder as she went inside the apartment.

Eric turned one last time to look back down the stairs. The sounds of the party were still drifting up the stairs. Music. Laughing. Maybe late October winds, blowing outside the walls.

He smiled to himself as he reached for the railing and found, right at the top of the stairs where the railing met the wall, a small shape. His hands closed around it. Holding it up in the dim light, he saw it was a plastic horse. The one he'd played with once long ago in his childhood home, a few streets away. That they both found lying around from time to time, though they usually didn't talk about it. He chuckled, still holding onto it, as he went into the apartment and closed the door.

Eric, Mary and Gail's song and dance comes from the theme song for the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World, written by George Bruns and Xavier Atencio.

The Richmonds' costumes, while paying homage to their adventure with Sunday the previous year, are based on the "Land of Make Believe" puppet characters created by Fred Rogers for his children's program Mister Rogers' Neighbourhood.

Kenchy and Emily's costumes reference the tale of Aladdin, originally appearing in The Book of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights by Antoine Galland.