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The Frightening Five

Five short works of Halloween fiction by Pique writers
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Halloween. What to do?

That was the question Pique writers asked a few weeks ago when pondering what kind of Halloween feature should go with our Halloween cover. It's the biggest weekend for the resort in a lot of ways, with parties starting on Thursday (WORCA's annual Halloween Toonie Ride for one), and wrapping up in the wee hours of Monday morning, Nov. 1.

We've done all kinds of local Halloween feature stories in the past, reciting the history of the holiday around the world and in Whistler, talked to local spook hunters and witches, and written pieces about what you can do to celebrate (Holly's cookie recipe from last year was particularly good), but not wanting to go over the same ground again this year we decided to do something a little different and write a little fiction.

Some claim that's all reporters do anyway, but that's okay - we have thick hides, and haters gonna hate.

But this is different for us, a rare opportunity to try our chops writing original, scary stories for the season, and we all jumped at the chance.

We hope you enjoy them the way people are meant to enjoy horror fiction - which is to say we hope you crap your pants and have nightmares for a week.

 

A feast at Samhain

Huddled together in their hut of stone and sod, Elder Ongham hugged his children closer as the spirits of the dead raged outside.

For it was the festival of Samhain, the first full moon after the harvest. On this night the dead rose up from their graves and communed with the living, gently knocking on doors to have a quiet word with their kin. Candles burned in windows and hollowed out gourds so the waking spirits might find their way home through the mist, and warm their souls by the hearth awhile. It was a homecoming of sorts, and most welcome to families in mourning for loved ones.

But there was also a spirit in town who was not so welcome, said to be none other than Finart, the only son of Dis Pater; Lord of the Underworld. It was told that Finart, a warrior in his prime, met his bloody end in the fields nearby a hundred years before in a great battle. To punish his killers, Dis demanded a human sacrifice for his son each year on the night of Samhain or he would unleash all the dark souls in his keeping on the land.

And so each year the folk in the area drew lots, and this Samhain it was the Ongham's youngest daughter Brigan who was picked by Druid Mera. Just six years old, she was to be tied to a stake outside their home with an offering of wine at her feet, and left there for Finart's hungry ghost to devour.

But in the end Elder could not bear it, and as the sun dipped below the horizon he cut his daughter's bonds and carried her inside.

"It weren't fair," he argued with his terror-stricken wife, "that she should be picked. The Onghams and my kin have given seven souls to the beast in 20 years, while the Corans, Morannons and Fensters have given naught. And small wonder, for it is they that rule the town and their Druid who picks the names! Why, none of the families of wealth ever seem to give their sons and daughters, and when a name of a rich family is picked it's always an old relative not long for this world anyway."

Elder began to reconsider his decision a short while later when the spirit of Finart passed his home and saw the empty stake. The ghost raged against the small home with wind and rain, plainly trying to blow it over so that he might have his feast and bones to chew on all the long winter. For a spirit - even the son of a god - could not suffer to pass the doors of the living unless invited inside, but a broken home offered no protection.

Elder knew his house was strong and built of heavy stones, but as Finart howled outside and mortar dust filled the room he knew a moment of doubt. Finart would depart when the sun came up, but that was hours away and he was stronger than piles of stone. Ongham also knew that he had the power to summon Dis, and that there would be no denying the Lord of the Dead if he joined the assault.

He wondered if he gave his daughter up now if the ghost would be sated, or whether it would take more of his children to quell the demi-god's rage...

"I've got an idea," said his wife suddenly. "When the god comes, and surely he must, he will be seeking mortals to devour."

"Aye," said Elder, as if it were obvious. "That's the way it's done."

"But what," his wife suggested, "if they found no mortals within these walls, just more spirits such as they?"

"Are ye suggesting we kill ourselves now and save the bloody ghost the effort?" he demanded. Elder had already planned to fight, though little good it would do.

"I'm saying, husband, that we make ourselves up to be spirits, and walk right past them. Tell them the Onghams have died in the plague."

"And how, my Morgana, do you propose we fool them?" asked Elder, intrigued.

She looked around the room desperately, focusing on odds and ends.

"Like so!" she said, and rose from the patch of floor where they were huddled. She took down a pair of antlers from the wall and fixed it to Elder's head with a bit of string. She reached into their sack of fine ground wheat and began tossing clumps into their faces so they were as pale as the dead. She grabbed lengths of sack cloths and linens, and they wrapped themselves like the dead were arrayed before a burial. She cut the head from a poor chicken that cowered clucking in the corner, and dabbed their faces with blood.

"Now," she said, "we look like proper spirits."

"You're a miracle worker," said Elder, astonished by their transformation. The antlers were heavy and uncomfortable, but he felt this might work.

Just then the howling outside stopped. Finart was now chanting, his harsh voice invoking a spell to summon his father.

"Well," said Elder. "It's now or naught, I gather." He clapped his hands together. "So-who wants to go first?"

His family stared at him in disbelief.

"Jes' joking," he said. "Pulling yer legs. Trying to lighten the mood somewhat. Remember you lot, we're either evil spirits or we're dinner for a god and his bastard son."

Elder pushed open the door with a creak. The mist surrounded his house, glowing blue beneath the moon that rose over the moor.

He started moaning, like he'd seen the spirits of the dead do at many a Samhain, and walked slowly from his house with his family in tow.

"Whooooooo," he said.

"Arrrrrggghh," groaned his wife.

"Moooooooan," moaned his children.

"Who goes there?" asked a sharp and rusty voice from the gloom And just then the mist parted enough for the Onghams to see a mighty wight, clad in armour and animal skins. Finart was eyeless and his earthen face creeped with worms and bugs. Behind him they could see two legs, the knees as high as Finart's foul head, the body hidden in the mist.

"Just us spirits, roaming the earth on the Festival of Samhain," said Elder, matter-of-factly. "You wish to make something of it sir?"

"Peace, spirit," said Finart. "I have come for my sacrifice."

"What?" said Elder. "Here? I'm afraid you're a month past it, ghost. You're behind the times. The plague took every last one of the poor bastards."

"Plague?" asked Finart suspiciously. "Then why have the people of the town placed the sacrificial post outside? Why can I smell the blood of the living?"

"I think there's a few chickens left in there," said Elder helpfully. "Though I know not what the post is for." He lowered his voice. "Though, my lords, I do suspect treachery!"

"Treachery!" boomed a voice, and Elder quailed for a moment when he realized that the god had spoken.

"Aye, treachery most foul," Elder repeated. "You didn't hear it from me, but I think you should pay a call on the rotten Corans, three houses down. Then the dirty Morannons, who live in that grand stone house at the end of the lane. Just past them in the country, in a fine manor lit up for Samhain, ye'll find the wretched Fensters."

Finart regarded him for a moment through his empty eye sockets.

"What say you father... shall we visit these folk?"

"Hmmm," boomed the voice. "I think we shall, my son. For spirits have naught to fear and so they never lie. This horned spirit tells the truth. And I am hungry!"

"Yea, well tuck in," said Elder. "Eat the lot and more power to you. As for us, we'll be going on our way.  See you again next year."

"And a happy Samhain to you," said Finart, and the two marched away.

The Onghams let out a collective sigh of release.

"Cor! I thought we was done for!" said Elder, kissing his wife and gathering Brigan in his arms.

"I think we should do this every year, daddy," said Brigan, giving him a hug

"Aye," agreed Elder. "We'll go door to door dressed like this, and see what we can rustle up in the way of offerings - and haunt the ones that wronged us! And we'll fear the dead no more."

"Who's for roast chicken?" asked Morgana, and they all filed back into their stone house for a late supper.

Three houses down they heard stones shattering and the screams of the Corans rent the night. But if you closed your eyes and chewed, you could pretend it was just the wind.

 

The Valley Trail Victims

By Holly Fraughton

The first girl disappeared in the fall of 2007, just as the air was growing cool and crisp in the morning, and people were starting to put pumpkins out on the front steps. The sun had also started to set earlier, with only a few lights illuminating the winding Valley Trail.

Jessica Simons was her name; she was just one of the many fresh-faced Australian imports who had arrived in town a few weeks early to get their bearings before the winter season set in. Because of this - or maybe it was simply her sunny disposition - Jess managed to find her very own room in a shared house in Alpine. She just moved into the house with three others a few weeks before, so the housemates only had a few brief conversations in passing. See, they all worked 9 to 5 gigs, and Jess had just started as server at the Amsterdam Café, working late into the night serving pints of beer and plates of pub fare to starry-eyed, slurring locals and tourists.

After cashing out, she would bundle up in her favourite purple hoodie and dash to catch the bus to Alpine (if, by any small miracle, it happened to be running on time), then trundle along the Valley Trail from Meadow Park to the pitch-black side streets of the neighbourhood, plugging into her iPod as a distraction from the odd rustling noises coming from the bushes. That was her routine, right up until the second weekend in October, when she went home after a busy Saturday night shift. She didn't return for the afternoon shift the following day.

Of course, the manager didn't think too much of the missed shift; after all, that's the Whistler work ethic at its finest, right? She called Jess' phone and left a message, but forgot all about it after. Jess wasn't on the schedule again until the following weekend.

It wasn't unusual for the housemates to entirely miss one another for days on end, so none of the housemates even noticed that Jess didn't make it home in those wee hours of Sunday morning. In fact, they only took note of her absence when she hadn't anted up with her share of the Hydro money (which, again, wasn't exactly abnormal for a Whistler seasonaire). They knocked on her bedroom door, and left behind some snarky, passive-aggressive Post-It's, but no money turned up on the counter. It wasn't until the landlord called that they started to get a bit concerned. See, the landlord had received a worried phone call from Jess's mom, back in Oz, who was beside herself because her doting daughter had missed their regularly scheduled Skype date on Friday afternoon. Had any of the housemates seen her recently?

Another Post-It chain was started on the fridge, and by Saturday evening, the resounding, collective response was, "No." By then, Jess had missed both her Friday and Saturday evening shifts, and her manager was thoroughly pissed. No one thought to call the police until one of the housemates did some Facebook creeping and noticed that Jess hadn't added anything new to her wall in a week. That, the housemates agreed, was an ominous sign, and the RCMP were called in.

The police were in the midst of the cursory interviews with the housemates and the formerly irate, suddenly concerned manager, when they got the phone call: a mountain biker had gone off trail near Rainbow Park and discovered the body of a young female, clad in a purple hoodie. Jess had been strangled with her iPod cord, but the forensics team didn't turn up any evidence from the scene or her body - she'd been out in the elements for seven days and seven nights, and it appeared that some kind of wild animal had come across her body before the biker did.

Community members were shocked. The town's only other murder in history was a gang-related shooting outside a nightclub a few years back, an incident that didn't involve any residents. The shock quickly turned to fear and panic, as women were warned not to walk the Valley Trail alone at night, and the rumour mill began working full-tilt. Despite a thorough police canvas the only reliable tip that turned up was from another passenger who happened to catch the bus with Jess that night.

They had chatted briefly as they pulled out of the Village, but his phone rang and he got wrapped up in the conversation. They both got off at Meadow Park and began walking in the same direction; he, still focused on his phone call, while the girl in the purple hoodie practically jogged into the distance in a hurry to get home. The next time he glanced up, she was out of sight.

Just a few seconds later, a dark figure on a bike came up behind and whizzed past, ringing an obnoxious bell. That was the only other person the fellow bus rider saw on the trail, and his alibi checked out - police confirmed that he had, in fact, been on the phone with his long-distance girlfriend in Ontario for almost three hours early that morning, engaged in a long, drawn out argument, and couldn't possibly have killed Jess. So they narrowed in on their only suspect - the mysterious bike rider.

Unfortunately, they didn't have much to go on - do you know how many people in Whistler own bikes? So, after six months of a tiring-yet-fruitless investigation, the case was shelved and the memory of the murder began to fade from peoples' minds.

That is, until October 2008, when the body of an ESL student from Japan was discovered at Alpha Lake Park, tucked away in the forest behind the playground. Miyu Kuroki had been strangled with her headphones, as well, but this time there were no witnesses, just faint bike tracks in the mud that disappeared as soon as they hit the Valley Trail. She'd been missing for the entire weekend; last sighted at the Husky by a friend, and again, no one noticed she was gone until she failed to show up for class on Monday morning. Another unsuccessful investigation ensued, and a full-on media circus rolled into town as soon as the mainstream outlets in the city heard whispers of "serial killer." The RCMP brought a few of the vagabond squatters who still live in cabins in the woods of Whistler in for questioning, but there was no DNA from either murder, and no evidence to lead them to make any arrests. A beleaguered police force slogged on with their stagnant investigation, and the media lost interest and went back down to the city as soon as the next political scandal popped up.

They came back in droves just last fall, though, when a Kiwi girl named Sally King went missing. This time, her housemates heard all about Whistler's serial killer; the police had begun issuing warnings to women not to walk alone, especially during October, when the elusive killer seemed to reappear. So when they noticed that Sally hadn't made it home from Tommy Africa's that night, they called the police right away (well, they waited until dinner time the next day - they didn't want to call the police if she'd just gone home with a guy she met at the club.) Sure enough, a search of their neighbourhood - Nordic -the next day turned up one strangled body, hidden in a quiet park nestled next to the beaver pond just at the foot of the Vale complex. A neighbour, taking the trash out to the strata shed at around 1 a.m., had noticed someone on a bike down below in the park, but it was dark, and he couldn't make out much through the trees. The media were unrelenting and critical of the police for failing to find the monster that had killed Jess, Miyu and Sally - dubbed the Valley Trail Victims - but yet again, the police turned up empty-handed.

The three cases are all still technically open investigations, and you might notice that whenever a longtime local walks along the Valley Trail during the cool, crisp twilight hours of autumn and they hear a bike bell ring, they give a little shudder, and cast a glance over their shoulder.

Would anyone notice if you didn't make it home?

 

I dug him out with my hands.

By Stephen Smysnuik

It was strange to see anybody that deep into the woods, let alone a child. But there he was, this slight, still body standing with his back facing the path, shielded from the afternoon light by a willow tree at the edge of a small clearing. I could only make out part of his shape through the wall of gooseberry bushes lining the path. The mushroom crop of auburn hair, the red sweater set against the yellowing leaves of surrounding trees. The peculiarity of a small child's presence twenty-five miles deep into the forest didn't dawn on me at the time. He could have been playing a game of Hide and Seek with a friend.

I was running as usual along the same path the next day and there he was again. In the same spot, all alone. I stopped to watch him through the gooseberry, catching my breath and worrying, for some reason, that he'd catch me peering at him. He was standing in some tall grass, wearing the same sweater as the day before and I noticed it was knitted with an explosion of black stars. The willow's branches hung over him, not quite grazing the crown of his head. His shoulders were hunched forward and his head drooped along with them so his face seemed to be facing the ground. His posture indicated to me - because all the dying leaves had inspired in me a similar mood - some impenetrable sadness.

"Hello?" I tried to say but my voice caught a knot in my throat and I realized that I was nervous. The stillness of the forest alone is eerie but the presence of this child here was something different all together. The wind picked up and blew a cluster of leaves around him and as the wind changed directions it carried the cluster in a mustard cyclone around the boy.

I tried again. "Hello," but there was no answer and I didn't wait for one. I turned back from where I came and cut my jog short.

The afternoon's light had all but faded when I arrived home. I told the family about the boy around dinner.

"That's creepy," said my wife. "Was he maybe one of the neighbour's kids?" I've seen her more concerned about the stiffness of day-old bagels.

"I've never seen him before. I don't know. He just seemed so -" I squeezed the air in front of me with both hands, straining for the right word, "-lifeless."

I twisted around in bed that night long after my wife had fallen asleep. Something about the boy was unsettling. The way the willow tree's branches hung like leviathan Nosferatu fingers just above his head. As the camera reel of my imagination lulled me eventually toward sleep, playing for me in vivid detail the events of the night and the night before, I noticed what I had failed to earlier while observing him on the path: his clothes, his hair, all stayed motionless as the wind blew around him. The leaves seemed not to be affected by the solidity of his body. As if it had blown right through him.

***

Daniel Dupont's abduction led the morning newscast. My wife and I were sipping coffee on the couch, as per our routine, while the newscaster described the circumstances of Daniel's disappearance three days before from the bedroom of his parents' Pitt River home, about 20 miles east of our own. A studio portrait of a pale-faced little boy appeared onscreen. His face was unfamiliar - not quite handsome, eyes the colour of pecans and a smile revealing two rows of teeth too small for his mouth. His hair, though, was familiar auburn mushroom cut.

I choked on my coffee. It ran in driblets down my chin and stained my work shirt. I ran to the kitchen, disoriented, to clean myself up and my wife followed me in.

"Are you alright?"

"That kid on the news. I think that's him."

"Who?" She saw that the colour had left my face. "The kid in the woods?"

"I think so. I don't know. I...I think it's him," I said.

"How do you know?"

"The kid on the TV had the same hair." It sounded crazy saying it out loud, and she looked doubtful. "I have a gut feeling. I don't know."

"Well if you saw him out there, he must be alright then."

I didn't answer. I went up to our bedroom, swapped the shirt for another, pacing as I buttoned it up, heart racing. I thought about how rare it is for people to go missing in these parts, and rarer still for children to end up silent and alone in the woods in the fading afternoon for two days in a row. I stripped down and pulled from my closet a sweatshirt and jogging pants.

My wife was standing by the door as I came down the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"I need to see if he's out there."

"You should call the police."

That hadn't occurred to me. Up until that moment, despite this morning's news story and all the people it had invariably reached, this had seemed like my own personal drama.

"You call. I need to know what's going on. Right now."

It had rained all night and a mist still lingered. The path now was a narrow pit of viscous black mud. I followed it where I could, stepping off the path when it got too thick, dodging trees and clusters of foliage.

The boy wasn't where I had seen him. I had a feeling he wouldn't be. The willow tree swayed in the damp autumn wind.

"Daniel?" I called. There was no response, of course.

I pushed through the tangle of brush, ignoring the cottonwood scratching my face. My heart was racing. I was suddenly aware of how alone I was, miles deep in the woods. I wished then that I had listened to my wife.

Through a small field of dying tall grass, I could see a mound of wet dirt about four feet long, roughly where I had seen the boy had been standing. I kicked it with my shoe. To the right were the remnants of another pile, the mud staining the tall grass it had decompressed.

I knelt down and shoveled the dirt aside from the mound with my hands. It started raining again. It felt like cold breath on the nape of my neck. I dug until I uncovered a patch of red cloth buried in the dirt. I swallowed and choked the saliva. A couplet of black stars had been knit into the fabric.

I stood up, stumbled over and vomited in the grass. When I found my breath again I dug my hands back in the dirt and shoveled it aside until I uncovered the child completely.

 

 

 

House on Kaden Hill

By Jesse Ferreras

"Just into town?" the graying man in a one-piece snowsuit asks.

"Yeah man, off the Greyhound this afternoon."

"First year here?"

"Yeah. I skied a lot in high school. Want to get in a whole season of powder before I get too old."

"Putting life off just a little longer, eh?"

The young man laughs. "You could say that."

"You'll want to be careful, young buck."

"Why?"

"One day you may wake up and find you've been here too long."

The two of them paused. The old man looked out the window of the bus at the vast, snow-capped mountains rolling by. "You may never want to leave."

The young man fooled around in his Burton jacket for his iPod before the old man spoke once more.

"Where are you staying?"

"I'm renting at a place on Kaden Hill."

The old man looks away from the window. He looks briefly at the young man.

"I saw a room listed at $500 a month. It looks great."

The old man doesn't respond.

"What's wrong?"

The old man turns to him.

"No one goes to Kaden Hill," he said.

"Why not?"

"No one goes there."

And with that, the bus stopped, leaving Zack Fisher alone on its rearmost seat. The old man, the only one Zack had ever seen wear a one-piece snowsuit without skis in the dead of fall, hopped off without saying goodbye.

All alone, Zack sat on the bus, his skis and poles leaning against the window, a shoulderbag with clothes and sleeping gear laid at his feet.

To his right, taking up a seat on the bus, were his groceries - necessities like a six-pack of Canadian and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

The bus moved hardly a kilometer before it arrived at its next stop, the base of a vast hill.

"Kaden Hill," the driver said.

"How do I get there?" Zack asked. The driver pointed a single finger upwards at the hill, motioning for him to walk.

"You can't take me any closer?"

"I don't go there. No one goes there."

Zack chortled, collected his belongings and left the bus, borne down by the weight of his shoulderbag and skis as he made his way into a neighbourhood of luxury homes.

A wooden sign hanging above him informed him that he'd just entered "Kaden Hill, A Community of Comfort." He walked around three bends, uphill all the way, admiring the scale of three- and four-story homes. He heard not a sound anywhere but withering leaves scraping as they blew across the street.

The houses had wood panels, tall windows, two-car garages, stone steps and moats... and there didn't look to be a soul living in any of them.

Lawns were unmowed, gardens unkempt. Their only landscapers were moles that dug for food in the soil. Flowers bent over or were ravaged by slugs.

Finally Zack found himself at the front door of 742 Kaden Drive, as majestic a house as any in the neighbourhood. A long driveway led him to a staircase made of stone and a door with a stained glass window. He dropped his belongings beside him and searched around for the key.

He turned the key in the door but it wouldn't open. Pressure kept it closed from the inside. He pushed again until finally the door swung inward, letting a gust of air and dust blow into his face. Coughing and sneezing, he was nearly thrown backwards and down the stairs.

Finally the gust subsided and Zack moved his belongings into a vast, empty house with dust flying all around him. Before him was a staircase leading to the residential floor. Beside it, an oak table with a telephone and answering machine.

To his right, a TV room with a leather couch, recliner and flat screen television. To his left, a living room with couches that had no grooves in their cushions. A grand piano with its cover closed. Book stacks with classical volumes arranged as though they'd never been disturbed.

Zack walked to the table beside the staircase. A red light on the answering machine indicated a message waiting to be heard. He pressed play.

"Hello. We hope you're settling in nicely at your new home," a welcoming male voice told him. "At Arcadia Homes we strive for the best in convenience and comfort. That's why we've already connected you to Internet and cable networks. We hope you enjoy your new home and look forward to seeing you at the next owner's meeting."

"Sweet," Zack said to himself, before realizing there was another message. He hit play once more.

"Zack, it's Dad," his father's voice sighed. "Your mother and I are wondering when you'll be home so you can start school again..."

Zack cut him off in mid-sentence. In his room on the upstairs floor, Zack laid a foam mattress and a sleeping bag. On his wall he hung a poster of Mike Douglas.

Hours later he found himself in the TV room, watching a ski movie with a thrashing '80s soundtrack. In his right hand he held a Canadian, with his left he dug into his Doritos. Outside rain began to fall and thunder rolled in the distance.

The film ended and Zack got up to go to the bathroom. On the way he noticed the light on the answer machine - he hadn't listened to all of his father's message. He pressed play.

"...We both love you very much. We just want to make sure you're finding your way. Please call us when you get a chance." Click

Zack came back to the television and flipped through channels. Sitting in darkness, the television's glow traced the dust flying all around it. He stopped at a channel broadcasting "The Graduate." He watched Dustin Hoffman walking in slow motion to the rhythm of Simon and Garfunkel's "The Sound of Silence."

Then out of the darkness, Zack heard a whisper: "Stay with me." He ignored it at first but was disturbed again by a faint sigh, like a woman blowing into his ear. He looked around then stood up, leaving the TV on "The Graduate." He walked to the hallway, intermittent lightning illuminating his way.

He walked past the table to find a door open to the basement beneath the stairs. Out of the basement he felt faint gusts of wind. Shaking his head, he closed the door and walked back to the TV room.

Then many things happened.

There was lightning now, flashing with an increasing frequency, illuminated more than the dust. In bursts of light he perceived a shape gathering out of the floating particles. It looked to him like a mid-sized man in a ghost costume who'd pulled a bedsheet over his head.

Lightning flashed once more and Zack found himself face to face with a figure that opened neon blue eyes on to him, floating in darkness.

Zack screamed. The door to the basement flew open and a wind swept him downwards with the force of a vacuum. He hit the floor and was knocked out cold.

He woke up in the basement, a single light bulb lighting a small, spare, dark room from overhead.

A strap of the kind you find on a paramedic's chair bound his head. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair, needles pointed directly at the spaces between his knuckles. His legs were held firmly in place by medical stabilizers with needles normally used to hold broken bones in place. If he moved his hands or knees, the needles prodded deeper.

His body was arched in a way that forced him to look directly at a television hanging on a wall in front of him. The organs holding his eyes in place hurt him as he struggled to look around. He could only control his eyes, his mouth and his toes.

The television turned on, illuminating the room with the blue glow of a DVD Video logo. A menu came up with a single option: "Play."

The video juxtaposed idyllic images of skiing and snowboarding in vast terrain against a neighbourhood of luxury homes. Zack watched as a family settled in bathrobes in a living room with upholstered couches and a grand piano. He saw a couple relax in a hot tub on the balcony. He watched a mother tuck her kids into bed at night.

"All of this could be yours," a familiar male voiceover said. "Family. Comfort. Healthy living. An escape from the hustle and bustle of city life."

Zack wrestled with his straps, crying out as he began to bleed from his hands and his knees.

The television turned to two women clinking wine glasses in a hot tub. The video zoomed in on one of them, a beautiful, brown-haired woman. She looked directly out from the television and spoke.

"Come stay with us," she said, beckoning Zack. "Forever."

Then rotors turned and a mechanism came out the back of the chair, revealing itself as two razorblades connected like clockwork. They positioned themselves directly over his eyes. Slowly they lowered to his gaze as the woman continued to beckon him, repeating, "Forever. Forever."

They drew closer and Zack began to scream.

Blood fell from his eyes to his chest and the needles dug further into his hands and legs as he struggled for release. He could no longer see, his only sense the sounds of the television saying, "Forever. Forever."

Then he found himself in his bed. He felt his hands, his elbows, his knees. It was morning and outside there was snow. He looked up and saw his poster of Mike Douglas, now wilted and torn at its edges.

He rolled off his foam mattress, clutching at knees that pained him as he walked. He went to the bathroom and washed his face, looking up at the mirror to see a greyed, wrinkled visage that belied his youth. It was the face of the man he met on the bus when he came into Whistler. He looked closely to ensure he could see. His eyes had not a scratch on them. The old man's eyes.

He walked downstairs in his one-piece ski suit and checked the phone. A message awaited him, his brother asking when he could come home to visit his father's grave. He deleted the message.

He walked down Kaden Drive to the Highway, skis in hand, his knees paining him as he moved. He caught the bus to the base of the mountain.

Zack sat at the back and, not wanting to hear anything but his thoughts as he arched his head out the window to look at the landscape, put on his iPod and turned it to the one song he had on his playlist: "The Sound of Silence."

 

Quit your wining

By Susan Hollis

It had been a lifelong goal of Andy and Sarah Miller to live in the mountains. They had grown tired of the flat, uninspired surroundings of their hometown in rural Saskatchewan and had been looking for a new place to raise their children near Whistler, where Andy had landed a contract as large-machine mechanic for the local ski hill. They knew their dreams were lofty - a big house on good land in the Sea to Sky corridor is nearly impossible to find on a small budget, so the family was thrilled to hear of an old farmhouse on 20 fertile acres just outside the small town of Pemberton.

The house, the real estate agent told them, had been uninhabited for 30 years but the bones were good and with a little TLC the property could be beaten back into shape. It had been empty for so long because that's how the recently deceased owner - Conrad Krupt - wanted it. The last living member of a long line of farmers who had settled Pemberton Valley in the late 19 th century, Krupt had shut the farmhouse doors, let the fields go fallow and moved to Boston, where he lived until his death last May. His family's lineage had once been strong, but the latter half of the 20 th century hadn't been kind to the reclusive farmers. A number of illnesses had plagued the children of the house and the family's numbers dwindled until only Conrad remained. When he died a legal battle over the property ensued and the house fell to the bank for auction. The Millers were quick to put in their bid and secured the house before it was listed, paying a mere fraction of what it would have gone for in a bidding war.

Three weeks later the family had settled into the quirky old farmhouse, which was filled with crooked stairs, creaky dumbwaiters and cavernous window seats. Six-year-old Beth and eight-year-old Sam were partial to games of hide and seek, taking turns scaring their mother as she painted walls and scrubbed floors. The children memorized every nook and cranny of their new home and delighted in its odd, old-fashioned design. The only place that made their blood run cold was the cellar, which was dark and still filled with a number of bulging oak barrels cinched by rough, hand-hewn iron bands. "Pickled turnips," their father had mused when they discovered the 13 casks. "Or potato vodka."

After 30 years of disuse, no one in the family was eager to eat or drink whatever was preserved in the barrels, but when Andy tried to move one of them and found it too hard to lift. He decided to try the rusty tap attached to the bottom to see if he could lighten the load.

The fluid that poured out of the finicky faucet was a rich, lovely carmine colour and smelled much like wine, good wine. A budding connoisseur, Andy was sure he had stumbled upon something valuable - a perfectly aged merlot with a character all its own. He poured a few drops into a proper wine glass and swirled, holding it against the dim light. Small bits of sediment clung to the sides of the glass.

"That's the tannin," he told the children, launching into a brief lesson on wine making.

He called Sarah down to the cellar and gave her a sip. Wary at first, after a taste of the elixir she announced a way to make good use of their newfound bounty.

"Let's have a neighbourhood house warming party and serve this to our guests!" she enthused. "We'd never be able to afford wine for a big party, but there is more than enough here to share and even have some left over. Then we'll be able to move the barrels and make room for my new pantry."

Andy thought it was a fine idea, though he made a mental note to pour himself a few extra bottles to put aside for his own enjoyment.

 

One week later...

 

The evening of the party settled crisp and red, a smoke dusted October dusk. The buzz at the Pony Espresso Cafe was palpable - there's nothing a small town likes better than a good shindig, especially one that provides copious amounts of free wine.

By 9 p.m. the Millers were in the midst of the greatest party Pemberton had ever seen. Masked children ran harry-scary through the crowds of red-cheeked adults. White plastic cups were sloshed and drained enthusiastically of their liquid gold. Dogs licked frantically at any spills before being shoed back into the night. The party rolled on until 3 a.m. when the crowd dissipated and Andy and Sarah flopped into bed, falling asleep fully dressed on the covers.

Nursing black coffees and slight hangovers, they started the cleanup around noon the next day, giving the children plastic bags to collect the cups and mopping up generous pools of wine that stained the old wooden floors. When the last counter had been wiped Sarah begged Andy to help her roll the empty barrels outside so she could stock the pantry the next day. Shimmying the barrels back and forth towards the door, they soon had them lined up outside in the moonlight. Though no more liquid flowed from the taps, the couple noticed a heavy sloshing sound from within the barrels, which weren't as light as they expected them to be. Curious, Andy sawed the top off one of one, figuring he could use if for a garden planter. As he lifted the top off the barrel and set it on the grass, Sarah noticed curious looking scratch marks on the inside of the lid.

They peered inside.

Sarah vomited.

Andy fainted.

Curled at the bottom of the gloomy keg lay the semi-preserved corpse of a child, its lifeless white skin stained red by wine.

 

 



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