Speculative Fiction Centre

 Reign of Goblins By Terry L. Vinson

While joyously immersed in the many rituals that make up the whole of the Halloween spectacle, there’s little doubt that they were always present. Don’ t kid yourself...you’ve felt them. Feared them, just as I.  Call them what you will…specters, phantoms, entities of the supernatural. Personally, I think of them as goblins. A childish description perhaps, at least on the surface. Then again, isn’t normally what lies beneath the surface that poses the greatest threat? Allow me… ahem… preach on it.

The majority of Halloween revelers were and still are willfully oblivious to their ominous presence, but I’ m positive they were among us always. They are, after all, as much a Hallows Eve staple as candied applies and carved pumpkins.

As a kid growing up in a small, rural area, I ’m fairly certain I rubbed elbows with their kind many times, although I can provide no definite proof of such an occurrence. There are no ‘controversial home movies’  or blurred snapshots, as with such mythical legends as Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. There isn’t a definite photo in any known encyclopedia with the word  ‘Goblin’ typed beneath its border.

No such hard evidence could possibly exist within the parameters of the earthly realm, or  at least within the context of a relatively sane mind.

 That said, ponder this for a moment-if you dare. As a child, we all partook in many varied activities tied to the Eve of All Saints, that undeniably intoxicating holiday most popularly associated wi th demons, ghouls, monsters and the like. For children, it was an evening to howl freely, to utterly escape into another identity with the express written consent of their legal guardians, and without the threat of impending retribution for acts normally  tied to blatant misbehavior. Pranks were not only acceptable, but expected  within the precious few hours of darkness provided on All Hallows Eve. Packs of children roamed rural roads and city streets alike in search of mischief, mayhem, and, most importantl y, free candy. For a single night within the long calendar year, obtaining a sugar high by sucking down handfuls of Jelly Beans, Snickers and Mars bars wasn’t frowned upon in the least.

 For parents, it was the thrill of passing on traditions that reminded them of their own carefree youth. Nothing complicated...cut and dry… plain and simple. We all love to relive our childhood through the offspring we sire.

I was given permission to join the ‘trick or treat’ hordes at the tender age of five, donning a homemade ‘Superman’ cape and red T-shirt with a large ‘S’  written in black magic marker across my painfully thin chest. It wasn’t until I was around thirteen that candy and costumes were replaced by more ‘mature’  holiday events such as soaping car windows and tossing rolls of toilet paper into thickly limbed trees.

It was a simpler time then, you understand. Parents weren’ t forced to accompany their children along the ‘trick or treat route’ in fear of having them appear on milk cartons and street flyers in t he aftermath.

Looking back, one could make the argument that naiveté  played a part in such brash carelessness, but I truly believe there was simply less insanity in the world. Simply put, you trusted your neighbors, for there was no reason not to at the time.
 
Living in the country, my school comrades and I were forced to make lengthy treks to collect the expected bag of goodies. We mostly stuck to neighbors homes, some as far as a half mile or more through pitch-black forests whose tree limbs seemed to  reach down with leaf-coated fingers to ensnare us for the unexpected intrusion within their hollowed space. Thinking back, I recall the odd feeling of another presence within our skeletal ranks. A costumed figure that never quite fit in with the rest of the group; a mysterious entity wearing a child’ s guise who was frighteningly ambiguous but rarely dwelled upon (at least in my own personal case) out of simple fear of the unknown.

The costumes they donned always appeared a dramatic step-up from either the  homemade or dime-store variety, the overly clean, shiningly slick cloth almost a part of their very flesh. Faces were never revealed, and eyes were strangely pupil-less behind the masks adorning their smooth, rotund skulls. On one occasion, I faintly recall a fourth grade pal of mine whispering ‘snake eyes’  in regards to one of them. I now believe he was referring to the eerie, reptilian coldness reflected there-the sheer lifelessness.

Not a single Halloween went by that at least one of  them did not hover nearby, always keeping an arm’ s length away from any specific pack of children, but close enough to at least play the part of harmless tag-along.

As far as I can remember, only one specific factor besides the designer costumes and full-face masks set  t hem apart from the wondering masses of roving revelers. They never, ever muttered even a single word of dialogue, as if literally void the power of speech; muted not by choice but at birth within whatever sinister world they called home.

 As I grew older,  nearing the age of ten or eleven, I secretly pondered if my friends had noticed their lingering presence but were, like myself, hesitant to broach the subject in fear of ridicule. I never found the courage to ask, but there were several times I observed  t he same look of dismay in my comrades eyes that mirrored my own upon viewing the stranger at our collective heels. A stranger that never spoke, but simply followed and observed; a foreboding shadow that possessed a secret none of us dare desire to become  privy to.

Once the trick or treating stopped and puberty guided us towards more ‘manly’  rituals (such as ghost hunting, graveyard camp-outs and the inevitable drunken tirades involving eggs, toilet paper and various brands of soap), the mysterious specter s became as much of our holiday past as bobbing for apples and Halloween stage- plays.

 My daughter Katy turned six just last week. Tonight was her initial excursion (at least publicly) into the mythical, magical world of witches and warlocks, werewolves  and vampires. Susan, my wife of nine years, had put a full week’s work into designing just the right costume; an almost perfect replica of ‘Storm’, the X-Man’ s weather-controlling heroine, right down to the white streaked hair and ankle-length cape. Little Katy was so exited at the costume’ s completion that she begged us to allow her to wear it to school.

Both my wife and I foolishly assumed that the child who followed Katy back to our vehicle from the Grigg’s front porch was a 1st grade classmate. 

When Katy opened our SUV’ s rear right door and allowed the figure entry, my wife and I exchanged smiles at how wholesome and downright cute the scenario. The aforementioned smiles were transformed to terror-fueled grimaces within the span of mere seconds, as  the temperature inside the SUV seemed to instantly plummet.

I watched Susan’ s breath escape between purple-tinted lips in frigid, icy waves, then felt my own throat burn as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of shaved ice.  

That was then…this, God help us….is now…  

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