A Very Polis Halloween
Hello, reader! Happy halloween~ For this festive occasion we have brought together seven of our writers to make you a Polisspooky read. Our head writer started it off, then each writer took over to add on to the story. What happened after the protagonist was rejected by Cameron? Why did Andrew never take off his pumpkin mask? As the story turned darker and darker corners, we were in the dark as much as you will now be as you touch through the lanes and the alleys. We hope you enjoy, and have a very Polis(spooky) Halloween.
Written by Hilary Chan, Angella Morzolla-Browne, Sara Weissel, Martin Carforio, James Samuel, Julia Swerdlow, Emily Baxter
Hilary Chan: We've been together three years now, Andrew and I. We didn't have the most romantic beginning. Andrew needed money, and I was still heartbroken after Cameron rejected me. "You're great," Cam said. "It's just that... I've too many options, hun." I heard him and kept drinking, so that my face was buried in the dark red of the fat wine glass. He put down his glass and waited for me to run out. I lowered the glass and I wasn't crying. He took it from my hands and walked me to the door, gentle and cavelier. "Look, best of luck to your future, okay?" He didn't walk out of his apartment. When I walked out of the glamorous lobby Andrew was there, his ruffled hair and unshaven chin, lifted from his oversized suit, was caving into the night. Only the dim orange glow on his cigarette sizzled in the dark.
I told him I was rejected.
He sucked his cheeks in as he consumed every bit of toxicity he paid for. The lit end of the cigarette gave a soft crackle.
"What are you going to tell your parents?" He puffed the smoke out, the greyish movement masking his squint.
I said I didn't know. I wasn't going to admit to mom and dad I lied about bringing a boyfriend home for the Big Day. 31 October had always been an important date on our family calendar, because it was both my mom and my grandma's birthday. We always circled it out from our own schedules, making sure we're all sat by the table by 5pm so that we could have the proper birthday dinner, before joining the rest of the town for Halloween celebrations. This year I had promised to bring "my boyfriend" home. For the past few years, both mom and nan had been wishing aloud to see that happen before they blew out the candles together. "Don't take it too seriously. It's just what Asian women do," said my Caucasian dad, as if he didn't marry one. But this year even he was worried: Nan was dying. "Couldn't you bring a male friend?" he asked me on the phone. "It's her dying wish."
I started to cry. He watched me for a long time before he decided to take me into his embrace.
"Sixty quid," he said. "That's for my bus fare, the dinner, and all the party bullshit. I'll bring my own costume."
Angella Morzolla-Browne: That first year was better than I thought it would be. Bringing an unemployed smoker home maybe wasn’t the best idea, and I could see it in my mother’s eyes, that panicked look of “are you sure you chose this one?” But Nan’s breathes we’re coming hoarser and hoarser each day, and it was worth it to see her smile as I introduced the man on my arm. The one redeeming quality about Andrew is his commitment to a theme, and it being Halloween, and the first time meeting my parents—the man did not disappoint. Despite being perpetually broke, even I’ll admit his costume was effective for what it was: a black, ruffled pin-striped suit that looked like it had been sitting in a charity shop for too long paired with too-shiny shoes that reflected the creepy visage of the pumpkin that sat on his head. Painstakingly cut out were the typical pumpkin eyes and the jagged, sneering smile. It was an instant hit, not just because we were impressed he withstood breathing through a pumpkin for the whole night. That was the one strange thing—he never took the pumpkin off. Said he had already eaten when dinner was served. Said it was easier to keep the thing on than take it off and on again repeatedly. Said lots of things, smoothly, confidently, in a way that rugged, tired Andrew was not known for saying. And then I’d see him again. Pumpkin head off, cigarette drooping from chapped lips. But I knew the potential was there.
Sara Weissel: I think about that first Halloween together a lot. I think about it when the bath water runs cold. I think about it between songs on the radio. I think about it—well I think about it precisely when I forget not to.
***
“Trick or Treat.” The sentient pumpkin head had spoken. I gave it a quizzical look, and turned downwards to reflect on my soggy green beans.
“Trick or Treat.” The head said again, gesturing towards the door, clearly indicating a desire to walk around.
“Look” I said, lowering my voice in fear of my parents overhearing, “you don’t have to show me a good time or anything. You’ve done your bit, my parents are satisfied, let’s just all go home.”
“Trick. Or. Treat.”
“Fine. We can go. MOM! Mr Pumpkin-Head and I are going to go out!”
The door shut. It was dark. I felt something hit my leg—hard. Billy, the neighbour’s kid, was smacking me with a nerf sword.
“Candy. Candy! CANDY!”
Andrew crouched to reach Billy’s level. He pulled some unidentifiable object out of his pocket, and promptly Billy ran away, nearly tripping over himself as he hurriedly ran back inside his house.
Martin Carforio: He made for the street, decisive in his step, the heals shiny black shoes slapping against the asphalt walkway leading away from my parents’ door. Had it been anybody but Andrew, the oversized shoes would have been almost comical, but in the foggy evening, matched with his rumpled suit and immobile orange head, it made me pause for a moment, before I headed in his direction to catch up with him. We turned onto the street; Cherry Lane had no pavements, so we were walking almost in the middle of the scarcely trafficked road. A few children, Billy amongst them, were making their way from door to door, exchanging treats amongst themselves, running back to their respective groups after taking a few paces too far into the darkness of the neighbourhood gardens. A few moments later, we passed them, and as the fog thickened, I soon realised that we were alone.
At some moment in time—I can’t remember when, no matter how hard I think back to that night—he moved closer to me on the street and reached out for my hand. I reached back and I felt his chilled fingers squeeze my right hand. He hadn’t said anything yet, not that I heard at least, but as he held my hand the pumpkin head slowly turned to me.
“Where are we headed, Andrew?,” I remember saying.
From between the jagged, orange fleshy teeth emerged only a cloud of cold fog. It rapidly dissipated into the night air, blending in with the denser and denser night air.
“Is everyth—?”
From behind us, a pair of headlights materialised almost instantly, and as I turned away from Andrew to face the incoming vehicle, it screeched to a halt. Andrew slowly turned behind me, to face the now halted station wagon whose headlights made it impossible to see beyond the tip of my nose.
***
James Samuel: “Only tell me if you’re comfortable.” Nicola’s soft voice politely interrupted me. “You don’t have to tell me all at once. Like I told you, we can have as many sessions as you need.”
Nicola is my therapist. It was mom’s idea. Nan passed two weeks after her eighty-fifth birthday. I didn’t see her again after that night so I couldn’t say goodbye properly. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t remember a whole lot from that fortnight. They would come and check on me, the doctors. They would monitor how I was doing and talk to each other in all these terms I didn’t understand. I guess there are only so many times you can see white coats speaking jargon before they blend into one against the sterile clinic walls. Some of it was probably the drugs too.
I still feel guilty though. She was supposed to die peacefully, the way she lived peacefully. The way she looked at me across the table that evening made me feel like I was worth something because I made her happy. I remember being in the kitchen with mom, and her whispering that she was proud of me, and that I was the best birthday gift she could have wished for. She isn’t a big dreamer, my mom, but she knows when she’s happy and so do I.
Instead of that perfect ending, she didn’t know if she would be survived by her granddaughter. None of them did. All those tests and they couldn’t tell what was wrong with me. There were surface level issues for sure. My hair was gone. There were deep scratches on my back and stomach. When they x-rayed me they found I’d shattered my ankle and lots of the bones in my foot, as well as having cracked ribs.
The thing they were most shocked by was the mask. They won’t let me see the photos in case it triggers me more than is healthy. I don’t remember all of what they said with my mom at the bedside but apparently I had an orange paper mask on my head when they first saw me. No holes in the front, but decorated with black markings and pointed at the top.
Actually, I’d say the mask was the second most shocking thing. The thing is, they say I walked to the hospital myself. At 5:30am the next morning I arrived on foot, with all those injuries and without seeing anything. I don’t remember, obviously. Mom says the receptionist at the hospital saw me stroll across the car park singing about the pumpkin master or something? They didn’t know what to do with me until I collapsed onto the floor.
Nicola doesn’t know any of this yet. “It’s ok, I want to tell you,” I said to her, and carried on with our session.
Julia Swerdlow: Everyone who’s spent time in a hospital knows that the days blend together into a thick, soup-like stretch of time. The only consistency is the old, grumpy morning nurse who comes to check your pulse at 6am, and makes you feel like you’ve failed an exam if the numbers are not what she expected. Hospitals have always felt like a liminal space to me, like some weird purgatory-like location between the real world and the world of big pharma.
I think the headache was the worst of it—the incessant throbbing and thumping right behind my eye sockets that made my vision go black whenever I tried to stand up. It’s strange though, the pain medication they were supposedly feeding me every day seemed to have no effect whatsoever. It just made it harder and harder to recall anything that happened that night, which made my injuries all the more frustrating.
“See, I want to tell you, I just can’t picture it anymore,” I continued, “I just… I don’t know. I really can’t remember.”
The only words flashing through my head on repeat were “PUMPKIN MASTER” over and over again, like a broken record. I always thought that people who suffered from traumatic memory loss were provided counselling to piece their memories back together, but it almost felt like the people at the hospital didn’t want me to remember either.
Emily Baxter: After what felt like months, I was finally discharged. The longer I’d been in that awful building the more it felt as if my brain had been rotting, falling apart in my head. My body ached all over, and I was hoping my escape would allow me to piece myself back together without doctors and nurses monitoring my every move—but there were more important things to focus on than my incessant brain fog.
Nan’s funeral was on Saturday, and my parents were pleading with me to bring “my young man”. Even after the events of that day, they said it would have made her happy, me having someone to rely on when the going gets tough. I didn’t say “yes” immediately. I had no idea where he was, what had happened to him that night. Since I’d walked to hospital alone… right? Nicola thought it would be helpful, even if we could just talk. As I left her office, I began to compose my first words to him since the incident. He’d never been a swift replier, but it was worth a shot.
Hey Andrew, it’s been a while. Hope you’re well. I’ve been in hospital, still don’t get why tbh. Maybe you have more of a clue?
… I deleted the last sentence and continued.
It’s my Nan’s funeral this Sat. Parents think you should come along, be my support or whatever. Could talk about Halloween too, if you’d be okay with that. Hope we’re still friends? Get back whenever.
My thumb hovered over the “send” button, revising the message twenty times over in my head. I pushed through my hesitation, hit the screen on send and switched it off, but it immediately buzzed a reply.
Hilary Chan: Almost gasping I clicked the screen on. A message had come through, its preview glowering on my screen:
Hey Andrew, it’s been a while. Hope you’re well. I’ve been in hospital, still don’t get why tbh.
It’s my Nan’s…
I didn’t move. A slow chill was rising up my spine, reaching the tiny hairs on the back of neck. Slowly, I swiped my phone on and clicked on the message.
Hey Andrew, it’s been a while. Hope you’re well. I’ve been in hospital, still don’t get why tbh. It’s my Nan’s funeral this Sat. Parents think you should come along, be my support or whatever. Could talk about Halloween too, if you’d be okay with that. Hope we’re still friends? Get back whenever.
My throat was beginning to feel dry. The world was dimming around me, a violent spell of disaster had begun to grip my vision, my head.
Don’t you remember? he said. His crooked grin, carved in the middle of his face, gaped wide. His skin was glowing dark red, like wine in a fat glass. Don’t you remember what happened, hun?
All of a sudden it began to crumble: the cars, the painted stripes on the road, Nicola, the nurses in uniform, the buildings of the hospital… The splitting headache replaced them and took me over like the held breath at the peak of a roller coaster. Everything was coming back to me, I remember everything now.
When I lowered the glass I wasn't crying. He took it from my hands. He walked me to the door, gentle and cavelier. "Look, best of luck to your future, okay?" I didn't walk out of his apartment. When my body dropped it fell into his arms, his waiting body. I felt his heat through my back. “Just kidding,” he said somewhere behind me, chuckling. “No such thing as a future.” Why does he keep laughing? I had thought as the world, made of butter, continued to melt around me. What’s so funny? I kept wondering about this when they were shaving my long hair off my scalp. PUMPKIN MASTER, said the radio. What time is it? Laughter from the radio. MASTER. [Laughter] MASTER. [Laughter, recorded laughter?] PUMPKIN, my little PUMPKIN! What time is it? Is it… hair… They are making a wig? Wigs, must be, hilarious. The colour of his chandelier was a beige, the beige that was made Pantone’s colour-of-the-year in 2006. I’ll take it from here, said Andrew, not to me, and he gave the door a cheerful slam. But with each blink the beige turned darker and darker, sinking, like it was sinking into tangerine. A sunset colour, like the Californian skies. We were dining, under these orange skies, with the master’s clique. The food was still dripping with red, almost like the wax trickling down the candles, brewing the room in its red shadow. “My nan… My ma and pa...” I said. They showed their pointy teeth and they laughed, laughed, laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said to me, “I’ll make sure he takes care of it.” He’ll take it from here, PUMPKIN MASTER.
