7. Chapter 7
Catherine Van Tassel
After I take one last long pull of espresso, Victor tosses a few silver coins onto the table before slipping his hand into mine.
As we step out of the coffee shop, the old wood door closing behind us, the aroma of fallen leaves greets my nose and chases away the smells of coffee beans and candle wax.
The cute and winding village streets are quiet now, except for a couple of individuals wearing pointed hats making their way across the square while the lanterns still glow brightly.
“Are those witches?” I whisper, keeping my voice low.
“Mmhm, best to not talk about them this close, though,” he replies back.
I take him at his word and go back to pretending they don't even exist.
We walk in comfortable silence, leaving the small houses and shops behind until the cobblestone gives way to soft packed dirt.
Ahead of us, the corn field towers above, easily eight feet in height, and the dried husks of them whisper and rattle against each other in the night breeze.
A shiver rolls through me, leaving goosebumps in its wake and I rub at my arms lightly before Victor’s light grip on my arm reminds me there's nothing to be scared of, not with him here. Though I can tell once we enter the field, we’ll be swallowed by the dark and barely able to see the moonlight.
“Stay close,” Victor says. “The cornfield can sometimes act like a maze and play tricks, but with me here it should behave.”
“You didn't mention it's a corn maze,” I whisper-hiss at him, although what should I expect after tonight in this weird, paranormal place?
I slip my hand into his, pushing what anxiety I can aside and swallow down my fear.
It's not as if I'm alone in the dark, or so I tell myself while gratefully noticing his pumpkin head spreads light everywhere he moves.
I take a deep breath as we step through the first stalks and into the rustling darkness of the corn.
With each step I take, the rustling sound intensifies until the dry and brittle corn scrapes together ominously like the sharpening of knives, and behind the carved holes of my pumpkin mask I watch in disbelief as the walls of stalks physically ripple.
A thick cluster of corn to our left bends forward, the stalks intertwining, their sharp leaves completely blocking our path ahead, while another previously uncrossable field row slithers open, forming a new trail.
I freeze in place, watching for any sign of movement until my ribs start to ache from holding my breath. A heavy breeze sweeps through and the corn begins to whisper again.
“It’s trying to swallow us!” I yell.
Victor doesn't move a muscle, but his hold on my hand tightens as he moves to reach my side. “Just ignore the paths it gives you. It's trying to trick us and keep you here until sunup.”
“Is it always this uncooperative?” I ask, my voice a strained echo inside my pumpkin as I breathe heavily and step over a root in the pathway.
“Only to those it doesn't recognize,” Victor replies, his tone harsh and flat. The orange fire in his eye casts long, dancing shadows against the cornstalks, creating a small but safe bubble of light just for the two of us. “Give it a moment, it’ll realize you’re with me and learn its place.”
Despite the wholly unnatural setting and the shifting walls of paranormal corn, a warmth spreads through my chest.
I like him.
“You know, for a terrifying and cursed headless horseman, you make a surprisingly good date.”
The angles of his eyes curve up into a look of surprise.
“Thank you, it is true I've had a few centuries to practice my manners, but I can't say I've ever had a companion to match my costume before.” He glances down at my pumpkin helmet and the flicker of his gaze turns to a soft glow full of unmistakable affection. “It suits you.”
“Hey, if you're forced to wear a pumpkin or be one all year round, the least I can do is join the club for the night,” I tease him, nudging his brawny shoulder with mine.
Victor goes still. “No one has ever said anything so nice to me, or even mentioned the burden before. Not even jokingly.”
The rustling maze goes silent, and standing in the middle of a haunted corn maze staring up into the fiery gaze of a headless man, I forget about how little time we have, and I knock his gourd with mine at the forlorn look on his pumpkin face. “We’re getting your head back, Victor,” I promise him.
A sharp snap shatters the moment and has me jolting away from him as adrenaline sends fear trickling down my spine. To our right, deep in the cornfield, something heavy shifts and sends the stalks rustling, but before they break, the sound of something large and dragging grows ever closer.
Victor moves and guides me behind him, his broad shoulders squaring off against the shifting of the corn.
I brace myself, ducking behind his expansive back, only for the thick walls of the corn to give way and send us stumbling into a circular clearing hidden deep in the heart of the corn.
Music strikes up along with the sound of heavy bass of speakers as dozens of ghouls gather in the big clearing surrounded by the tall and towering corn.
Strung between the stalks are dozens of glowing lanterns that are somehow floating in midair. They cast a warm glow over the dirt as the sprawling area turns into a festival before our eyes.
The sudden realization that I’m not being stalked at all, and the ghouls are just putting together a live band, washes over me and sends laughter bubbling out of my chest.
Victor visibly relaxes as well and the fierce glow in his eyes calms to the familiar soft orange and his mouth turns up into an amused smile.
Before I can process what's happening, the ghoul band shifts the tempo with a flourish of strings and the dance takes on a wild, rhythmic bounce as the elegant but gaunt ghouls fragment into parallel lines facing each other across the dirt clearing.
“Alright, you mangy corpses, gather around. Let's line dance!” a ghoul guy wearing a pair of boots and old jeans shouts happily. He reaches out and grabs my hands with a cool and exceptionally strong grip, then pulls me right into the line dance as Victor is swept into the line right beside me.
There's no time to think as the ghouls begin clapping in unison, stepping side to side before crossing their ankles and leaping back.
I can't help but laugh aloud when I try to follow along and stumble, the heavy pumpkin atop my head bobbing wildly with every move I make.
The lines of the undead dancers move with a strange and hypnotic fluidity as they shuffle down and scoot the length of the dirt cleared pathway.
Victor dances down his line in the same rhythm, his broad shoulders swaying under his white shirt and suspenders, the orange fire in his carved eyes flashes with pure affection every time our eyes meet across the gap.
We’re shuffling and clapping as we move with the ghouls, but the coolest part of the dance is the direction we’re being pushed. The ghouls move us into a rolling wave across the clearing, pushing us closer and closer to the far edge of the corn wall of the field.
When the music hits the thumping crescendo, Victor’s line and my line converge on one another and his gloved hand shoots out to grab my waist mid spin. He pulls me to his chest, and together we leap through the outer wall of the big corn stalks.
The ghouls let out a unified cheer behind us as the straw-colored stalks snap shut and cut off the festive light of the jack-o’-lanterns and ghoul party happening in the middle of the corn maze.
Breathless and laughing, I turn to squint through my costume out across the empty field and find, some distance away, a big horse stands in the dark backdrop of the stables as if waiting.
Victor Crane
The wall of dried corn husks spits us out, and the cool and crisp night air hits my collar. The soft wind causes my candle flame to flicker and cast jagged shadows across the ground.
“Is that Brom?” Catherine asks, her voice still breathless with laughter.
“Yep.” I smile, angling my stance and lift two gloved fingers to my jagged smile and whistle.
A moment later, I watch as my horse makes his way down the hill, galloping toward us as the steady thud of his hooves grows louder with his approach.
The big black stallion slows to a trot as he gets closer, his coat gleaming like obsidian in the moonlight as he huffs a warm cloud of steam and sidles up beside us.
I sense a spike of tension in Catherine’s shoulders, and I realize Brom’s always made her take a step back, until now. This time, the horse drops his head and gently nudges his heavy nose against her pumpkin covered cheek.
A muffled and surprised laugh echoes from inside her gourd and the sound resonates right through my chest. The fear melts out of her posture and when she bravely reaches out to stroke his velvety nose, I can't help myself.
I step closer and slide my gloved hand over hers and press her palm flush against his neck as the big horse tries to nuzzle her again.
“He really likes my costume,” she says.
I turn to her, and offer my hand, and bend my knee offering her to step up, and she hesitates only the barest of seconds before placing her small hand in mine.
I wrap my arms securely around her waist when she steps up, I lift her onto the saddle.
For a heartbeat longer, I keep my hands on her hip, reassuring myself that she won't fall off before I vault up into the saddle behind her.
“Look at Brom being a good lad. Hopefully the weight of your pumpkin mask isn't too much, we’ll be able to take it off soon,” I say, keeping my voice light as I pat at the big beast's side.
“It feels fine. I'm almost used to it now, it's just a bit clunky at times,,” she says back.
I gather the reins and click my tongue. “If it gets to be too much let me know, and I think we should stop by the apple orchard on our way for good measure. It's just over this ridge and if there's anything Brom likes more than sugar cubes, it's candied apples.”