Chantel's Halloween

Chantel Lemieux went outside and lit each of her jack-o'-lanterns. She'd carved them with love and care, as she had decorated her home for Halloween. It was her favorite holiday—especially when it fell on a full moon. Now that the sun was setting, she knew that her annual trick-or-treaters would be arriving shortly, so she smiled and ran off to get dressed in her angel costume before the door-knocking began.

The kids did not disappoint, and Chantel was having the time of her life. She oohed and aahed at their costumes, feigned terror a few times, and doled out handfuls of treats from a seemingly bottomless candy bowl. For their part, the children loved visiting Ms. Chantel, and they marveled at her beauty in the white angel costume, complete with feathered wings and a halo, that she fluttered about in.

After a few hours of greeting trick-or-treaters, the constant stream dwindled to an end, and Chantel sat back to finish reading the day's newspaper. She wasn't sure why she bothered, since it seemed like there was always bad news being reported. Unfortunately, this day was no different.

As she finished reading the latest report for coastal Maine, icy chills crawled up her spine—another woman was found dead, washed up on the shore with severe injuries to her neck. 

The police still had no idea who or what was attacking these women and dumping them into the icy Atlantic, though they've speculated about everything from wolves to sharks to an escaped lunatic. 

Anything, thought Chantel, but what she dared not whisper after the sun had set, and her childhood fears percolated to the forefront of her mind...

Dear, sweet Mémére had planted the seeds of her French superstition into Chantel's childhood imagination, and it had taken root.

'Never go out into the country during the night of a full moon, you, because the loup-garou, he prowls for children,' Mémére had admonished. 'And never invite in a stranger who arrives after dark, for this is the way of the vampyre. He's sneaky, that guy, him.' 

At 23, Chantel was no longer a child. Yet Mémére's warnings could still arise from her subconscious when the autumn moon shone down its silver light—especially when the bodies of missing, young women were turning up. 

Who or what was attacking these young women and dumping them in the sea?

There's no such thing as monsters, she reminded herself.

Nonetheless, Chantel proceeded throughout the house, checking each door and window, making sure they were locked tight. When she reached her bedroom windows, she took a slow and careful look outside: the large maple stood a short distance away, its vast arms encircled the corner of the house. Beyond the tree, the sea flickered in the moonlight; its turbulent surface rose and fell along with the chilly gale that had arisen during the last half-hour. 

Movement caught her eye outside the window, at the base of the old maple. For the merest instant, Chantel could have sworn that she'd seen a woman's face staring up at her from behind the ancient tree. It was pale with dark, flashing eyes...and then it was gone.

Wow, Mémére. You really knew how to scare your only granddaughter. 

Chantel closed her sheer curtains and turned to leave the bedroom. As she switched off her light, she chuckled to herself for being so childish. 

While it was true that something was attacking women and dropping them in the sea, she acknowledged, it certainly wasn't a ghost. 

Back downstairs, Chantel returned to the living room and began searching for something to watch. The wind outside continued to thrash, causing her wind chimes to clang furiously and whipping the sea into a frenzy. Though she tried to remain calm, the noise unnerved her. 

She decided that bingeing some comfort TV shows was the best way to proceed, but just as she began her first episode, the house lost power. In the blink of an eye, her home went from bright and cheery to dark and silent. The thickening clouds above ensured that no moonlight would be permitted to lighten the autumn sky, and the ever-present gale provided a cacophony of angry waves, howling eaves, and the occasional scratching of branches from the maple tree against the old clapboard siding. 

She decided that there was nothing for it but to light candles and wait it out, so she went about lighting tea lights and pillar candles. Shadows danced with the flickering flames from drafts that penetrated the old windows. 

Chantel selected one of her favorite books and sat down on the couch, crossing her legs. She used a small booklight to illuminate the pages and began to allow herself to drift off into the eighteenth-century English countryside, where dashing sportsmen and elegant ladies sparred with flirtatious manners to sort out who would be falling in love with whom. 

After what seemed like hours, so successfully did her story relax her nerves, that Chantel began to drift off. Rather than fight off the beckoning sleep, she allowed her eyes to close. 

A loud knocking at her front door propelled Chantel violently into alertness. Her head swam as the sleepiness that had felt so welcome, was chased away by her resurging fear.

She checked her watch—it was two-thirty AM. 

Chantel felt panic began to build as her sleepy mind tried to make sense of the situation. 

Who could it be?

There was no way she was going to answer the door...not at two-thirty in the morning while there was quite possibly a serial killer on the loose!

Again came the knocking at the door, louder and more insistent.

She decided that her best option was to stay still and wait it out. Whoever it was could move on down the road. She wasn't being rude...after all, it was well after midnight! 

Though her eyes were adjusted to the dimness, it was still difficult to see with most of her candles having burned down and the power still being out. 

Should she call someone? Who? 

Knock...knock...knock

Chantel decided to go upstairs and look out her window to see if she could get a look at her uninvited visitor. Slowly, she tiptoed up the stairs and into her bedroom, freezing with every creaky stair. 

Gently pulling aside her curtains, she peeked below. Standing on her doorstep was her handyman, Rick Vashon. Rick had been over earlier in the day to replace Chantel's kitchen faucet. Nice enough guy, and easy on the eyes, but what the hell was he doing here?

He'd changed from his work clothes into some jeans with white sneakers and a black fleece sweatshirt, and his longish hair was unkempt as usual and blowing in the wind. His expression was intense as he again pounded on the door. Chantel refused to budge. 

As if sensing that he was being watched, Rick looked up quickly and made eye contact with her just as she ducked her head to the side. She waited a few minutes, mortified at being discovered, before peeking down at her door again. She felt some relief to see that Rick had finally left, even as an encroaching bank of thick fog raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

What on Earth could he have wanted?

It didn't matter. He'd arrived at an ungodly hour, and what with all of the killings, there was no way she was going to let him in. It's not that she didn't trust him, per se; she just didn't know him very well. She'd call him in the morning and ask him about it. Chances are that he was just checking on her due to the power outage.

Chantel padded downstairs and was walking past the front door when an unseen force took hold of her. The only thing that mattered to her at that moment was opening her front door. It felt to her as if untold dreams were waiting for her just on the other side. 

She could feel power radiating from it, and she became aware that she was moving—as if her legs went numb and she simply floated with her toes dragging—towards the front door. 

Knock, knock, knock...

Unlike before, these knocks were gentle, unhurried, and barely loud enough to be heard above the wind. 

Just as Chantel reached the front door, it swung silently open. In the doorway, silhouetted by darkness, stood a tall, blonde, woman, barefoot in a filmy, white dress. The woman smiled at her so beautifully, it was like Chantel was seeing her first sunrise.

The woman's dark, smokey eyes, above high, sharp cheekbones, sparkled with the reflection of candles from the house. Wild, platinum locks surrounded her heart-shaped face, and her full lips shone red and glossy.

Her presence was powerful and attractive, and Chantel felt like the woman belonged in a board room wearing a power suit rather than the slim white dress she wore barefooted on the lawn. 

"I am Valentina." The words were spoken with an otherworldly accent in a voice as rich and smooth as fine chocolate. 

"I'm Chantel...and I'm here alone." Chantel realized that she had very little power over the words that came spilling from her mouth. 

What was happening?

"Will you not invite me inside?" The woman smiled as though at a joke the two of them shared, and it made Chantel blissful to please the strange woman. 

"Of course. Would you like to come inside?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, the woman's long, pale arm stretched out and grasped Chantel by the throat, lifting her off the ground and cutting into her neck. At the same time, long pointed teeth slithered forth, transforming the woman's beautiful smile into a demonic leer.

Chantel struggled to free herself from the woman's grip, but it was fruitless. The woman leaned closer to Chantel, and a long, forked tongue lolled out of her mouth, sliding up Chantel's neck.

"Mmmm. Virgin blood. How unusual in one so beautiful."

The woman opened her mouth wide, and Chantel could feel her icy cold breath on her neck when a deep howl tore through the billowing fog that had encircled Chantel's house. Out of the murky darkness strode a creature some seven feet tall. It had the muzzle and pointed ears of a wolf, with burning, yellow eyes that glowed malevolently. The creature was covered in gray and black fur, stretched taut over cords of thick, dense muscle. 

The woman dropped Chantel to the ground, hissed, and brought her long claws to bear.

With a ferocious snarl, gray fur streaked past Chantel as the beast crashed into the woman. The two became a blurred whirlwind of claws and fangs. 

Move, Chantel!

Shaking herself out of the unholy reverie, Chantel scrambled back into her house, slamming and bolting the heavy storm door.

She knelt in the center of her living room, shivering as snarls, hisses, and demonic voices came through the door.

As suddenly as it had begun, the noise came to an end, and all that Chantel could hear was her own heartbeat drumming in her ears.

The silence stretched out until Chantel could no longer bear it. Slowly and quietly, she unbolted the door and cracked it open. There, in the doorway, stood the wolf creature, glaring balefully down at her.  

The woman's body hung limply by her hair from its massive claw. Though unmoving, the woman's face showed a visage of such rage and hatred that it burned forever into Chantel's mind.

The wolf creature then looked up, making eye contact with Chantel. She stood still, frozen in terror until blackness overtook her.

Chantel awoke the next morning under a blanket in her chair. She heard hammering coming from the front. She shuffled to get a view of the front door where she saw Rick Vashon working on her door frame. It was nearly finished.

"Hello, there," he called. "You look like you've had a rough night."

Chantel nodded.

"I saw that the wind blew off your front door last night so I thought I'd get it started for you."

She stepped closer to Rick, noticing for the first time the bruising on his face and the gauze patches on his neck and forehead.

"What happened to you, Rick?"

"I was in a bit of an accident driving home last night in the fog." 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." He smiled. "I'll heal up in no time."