Alice the Goon

Beware fast night, b'neath cold pale moon,

When all manner of men shall cower.

A mare, she shall rise with a dense, crooked eye,

The one they call Alice the Goon.

            .

            Long ago it was called All Hallows Eve or All Saints Eve, a solemn, mystical night when, it was believed, the souls and spirits of the dead could come back to pay a visit on the living. For better or for worse. Today we call it Halloween - a popular holiday of parties and cheap costumes, maybe a good joke or two thrown in for good measure. Somewhere between all that, between yesterday's superstition and today's celebration, lies the following tale.

            It happened during the season of the dying leaves, the sometimes sparkling, sometimes dreary time of year when the days grow shorter and the nights turn colder; the end to another hard year of planting, hoping and harvesting. In villages near and far there was little to do now but wait for the long winter soon to come. And pray for enough bounty in those harvests to make it through till Spring.

            Late at night a bonfire crackled and sparked in one such village square. A group of men sat around the fire, quietly drinking their wine and feeling the warmth across their faces, turning their backs, as it were, to the darkness all around them. The women and children had already retreated to the safety of hearth and home.

            The hollow call of an owl broke the silence.

            "Harvest moon," Schoolmaster Benjamin Thomas said, looking up at a starry sky. "Mighty fine night for witches, I'd say."

            Startled looks all around.

            "Shhhh," whispered Joshua Jamison, a devout churchgoer and farmer. "You heard what the parson said – there's to be no more of that talk 'round here."

            "The parson," Thomas said, choosing his words carefully, "is not with us now."

            "Bloody hell does that matter? We've all had our fill of witchcraft and then some. You know that. Does no good to stir things up again."

            "Does no good to be afraid of the dark, either."

            Jamison scoffed. "You be careful there, Master Thomas, such talk only invites more troubles."

            "That would be your view, my friend, not mine."

            There was a tense pause before the short, half-witted one they called Eric the Half a Man spoke next. "I heared once an old man tell that if you want to see a witch fly through the sky all you need do is wear your clothes inside out and stand on a big rock at midnight. On harvest moon no less."

            "Don't be daft, ya silly old goat," chided Nels Van Echten, the burly village blacksmith. "Witches can't fly. Besides, everyone knows what you ought do is ring a bell five times at midnight and they won't come anywheres near."

            "Ach, you're both tipsy," said old man Wilson, widower and onetime barrel maker, now more or less retired. He cleared his throat with vigor and spat on the ground. "What you need do when you fear a witch is about is walk backward 'round your house three times a'fore the sun sets."

            Eric the Half a Man, for one, was confused. "Walk backward the whole time?"
            "Do it and they don't dares bother you. I should know. I done it."

            "And it worked?"         

            "Not one single person come knocking on my door since I did the funny walk."

            The men looked over at Wilson as the firelight danced on his craggy face. Hard to argue the logic.

            The night drew longer, the moon rose higher, and a slight breeze drifted through the moonlit compound. One by one the men drained the last of their mugs and retired for the evening, each man bidding good night to the others and heading home with his own groggy thoughts. Only Schoolmaster Thomas remained, but as the hour grew late his eyes, too, became heavy and he knew it was time to turn in. He just couldn't lift himself out of the chair. The breeze had shifted and now it began to blow stronger through the trees from the north. With one strong blow the rustling leaves and scraping tree branches made a peculiar sound that could almost pass for laughter; a woman's laughter. It floated in the air for a moment, then was gone. Thomas leaned forward. Could there be someone out there at this time of night? Laughing? Or was it all just a trick of the wind and his weary mind? His own logic quickly settled on it being the wind and he slid back in his chair, pulling his coat tight against the chill. But then came the unsettling feeling that from out there in the darkness someone was watching him. The eyes of someone, or something was, at that very moment, upon him. He could feel the goose bumps.

            "Wilson, is that you, you old rummy?"

            All was quiet.

            "Van Echten? None of your foolishness now. I warn you."

            No answer. Nothing at all.

            He stared hard into the darkness for a full minute until finally the presence went away. A pickled grin came to his lean face as he poured out the last of his wine on the ground. Enough of that. On weakened legs he stood up and braced against the chilled air. One last look around. Probably nothing more than a deer.

            "Witches indeed," he muttered before heading for home as quickly as he could manage.

            The village awoke next morning to bright sunshine; the air crisp and scented with woodsmoke. There were chores to do, mouths to feed, and with the early bustle no one noticed that the chair occupied by Wilson the night before was broken and shattered. No one yet noticed the five-pointed star – a pentagram – crudely scratched into the ground on the same spot.

            Thomas was on his way to the schoolhouse when one of his students came running up to him, nearly breathless.

            "Master Thomas, Master Thomas, have you heard?"

            "Slow down, young man. What's the excitement?"

            "Old Mister Wilson was attacked last night asleep in his own bed."

            "Attacked?"

            "Bludgeoned something awful, so they say."

            "Is he safe? Is he alright?"

            The boy shrugged his slender shoulders. "He swears it was a witch that done it. Keeps saying a name over and over - Alice something or other."

            Thomas stiffened. Despite considering himself a man of logic and reason, mere mention of that name was enough to cause a chill to brush up against him; an ill wind blowing. Without saying another word he sent the boy on his way. The memory of it all still hung fresh in his mind.

            Her name was Alice Thornton, a spirited young mistress who once lived in a downtrodden house at the edge of the village. Heavier and taller than most her age, with thick black hair billowing out, it would by nature have been her lot in life to stand out in a crowd wherever she went. But what sealed her fate was a terrible accident involving her first attempt at shoeing a horse. One slip with a nail, a crushing kick to the face, and a curse was born.  

            For what has a young woman when beauty and hope is taken from her? To whom can she turn when all have turned against her? Throughout the village the children taunted her, throwing stones and running from her with shrieking fright. Having once been seen wrestling with a neighbor's pot-bellied pig, colorful stories of her brute, manly strength sprang from every child's mouth. Adults were no less cruel, and from them came

more accusations: she spoke in strange tongues, they said. She had the power to levitate herself off the ground. Her face bore the mark of the devil himself. She was different and different was not welcome.

            Time passed, but not so the cauldron of rage now simmering inside her growing body. Living in the shadows she came out only at night. Strong drink and foul words became as much a part of her as the black frock coat she took to wearing year-round. No one dared speak to her. No one dared cross her path. Thus was the fateful transformation made complete. Young Alice Thornton became Alice the Goon.    

            Then in the middle of harshest winter a strange illness befell several children, their faces stricken with tiny scabs that no herb or poultice could cleanse. Panic settled in amongst the villagers, prompting the elders to meet in secret. When old man Wilson stood and declared this the work of a witch all, save one, quickly cast a guilty hand against Alice the Goon. The only prudent thing to do, they reasoned, was banish Alice from the village.

            Later that same night, before said banishment could be carried out, someone took matters into their own hands and set fire to her house. Terrible screams were heard as the flames grew higher. Not one person tried to save her. Some swore they saw Alice running through the snow and into the woods, shouting curses while her dark coat and hair trailed smoke.  She was never seen again. Within weeks Alice, and whatever ailed the children, were long gone and forgotten.

            At the news of the attack on Wilson the schoolmaster hurried to see for himself the damage done. Men and women still huddled outside the old man's home, whispering

and wondering what had happened during the night. Thomas worked his way through the crowd. Inside he found Wilson lying in his feather bed, his head and arms covered with nasty bruises and welts. It was all Thomas could do to gasp the man's name.

            "'Twas her," Wilson said right away, his voice trembling and racked with pain. "Alice the Goon come back from the dead."

            "Calm down, my friend."          

            "Don't tell me to calm down. Look at me. Look what she done."

            "An awful thing, no doubt. But a thief perhaps. Some roving bandit that came down from the hills."

            "With long black hair and the devil's eyes? I know what I seen and it was her, I tell you. Standing where you are now, arm raised with a pitchfork in her hand." He closed his eyes and groaned, like he was watching it all over again.

            Looking down at the floorboards Thomas could see all sorts of scuff marks and scrapes of dirt, but no telltale clues. Nothing else in the room seemed out of place.

            "Did this thug say anything? Take anything?"

            Wilson shook his head and wouldn't stop. "She's come back from the grave to take vengeance on us all. On All Hallow's Eve she come back."

            Knowing no words would bring comfort to the old man Thomas left quietly, stepping out into the muddy yard and welcoming for a brief moment the warm calmness of the sun. That is until he saw the stumpy figure and struggling gait of Eric the Half a Man coming around the house. Walking backward.

            "What the devil are you doing?"

            "More bad news, I'm afeared," Eric said, stopping to take off his dirty bowler hat and scratch his head.

            "Well?"

            "Tell you one thing, squire, ain't as easy as you'd think walking like this. But you remember what Mister Wilson said about…you know, witches and all."

            "Damn it, man, what's the bad news?"

            "Seth Hopkins. He come to town this morning saying he found all his livestock killed over night. Says the necks was cut clean through."

            "Their necks?"

            "Sliced like melons, each and every one. What a bloody mess that must've been, eh? Poor bastards."

            "How does one sneak up on an animal and cut…?"

            "Killed 'em real fast, I bet."

            "But why?"

            Eric shook his head. "That's just what Seth said."

            "Where is he now?"

            "Who?"

            "Seth Hopkins!"

            "All right, all right, no call to get snippy. I reckon he's back at his stable, cleaning up all that rot."

            Thomas stood dumbfounded, not knowing what to make of this. "I must get back to the schoolhouse. The children will be waiting for me."

            Eric flashed his dirty yellow teeth. "Right. You do that, squire. You go to school like a good little boy. I'll finish up my duties here."

            Thomas watched as Eric continued walking backwards, then he himself turned and started to make his way down the road when from behind he heard a grunt and the heavy thump of flesh falling to the ground. He shook his head and kept on walking.

            As if vicious assaults on man and beast weren't enough, reports started coming in from every corner of the village telling of broken windows and petty thefts – a chicken here, a sack of grain there. Horses were skittish. The well water didn't taste right. Something strange was happening. Then to top it off there was the discovery of the pentagram – the mark of the witch - scratched into the ground in the village square. By nightfall everyone was on edge.       

            Master Thomas still could not bring himself to speak aloud of such things as curses and witches. But he was no fool either; obviously someone had been intent on doing damage here. Like his neighbors he too would bolt his door and keep vigil for the safety of home and family. Sleep would not come easy this night.

            Indeed, into the wee hours Thomas sat in the amber glow of an oil lamp, a loaded rifle leaning against the wall within easy reach. Ready to move at the first unwelcome noise. But all he heard was the occasional gust of wind outside and the steady ticking of a wall clock inside. The hours drew out slowly. Time ticking away softly until finally his eyes closed.  

            Somewhere in deep slumber it came to him – a vision of a black horse thundering across an open field at dusk, ridden by a hooded figure, face unseen. Coming straight on.

The animal's breath bellowing and its hoofbeats tearing into the ground. Getting closer. Getting louder. Until almost on top of him. Until…Thomas awoke with a start. An echo still rang in the room, followed by a pause, then three more pounding bursts. Not on his door itself but the wall beside it. He sat upright and saw right away it was still dark out. This was no longer a dream.  

            "Come out and show yourself," came a husky, womanly voice.

            He leaped to the door, pressing his shoulder against it. "Who are you and what do you want?"

            "Don't you want to come out and see an old friend, Master Thomas?"

            The voice seemed to be coming from further away now, no longer right outside the door. He took a quick look at the gun sitting on the other side of the room, but now fear held him powerless. The wall clock kept ticking.

            "Well now," came the voice from the other side, "that ain't very neighborly. And you such the perfect gentleman and all."

            "Who are you?"

            The reply came with throaty venom. "You know who I am!"

            Indeed he did. His long silence said as much. He wanted to say her name. He wanted to purge himself of all this ugliness once and for all, and knew that would start by the simple act of acknowledging her name, but he couldn't do it.

            She came back softer this time. "Didn't think I'd forget about you, did you, Master Thomas?"

            He rested a trembling hand on the door handle. "Are you…are you what they say you are?"

            "I'm a friend to the darkness is what I am. And darkness is a friend of mine. You people here saw to that a long time ago."   

            "Go away. You have no enemies in this house."

            "Got no friends neither."

           

            He didn't hear the padded footsteps of his wife coming down the stair.

            What's going on here?" she said.

           

            His own voice was whispered but strained. "Go back upstairs."

            "Benjamin—"

            "Do as I say!"

            "Who are you talking to?"

            "I said get upstairs. Now!"

            Reluctantly she did as she was told. For Benjamin Thomas his duty was now made clear. As husband and father he had to keep danger from crossing this threshold.

            "I'm coming out," he announced.

            The cold air hit hard, as did the blanket of darkness all around, for the moon this night was hidden by clouds. Heart pounding, he closed the door behind him and stepped out.

            "Over here."

            Startled, he looked to his right but still saw nothing.

            "Come closer."

            Amidst gusts of wind he heard the crunching of twigs and leaves, then the

spark and light of a small torch. There she stood in immense form. Gone was the black frock coat, replaced by a tattered full length cloak made of some coarse material. The face that came to partial view was big and round as the moon, streaked with dirt, and framed by a tangled mass of hair. But still it was not the gruesome sight he had expected. Until she moved the torch just enough that the flickering light caught the battered bones and her wayward eye, a cloudy, lifeless organ. It was Alice the Goon all right.

            "Frightened?" she asked in a playful tone.

           

            Thomas didn't answer. At least not in words.

            "Well you ought be. You and every damned man jack in this village who cursed me, laughed at me, then ran me out. Tried to burn me out."

            "If you're a witch then do with me what you will, but leave my family be. They've done you no wrong."

            "Ah, the family. How is the family these days?"

            His throat was so dry he thought he might choke.

            "Your wife still pretty as a picture?" 

            "Please, for the love of God—"

            Even her laugh was rough as rocks. "My dear Master Thomas. Don’t you see? Ain't really me you should be fearing. What you need fear is the ugly side of your own pitiful souls, the part folks like you don't choose to see when they stare into the looking glass."  

            Thomas locked eyes on her in the dancing light, struggling to sort through his own tangle of fear, guilt and confusion.

            "But what you did to poor Wilson—"

            "Poor Wilson?" Her breath plumed in the air. "That idiot scoundrel? He got what was coming to him, nothing more."

            "And the livestock?"

            A sly smile came to her. "Got to allow me a little sport."

            "Sport? Be damned, that was a man's livelihood you destroyed."

            "Then ask Seth Hopkins who was it lit my house afire that night."

            "Is that was this is all about – your revenge?"

            Something close to a growl came from her. She waited, then asked a direct question that caught him off balance yet again: "Do you believe in ghosts?"

            "I am a Christian man."

            "Answer the question, school teacher."

            "No, I do not."

            "And witches?"

            A long moment passed before he gave his answer. "No."

            "Well, well. Not so the others 'round here. They very much do believe."

            "Then what would you have me tell them?"

            Again she paused, as if she had long been contemplating the answer to that very question. "Tell 'em I'll be back. Tell 'em I do love this time of year."

            A sudden rush of wind, as if heaven-sent, began to rattle the trees. She turned her hulking frame to walk away, then came back around. "Oh, when you see Seth Hopkins tomorrow you can tell him why it was his house burned down."

            "His house? It didn't burn down."

            She grinned. "Hopefully he'll get out in time."

            The wind blew out the torch and pitch darkness returned as he listened to the footsteps falling away, watching her shadow disappear. And almost ghost-like she was gone.

           

A toast, all hail, and raise ye a glass

On All Hallows Eve; full moon.

To a two-fisted hellcat named Alice,

The one they call Alice the Goon.

-end-