Final Service: Samhain

The All Hallows Supply Co. appeared between the payday-loan office and a vape shop on the first Thursday in June.

It caught Rhea's eye because she had become the kind of person to scope out empty storefronts. For months, she had driven the same commercial strip to stare longingly at the unit she had finally signed the lease on a week prior. It wouldn't be long before the old abandoned sandwich shop had a new name and life. Cinnamon buns the size of a wrestler's fist would be displayed in the front window, and the smell of sourdough would enchant the small town. Lemon squares and salted caramel cakes would sit behind the glass, and become responsible for at least five pounds of carb-related weight gain for the people of Blackford.

The building between the vape shop and loan office had been vacant since April. Nobody had been in or out. Windows that looked into an empty shop space just last night were painted black. A banner stretched above the door:

All Hallows Supply Co. Now Open

Rhea knew about the shop before she left her house; the shop had taken over the community Facebook page. By the time she drove past to tend to her new space, there was a line of people waiting for the doors to open, excited to get a head start on their Halloween decor. After all, Halloween was the best time of the year in Blackford. Thoughts swirled in Rhea's mind; paper bats hanging on the ceiling, a cute skeleton butler to hold the season's treats, maybe even an animatronic witch to welcome people into the bakery.

An hour later, Rhea couldn't resist the temptation.

"Just some decor. May as well be prepared for the opening in the fall," she thought. Such an ordinary lie. The type of lie you tell yourself when you know you're about to spend far more than your budget.

Inside, the store was crowded. The scent of candle wax, cheap plastic masks, and a faint burning smell, perhaps burnt sugar, filled Rhea's nose. Fog machines kept the ambience of the room, swirls and curls of fog lifting through the air. Shelves were stocked with fake headstones, bags of plastic spiders, sacks full of candy that would go stale long before they ever met the candy bowl on Halloween night.

Everything seemed normal. Everything but the costumes.

Rhea followed the crowd. The costume area was curiously quiet. The costumes weren't arranged by size or theme. Instead, everything sat in neat rows beneath handwritten signs.

"The Beginning."

"The Return."

"The Thing You Thought You Missed."

Each sign came with a name. A high school aged boy stood clutching a graduation gown in navy blue. His mother stood next to him, crying into her hands as he stared at the fabric in his hands.

"It's the right school," she said quietly. "It's the exact color."

A woman emerged from the fitting rooms wearing pale blue maternity overalls. They hung loose around the waist, but she smoothed the fabric tenderly as though her belly had already filled the fabric. Her husband stood in front of her, tears welling in his eyes.

"Maybe we'll finally have a baby," she whispered. "We've waited for so long."

Rhea considered leaving. The shop held an uneasy tension, a mix of joy, fear, and confusion. As she turned, a slip caught her eye.

Rhea Stanley. One Item Reserved.

She should have left. Instead, she reached for the hanger before she could consider what she was doing.

A black apron hung from the hanger, along with a black chef jacket. They were the same cut that she had already ordered for her future staff; heavy canvas, deep pockets, sturdy material. She almost smiled.

The apron had a dark stain from chest to hem. At first, she thought maybe someone had spilled ink on it. She noticed a hole in the chest, long and thin. She ran her fingers over the stain, the fabric stiff, like dried blood. A single white tag hung from the collar.

Samhain - 8:17 pm

It was as though her heart had begun pumping liquid nitrogen through her veins. The apron and jacket swung lightly on its hanger while Rhea caught her breath. She dropped it. She left empty-handed.

The next several days were spent cleaning, scrubbing, and painting in the new bakery. Not once did the apron leave her mind.

Rhea told herself it was a prank. It was June. Someone had opened a ridiculously early Halloween pop-up, hired actors, customized costumes, and hoped that people would be vain enough to believe it was all fate. The graduation gown could have been a lucky guess. The maternity overalls could have been a cruel coincidence. The apron was just a good special effect.

On Thursday morning, Rhea unlocked the bakery and found the apron and jacket folded neatly on the bare counter. The bloody hole faced upward.

She didn't scream; she hated when people screamed in horror movies instead of doing something useful. Instead, she backed out of the shop, locked the door, and called the police.

When the constable arrived, they worked through the usual list of questions:

"Anyone else have access to the unit?"

"Me. The landlord. The contracting team."

"Your partner?"

"Former. Why would you ask that?"

"Usually a pretty good place to start."

She said no a little too quickly.

The constable's partner bagged the apron, filling Rhea with relief that she would never have to see the thing again. As they left, Isaac's face, red with rage, entered her mind. He had been the one to help her write her business plan. He spent two years telling her to jump in, just do it, don't wait until it's safe. But when she found the space, he had told her she was moving too fast. It would cost too much. He needed her.

They had broken up in his kitchen, with a loaf of sourdough growing cold between them as Rhea pleaded with him to understand, while he accused her of never caring about his needs. Two nights before, he had sent her a single text: Hope the place is worth it.

When Rhea arrived home that evening, the apron was hanging from the handle of her apartment door. The tag had changed.

Samhain - 8:17 pm. Do not work alone.

By the end of June, the whole city was buzzing about All Hallows Supply Co. It started off like a novelty, people posting videos of their costumes online. Some Laughed, some cried, some pretended not to care. A man received a tiny dog leash, then found a lost terrier a few weeks later. A woman who had been laid off left with a hard hat was offered a job in a construction company.

Not everyone was pleased with their costume.

A man with a wife in hospice received funeral attire. He threw it in the parking lot and drove over it. A woman who received a wetsuit with a missing sleeve lost an arm in a boating accident that July.

After that, the store became less of a novelty.

Rhea stopped looking at the posts. She changed the locks on the bakery twice. She installed cameras all over the property. She told her general contractor, Lee, that nobody was to enter after working hours.

Lee had been friendly at first. He was also friendly when he explained that the plumbing repair would cost three times the quoted price, and he was friendly when he suggested that she could save some money by letting him "help manage the place" once it opened. When Rhea refused, his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"You'll see," he said. "Running a business all alone is harder than you think."

By October, Rhea had changed her opening plans four times. At first, she wanted a quiet September soft launch. Then she decided that the bakery should be open by Halloween. So she sent out the flyers, hired staff, prepared the menu. The entire week before Halloween would be a Samhain night market.

Isaac sent flowers, no card. Lee sent an invoice labelled FINAL NOTICE. The landlord called twice to ask whether Rhea was considering selling her lease. They had been getting offers from an interested buyer who wanted to open the space immediately, while she had been pushing off the opening.

And every morning, the apron sat once again on the counter.

On October 31st, the bakery was full before sunset. The week had been glorious, happy children and adults alike overjoyed over delicious sugary treats. Rhea and her employee, Sam, had been run ragged by the demand, but they were having the time of their lives.

Children in plastic fangs pressed sticky hands to the glass display. Someone in a giant mushroom costume carefully maneuvered through the crowd to order 6 cinnamon buns. An inebriated witch wept over a tray of gingerbread cookies, though Rhea couldn't bring herself to ask why.

8:11, the power flickered. Rhea joked to the crowd that it was all part of the Halloween magic.

8:13, the till froze. Sam directed people to the atm across the street to pay for their orders.

8:15, the crowd in the bakery groaned and gasped as the power went out entirely.

Rhea's heart began beating so hard, her chest hurt.

"Everyone stay where you are," she called out. "I'm just going to check the breaker." Sam caught her by the arm.

"I'll come with you."

Rhea smiled and gently pulled her arm free.

"No, it's okay," she said. "Just keep people calm and having a good time."

The back hallway was black except for the emergency exit sign. She frowned; she had asked Lee to check that the emergency lights worked, and he had assured her that they did. Somewhere in the distance, a door clicked shut. Her heart pounding in her ears, she rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Then she saw the apron, lit by the moonlight of the tiny window. It hung from the hook beside the walk-in fridge, dark and waiting. She checked her watch: 8:17.

Something moved behind her.

Rhea spun, grabbing a knife from the counter. A beam of light hit her retinas, burning briefly. Isaac stood in the door, holding the flashlight and a piece of paper.

"Rhea, it-..."

"You can't be here."

"Lee called me."

"What?"

Isaac took a careful step forward, holding the paper out to her.

"He wants you to give up the lease. He bought the property. This place is going to get demolished, but you need to give up the lease first." Rhea moved cautiously toward him when she saw his eyes go wide, looking just over her shoulder. She turned in time to see the glint of the moon reflected on one of her chef knives.

"You should have taken my offer."

For one strange second, Rhea understood the costume. Not a premonition. A map.

She felt Isaac's hand on the back of her apron, tugging her out of the way. Lee lunged again, and Rhea fell backward into Isaac while Lee crashed into the prep table. The knife slipped from his hand, clattering to the tile floor that he had raised the price on twice. She felt her own knife tugged from her hand as the shadow of Isaac's body covered her.

Sam burst through the door, several customers following behind her with phone flashlights illuminating the kitchen; Lee scrambling to his feet with his dropped knife, Isaac standing in front of Rhea. Two men ran forward, knocking the air from Lee's lungs from the force of the tackle, while another restrained Isaac, thinking him a threat. Someone called the police. Sam pulled Rhea out of the kitchen, staying beside her until the sirens came.

Later, when the lights were back on and the bakery had cleared, Rhea wiped the counters and prep table, while Sam wiped tables in front. Rhea looked around; the apron had disappeared. She searched the bakery top to bottom, Sam searching with her, but the apron was nowhere to be found.

Between a vape shop and a loan office stood an empty store. The windows were blank, the store visibly empty from the street. The doors were locked, and the banner had vanished. Only one thing remained taped to the glass.

A handwritten sign in a familiar print:

See you next season.