All-Hollowed Eve

by Jeff Baker

(A Food Garden Court Story)

(January 27, 2023)

The luminous white blob, dark smudges for eyes and mouth, surged up out of the floor, emitted a low moan and hovered between the tall young man and the customer at the register.

“Hey! Scoot! Shoo!” T’amec said waving his hand through the blob. He and the customer watched as it rose up to the skylight of the Food Garden Court and then glided back down the mall.

“Hey, did you call me?” said the shorter, more muscular young man opening the swinging doors from the kitchen.

“Naw, Skid.” T’amec said. “Just shooing more ghosts.”

“Oh, yeah.” Skid said. “I got some back here too. Hey! Get! I said get!” He snapped a towel at the shimmering blob drifting behind him.

T’amec sighed and went on taking the customer’s order. At least this wouldn’t go on much longer and this year the end wasn’t hitting on the weekend.

A few minutes later, T’amec was making the customer’s bierock when Skid came out of the kitchen with another canister of broth.

“We sell a lot of this during Octobrus,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s getting colder and…hey! Get out of there!” T’amec said, grabbing the ladle and swatting at a ghost that had shimmered through the wall over the grill next to the broth tub.

Behind them the customer was laughing. “I know how you feel, guys,” he said. “I work in the Coaster Shoppe in the parking lot and we have a couple of those things zipping around that we can’t get rid of.”

“Yeah,” T’amec said, wrapping up the bierock and handing it across the counter to the customer. “We’ve got them all over the kitchen.”

“At least we only have a couple more hours to go,” the customer said.

“Hope so,” T’amec said.

There was a rhyme Skid and T’amec remembered from school:

“When Days of Months are Thirty-Six/The Days of Years Must Soon Be Fixed/Thus Octobrus Came to Be/Five Days When Spirits Must Roam Free.”

Changing the months to lock ghosts into only appearing one week a year was pretty powerful magic, T’amec’s Father had said.

Some people wanted nothing to do with this and stayed in their homes, terrified, doors locked. (As if that would do any good against ghosts who could zip through walls, T’amec had thought.) Others looked forward to it and even partied. There was even a banner hung up proclaiming “All-Hollowed Eve,” the name someone hung on it because the mall felt like an empty cavern late at night with ghosts flitting about.

The Mall did a brisk business during Octobrus, especially at night with a lot of people who usually didn’t go out showing up, some wearing ghost emblems on their tunics. The cavernous Mall seemed to attract more ghosts who seemed to like soaring around inside and were more active at night.

But as a result, a lot of the Mall’s regular employees didn’t want to come in after the sun went down. So Skid and T’amec worked double shifts during Octobrus, lots of overtime and almost as much money over the five days as they made during a regular month.

Skid glanced up as he wiped down a counter top there in the Food Garden Court. Ghosts were more active right now, some of them in small groups flying around the upper floor and the skylights. He glanced at the wall clock. He didn’t know why the Mall insisted on being open until Midnight on the last of Octobrus. Probably good for business. Not so good on the nerves.

A pair of ghosts dive bombed Skid and he ducked. He could imagine them laughing.

“Maybe next year we’ll have the sense to be closed.” Skid said.

“Yeah, or I’ll be home hiding under my bed,” T’amec said. “Or under your bed,” he said with a grin.

One of the security people stopped by for a cup of broth.

“They’re getting more active,” she said looking up at the pale swarm. “At least they aren’t congregating in the restrooms anymore.”

“Yeah,” T’amec said. “Thankful for small favors.”

Skid had read an article online about how the ghosts seemed keyed to local time and local Midnight. The guess was that was part of the magic that had separated the five Octobrus days from the rest of the year.

It was eleven-fifteen when they noticed a real change.

From every corner of the mall the ghosts flew, swirling around each other as they rose in a group towards the glass skylights over the Food Garden Court.

“Just glad they aren’t like pigeons.” T’amec said.

“Yeah, we’d have to clean it up you know!” Skid said and they both laughed.

“Getting close to when they fly up to the sky and fade,” Skid said.

“What was it they used to call it?” Skid asked. “The Wild Wrangle?”

“Something like that.” T’amec said. “Couldn’t happen soon enough for me.”

“And they canceled all the Skyplane flights for tonight as usual.” Skid said picking up the trays and heading back through the kitchen doors.

In the kitchen Skid put the trays in the sink as T’amec tossed the towel into the hamper.

“At least it’s gonna be over for another year,” Skid said leaning against the sink.

“Yeah,” T’amec said.

“Where do you think they go?” Skid asked.

“Not sure,” T’amec said. “I guess if they really are spirits we’ll find out someday.”

He draped a towel over his head and made a hooting noise. Skid laughed. Then Skid pulled the towel off T’amec’s head, leaned up and kissed him.

T’amec grinned and kissed Skid. Suddenly a line of white shapes zipped up between them, passing through the floor and up through the ceiling.

“Be really glad when it’s midnight.” T’amec said.

“Tell me about it!” Skid said with a grin. He kissed him again and T’amec wiggled his fingers and went “Booooooo!”

—end—