What follows is a short tale by local Dayton horror writer, recluse and dear friend, CM Peck, to get you in the haunting mood. Enjoy and please help spread the magic of Halloween this year.
There are myriad accounts of the origins of Halloween, from Mexico's Day of the Dead to the All Hallow's Evening of England, even ambiguous whispers linking it to the Prussian holiday The Marching Macabre, in which Prussian warriors would invade neighboring villages at 4:44 in the morning (the morning of October 31st) force the sleeping children out of bed (sometimes going to such extremes as setting their houses on fire to wake them) holding them down…they would force grotesque costumes on the innocent children, thrust funnels of Mead or a Prussian form of Moonshine called White Vengeance down their sleepy gullets, and once inebriated, coerce the children to perform viciously sadistic "pranks" on the grown-ups of the village. Pranks usually resulting in the death, mutilation or maddening of all the adults, leaving the children orphaned with no chance of a future except to join the Macabre Army in their future brigades. In this way, the whole of Europe soon became a horde of drunken, mad teenage ghouls by the late 1700s. But that is a different story. The truth of the matter is Halloween is a strictly American holiday. I know this because I was there at it's birth. I knew it's father…the late Xylophone Man.
The Xylophone Man was born Heratio Cheatham Hecate in the town of Riverview, Ohio on October 31, 1818. I won't go into his upbringing, as is his want, save to say that it was not pleasant. His abuse was religious both in it's nature and regularity, and after the obscure death of his parents, drove his rebellious mind to the dark arts…namely Necromancy. He excelled in these arts and soon became a recluse; a man despised by his townsfolk, whom he equally despised, calling humanity the scourge of the good soul and sought to relieve the good folk of their existence. In 1835 he led an unsuccessful campaign in the hopes of 'remystifying the earth' by 'purifying the stock of unnecessaries'. To put it bluntly it was his intentions to bring beauty and mystery back into the everyday world by releasing all men of inartistic or unpoetic souls from this mortal coil, and all bland, heartless and vicious women (unless exceptionally beautiful or witty) with them. Not an ignoble pursuit. In this he failed, and was forced from the village by torch and scythe. From here on out he is hard to trace. Unless you knew the man. Or know him.
Soon came strange accounts of a wandering ghoul known only as the Xylophone Man. There was a man, or a beast, or so they said, who wandered the abandoned plains of the mid-west. He traveled alone, with only a vast black dog called Temple for companionship, and his dress was frightening to see. He was said to dress all in black tattered rags, from head to foot, with a dusty old slouch hat crowning his matted hair and long, thin strips of metal painted white fastened about his body, on his feet were long pointed white boots with small iron pellets filling the tips so they could be used as rattles by kicking, shaking or stomping on the ground. He carried two metal rods pinnacled by grotesque bulbous heads which he used to beat the long, thin strips of metal rhythmically and in this way, along with his gnarled rattleboots, he became a walking Xylophone. Now it just so happened that the strips of white metal were so placed that at night or in shadow, when the ratty black cloth of his suit became cloaked in darkness and the white strips glowed in the moonlight, he took on the appearance of a twisted skeleton playing strange, ungodly tunes upon his bones. The dog was not seen at all until it was on you.
"What does this creature want?" the townsfolk of the world whispered in their homes at night. "Why does it wander…why does it haunt us so?" No one knew. But I knew. It was indeed my dear childhood friend Heratio continuing his quest to 'remystify the earth'. "And how does this traveling musician intend on doing so by playing a few queer tunes on his mock bones?" you now ask…well, I'll tell you.
While upon his travels Heratio meet a fellow practitioner of the black arts in a town called Hunter, West Virginia who told him of a crumbling script, which may or may not be a lost Testament of the Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred, and which he may or may not be currently in possession of, which could possibly tell of a certain rite. A rite in the form of obscure musical notes, which if played correctly, when the stars were so positioned in the Heavens, a certain goal could be achieved…the dead themselves could rise from the fetid ground, shake off the dust and mold of untold years and wait for the commands of their new master. The command? You may have guessed it by now…to repurify the stock. Our hero may or may not have acquired this treasure. I will not say. All that is known is that from that day on a strange travelling musician came upon the scene and tales began of a travelling ghoul haunting the abandoned plains of the mid-west. Some gibbering fools even came screaming into towns all across the country on a certain night (which may or may not be October 31st) telling of exhumed corpses who sat or danced upon the rotting grounds of woebegone cemeteries to "the Devil's music". When the morning of November 1st would come, and search parties would be issued, all that was ever found were the festering dead, lying lifeless and smiling upon the grounds of these forgotten places, and sometimes faintly, as if carried by the wind, strange clanging and rattling music…music of a kind never heard before.
Perhaps the stars are only right on this one night. Or perhaps the tune has not yet been perfected. But practice makes perfect, or so I'm told. So, it would be wise my friends, to be festive on this night, to perhaps dress as a ghoul yourself…you may even dupe the undead into thinking you're one of them. You may or may not want to be 'artistic' or 'poetic' on this night…for it's said that the Xylophone Man will spare all those who are of artistic or poetic soul, in fact, it is they who he is carrying on his quest even today to liberate. But, you know, I wouldn't put too much stock into such things. It is just an old wives tale. Except to those who knew the man. Or know him still.