Seventh All Hallows' Eve

By Ruby Jean Jensen

Aleah Chalmers is constantly under stress in supporting eleven-year-old daughter Jodie and her grandmother Gram. Her work as a waitress pays enough to barely make ends meet. Wealthy Luther Christain, confined to a wheelchair, makes a proposal for marriage as a thirty-day business arrangement, Aleah overcomes her concerns, accepts, and moves the family into Luther’s enormous house. Luther is a perfect gentleman and begins to take on a role as Jodie’s father. As the days pass Aleah reflects on the strangeness of the secret arrangement, and begins to wonder about Luther’s motives. She also becomes aware that the thirty day period ends just after All Hallows’ Eve. A complication arises when Luther’s brother Garth returns from one of his long absences, and Aleah and Garth begin to develop strong feelings toward one another. Meanwhile, Jodie sees another little girl about her age that mysteriously appears and entices her to follow to a destination in the woods. As All Hallows’ Eve approaches, there is plenty of opportunity for Aleah to wonder who she can trust, and whether Jodie might be in some danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruby Jean Jensen
• Release date: Dec 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781951580681

Ruby Jean Jensen

Ruby Jean Jensen (1927 – 2010) authored more than 30 novels and over 200 short stories. Her passion for writing developed at an early age, and she worked for many years to develop her writing skills. After having many short stories published, in 1974 the novel The House that Samael Built was accepted for publication. She then quickly established herself as a professional author, with representation by a Literary Agent from New York. She subsequently sold 29 more novels to several New York publishing houses. After four Gothic Romance, three Occult and then three Horror novels, MaMa was published by Zebra books in 1983. With Zebra, Ruby Jean completed nineteen more novels in the Horror genre.Ruby was involved with creative writing groups for many years, and she often took the time to encourage young authors and to reply to fan mail.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He had just returned from that other place that was in a way more home to him than this because there his transformation began, was gaining force, and there he could drop the pretense he lived behind.

He raised his hand slightly to dismiss the people behind him, the housekeeper, his chauffeur, and sat a moment in the silence of the great and dreary hall. On both his right and left, double doors, dark and closed, broke the papered walls occasionally along the way. Above the doors dark and dusty paintings of long-dead family ancestors looked down in silent and hostile disapproval.

Ahead of him, rising in wide and surprisingly gentle grace, considering the age of the house, the stairway grew out of the dark wood of the floor like a mutation and branched toward the surrounding balcony overhead. He looked up to the ceiling, the bottom of the floor of the third story, far above, remembering for a moment how many years it had been since he had walked those steps, gone down the hall above, and walked the next, steeper, enclosed flight of steps into the great library on the third floor. A hundred years? Two hundred? Up there he had found, hidden among the thousands of crackling and dusty volumes, pictures and symbols that gave him bad dreams. Then. Now the dreams and the symbols with all their meanings had become a part of his life. All his life.

He raised his voice and shouted, Cara! and the sound echoed on above, Cara, Cara, Cara ...

He heard her footsteps running behind him, and her voice answering as if she were afraid of him, Yes, sir?

Something has got to be done with this place. How can a man bring his bride into a place like this? Open the—

She interrupted, crying in surprise, Bride!

He looked over his shoulder at her. Bride, yes, he said coolly. Am I expected never to marry?

She rubbed her palms against her apron. Oh! Oh! I just thought ...

He waited, but she didn’t go on. Yes? You were having a thought?

He saw that deep in the wrinkles of her face she might possibly be smiling. I think that’s lovely, sir.

Then you would agree with me that this house is not exactly the right atmosphere, I’m sure. What do you think would cheer the place up and make it look like something livable instead of— He waved his hands at the walls where the paper had darkened so much the print was as hostile as the portraits. Tell me what you think, Cara.

She took a deep breath and looked around. I think it would have to be painted white, all over, to ever get any light and warmth and cheer in here, with some white rugs on the floor, even, and the balcony painted white, and the pillars up there, and all the woodwork, with potted plants everywhere, with lamps and lights that I can turn on if I— you want them on. And—

Don’t get so carried away, he said. I personally see nothing particularly cheerful about white, but I do agree it would brighten, or at least lighten, the place. All right. Call the best decorator in town, and I’ll give you the privilege of decorating the halls, the upstairs balconies, and the two bedrooms on the left above that have the door between them. The other rooms I would at least like to discuss with the decorator. I shall decorate my bride’s room. Mine shall not be touched.

Yes, sir.

He pressed the button on the side of the wheelchair that turned on its efficient little motor and moved toward the second double doors on his right. The skinny little housekeeper ran ahead of him and opened the doors. When he had passed through in the large and bulky chair, she closed the doors.

He paused, then, turning the chair smoothly, leaned forward and locked the doors.

He turned then toward the large rooms of his private living quarters.

The closed, musty smell was everywhere, but instead of calling Cara back from the assignment he had given her, he moved forward to the French doors on the far side of the room, unlocked them, and flung them back himself.

Fresh air of spring burst into the room, bringing the fragrance of something blooming in the surrounding woodland. Wild grapes, surely, or chinquapin. He didn’t know. Botany was not exactly his field of study.

Not exactly.

His brief laughter moved into the silence of the room behind and returned in a faint, mocking echo.

He was used to the echoes in this house, caused, the decorator would decide awkwardly, by the great height of the ceilings. He would say, as men had said before him, "What can you expect from a house two hundred years old?"

The echo died away, died under the sound of spring birds calling for mates, announcing the building of nests. A sound as incongruous in this house as the sound of a child’s laughter.

A child’s laughter.

He moved the chair forward over the bumpy threshold and onto the stone terrace, across it and down the specially made stone ramp into the grass of the lawn. The path was faint, but it was there, showing the double tracks of his chair.

He followed the exact lines of the path, winding around evergreen shrubbery, the low, hanging branches of a spruce tree, beneath the limbs of a tall pin oak and on into the forest.

It wasn’t far. In the constant shade of the trees the stone was a pale shadow of something alien, as incongruous here as the child in that house.

He drew up before it and looked at the lettering on the front.

A little girl.

That was all. Perhaps they had thought him crazy, those few who knew about it, because there was no body beneath the stone.

No, not beneath the stone.

He looked up into the trees, into the new green leaves that drooped above, fragile in their youth, and spoke softly aloud. Not yet.

His deep intake of breath was lost in the sound of new life about him. His jaw tightened and he turned the chair, whirled it, and ran it at full speed back along the path and up the ramp. He didn’t slow down until he had entered his rooms again and was guiding the chair toward the tall but narrow door that led into his private study. The chair was barely narrow enough to make it through the door.

The desk squatted like a huge chained insect, and the key was in his pocket. He closed the door and locked it to be sure no one entered through the French doors and found him with the desk unlocked.

The draperies here were still drawn. Cara was not allowed to enter his rooms even for cleaning without his constant presence. The manuscript in the drawer was too important, too revealing. Too secret.

He unlocked the desk drawer with the key that never left his reach.

The symbols drawn on the top page were sharp and clear even in the twilight of the nearly dark room; clear, at least, to him. To another it might at first look like a T with an inverted V at the bottom, but on closer examination it would show the circle around it and reveal the mark inside to be the spread and helpless body of a human ready for sacrifice. A girl. A virgin, because the open V had a double, hidden meaning known by very few.

And beneath the symbol, the title: Modern Practices in Witchcraft and Satanic Rites.

He leaned forward and turned on the desk lamp, then reached for paper to wind into the typewriter that he pulled toward him on its roll-out shelf.

Slowly and thoughtfully he began to type his latest discoveries.

When he stopped he picked up the calendar on the desk and gazed at it for several minutes. Then, still slowly and thoughtfully, he drew a heavy, dark circle around the date of October thirty-first.

The child would call it Halloween. He called it "The Seventh All Hallow’s Eve."

Chapter 2

There were times when she hated her work and wondered why she kept on, night after night, year after year, dressed in a black evening dress that was slit to her waist down the front and up to her hip at the side, carrying trays of mixed drinks to these snobbish rich people at the Span Croft Country Club’s lounge. It was the tips, of course, she reminded herself prudently, because she needed the money for Jodie and Gram and herself. But she knew there was another reason, too. Hatred.

Tonight, on her break in the private ‘workers’ lounge, she sat and wondered just whom she was spiting most; the rich man, one of the country club set, who had gotten her, a poor girl with nothing, pregnant at age fourteen, or herself. And Jodie. Who was spiting whom? The man didn’t care. If he ever saw her, he pretended not to. Why shouldn’t he, with a wife of his own sitting at his side? Children at home, or somewhere, several years older than Jodie. Still, there were the tips to consider. What better-paying work could she get with her lack of training?

When she went back to her work after the ten-minute break, she saw that another had come in and was sitting near the door as he always did, alone, accompanied by nothing but the wheelchair in which he sat. Her eyes were drawn to his because his were on her. For a reason she couldn’t define they made her acutely uncomfortable.

She went behind the bar for instructions, as always, and knew what they would be before they were spoken.

The bartender nodded slightly toward the strong-faced man in the wheelchair. Mr. Christain would like you to bring him his drink.

It was ready, and instead of asking why, as she would have liked, Aleah picked up the tray and made her way slowly through the crowded and very dim room toward the man in black near the door. She didn’t look directly at him as she placed his glass on the table, but she could see that his eyes, dark and slitted in his bony face, remained glued to her like dark lights that could see beneath her surface.

Neither of them spoke, but when she got back to the bartender she asked in a low voice, Why me? Why not someone else?

How should I know? the bartender answered. "He wants you. It’s not my place to inquire why. Nor, I suppose, is it yours. Maybe he just likes to look at you, which is, I might add, one of the reasons you’ve been working here for four years now. The men like to look at you, and you don’t flirt around and make the women jealous. He nodded toward the far corner, hardly visible from the bar. Table of young stags just came in and givin’ you the eye. See what they want."

She went, but her mind was on the man in the wheelchair, and her awareness on the eyes that kept watching her. He was not interested in her as a woman, she knew. How could he be, when he was paralyzed from the waist down? She knew enough about him to know that. The first time he came in, a few months ago, she hadn’t known who he was, but she had soon been filled in. The name is Luther Christain. The wheelchair; because he had been a wild kid and had an accident in his sports car when he was nineteen and had been a paraplegic ever since. Though he was only her age, twenty-five, he looked ten years older, or more. He had an ageless kind of air about him, a boniness that was not concealed by expensive suits. Wide shoulders, long arms, long legs, and long hands.

And eyes that kept watching her until she felt like going over and demanding why. But of course she never would. She had learned her place. She had learned that when she was fourteen.

After she served the stags in the corner, each of whom tried to get his fingers in one or the other of the slits in her gown until she haughtily made them understand she was not to be touched, she looked to find the wheelchair gone.

She breathed a sigh of relief and went on with her work.

At one o’clock on this week night the lounge closed and she was free to go home. She changed to jeans and shirt, got her small car from the parking lot behind the country club, and drove to the tiny house she shared with her eighty-nine-year-old grandmother and ten-year-old daughter.

They usually were asleep, a small light always left burning in the living room for her, but tonight she unlocked the front door to find Gram sitting in her chair, wrapped in a shawl.

Gram, Aleah asked instantly with alarm, aren’t you well?

I’m well, Gram answered. But I was awakened about an hour ago by, of all things, a messenger boy in a big black car with a letter for you. Here.

Aleah took the long, white envelope and sat down. Her name, Aleah Chalmers, was written on the front in black ink, large handwriting that was broken almost to the point of being printed. Her fingers felt the richness of the envelope. It had a feel of heavy satin, and she knew without opening it where it had come from. The question was, why? What was his purpose?

For gracious sakes, Gram said impatiently, stop feeling it and open it! After waiting all this time, I figure I got the right to know what on earth is in it.

Aleah didn’t say that she didn’t want to open it. Her mind always moved rapidly through pros and cons on any subject, but she usually kept her opinions to herself. Even where Gram and Jodie were concerned. She might be more like Gram and Jodie, outspoken and impulsive, but it was simply not in her nature.

Slowly, she slid a long fingernail under the glued flap and ripped it open.

The stationery inside was exactly like the envelope. Heavy and satiny and pure white, with no letterhead or any other embellishments. A date, this date, was at the top and then her name, Aleah Chalmers.

Well, read it! Gram said.

Aleah shrugged. All right. At the top is October eighth. And then Aleah Chalmers ...

"Just that? Not even dear?" Gram frowned and leaned forward.

Aleah shook her head. No. Not even dear. If you’ll relax a minute I’ll get it read. She waited until her grandmother had leaned back. It says ... Let me introduce myself. I am the man in the wheelchair, Luther Christain, the man you obviously don’t like. But that has nothing to do with my offer. I’ve investigated your circumstances and I’m offering you something which I hope you will not be able to turn down. Money, position, a chance to be waited upon yourself for a change. I’m offering you marriage, Aleah Chalmers. I’ll be getting in touch with you. Luther Christain.

Aleah’s hand fell to her knees with the letter loose between her fingers, and her eyes fixed upon her grandmother. Marriage! she whispered.

Gram, for a change, seemed to have nothing to say. She stared back at Aleah, her once dark blue eyes streaked with the white of cataracts. And then she said, Well, for gracious sakes!

Aleah’s mind played instantly through the advantages. To sit at a table and be served instead of being always on the serving end; to watch Jodie grow up in the environment that was, or should have been, rightfully hers. To— yes—get even with him who had forced his body on her as though just because she was the cook’s grandchild she was for the taking. All Gram was able to do then was take her and leave his house after the confrontation between the two of them, because he denied having done what Aleah accused him of doing. He hadn’t touched her, he said, though she followed him about, asking for it. True, she had followed him, but she didn’t know then what he meant by the other. She had missed her daddy, that was all, and tried to fill his place with the man who then betrayed her. The trust and need had turned to hate.

Jodie, though, growing up now, deserved the best she could get. The best money could buy. They owed her that.

Behind that reasoning was the less important question: why had wealthy Luther Christain chosen her?

Gram interrupted her thoughts. Luther Christain, she was saying thoughtfully. Aleah could hear her chair squeak as she rocked slowly, as she always did when she was thinking deeply. Luther Christain. Ain’t he that crippled man? The one that had the wreck years ago that paralyzed him?"

Yes.

And, Gram continued as if Aleah hadn’t answered, or at least not broken her meandering memory trail, he’s the one that was found with the little girl raped and murdered in the back seat of his car.

Aleah whirled toward her. What?

Gram was looking at the ceiling, her eyes half closed. I recollect it as if it happened yesterday. He was eighteen or nineteen then, not much older than you, and all he did was run around in that convertible of his and get drunk, and one morning eight—no, seven years ago this November first—one of the servants went out to park his car in the garage and found the body of the murdered little girl in his back seat. She was about eleven or twelve years old. I believe she was eleven.

The details had slipped Aleah’s mind, but they returned rapidly. She hadn’t known Luther Christain, but she remembered reading about it in the papers. There had been a trial that lasted about a year, it seemed at the time.

He was found not guilty, she said, knowing in her mind that she was defending him because she wanted to accept his puzzling but attractive offer.

Gram brought her blurred eyes down from the ceiling. Rich people are always found innocent. Not guilty ... After the trial he got worse than ever and wrapped himself around the tree. And never took another step. What does he want to marry you for?

How should I know? Maybe because he thinks I’m the only person in the world, or this town anyway, who would accept him. Maybe because he thinks I would be so grateful that—

And you would, wouldn’t you? Aleah, don’t accept him. Mark my word, it’s got something to do with Jodie, not you. Mark my word!

Oh, Gram!

Mark my word!

What could it have to do with Jodie? Or, if it does, maybe he wants to make amends to some little girl for—for what somebody did.

For what he did?

Well, he’s paralyzed now—he’s ... Aleah stopped. Her fingers tightened on the smooth stationery. She wanted Jodie to have the best that money could buy. She wanted her to be something, for a change, other than illegitimate. Because, modern and liberal Seventies or not, it was a mark against her. But Aleah was as practical as the nights were long, and she tossed the letter aside. Oh, well, he probably didn’t mean it, anyway. So why worry?"

I just wonder, Gram said, looking at the ceiling again. Do you know him?

He’s been coming into the bar for the past two or three months.

What does he do when he gets there? It’s pretty unusual for him to go out.

How do you know so much about him?

People come in and talk, you know, in the evenings when you’re at work. He’s been a kind of recluse since his accident. Stayed in the house most of the time, outside of a few trips out of town. Probably to see specialists about his paralysis. Anyway, what does he do in the bar?

He just has a drink, then he leaves. That’s all.

No friends or anything?

No.

You’re keeping something from me, Leah, I can tell. Gram’s eyes might be clouded, but they could still see through her, as they had since her parents had died when she was thirteen and left her to live with Gram.

All right, Aleah said reluctantly. He just sits and watches me. He always insists that I bring his drink.

But he never talks to you?

No. Never.

Gram began to nod. He knows you. He knows about Jodie. I’ve got a feeling it’s got something to do with Jodie.

Aleah stood up. Gram, I’m exhausted. We’ll probably never hear from him again, so I think I’ll go to bed. And I think you should stop worrying about it.

Gram’s chair was squeaking again as she rocked. The man must be crazy from spending so much time alone.

Good night, Gram.

Aleah had started from the room when suddenly, like a horn in the living room blaring into the night, the phone rang.

Aleah jumped nervously, the ringing of the phone completely unexpected and unusual at this hour. Then she simply stood staring at it as it rang again. She thought of Jodie, of the sound waking her, just as Gram said: "Who on earth? Get it, Leah, before it—"

Aleah ran the few feet and grabbed the black phone off the cradle. The voice that answered her hello was deep and very cultured.

Miss Chalmers, did you receive my letter?

Uh ... She tried to picture him, in his wheelchair, probably in a very expensive robe, in his room. What room? She had been past the gates of his home estate, but all that was visible from the street was a brick wall and lots of evergreen, maple and oak trees. They would be very colorful now. But what kind of house did he have behind all those brick walls and evergreen trees and shrubberies? Yes. I received it.

I hope I didn’t awaken you, or disturb your rest. I waited until I thought you would have time to arrive home, read my proposal, and decide upon it.

For once she spoke impulsively, almost angrily. You certainly must have expected a fast decision.

Not at all. But why should you refuse me? May I say, first of all, that it is a kind of business offer so far as you and I are concerned. I expect nothing except that you become my wife and live in my house. In return you will be given all that money can buy. And that is what you want, isn’t it?

No, not necessarily. I—there are others in my family, you know.

Yes. I know you have a child. That child, of course, will be as accepted in my—or I should say—the family home, like you. And will be given all the opportunities that money can buy, for the rest of her life.

I don’t understand. She was still trying to picture him, but kept seeing him as he appeared in the lounge, large-boned, thin, a dark and shadowed face that was turned constantly in her direction. Why me, Mr. Christain?

May I take the liberty of not answering that? Beyond the obvious fact, of course, that you are a very pretty girl. I would even call you beautiful. I know your eyes are dark, but they’re blue, aren’t they, not brown?

Blue. Yes. It is a feature of my family’s, I guess. She was almost stammering. His voice was still very formal and cool, and she had a feeling he hadn’t been that impressed by her dark blue eyes.

You would be an asset to my life. But, as I said, that is not the reason I am asking this favor of you. The reason is entirely of a business nature, and a certain sum of money will be settled on you and, if you so desire, so will a divorce in the near future.

There was a moment of silence in which she almost repeated like a stupid nut of some kind the words: Money? Divorce? Business nature!

His voice broke the silence. I can see that you are not entirely taken by my offer. I overrated the value of money in your life, I gather. Could I see you in the morning?

Well ...She was forced to answer something. She looked about, but saw only that Gram was leaning forward in her chair with her mouth open. Impatient and ready to pop questions at her. And her face was very disapproving. I suppose so. She visualized him, in his wheelchair, here in this house facing Gram, and felt like cringing. Or laughing.

But he said, Good. I’ll send my man and car for you at ten o’clock.

Another short silence then in which she merely stood with her own mouth hanging open.

He asked, Is that a convenient hour for you?

Yes, she answered. Why not? She usually got up at nine ...

Fine, he said briskly, and hung up.

She held the phone away