October 31st. The day the children went out with masks or painted faces, toting plastic and paper bags, skipping door to door; “Trick or treats!” issuing from their lips, the October night freezing the grass and frosting metal lampposts crowned with green buzzing halos, as they move past and away, to houses lit and encumbered with the glow of invitation.
 
Domarr released a bitter sigh into the air as he swept his long red cape about him for warmth. The bone face (hollow eye sockets), stolid and staring, eagerly awaiting the others. Midnight was only five hours away. Surely they must all know the importance of punctuality?
 
Once, long ago, he enjoyed the games, the tricks, the treats, the occasional murders, and tonight would be one of the greatest murders in history: They were going to kill Halloween.
 
This brought a smile, or the closest thing to a smile at Domarr’s disposal, but was soon replaced by a sudden anxiety. What if they ran out of time?
 
In fear of the night slipping from him, he glanced worriedly at his watch, trying to think of something more pleasant than the time.
     
A crowd of characters, from superheroes, to skeletons (he scoffed), vampires, witches, and warlocks passed by, laughing (he thought) at him, then discovered the black cat a few blocks up, dancing and shaking to the music blaring from a boom box.
 
The children soon lost interest in the black cat with the silvery eyes, and went knocking on doors, looking for treats to unwrap.
 
The black cat shrugged. Deprived of its audience, it danced over to him, the boom box held aloft, gyrating to the pulsing hip-hop rhythms spilling from the eight speakers.
 
“I was afraid you weren’t going to make it,” Domarr said over the music.
 
Still dancing, the black cat said, “What? I can’t hear you.”
 
“You’re about to give me a splitting headache with that thing!”
 
“And how hard is that to do, bone-boy?” the black cat said in its sexless voice.
 
“I told you not to call me that. You promised.”
 
“Perhaps I did, perhaps I didn’t,” the black cat said, licking its paws absently. “You need to loosen up, I’ve always said that. Ever since you and Zombalia separated…”
 
Domarr made a sound like cracked walnuts in his throat.
 
Seeing this was still a sore subject with Domarr, the black cat shut off the boom box and sat it on the curb, venturing in a different conversational direction.
 
“You don’t look so good. Have you lost weight?”
 
“I’m a skeleton, Exarr,” Domarr said impatiently. “I haven’t any to lose.”
 
“Yes, of course, I beg your pardon,” the black cat named Exarr said, regarding its old friend with interest. “But you’re so pale, and your bones look a little brittle for wear these days. Have you been eating properly? Exercising? Yoga? I heard yoga’s very good, helps people like you relax.”
 
“Can we not have this conversation?”
 
“Oh come now, you can tell me.” Exarr winked a playful eye at Domarr, and spun about on its hind legs, sniffing the air. “That’s funny.” It sniffed the air again, narrowing its silvery eyes. “Where are the others?”
 
“I was just going to ask you that before you went busting my bones.”
 
“Me?” The black cat directed an accusing paw at itself. “Surely you jest?”
 
They stood at that dark corner, not saying a word, running out of things to talk about, having exhausted favorite sports teams, favorite medieval torture devices, and the latest celebrity gossip. A constant flow of children floated by, while the moon grinned merrily above them.
     
Domarr checked his watch. “If they don’t get here soon, we’ll have to wait till next year, and I’m really impatient now. They’ve been making fools of us for so long... anyway, if I had that book I’d do it myself.”
 
“But you don’t have it,” the black cat reminded him. “It belongs to Zombelia, and it takes all four of us to do the Dance Before Midnight, so like it or not, we’re both going to have to wait.”
 
Domarr grunted, not wanting to hear that at all. He patted his shirt and removed a box from the pocket. “Want a cigarette?”
 
“What is it the mortals say? It‘s a rather charming phrase...” The black cat screwed its face up in thought, releasing it after the last neuron had successfully fired off an appropriate answer. “I’m trying to—”
 
“Cut down?” Domarr finished.
 
“Yeah, that’s it.”
 
Domarr shrugged, returned the pack, and lit the cigarette with the tip of his bony finger, taking a deep drag as they watched the street. The smoke drifted slowly from beneath his shirt. “Suit yourself.”
 
Ten minutes later, a tall kid dressed as a Frankenstein monster (Domarr never recalled the monster ever having glasses) sauntered over to them, carrying a thin plastic bag overflowing with candy.
 
“Excuse me,” the kid said, in way of introduction. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, if that, Domarr noted. “My name’s Arnold Capinski.” He extended his hand to Domarr.

“So?” Domarr’s mood had soured considerably. He watched the kid’s hand wilt in the air. “What do you want me to do about it? Congratulate you?”
 
“W-well...” he stammered.
 
“Go away kid,” the black cat said calmly, “can’t you see we’re busy?”
 
“But I just w-wanted...” He finally let his hand fall.
 
Domarr sighed. “Aren’t you a bit old to be trick-or-treating?”
 
“Omazarr sent me,” the kid said.
 
At the mention of Omazarr’s name, the two perked up.
 
“Omazarr’s here?” asked the black cat.
 
The tall kid nodded.
 
“Where is he?” asked Domarr.
 
“He’s getting candy next door,” said the tall kid named Arnold. “He wanted to make sure you’d wait for him.”
 
The black cat turned to Domarr excited to hear this bit of news. “Yes, that does sound like Omazarr, doesn’t it? He always was a fool for candy.”
 
“Then it won’t be long after all, will it Exarr?”
 
“It appears so,” said the black cat. “Should we celebrate now or later?”
 
The two architects of Halloween retreated to their own thoughts awhile, brainstorming about the new world they were going to create, and discovering some rather crafty ideas between them.
 
“You’d make a great minister of music,” said Domarr.
 
“And if you run, you’d definitely have my vote,” said Exarr.
 
“Who said anything about running? I’m going to be the first king of America,” said Domarr.
 
“I’d vote for both of you!” Arnold Capinski, much to the chagrin of both Domarr and Exarr, stood there beaming rather stupidly at them.
 
“Why is he still here?” Exarr exhumed impatiently, paws cradling its head in disbelief. “Can someone please explain that to me?”
 
Domarr flung his twelfth cigarette butt over his shoulder. “This is ridiculous!” he said. “How old are you? Eighteen? A young-looking twenty-five?”
 
“No sir,” Arnold said politely. “I’m seventeen.”
 
“That’s just as worse,” Domarr replied. “Don’t you have a girlfriend or something?”
 
“No sir,” Arnold, said again, as politely as the first time. “I don’t have any romantic relations.”
 
Domarr and Exarr looked at each other. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Domarr said.
 
“Omazarr told me to wait here, and uh, keep you guys company,” Arnold said.
 
“He said WHAT?” shrieked Domarr.
 
He was really, really bored, agitated, and ticked at Zombelia for being late. Where was that blasted woman anyway? The evening was on the verge of collapse, and it would all be because of her.
 
“You don’t really expect us to believe that, do you?” said the black cat, examining its claws in the moonlight.
 
“But you should, comrades,” a voice from behind said. “I asked him to come along with us.”
 
“Omazarr?” the three said.
 
“The one and only, but don‘t call it a comeback,” Omazarr said.
 
Omazarr was two feet tall with big yellow ears and bright button eyes. A child would have mistaken him for a popular Japanese animation character, though Omazarr’s particular breed had been around long before the First Epoch of the Neighboring Worlds.
 
He was rapidly shoving chocolate candy crunch bars down his throat without removing the wrappers. “Shall we be on our way?” Omazarr said, stuffing more into his mouth.
 
“Zombelia has yet to arrive,” said the black cat, purring happily.
 
“Yes, and it’s just like her too,” Domarr said. “Completely... unreliable to the last.”
 
There was a puff of smoke and the smell of rotted roses curling in the air. Domarr knew the smell as well as he’d have known his own, had he had one.
 
“I’m glad to see you still think so highly of me, husband,” Zombelia said.
 
They all watched her. The blue skin. Dark charcoal-colored hair that danced down her back in a serpentine coil; grey robes that clung tightly to her shapely hourglass frame. The two sets of arms: the top set folded; the bottom set clutching a thick brown hardbound book. Domarr tried not to look at her beautiful sea green face.
 
“Kind of you to keep us waiting, Zombelia, with only three hours left,” he said, staring at the ground.
 
“Don’t worry husband, we have plenty of time.” She turned her gaze to Exarr. “Nice to see you again, Exarr.” The black cat respectfully kissed one of her hands before picking up its boom box. “And you too Omazarr.”
 
Omazarr leaped onto her shoulder in response. Zombelia patted his head till he cooed softly, eyes at half mast. “Still eating candy, I see.” Omazarr’s mouth was too full to answer. He nodded vigorously. She then noticed the stranger.
 
“Wow!” said Arnold, taking one of her hands in his. “What a great costume! You are soooo hot, let me tell you! How did you do that trick with the smoke? Did I mention you were really hot, er, ma‘am?”
 
“And you are?” Zombelia threw a puzzled look at the others, retracting her “abused“ hand.
 
“Nobody,” Domarr interjected. “He was just leaving.”
 
“No!” This took considerable effort for Omazarr to say, and most of the chocolate in his mouth splattered the kid’s shirt. “We need him. He comes willingly.”
 
“For what?” Domarr demanded. “What could we possibly need a seventeen-year old boy for? And don‘t get any ideas, Zombelia.”
 
Omazarr motioned him over. Domarr hesitated. He didn’t want to be close to her. Not again. But went he did, and Omazarr whispered in his ear: “We need a human sacrifice. Virgin. Unsuspecting. Completely devoted to nothing, etcetera, etcetera. Get the picture?”
 
Domarr blinked from Zombalia’s heavy perfume. She smiled knowingly. “Something wrong, Domarr?” she asked.
 
“Of course not,” Domarr said. “Let’s get out of here.”
 
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
 
Zombelia held out all four of her hands. Why was she humiliating him?
 
He bowed to her and kissed each hand, as was the custom between husband and wife after a long absence from each other.
 
“We’ll talk later, Domarr, shall we? But business first,” she said. “Pleasure later.”
 
And the five of them pressed onward towards the darkness, and away from the ringing of doorbells and pumpkins casting shadowed faces that flickered upon the pavement.
     
Summits Park was a dark stretch of grass and trees, semi-lit by the swimming moon that sailed after them, their rigid shadows plastered to the grass. They took their places, one by one, forming a circle with the mortal in the center. Exarr tied Arnold Capinski down.
 
“This is going to be soooo cool. The best Halloween ever!” Arnold said, gazing admiringly up at them.
 
“Will somebody shut him up, please?” Domarr said. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”
 
On what, he didn’t know. There was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
 
“Soon enough his babbling won’t be of any concern, Domarr, so just lay chilly,” Omazarr said, removing a long knife from his candy bag. He licked melted chocolate from it, and hid it behind his back.
 
“Exarr!” Zombelia called, flipping through the pages of the brown book. “Where’s my music?”
 
Slinking away from the others, Exarr flipped the boom box on and swayed in response to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”
 
“This song’s the bomb-diggity!” Arnold said.
 
“The what?” Domarr glanced at Zombelia for interpretation. She shrugged. “Must we have the music?”
 
Zombelia pointed at a dusty page filled with the carcasses of hornets. “Says so right here.”
 
Exarr sat down.
 
Domarr nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
 
Omazarr raised the knife high.
 
And the four architects of Halloween combined the powers of the Four Dark Neighboring Worlds in a symphony of colors and sounds that rose into the sky, hovering in a cloud before them.
 
Great bursts of thunder echoed through the park.
 
Halloween had been perverted, more or less. They never intended it to be the face-wearing, candy-eating tradition that it had become (despite Omazarr's approval of this part) – it was supposed to be a day of remembrance in honor of the four architects. Now they would merge the Four Neighboring Worlds with Earth. So much the better. So much the worse for humankind.
 
Gone would be the mockery, the humans stuck to live forever in their Halloween faces, children and adult alike (even those who didn’t dress up for Halloween), till the Earth rotted in its putrid little cradle. They invented the holiday, so they had every right to destroy it, didn’t they?
 
Zombelia chanted phrases from the book, waving her arm in the air. The other one held Domarr’s hand.
 
In a moment they would all do the Dance Before Midnight...
 
Zombelia stopped chanting, her eyes opened. She let go of Domarr’s hand. “Uh, that’s your cue husband... get on with it...”
 
Domarr couldn’t make sense of what she was saying. Everything was drowned out by the combination of thunder, howling wind, and Arnold Capinski laughing hysterically at the prospect of being stabbed to death by a Japanese-anime looking creature.
 
“Zombelia, dear, this is no time to tease me,” said Domarr, with a nervous laugh.
 
“I’m not teasing you, Domarr,” Zombelia said seriously. “Where’s the badger’s larynx?”
 
“Badger’s larynx?” Domarr echoed.
 
“Badger’s larynx. Yeah. We shove it down the kid’s throat, do the dance around his corpse, causing a spatial bridge between our worlds... yada yada yada. Goodbye Halloween, Hello Spooky Land,” said Zombelia curtly. “I sent you the letter today. It said, ‘Husband, don’t forget the badger’s larynx.’ You didn’t forget the badger’s larynx, did you, husband?”
 
Everyone, including Arnold, stared at Domarr expectantly. He laughed uneasily. “Technically speaking, I didn’t forget it. Forget’s too strong a word. Call it a mislaid memory.”
 
“Mislaid memory?” they said.
 
“Zombelia’s been sending me reminders for the last three weeks: ‘Don’t forget the badger’s larynx.’ Well, the last one you sent today, I never bothered opening. I mean, I know what it said already: ‘Don’t forget the badger’s larynx.’”
 
“Actually it said, ‘The Dance Before Midnight cannot be performed without a badger’s larynx, so don’t forget, husband.’ And still, you managed to forget it, didn’t you?”
 
Domarr checked his pockets and any crevices he might have stashed it, when the memory of the badger’s larynx fired back in a simple image: the mantle in the living room. “There’s a perfectly good explanation for this,” he began.
 
While the three architects of Halloween waited for Domarr to give his explanation, Arnold said, “You should come to our Halloween party tonight as guests of honor at our frat house. Well... it’s not quite my frat house, I’m still a pledge, but I’m sure they’d love to have you.”
 
“What did he just say?” Omazarr said.
 
“He said, ‘It’s close to midnight’!” Exarr said.
 
“Not Michael Jackson, you nitwit!” Omazarr said. “The boy. What was it he just said?”
 
“Sounds like he invited us to a Halloween party,” said Zombelia, frowning.
 
“He did,” Domarr said. “What do you think? I mean, we are the four architects of Halloween, and we’ve never actually been invited to one of these...”
 
“And since our comrade screwed up,” Omazarr said, throwing a disgusted look Domarr’s way, “what choice do we really have, eh?”
     
Exarr yawned. “So, are we spilling blood tonight or what?”
 
Zombelia closed the book. Exarr shut off the music. “Apparently not,” said Zombelia, slightly disapointed. Omazarr was cutting a mini-pecan pie into several slices.
 
“Are we in, er, agreement? One more year?” Domarr said, sinking under the crushing gazes of the three architects.
 
“One more year,” they said in unison.
 
“Coool!” said Arnold. “One more year! Sweet!”
 
“Untie him,” Domarr said. “Show’s over. Let’s party.”

* * * * *

Zombelia and Domarr sat in lounge chairs on the terrace of a villa in Cancun, Mexico. Zombelia had just had oil rubbed on her back, and was enjoying the brisk wind blowing from the beach below. Children ran around in their Halloween costumes by the pool. 
     
“We never expected it to turn into what it’s become, but maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” Zombelia said, as they discussed last year’s botched attempt to destroy Halloween. “Maybe it was some kind of cosmic equilibrium that made you forget the badger’s larynx. I was so mad at you I could have fractured your skull.”
     
Domarr sipped his frozen margarita, deciding it was in fact not strong enough, and would argue with the concierge who had insisted otherwise. He fingered a smooth object in his shorts pocket. “I’ve got the badger’s larynx this time.”
     
“What is our primary job as architects?” asked Zombelia.
     
“Making sure what we’re designing has value, originality, practicality, with plenty of room for innovation,” Domarr said, taking another sip of his drink.
     
“And isn’t that what the humans have done with it? We’re taking credit for something that they’ve truly made their own, and better than anything we ever designed,” she said. “I don’t know. Halloween 365 Earth calendar days strikes me as too much of a good thing. And then there’s that little piece of California that was affected by the incantation, compliments of my absent-minded husband.”
     
“It’s a segment of Los Angeles. Not like anyone notices anyway, with all the sci-fi conventions, and reality show weirdos,” said Domarr. “Our little Spooky Land...”
     
“Of course, if you’d really like to redeem yourself, I suppose I could unpack the book, and we can bring a little Armageddon while eating deep fried tacos. My kind of fun,” Zombelia said.
     
The glass panel slid open and Exarr and Omzarr stumbled out onto the terrace; loud music and roughly one hundred humans partying briefly invaded the quiet. Omazarr couldn’t reach the handle, so Exarr closed it for him.
     
“We need more beer. Two kegs, I think. More nachos, and — what was it we needed again, Omazarr?” said Exarr.
     
“Buffalo wings,” said Omzarr, stuffing a handful down his throat, bone and all. Domarr shivered at the sound of cracking bones. He hated that sound. “Sorry. My bad.”
     
“Well, go on,” said Exarr. “Remember? For the next ten Halloweens, you’re playing host.”
     
Domarr smiled. “You forget, if it wasn’t for me, there’d be no Spooky Land.”
     
“If it wasn’t for you, the world would have become Spooky Land,” said Exarr. “Now hurry up, bone-boy. They’re getting ready to bob for apples.”
     
“Thought you didn’t like getting wet, Exarr?” Domarr took both pairs of his wife’s hands and kissed them. “I’ll be back, my dear.”
     
He bowed to her, pushed the margarita in Exarr’s hand, making sure it spilled on his well-groomed fur, passed the Halloween partiers and out the door.
     
He’d learned a lot about Halloween parties from Arnold Capinski’s friends at the frat house. How many people knew that one geek of a kid saved the world from Apocalypse? He wondered if Arnold had ever got around to finding a girlfriend.
     
A kid ran up to him and said, “Trick or treat!” holding his bag expectantly. Domarr said, “Knock yourself out,” and pulled the badger’s larynx out of his pocket, dropping it in the kid’s bag.
     
“Yuck! What is this?”
     
The kid peered into the bag, pinching his nose. His parents, who were a few yards away, apologized to Domarr. While barely out of earshot, they warned their son of the dangers of taking candy from strangers, and it served him right, didn’t it? Walking up to a grown man who had obviously spent a “great deal of money” on his costume. (They emphasized the last part.)
     
From above, he saw the three architects dancing around, happy. Time was, every Halloween they used to get together and complain about how the humans ruined it, but how wrong they were. It was better than any other day they had ever created. No one remembers the others... he barely remembered them all. (Valentine’s Day was a mixed bag, becoming all about roses, candy, and hearts, when it started off as knives, poisons – things you’d love to kill your spouse with... leave it to the humans to sanitize it...)
     
He set off for the hotel party store, the wind rippling his cloak. For the first time in a very long time, he felt warm on Halloween.