October '23 contest winner's entry, written by theStphnieCollection!

The Palace Theatre, New York, 1915.

SHE THINKS, ONLY FOR A MOMENT, THAT PERHAPS the rain scared him away. How can she not? After all, the precipitation has been unpredictable for the course of the evening as a victor has yet to emerge in the contest for dominance of the night's forecast. But Mary Havington reminds herself that he has never tricked her into meeting without revealing himself—Percy isn't a magician like Roland.

Capturing a whiff of rain, Mary shuffles her heels back until they touch the back of the Palace Theatre. It is not long after another burst of rain is illuminated in the windows of the surrounding buildings, the glass bright as if the sun has escaped the rain too. Forced to observe the droplets like she has for the last two downpours, Mary finds that unlike its predecessors, this one seems lighter, even manageable, so much that she is able to make out a figure lurking towards her.

Hope warms her chest—her only heat source at the present—and Mary takes a step forward. Her slipper does not even fully reach the ground before she sees her misstep, for the figure moving in her direction is not one, but three.

"Witches."

Mary is surprised at herself for even speaking. Nevertheless, she is not mistaken as the three girls hold up their hands, vainly hoping to save the pointed, paper hats on the crowns of their heads. Mary almost feels bad for them if it is not for the smile on the girls' faces, their butterscotch-scented breaths laced with giggles. Behind them, more children filter outdoors as the rain loses its grip on the night and the fervor to participate in 1915's spookiest night reignites.

No one notices Mary—not even the band of boys dressed in white-and-black- striped prison wear, their pockets bulging with rocks. Mary watches the eyes of the false criminals as they land on the policeman on horseback who trots alongside the loose procession moving towards Times Square. One of the boys breaks from the group and reaches the unsuspecting officer on light toes in what seems a blink of an eye; however, he lets a few moments pass before he fishes in his pocket for a rock and anchors his arm back. To Mary's relief, once the boy gets around to throwing the rock, his throw is weak. Still, the rock manages to sail past the horse's black tail and into a pocket of darkness. It hits an object—Mary is not clear on what—but it mirrors a sound like crates tumbling to the ground, and is enough to spook the horse.

While his spine-tingling neigh breaks through the foggy night, the policeman barks out a string of curses; curses that become even more thunderous as the horse flares his nostrils and pushes himself up on his hind legs. The policeman grips the reins still slick from the rain, the green veins on the top of his hands meeting at his knuckles. A few of the parents try to settle the horse; yet fright is a powerful force.

And an entertaining one. For the horse's erratic jumps send the clowns, ghouls, and witches scampering to the sidewalks, their shouts quieting with the distance. Within the group, Mary spies the witches from earlier as their hats flap against the wind and the half-moons sewn into the old hobble skirts they've borrowed from their mothers fall off. She is not able to make out where the fabric lands, however, as the lights from the nearby hotel dim from the silhouettes of guests looking down at the commotion.

"Quite an audience," Percy's voice is so close that Mary feels his breath on her neck. "But I'm certain it won't be as large as the one your act will draw tonight."

Swiveling around, Mary is nearly nose-to-nose with the butcher's son, and she pushes Percy toward the theater until his back bumps into the brick, her finger stabbing at his skeletal chest. "Don't try to excuse your lateness with a compliment. It won't work on me." She means every word even if her sternness subjects her to the amusement in Percy's eye—she can only read one of his dark orbs as the other is curtained by a drooping eyelid. "Did you bring it?"

Wordlessly, Percy dips his head down and runs his four-fingered hand along the length of his mackinaw jacket's mouth, his thumb and middle-finger pulling at the wool to reveal the mason jar tucked inside the waistband of his pants. Mary is not able to tell whether the jar is full or not, for just as she reaches for the jar, Percy lets his jacket fall back into place.

She hears his laugh before she looks at him, and Mary glares up at the barely seventeen-year-old boy. His hair black, the center part he had razored in is overgrown and uncombed—not at all sauve like Roland's fair Marcel waves that the magician is donning as of late.

"I do not have time for your games, Percy."

Although his serrated canines remain in a grin, he stops laughing for a moment. Taking advantage of his silence, Mary clenches her fists and steps toward the colorless boy, his marble skin like a film screen for the policeman and horse's shadows as the moonlight becomes blocked by her figure. Percy sucks in a breath as she brings his face near his, so near that she can smell the stench of raw meat on his body. Percy's grin finally falters when Mary slams one fist into his chest and uses the other hand to open his jacket and grab the jar.

She brings up both hands to hold the weight of the jar and turns away from the boy in triumph. "Nice try, Percy."

Trying to hide the disappointment in his voice, Percy asks quietly: "What do you need that stuff for anyway?"

She spares a look back at him as the hooves of the horse from earlier return to the ground at last, and the spectators lose the euphoric thrill caused by the chaos.

"I'm going to be the horse."

Mary leaves Mr. Dunst's son to interpret the meaning of her words and opens the backdoor to the theater. She steps inside the Palace as if it's the old farmhouse her parents had her settled in for nineteen of her twenty-two years, and is welcomed by the sight of vaudeville performers. Quickly, Mary hides the jar in her coat as one of the Eberlin sisters scurry past her, likely looking for her other half. She assumes the sisters will be called onstage any moment once the dog trainer finishes his presentation of canine mastery.

Which means Mary and Mildred will be next.

It feels as if matches strike underneath her feet as this revelation dawns on her, and Mary immediately makes her way toward her dressing room. Ola Lewis' door distracts her on the way—it always does. Open a few inches, Mary is able to spy the night's headliner at her dressing table, her brown skin covered by a gold gown as she runs a brush through her raven-hair. It appears that she is attempting some type of low pompadour, but Mary believes the state of Ola's hair will matter little to the audience as soon as the singer opens her mouth.

How Mary hopes she is able to garner the same fame if tonight goes well!

Finally slipping into her own dressing room, Mary takes the jar out of her coat and opens its lid, bringing her eyes close to the liquid inside. The pig blood looks genuine enough; however, absent to Mary is a method to confirm it, therefore, she respects Percy's word.

She is just about to stick her finger in the blood when she hears him in the doorway. Roland Pinegar may be a man who possesses the power to trick; yet in regards to stealthiness, he holds none. Thus closing the jar's lid and placing it back in her coat, Mary faces him just as he steps into her space.

"Roland."

The man nods his head, an action that causes one of his Marcel waves to fall over a blue eye. Without his top hat, the magician is not much taller than her; yet Mary knows how easily he can overpower her with a simple look.

Taking a hand out of his black overcoat's pocket, Roland reaches a hand behind Mary's ear, her cheek tingling as the cuff link on his detachable cuff brushes her delicate skin like a feather. He pulls his arm back and dangles a red rose in front of her, its petals not entirely open.

She brings the red flower to her nose although she has no intention to register its scent as Roland is close; close enough that she can count every hair within his slow-growing mustache.

"I had to keep with tradition," his eyes land on her face.

Mary smiles widely, recalling the bouquets she used to make of all the flowers Roland had found in her ear when they were both small-time performers, and slips an arm around his neck. She pulls him near so their chests touch; yet Mildred Crutcher's displeasing voice stops either of them from saying (or doing) more.

"It's time, Mary."

Hastily, Roland pulls away from Mary and mouths a farewell before leaving the girls' dressing room. A red-cheeked Mildred watches him go, and once his figure becomes another body among the vaudeville performers, turns to Mary with a frown. "I thought you told me you were done pursuing him."

Mary sighs and takes a seat at her dressing table. She is not open-minded enough to hear more about Roland from Mildred, and for once, Mildred seems unwilling to open that book; instead, she walks over to Mary's side.

"Do you have the blood?"

Rather than answer, Mary sets the jar on the table next to the blue envelope, the same envelope that holds a letter signed by Mr. Keith that disapproves of the subject of Mary and Mildred's one-play act.

"So we're absolutely doing this?" Mildred asks as she grabs the jar, her eyes falling on Mary's in the mirror.

Glancing at the blue envelope for a final time, Mary swallows any lasting doubt and nods.

———

Mary forgets the blood.

Standing opposite Mildred, the weight of Mary's decision to leave the jar of pig blood—untouched—on her dressing table makes her unusually warm under the stage lights.

However, now that she knows the truth, she ignores any regrets as she can still see the two of them with their lips on each other's faces through the crack in the door to Roland's dressing room, a place Mary never got the opportunity to be inside herself. Even at the present, Mildred's red lipstick remains smudged—the woman had the nerve to ask if Mary had one of those strange metal containers lipstick came in now before they took the stage!—as she recites her lines. Mary's ears deafen to each syllable until Mildred's coveted line is said; a line that is slated to change everything.

"Bloody Mary, come to me!" The minute Mildred shouts, Mary, in a dress white like Mildred's, jumps from the glass-less mirror that is supposed to delude the audience into thinking she is Mildred's reflection, and topples the girl. Mildred yelps in surprise, for the plan was only for Mary to appear bloodied and spook the crowd on Halloween. Yet, Mary diverges from course—severely.

She uses the thorns of the rose Roland had given her as her weapon first, a laugh exiting her mouth each time she scratches at Mildred's face—especially her lips. The situation grows bloodier when she begins using her hands, her teeth, and Mary is eventually pulled from the woman's body. With Mildred crying out in pain, Mary looks to Roland amid the theater staff restraining her, and finds his face pale as if he has seen an apparition.

Just like the many faces to come.