The October Game || Ray Bradbury

He put the gun back into the bureau drawer and shut the drawer. Louise had managed to be in every other room save the room he was in
No, not that way. Louise wouldn’t suffer. It was very important that this today. It was her very fine way of intimating, Oh look Mich, see how busy I am!
thing have, above all duration. Duration through imagination. How to prolong So busy that when you walk into a room I’m in there’s always something I need
the suffering? How, first of all, to bring it about? Well. to do in another room! Just see how I dash about!
The man standing before the bedroom mirror carefully fitted his cuff-links For a while he had played a little game with her, a nasty childish game.
together. He paused long enough to hear the children run by swiftly on the When she was in the kitchen then he came to the kitchen saying, “I need a
street below, outside this warm two-storey house, like so many grey mice the glass of water.” After a moment, he standing, drinking water, she like a crystal
children, like so many leaves. witch over the caramel brew bubbling like a prehistoric mudpot on the stove,
By the sound of the children you knew the calendar day. By their screams she said, “Oh, I must light the pumpkins!” and she rushed to the living room
you knew what evening it was. You knew it was very late in the year. October. to make the pumpkins smile with light. He came after, smiling, “I must get my
The last day of October, with white bone masks and cut pumpkins and the pipe.” “Oh, the cider!” she had cried, running to the dining room. “I’ll check the
smell of dropped candle wax. cider,” he had said. But when he tried following she ran to the bathroom and
No. Things hadn’t been right for some time. October didn’t help any. If any- locked the door.
thing it made things worse. He adjusted his black bow-tie. If this were spring, He stood outside the bathroom door, laughing strangely and senselessly,
he nodded slowly, quietly, emotionlessly, at his image in the mirror, then there his pipe gone cold in his mouth, and then, tired of the game, but stubborn, he
might be a chance. But tonight all the world was burning down into ruin. There waited another five minutes. There was not a sound from the bath. And lest she
was no green spring, none of the freshness, none of the promise. enjoy in any way knowing that he waited outside, irritated, he suddenly jerked
There was a soft running in the hall. “That’s Marion”, he told himself. “My about and walked upstairs, whistling merrily.
little one”. All eight quiet years of her. Never a word. Just her luminous grey At the top of the stairs he had waited. Finally he had heard the bathroom
eyes and her wondering little mouth. His daughter had been in and out all eve- door unlatch and she had come out and life below-stairs and resumed, as life in
ning, trying on various masks, asking him which was most terrifying, most hor- a jungle must resume once a terror has passed on away and the antelope return
rible. They had both finally decided on the skeleton mask. It was “just awful!” It to their spring.
would “scare the beans” from people! Now, as he finished his bow-tie and put his dark coat there was a mouse-
Again he caught the long look of thought and deliberation he gave himself rustle in the hall. Marion appeared in the door, all skeletons in her disguise.
in the mirror. He had never liked October. Ever since he first lay in the autumn “How do I look, Papa?”
leaves before his grandmother’s house many years ago and heard the wind and “Fine!”
sway the empty trees. It has made him cry, without a reason. And a little of that From under the mask, blonde hair showed. From the skull sockets small
sadness returned each year to him. It always went away with spring. blue eyes smiled. He sighed. Marion and Louise, the two silent denouncers of
But, it was different tonight. There was a feeling of autumn coming to last a his virility, his dark power. What alchemy had there been in Louise that took
million years. the dark of a dark man and bleached the dark brown eyes and black hair and
There would be no spring. washed and bleached the ingrown baby all during the period before birth until 788
787 He had been crying quietly all evening. It did not show, not a vestige of it, the child was born, Marion, blonde, blue-eyed, ruddy-cheeked? Sometimes he
on his face. It was all hidden somewhere and it wouldn’t stop. suspected that Louise had conceived the child as an idea, completely asexual,
A rich syrupy smell of sweets filled the bustling house. Louise had laid an immaculate conception of contemptuous mind and cell. As a firm rebuke to
789
788 out apples in new skins of toffee; there were vast bowls of punch fresh-mixed, him she had produced a child in her own image, and, to top it, she had some-
stringed apples in each door, scooped, vented pumpkins peering triangularly how fixed the doctor so he shook his head and said, “Sorry, Mr. Wilder, your
from each cold window. There was a water tub in the centre of the living room, wife will never have another child. This is the last one.”
waiting, with a sack of apples nearby, for dunking to begin. All that was needed “And I wanted a boy,” Mich had said eight years ago.
was the catalyst, the inpouring of children, to start the apples bobbing, the He almost bent to take hold of Marion now, in her skull mask. He felt an
stringed apples to penduluming in the crowded doors, the sweets to vanish, the inexplicable rush of pity for her, because she had never had a father’s love,
halls to echo with fright or delight, it was all the same. only the crushing, holding love of a loveless mother. But most of all he pitied
Now, the house was silent with preparation. And just a little more than that. himself, that somehow he had not made the most of a bad birth, enjoyed his
 The October Game || Ray Bradbury

daughter for herself, regardless of her not being dark and a son and like him- would stay married the rest of his life to her, for damned spite. No he must hurt
self. Somewhere he had missed out. Other things being equal, he would have her. Figure some way, perhaps, to take Marion away from her, legally. Yes. That
loved the child. But Louise hadn’t wanted a child, anyway, in the first place. She was it. That would hurt most of all. To take Marion away.
had been frightened of the idea of birth. He had forced the child on her, and “Hello down there!” He descended the stairs beaming.
from that night, all through the year until the agony of the birth itself, Louise Louise didn’t look up.
had lived in another part of the house. She had expected to die with the forced “Hi, Mr Wilder!”
child. It had been very easy for Louise to hate this husband who so wanted a The children shouted, waved, as he came down.
son that he gave his only wife over to the mortuary. By ten o’clock the doorbell had stopped ringing, the apples were bitten
But — Louise had lived. And in triumph! Her eyes, the day he came to the from stringed doors, the pink faces were wiped dry from the apple bobbling,
hospital, were cold. I’m alive they said. And I have a blonde daughter! Just napkins were smeared with toffee and punch, and he, the husband, with pleas-
look! And when he had put out a hand to touch, the mother had turned away ant efficiency had taken over. He took the party right out of Louise’s hands. He
to conspire with her new pink daughter-child — away from that dark forcing ran about talking to the twenty children and the twelve parents who had come
murderer. It had all been so beautifully ironic. His selfishness deserved it. and were happy with the special spiked cider he had fixed them. He supervised
But now it was October again. There had been other Octobers and when pin the tail on the donkey, spin the bottle, musical chairs, and all the rest, amid
he thought of the long winter he had been filled with horror year after year to fits of shouting laughter. Then, in the triangular-eyed pumpkin shine, all house
think of the endless months mortared into the house by an insane fall of snow, lights out, he cried, “Hush! Follow me!” tiptoeing towards the cellar.
trapped with a woman and child, neither of whom loved him, for months on The parents, on the outer periphery of the costumed riot, commented to
end. During the eight years there had been respites. In spring and summer you each other, nodding at the clever husband, speaking to the lucky wife. How well
got out, walked, picnicked; these were desperate solutions to the desperate he got on with children, they said.
problem of a hated man. The children, crowded after the husband, squealing.
But, in winter, the hikes and picnics and escapes fell away with leaves. Life, “The cellar!” he cried. “The tomb of the witch!”
like a tree, stood empty, the fruit picked, the sap run to earth. Yes, you invited More squealing. He made a mock shiver. “Abandon hope all ye who enter
people in, but people were hard to get in winter with blizzards and all. Once he here!”
had been clever enough to save for a Florida trip. They had gone south. He had The parents chuckled.
walked in the open. One by one the children slid down a slide which Mich had fixed up from
But now, the eighth winter coming, he knew things were finally at an end. lengths of table-section, into the dark cellar. He hissed and shouted ghastly
He simply could not wear this one through. There was an acid walled off in him utterances after them. A wonderful wailing filled dark pumpkin-lighted house.
that slowly had eaten through tissue and bone over the years, and now, tonight, Everybody talked at once. Everybody but Marion. She had gone through all the
it would reach the wild explosive in him and all would be over! party with a minimum of sound or talk; it was all inside her, all the excitement
There was a mad ringing of the bell below. In the hall, Louise went to see. and joy. What a little troll, he thought. With a shut mouth and shiny eyes she
Marion, without a word, ran down to greet the first arrivals. There were shouts had watched her own party, like so many serpentines thrown before her.
789 and hilarity. Now, the parents. With laughing reluctance they slid down the short in- 790
He walked to the top of the stairs. cline, uproarious, while little Marion stood by, always wanting to see it all, to
Louise was below, taking wraps. She was tall and slender and blonde to the be last. Louise went down without help. He moved to aid her, but she was gone
790 point of whiteness, laughing down upon the new children. even before he bent. 791
< He hesitated. What was all this? The years? The boredom of living? Where The upper house was empty and silent in the candle-shine. Marion stood by
had it gone wrong? Certainly not with the birth of the child alone. But it had the slide. “Here we go,” he said, and picked her up.
been a symbol of all their tensions, he imagined. His jealousies and his business They sat in a vast circle in the cellar. Warmth came from the distant bulk
failures and all the rotten rest of it. Why didn’t he just turn, pack a suitcase, of the furnace. The chairs stood in a long line along each wall, twenty squealing
and leave? No. Not without hurting Louise as much as she had hurt him. It was children, twelve rustling relatives, alternatively spaced, with Louise down at the
simple as that. Divorce wouldn’t hurt her at all. It would simply be an end to far end, Mich up at this end, near the stairs. He peered but saw nothing. They
numb indecision. If he thought divorce would give her pleasure in any way he had all grouped to their chairs, catch-as-you-can in the blackness. The entire
 The October Game || Ray Bradbury

programme from here on was to be enacted in the dark, he as Mr. Interlocutor. “Marion?” asked Louise again, from far across the cellar.
There was a child scampering, a smell of damp cement, and the sound of the Everybody was talking.
wind out in the October stars. “Marion?” called Louise.
“Now!” cried the husband in the dark cellar. “Quiet!” Everybody quieted.
Everybody settled. “Marion, answer me, are you afraid?”
The room was black black. Not a light, not a shine, not a glint of an eye. Marion didn’t answer.
A scraping of crockery, a metal rattle. The husband stood there, at the bottom of the cellar steps.
“The witch is dead,” intoned the husband. Louise called “Marion, are you there?”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” said the children. No answer. The room was silent.
“The witch is dead, she has been killed, and here is the knife she was killed “Where’s Marion?” called Louise.
with.” He handed over the knife. It was passed from hand to hand, down and “She was here”, said a boy.
around the circle, with chuckles and little odd cries and comments from the “Maybe she’s upstairs.”
adults. “Marion!”
“The witch is dead, and this is her head,” whispered the husband, and No answer. It was quiet.
handed an item to the nearest person. Louise cried out, “Marion, Marion!”
“Oh, I know how this game is played,” some child cried, happily, in the “Turn on the lights,” said one of the adults.
dark. “He gets some old chicken innards from the icebox and hands them The items stopped passing. The children and adults sat with the witch’s
around and says, ‘These are her innards!’ And he makes a clay head and passes items in their hands.
it for her head, and passes a soup bone for her arm. And he takes a marble and “No.” Louise gasped. There was a scraping of her chair, wildly, in
says, ‘This is her eye!’ And he takes some corn and says, ‘This is her teeth!’ And the dark. “No. Don’t turn on the lights, oh, God, God, God, don’t turn them on,
he takes a sack of plum pudding and gives that and says, ‘This is her stomach!’ I please, don’t turn on the lights, don’t!” Louise was shrieking now. The entire
know how this is played!” cellar froze with the scream.
“Hush, you’ll spoil everything,” some girl said. Nobody moved.
“The witch came to harm, and this is her arm,” said Mich. Everyone sat in the dark cellar, suspended in the suddenly frozen task
“Eeeeeeeeeeee!” of this October game; the wind blew outside, banging the house, the smell of
The items were passed and passed, like hot potatoes, around the cirle. pumpkins and apples filled the room with the smell of the objects in their fin-
Some children screamed, wouldn’t touch them. Some ran from their chairs to gers while one boy cried, “I’ll go upstairs and look!” and he ran upstairs hope-
stand in the centre of the cellar until the grisly fully and out around the house, four times around the house, calling, “Marion,
items had passed. Marion, Marion!” over and over and at last coming slowly down the stairs into
“Aw, it’s only chicken insides,” scoffed a boy. “Come back, Helen!” the waiting breathing cellar and saying to the darkness, “I can’t find her.”
Shot from hand to hand, with small scream after scream, the items went Then ...... some idiot turned on the lights.
down, down, to be followed by another and another.
791 “The witch cut apart, and this is her heart,” said the husband.
Six or seven items moving at once through the laughing, trembling dark.
Louise spoke up. “Marion, don’t be afraid; it’s only play.”
792 Marion didn’t say anything.
“Marion?” asked Louise. “Are you afraid?”
Marion didn’t speak.
“She’s all right,” said the husband. “She’s not afraid.”
On and on the passing, the screams, the hilarity.
The autumn wind sighed about the house. And he, the husband stood at the
Bradbury, Ray. “The October Game.” The Stories of Ray Bradbury. New York:
head of the dark cellar, intoning the words, handing out the items. Alfred A. Knopf, 1980. Print.