Head Over Heels

(As Suggested By Anon!)

The Dullahan. Mythical beast of Irish folklore. A decapitated body riding a black horse, carrying its own head under its arm. Whenever it stops its ride and opens its giant sharklike mouth to speak, it only says the name of the person who would soon be damned. With mottled green skin, wet hair like seaweed, and wide eyes that can see all the way to the horizon... once chosen by the Dullahan, escape is impossible.

In the modern world, the Dullahan had vanished like almost all Irish cryptids. There was no excusing it as lurking deeper into the dark waters of the ocean, as one could do to excuse the absence of kelpies, selkies, the Loch Ness Monster... and the photogenic mermaid. Even the headless horsemen hadn't been seen on American shores since disappointing Tim Burton movies at the turn of the millennium.

But this raised the question: where had the Dullahan gone?

-

Indianapolis. October 31st.

Hannah brushed her fingers against her torso, straightening out her ruffled skirt. She looked at herself in the mirror. The dull pewter buttons on the formal top with the poofy shoulders, the knee-length skirt with black lace at the end, the striped stockings...

Without the hat... it still didn't really say 'witch' to her.

Hannah took hold of a fistful of her red hair and lifted her head from her shoulders. Unlike most people, her head wasn't held fast to the rest of her, but could be coaxed to stay there if she wished. She held her head behind her, seeing how the back of the dress looked. It was easier to do it this way than to try to set up two mirrors.

Satisfied, she held herself at arm's length, looking at her face in the mirror. Wikipedia claims that her face would have the texture and smell of moldy cheese. Whoever wrote that hadn't based it off of her. Sure, her skin was about as green as a lime, and a little scaly, and her eyes were bright red. But her head (and the rest of her!) was tight and firm and smelled of nothing more than Pantene Pro-V.

She spun her hand to turn her head towards her body again. Her costume was great, especially for a cheap one she ordered from Amazon. But there was some sadness that... even on Halloween... she had to hide her body so thoroughly to avoid upsetting the sensibilities of the locals.

Most years, she spent Halloween at the haunted hayride, as families wondered how on Earth the rider could see with their head so thoroughly and convincingly tucked away somewhere. But the hayride had dwindled to less of a spectacle each year, as alternate forms of entertainment gradually drew the audience away.

Maybe it was a sign of the times. Long ago, she'd abandoned her wagon covered in candles and human femurs for a more American 1987 Buick Century. Her companion horse, a beautiful Cheval de Mérens with a shiny black coat, had survived this transaction and had accompanied her to the new world.

(Ever tried to get a horse from Ireland to America? It ain't easy.)

Hannah set her head back on her shoulders, that place where so many people preferred to keep it, that very phrase described was a synonym for being sensible. Her body itself seemed to accept this, as it felt like the two halves of her neck drew each other in and held fast with mild force, like a fridge magnet. As comforting as it was to be in one piece again, she had other preferred orientations. If she was watching a movie, she would sit with legs crossed together, her head resting in her lap. She had never tried this at the local multiplex, but at least nobody sitting behind her would complain that they couldn't see.

Maybe there was some emotional connection, of her head and heart being linked, that kept her in line, that helped her stay calm and reserved. It was during some long period of disconnect that she had her wild idea for celebrating this Halloween.

In another package from Amazon... there was a wireless microphone and miniature radio speaker. The microphone was nearly invisible except from a few feet away, the electronics squirreled away behind the ear like a hearing aid, with only a thin extension reaching towards her mouth. It communicated directly with the speaker, giving quite natural sound at the cost of four AA batteries.

She set the microphone on her ear and positioned it to the left side of her mouth. She looked at herself in the mirror and summoned the last part of her costume... a hat.

But not the classic pointed witch's hat. Instead, this was a floppy, worn bucket hat with a blue band. It was the sort old garment one might relegate to a steamer trunk, or given away to a Goowill or...

Or use to dress up a scarecrow.

-

At around five o'clock, Hannah got ready.

A few days ago, she had hammered a five foot two-by-two into the ground. She didn't secure it with cement, as it would only be asked to hold up a set of clothing stuffed with straw. Actually, this late in the year, she didn't have much straw, so she crumpled up some newspapers to fill out the torso. She pinned some old gardening gloves to the sleeves and tied them to a crossbar made of an old broom handle. There was just enough room at the top for her head to sit nice and level... thought she'd probably wrap up a scarf and rest her chin on that.

For the rest of her... she took an old plastic candy pail shaped like a jack-o-lantern. This was a fancy one that had a plastic lid at the top. She guessed it was there to keep candy from spilling out if the kid got chased by hooligans. She left the lid in and cut an equivalent hole on the bottom so she could rest it on her shoulders. Covering her neck hole with something solid actually meant she would have trouble breathing. Thus, that airway had to remain unobstructed. How and why this worked, she did not know. Her physiology was a mystery, even to her.

The illusion wasn't quite complete. She picked up her box of four battery-powered tea lights and hot-glued them to the bottom of the pail, near the edge of the new hole. Now, the eye and mouth holes glowed like... a real jack-o-lantern. Resting the lit pail on her shoulders with the speaker tucked inside... the illusion was pretty spooky, and would only get scarier as the daylight waned and the shadows lengthened.

With the candy bowl in one hand and her head in the other, she went out to her front yard. She set her head on the scarecrow and stood off to one side, holding the bowl out like a statue.

Nearby both halves of her were handwritten signs on card:

PLEASE TAKE ONLY ONE.

-

Of course, some tried to take more than one.

If a kid took more than one Butterfinger, she would speak through her microphone and her voice would emerge from the pail. She might gently scold the child, or make a hissing sound, or suddenly jerk in place or rock her shoulders so the pail would slip off her shoulders and into the bowl.

Some other trick-or-treaters looked at the scarecrow with the weird face. It was clearly decorative, as it was nowhere near the actual farmlands. Some got very close to her face. She tried keeping as still as possible, her wide eyes able to see her body without moving. Sometimes, she'd say hello, or scream, or even just blink. That could be enough to send them running.

Some people asked the body holding the candy bowl how she did it.

She just smiled.

-

Around seven o'clock, the trick-or-treaters had filled their buckets with candy and had returned home to prepare for tomorrow's tummy-ache. Most didn't walk or drive out this far anyway, and she doubted she'd see many more tonight. She fished through the remaining candies, bringing the bowl over to her head and fed herself one of the last fun-sized Snickers bars. If this had been two separate people doing this, and if she wasn't dressed so silly, this could almost be seen as romantic.

In the distance, she heard a bit of joyful hooting approaching her farm. Popping up over the hill, she saw some boys biking up towards her property. No, not boys. They were too old to be trick-or-treating. They were too old to BE 'too old for trick-or-treating.' They were fully grown adults of at least eighteen, probably students at the nearby college. Maybe they weren't students. The fact that four students had made it to the end of October without any of them getting their bike stolen was shocking enough. Maybe they were just aimless young men looking for the excuse of free candy... or vandalism.

One biker was wearing the low-effort ghost costume that consisted of a bed sheet and nothing else. She could see the yellow thread where the hem had been stitched. Had he stolen this bed sheet from a hotel or something? The other three wore masks over their normal street clothing, the lowest rung of Halloween participation, essentially trying to get candy on a technicality.

Hannah jumped away from her head and stood where she had before, quickly crumpling the wrapper and tucking it into the orange and black Easter grass on which she she'd set the candies.

The first biker pulled up to the house, braking suddenly and skidding his rear tire in the dusty path near the house, because he apparently thought he was cool. He kicked out his kickstand and left his bike at the roadside. He had a denim jacket and a plastic clown mask, his brown hair sticking out from the sides of the molded plastic. He pulled a glass bottle out of the wicker basket lashed to the handlebars, clinking sharply as it passed against the frame.

The others followed him shortly after, parking their bikes near his. One had a costume hockey mask, which no longer resembled the reinforced helmet that modern hockey goalies wear. It looked like it would glow in the dark, if given the chance. One's 'costume' was only a mask made of an upturned paper grocery bag with a two eye holes cut out and a face drawn in with Sharpie. How did the bag stay on during his bike ride? Maybe this inventive lad could teach her a thing or two about keeping things stuck resolutely to the shoulders.

The last one was a classic bed sheet ghost. Like all ghosts, their thin, jean-clad legs and dingy white sneakers stuck out from the edge of the protoplasm. As his arms returned to his sides, they vanished behind the sheet. All four men wielded that classic candy collection device: the pillowcase. It was especially appropriate for the ghost.

Hannah felt her heart beating harder as the mysterious and much too old trick-or-treaters approached her... but only in her body. She held herself rod-still as the clown eyed her bowl of candy.

The clown looked at the candy bowl, and the disappointing assortment of sweets still left.

"Man... we should've got out here sooner." The clown moaned, putting his hands on his hips. "All the good stuff is taken."

The one wearing the hockey mask next appeared. He looked side to side. "There doesn't seem to be anyone around. Maybe she's got the good stuff inside."

"Don't do that." Said the bag-headed man. "She's probably in there, watching us."

Hannah sniffed quietly, too quiet to be picked up by her hidden microphone. At least he was half-right... but now she wished she had locked her front door.

"Yeah..." The clown craned his head around. "There's probably a hidden camera around here right now." He walked away from the pumpkin-head standee...

But as he walked, his elbow bumped into her breast.

It was very casual contact, the kind that she was led to believe happened on crowded buses and stadiums all over the city. Then again, Hannah had spent very little time surrounded by others. She'd never once been interacted with in such a way.

At first, she didn't think much of it. An accident... right? But the clown didn't keep walking away. He wasn't seeking the hidden camera that didn't exist... unless you counted her head watching from a distance.

That was intentional. He deliberately brushed his elbow against her breast! What possible positive sensation could he get from touching a private part... with his elbow? Did humans have fingers there that she wasn't aware of? Was that an erogenous zone?

From her perch, she tried not to sneer too much, not that they were paying much attention to her face anyway. How typical was this, a bunch of men more interested in her body than anything else?

"Where would I be... if I were a hidden camera?" The clown put the crook between his thumb and forefinger to the chin of his mask. Hannah doubted that would help with clear thinking if he didn't actually touch his chin, but maybe a plastic facsimile would do.

"Would it be... here?"

On the last word, he took a single outstretched finger and poked it sternly into her midsection, that portion of flesh that Americans called the 'love handle.'

Hannah didn't budge, but her flesh yielded in a way that didn't feel like straw or other stuffings typically found within scarecrows. She clenched her teeth. How was she to know before this very moment that she was ticklish?

"Or maybe there's a trick in... HERE!"

The clown slipped his fingers in the space between the snaps on her shirt and pulled them all apart, freeing her chest.

"Nope. No tricks..." The clown inspected what he had revealed. "unless those are fake."

"Dude, maybe you're taking this too far." The ghost put out a hand.

"Shut up, dude." The clown said. "You took Women's Studies and suddenly you know everything." He turned his masked face to the empty pail that currently represented her head. "You can stop with the 'pretending to be a statue thing' now. I can see you breathing. And if that's what you chose to wear today... you were expecting these to be seen."

Hannah hoped they wouldn't watch as the nearby scarecrow blushed. She'd forgotten that she wore one of her expensive lacy bras today. She just wanted a black one so it was less likely to be visible underneath the black costume.

"You're looking at the BRA?" Said the hockey-masked man. "What about the fact that she's got makeup on under here?" He rubbed his thumb on the skin of her upper shoulder, politely keeping his hands away from her breasts. "Wow, it's not smudged at all."

Hannah tried to control her breathing, but all it did was make her exposed bosom heave in a way that would definitely not discourage this group of anonymous men.

"Your nipples are showing." The paper bag faced man said, keeping his hands to himself for the moment. "Are you cold?"

"I got just the thing!" The clown pulled one of the bottles from his side and poured it into the little slit that served as the 'mouth' of the jack-o-lantern. The warm liquid poured into her belly without Hannah getting to taste it. It was warm... fizzy... was this a beer? These young men were clearly about college age, in that sliver of time where they were old enough to drink in her home country, but not here.

And yet... once the suds hit her stomach... she started to feel something. Despite her heritage, she wasn't much for drinking. She felt a warmth in her heart and belly... but maybe that was because these four men were all curiously poking and caressing her body.

Hannah was not cold. She was used to walking through moist glens late at night in the spring, wearing metal armor and nothing else. And she certainly never wore a bonnet!

She was not cold. She was clutched with something she hadn't felt in a long time.

Red-hot, panty-soaking lust.

These men had discovered her body and hadn't run or screamed or reached for their broadswords. Sure, most Americans don't carry their broadswords around all the time, but Hannah was still taken aback by their lack of revulsion.

"So, I didn't take Women's Studies like The Geek of Christmas Past over here... but everyone knows that Halloween is a time for hos and thots to dress skimpy and blame their lack of clothing on the fictional character they're dressed up as." The clown ran his fingernail down her torso. "And yet, none of them are really down for casual sex. It would then stand to reason that... someone covering their body from head-to-toe, but wearing the Victoria's Secret underneath... might be more interested in some fun. Would that be right?"

Hannah huffed. She didn't know what hose or thoughts had to do with any of this. She didn't think his theory was accurate. She didn't even know who Victoria Secret was.

And yet... she wanted it. Maybe these men would like any female form they came across, or maybe they specifically liked her lime-green skin. What difference did it make? For the first time in her life, they weren't running away screaming, and she wasn't cursing them and holding her head at the end of her arm like a spooky lantern.

Hannah dropped the candy bowl, a few Tootsie Rolls thrown free from the impact of it hitting the ground. The men still started a bit at the sudden movement of the previously immobile figure.

With her arms free, she pulled her shirt off of her arms and threw it to the ground. "I want it." She said through her speaker, which sounded remarkably realistic when echoed inside the empty pumpkin head. "I want you all."

The clown turned towards the ghost, a smug grin no doubt underneath the scary clown maw. "See? I told ya you'd do better with the ladies with your face covered." The clown brought his hand and cupped one of Hannah's breasts with it.

Hannah's hand fell on it and pushed it further into the soft, warm flesh. "I only have one request." She said.

"What's that?" The clown asked.

"No names." She insisted.

The clown looked among his compatriots, looking for any sign of dissent behind their implacable fake faces. "I think we're all fine with that."

Hannah sighed though her nose. She didn't know what would happen if she cried out their names in ecstatic reverie, and if it would have the same effect it once did, when that was the last thing terrified Irish peasants would hear before being dragged to perdition. She didn't want to take the chance.

That would definitely kill the mood. And possibly all of them.

The one wearing the hockey mask slipped behind her, putting his chin on her shoulder. Considering they were the same height, he really wasn't tall enough to represent this character on Halloween. Then again, Jason probably never used his hands so delicately, softly kneading her breasts in his palms. She arched her back and felt his stiffness pass under the lace and nestle between her buttocks.

The hockey mask huffed a few deep breaths against her shoulder and whispered into where he thought her ear was: "You smell nice."

Hannah wasn't socially aware enough to know what a played-out line that was. But it still made her heart flutter and fingers tremble. Was is really true? Back in the day, people said she smelled like a rotting corpse, but what really was the standard back then anyway? That was before sanitation was invented in the twentieth century. There was something else to take off that damn Wikipedia page.

She rolled her body the way she'd seen women do in music videos, that bellwether of acceptable sexuality ever since they cropped off Elvis' legs on the Ed Sullivan Show. His hand came to her hips, just below her belly button, but not low enough for Hannah's liking. He pulled her in tighter, pressing her ass against himself as she rocked it up and down.

Suddenly, the clown commanded, "Get her on her knees."

The hockey-masked man repositioned his hands to her shoulders. He pushed down, and Hannah fell to her knees. She wasn't bothered by being treated coarsely, but she hoped the dirt hadn't stained her stockings. Then again, it's not like she'd be wearing them again until next Halloween...

The clown swooped in front of Hannah. He unfastened his fly and revealed himself.

"You want some of this?" He asked, with unjustified confidence.

Vocally, Hannah didn't respond. From her angle, she couldn't quite see it. But she didn't want to discourage him, so she rocked the pumpkin up and down to nod 'yes.'