(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?
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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.
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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.
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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.
