Colin and The Rise of The House of Horwood

by M. E. Eadie

  ***

  The three witches, accompanied by the burning phoenix, the coyote, and Colin, marched down the dimly lamp-lit street. Colin, oddly enough, didn’t feel out of place not having a costume on. Although still unnerving to him, the brooding invisible presence of the wind behind him now seemed to buoy his spirits. He noticed that traffic was slowing down to get a better look at their costumes, and the children ringing doorbells and knocking on front doors along the street were turning around and gawking at them, some calling out comments such as, “Awesome!”, “Wicked!”, “Way cool!”, “Excellent!”

  A long triangle of light from an open door caught his attention. Three children--a child covered in a sheet, a boy with an ax blade protruding from his head, and a pasty-faced girl, with big pointy teeth and blood dripping down her cheek--were holding out bags and an old man was putting something in them.

  “What’s that man giving them?” asked Colin.

  “You really don’t get out much, do you,” chuckled Rhea, the flames of her headdress flaring slightly in reaction to her infectious laugh. “It’s called ‘trick or treat.’ You dress up, knock on people’s doors and say ‘trick or treat.’ If they don’t give you a ‘treat’ then you’re supposed to play a ‘trick’ on them.”

  “Really? You play a trick on them?” asked Spike, bouncing from the sidewalk edge onto the pavement and back again, his ears perking to attention and his eyes flashing with mischief. The end of his nose was dripping wet.

  “Yeah, like covering a tree in their yard with toilet paper, or some other nasty things. A little joke is all right, but some people get a bit crazy. Some people,” said Rhea, pointedly looking at Spike whose tail was wagging furiously, “when they put on a mask, get carried away.”

  Colin felt a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, like indigestion but much worse. It slowly made its way up his throat, and even though he tried to suppress it, it escaped in the form of a squelched burp. What happened amazed him. The Wind that had been latently following started to blow, creating a stiff breeze, and then as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared.

  “Wow!” exclaimed Spike, “Where did that come from?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, wondering if his burp had anything to do with it. He caught Rhea looking at him strangely, as though she suspected him.

  “What?” said Colin defensively, ready to deny, but they were all distracted by a flicker of movement further up the street in the bushes surrounding one of the houses. A group of children, dressed as fairies, clowns and various cute little animals were receiving their treats from none other than Hugh Dundas. The frail old man was stooped over placing treats in their bags. Straightening up, he stiffly motioned for them to stay as he went back into the house to get more treats. Behind the hedge in front of his house, three black shadows moved stealthily.

  Rhea tapped Colin’s shoulder, putting a finger up to her mouth for silence, then tapped Spike’s shoulder, and when he turned to look at her she gestured to him with a zip-your-lip motion. She whispered to them, pointing to the three shadows, “Nixes!”

  “Don’t think so,” said Peary’s voice, startling them from behind where he had just appeared. “For some reason, Nixes don’t come out on Halloween. It looks like three ninjas are about to egg those kids.”

  “They’re just little kids! That’s mean!” Rhea’s flames flared angrily, turning a particular tinge of blue.

  Colin felt his stomach begin to boil. Instinctively he wondered if a larger burp would create a larger wind.

  Spike was already bounding off along the front lawns, jumping the low fences between the houses, springing off into the shrubs at the side of Hugh’s yard.

  Sergeant Peary gave a mischievous grin. “Go on, take care of business. I’ll go stall your aunt. I’ll tell her Spike had to do some business in the bushes, but don’t be long. In her present happy state of mind, she’ll probably understand, but I wouldn’t want to push it.” He wafted up to where the three witches marched on.

  The ninjas were so absorbed, eggs gripped in hands, they didn’t notice that the air about them was getting hotter. Not until the eggs they were holding started to steam, scorching their hands, did they notice. They dropped the eggs waving their hands about painfully as they turned to face Rhea and her wrathful flames. They stood there, stunned into silence, gaping at her. One of them turned towards Colin, his piggy eyes narrowing in recognition.

  “No costume, eh, Rainbow, but then, you don’t have to dress up now do you. You’re already a clown.”

  Colin shrugged impishly, enjoying the discomfort they were feeling from the intense heat of Rhea’s costume. “You better leave those kids alone.”

  “Get out of here before I treat you to a black eye,” said Edge, the Ninja, pulling back his fist, ready to launch it at Colin.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Edgy,” said Rhea mildly.

  “Rusty?” he queried, suddenly very unsure staring at her flames. “Those aren’t real are they?”

  From beneath the hedge, Spike’s arms reached out and untied the shoelaces of the unwitting ninjas and began to tie the laces together so that when they ran they would fall. “You think they’re light bulbs or something?” she asked, the flames flaring out at the hapless ninjas.

  Edge pushed forward aggressively, his porcine eyes shining like two black marbles.

  He looked at Colin then turned back to Rhea, “What are you two supposed to be, Ugly and The Beast? The only thing is, I can’t figure out who’s Ugly and who’s The Beast!” The other two ninjas gave muffled laughs behind their black masks.

  The boil in Colin’s belly leapt up into his throat. He suppressed it not knowing what would happen or who he might hurt if he didn’t.

  Rhea, her arms crossed defiantly said, “You can’t go picking on helpless little kids! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

  “Sorry,” said Edge with feigned sincerity, “so, what you’re saying,” he poked Rhea in the arm, shoving her back so that she stumbled, “is that we should pick on you?

  “Congratulations Edge, for a dimwit you figured it out! That’s exactly what I’m saying!” she countered pushing him back.

  Edge kicked at the flaming feathers in her train. “See! Your fake flames didn’t burn me. I knew they were fake.” He reached out and flicked one of the feathers with his hand.

  Rhea paused, momentarily confused because the flames weren’t having any effect on Edge.

  Edge pulled back a fist, ready again to throw a punch, this time at Rhea, and that’s when Colin let go with a full-fledged burp.

  Without warning, and with the impact of a giant’s hand smashing down on them, the wind, in a microburst, knocked them flat to the ground. Colin had been right to be cautious because this blast of wind didn’t differentiate between the ninjas and themselves, although the ninjas got the worst of it. Colin surveyed the damage. A tree across the street, roots torn from the ground, lay on its side. Just moments before, the hedge around the perimeter of Hugh Dundas’ house had been perfectly groomed; now much of it was flattened. Colin pulled Rhea and Spike to their feet and staggered off down the street before Edge came to, not that he was afraid of the bully--he was more afraid of himself and of the wind that dwelt in him. The other ninjas rolled around on the grass trying to undo Spikes knots.

  “Wha-what was the-that?” stuttered Spike trying to uncross his eyes. He had been under the bush that had been flattened.

  Colin shrugged. He wasn’t sure what the relationship between his burp and the wind was, but it was there, and he didn’t want to evoke the seemingly capricious nature of the wind again. Then a chilling thought struck him: If this, like Rhea and Spike, was just a costume that imitated the effects of their true guardians, what could his real guardian do? All of a sudden Colin was very afraid of his true guardian. He shivered in the damp of the early evening.

  “Are you guys all right?” asked Rhea.<
br />
  Colin gave a quick nod and a dry swallow.

  Spike, his pointy ears flattened against his head, looked from side to side, cautiously sniffing the air. “I think it’s gone.” He stared at Colin, his nose twitching. “It’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “I think so,” said Colin.

  “If you children are through playing,” Grizzelda’s voice came from down the street. The three witches, having witnessed everything, were waiting, beneath a streetlight. “We should be on our way.”

  Bevis, Bunk and Tellings’ Funeral Home was the creepiest-looking building Colin had ever seen. It was even stranger (if that was possible) than Horwood House. An old Victorian red-brick structure, it was designed to look ominous. The sharply sloping black tiled roof contrasted starkly with the white scrolled edging around the eaves; tall, sharp gables drew lines of focus up to the black, iron-railed widow’s walk crowning the top of the structure. A lightning rod protruded from the highest point of the building. The arching brickwork in the several windows in the front of the building gave the impression of a many eyed beast staring down at them indifferently, as though life did not matter, that all that was important here was death. The façade reflected the nature of the business that was carried on within its walls, but its closed mouth

  --the steel-banded double door--refused to divulge any of its secrets. Although the appearance of the house commanded attention, its pull was secondary to the commotion in the parking lot.

  A river of people swirled and eddied around a host of glowing, gap-toothed Jack-o-lanterns strung from pole to pole across the parking lot. From a speaker on the side of the funeral home came the sounds of cackling witches, moaning ghosts, and bubbling cauldrons. One entire side of the lot was dedicated to the set of a haunted town. Children, along with their parents, were circling through some of the dilapidated shacks, running and screaming. In others, they took their chances by sticking their hands in through windows to either receive treats or something disgusting. One little ghost was crying, his hand full of some oozing red sausages that looked like entrails. One kid was chewing contentedly on a candy eyeball.

  “Enjoy,” said Grizzelda waving her hand, urging them to explore.

  “Where are you going?” asked Colin still feeling the after-effects of the wind.

  Grizzelda stopped, her spine becoming rigid. She shuddered slightly, as though her patience was being severely tested, then turned about slowly, glaring at Colin. It seemed more than a hint of her former self was resurfacing. “I’m going inside, of course.” And with that she was up the front steps and through the front door, which opened automatically to consume her.

  Spike had already returned from visiting one of the buildings and was popping something grape-sized into his snout. He chewed.

  “What are you eating?” asked Colin.

  “Here,” said Spike tossing one to him.

  Colin caught the object, turned the orb in his fingers, until the iris and black pupil of the eye was staring at him. He was disgusted by its realism.

  “They’re great,” said Spike, “taste like jelly beans, but much gooier. When you bite into them they squirt out something black!”

  Colin didn’t feel like eating it so he slid it into his pocket. Ofelia and Melissa were slowly making their way from one end of the fake town to the other. Rhea, her flames barely flickering, was silent, contemplative. She seemed melancholic about something.

  Spike threw eyeballs high up into the air and caught them on his snout. He was quite good at it and a group of little goblins circling him were applauding every successful attempt.

  “What’s up?” Colin asked Rhea.

  Rhea paused, “Oh, I dunno,” she said guardedly. “It’s been such a long time. I didn’t think I’d feel this way. I had almost forgotten.”

  Colin waited patiently. He knew she wanted to talk about something, but he didn’t want to pry.

  “We had the funeral service for dad here.”

  “Sorry,” said Colin trying to understand, but he found it difficult because he had no memories of his own parents or of losing them.

  “Don’t be, there’s nothing anyone could do. It was a helicopter crash. Funny, you know, I’ve never really felt he was gone, that he was still around, watching,” she said taking a deep, wavering breath. “Mom asked me to watch Grizzelda tonight.”

  “Why do you think she did that?”

  “I -- I don’t know, but she wouldn’t have asked me if it wasn’t important. So we need to go inside; the problem is that I don’t know if I can do it.”

  Colin looked around for Sergeant Peary who had disappeared again. “For now, why don’t we tell Ofelia we’re going to check out the other side of the place, around back? There’s bound to be other stuff there.”

  They found Ofelia and Melissa coming out of a building that had just been evacuated by a herd of screaming kids, including the workers. Melissa, contentment written on her face, strode confidently out of the dilapidated swinging doorway. Ofelia, holding onto her pointed hat, stooped to emerge. Her white teeth were shining.

  “What did you do?” asked Colin.

  “Me,” said Ofelia innocently, “I can’t help it. When I see heads, especially heads on platters, I have to make them sing.”

  “Could we go around behind?” asked Colin.

  Ofelia hesitated, but only for a second before nodding her head. “Just as long as you’re back in an hour.” She whirled away, enveloped by a horde of ghosts, goblins and superheroes.

  Pulling Spike away from his own adoring audience wasn’t easy. First, they had to part the crowd, and then they had to convince him that there was something more interesting to do. Rhea grabbed his attention by telling him he might have a chance to play a few tricks on some poor unsuspecting victims.

  They surveyed the back entrance to the funeral home. Fortunately, the door was unlocked. Music spilled out of the building, inviting them in.

  Inside the mortuary, the smell and sight of deep dark wood wreathed them. The music wasn’t the type that most people associate with death and dying. This was no dirge for the dead; it summoned the wild salsa rhythm of the living. As they followed the sound, the cheering and chanting grew louder. Some of the plush rooms they passed held coffins. One, almost entirely covered in flowers, seemed like a garden bed instead of the resting place for some poor, unfortunate soul.

  Even though the driving music and the sounds of the celebration drove them on, a picture on the wall gripped their attention with such strength that it forced them to stop and stare. Dressed in strange, stiff, dark suits, with high collars, four men stood close together, their hands layered one on top of the other, as though they were making a pact. Three of them they didn’t recognize--they were, in fact, none other than Bevis, Bunk and Tellings--but the fourth, they recognized. The nose, the chin, and the deep penetrating eyes belonged to a young Zuhayer Horwood. All four stared out from the painting defiantly, as if they were challenging the very darkness that surrounded them.

  “What does Horwood have to do with them?” asked Spike, his wet nose almost touching the painting.

  “I don’t know,” said Colin, feeling the anxious tension in him growing. The music, which just a moment ago had been so happy and carefree, now seemed dark and sinister, almost mocking the cheer it was supposed to represent. Not even the flames from Rhea’s costume could entirely dispel the gloom that settled about them.

  They soon found out where the music and laughter were coming from, but the entrance was guarded. Two very large semi-transparent ghosts in stovepipe top hats and tuxedoes were standing in front of an open door, large arms crossed imposingly over their chests. From the daunting look on their faces it seemed that it would be impossible to get past them. Beyond the guard ghosts they could see the revelers dancing about, arms waving in the air.

  The rhythm of the music changed and a large cheer went up. Grizzelda was there, in the center, drawing everyon
e’s attention, her pale lissome arms waving about in the air. Her face was tilted upward, joyous, ecstatic. As she moved to the music’s beat, a vampire behind her, which looked distinctly like Mr. Blandish, placed his hands on her hips and began to follow her about the room. Others followed forming a gruesome conga queue: Grizzelda the witch; Blandish, a convincing Dracula; Anne Boleyn, “with her head tucked underneath her arm”; the Grim Reaper; Snow White’s step-mother; a pirate; a flame-haired woman dressed as a French trollop; a WWI soldier with a bloody bandaged head; a half-Raggedy Anne/half-Raggedy Andy doll; a bearded fat lady in a hot pink muumuu; and a six-foot-tall, yellow chrysanthemum. Grizzelda was not only the life, but also the object of adoration, the heart, the very essence, of the party.

  Colin stepped forward and the guards, assessed them, cold eyes sliding over them with a dispassionate touch. A large hand opened, palm up, waiting to be filled.

  “Invitation, please,” said one of the ghosts his voice echoing strangely.

  “Yes,” responded Colin rifling through his pockets, then he realized he didn’t have the invitation anymore. It had vanished. “It’s gone, but I did have it,” he said in disbelief, looking haplessly at the ghosts.

  “No invitation, no entry.” It was as final as a door being slammed.

  “Come on,” said Spike trying to push past. His invitation was also missing. “What are a couple of ghosts going to do?” The intensity of the music had worked him up to the point of eager frenzy, and now being denied access was more agitation than he could bear. His legs were visibly vibrating, almost uncontrollably, and he could no longer restrain himself. He had to dance! As he came in contact with one of the ghosts, a flash of blinding, blue light pitched him onto his backside where he sat stunned and staring blankly at the ceiling.

  “Whoa, little dogie!” said Sergeant Peary, his robust voice parting the two ghosts. He had been dancing in the room. He was holding hands with none other than Silverberry. Colin felt his throat go dry. She regarded him with her dreamy smile and mellow eyes, saying so much, yet revealing nothing. She was dressed in the same white blouse and sheer multi-colored skirt they had seen her in at the river; and she was as wet as ever, leaving sodden footprints behind her, even though she floated above the ground. It was as though water was flowing effortlessly from her very pores. Then she saw Spike sprawled on the floor, and her smile faded. She floated to his side, kneeled down and placed his head in her lap.

  “Are you all right?” she asked stroking his forehead.

  “What?” responded Spike, his focus dispelling the blur around the edges of his vision that now was full of a smiling Silverberry. He immediately felt better. The coyote persona had invaded him so absolutely that he not only tingled to her gentle touch, but his right leg, embarrassingly, began to beat the floor like a drumstick hitting a drum.

  “You don’t want to mess with these bad boys,” said Sergeant Peary, referring to the guards who were back to ignoring them in stolid silence. “They’re guard ghosts with special dispensation--they have certification from The Union to interfere with corporeal beings.” He lowered his voice to a knowing whisper, “Trust me, you don’t want to get them ticked off.”

  “But we have to get in there!” blurted out Rhea, watching hypnotically as Grizzelda led another pass of the conga line. They were dancing in the room where the wake for her father had been conducted two years ago. However, the sharpness of the pain had lessened. In fact, she felt a joy fill her being: inexplicably, she felt that part of her father, was in the room now, dancing. Impossible, she knew, but there it was, a certainty waving about at the end of the conga line, beckoning her to join the raucous, snaking procession. If she could get in, maybe she could see her father again. It was a foolish thought, but an uncontrollable one.

  Sergeant Peary arched his eyebrows, as though seeing her for the first time: “We do, do we?”

  Rhea regarded the ghost pleadingly, searching his transparent eyes. He knew! He’d been able to see what she had only been able to sense!

  “Can you get us in?” asked Colin, coming to Rhea’s aid. “Grizzelda is not herself, and…”

  “…and?” responded the ghost waiting for further reasons.

  Spike had revived somewhat and was now back on his feet. His eyes were still a bit blurry. He was in bliss as Silverberry smoothed the fur on his head.

  “You know,” muttered Spike, “when I hit the floor, I saw the statue in front of the house, but it was finished. Was it ever creepy.”

  Sergeant Peary took the stubby end of his cigar out of his mouth and twisted it thoughtfully.

  “Someone’s carving the block?” Peary asked.

  Colin nodded. “Someone did its legs.”

  Sergeant Peary was bothered by this and, if it was possible for a ghost, he paled.

  He looked at them seriously, “It’s not being carved. Michelangelo said that when he sculpted, it was like freeing what was within. I’m afraid this is the case with the statue.”

  “What’s inside?” asked Colin, momentarily forgetting their need to get into the guarded room.

  Sergeant Peary glanced fearfully at the two ghost guards. “Sorry, lad, I can’t say. They’d yank me into the light faster than you can shake a stick … if you had a stick, that is. But don’t fret, I’ve promised Grandfather Thunder I’d help.”

  While they talked, much to Rhea’s dismay, the doors slowly began to close, as though what was going on within wasn’t for their eyes. The music, only slightly muffled, still thrummed with wanton frivolity from within. Then a deathly silence settled--nothing. Colin could hear his own breath.

  Something behind the closed doors had just occurred, something dreadful. Rhea backed away from the door, eyes wide with horror. Spike’s nose twitched as he bared his teeth. Colin could feel the turmoil in his stomach, and the pressure of the air building behind him, swelling up like an invisible, monstrous cloud.

  Slowly, the ominous tension began to lessen, and Spike’s and Rhea’s costumes began to flicker, becoming alternately transparent and solid. Rhea’s flames became small, going out, one by one, and as they went out they left a patch of bare skin beneath. Spike pawed at his fur that was falling out in large clumps. His nose and ears began to shrink. Colin also noticed that his clothes were becoming rather thin.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at the bare skin on his leg through his clothing.

  Sergeant Peary looked a bit guilty. “Sorry, I couldn’t tell you before, but since it’s happening now, when the clothes were transformed into your costumes, they were used up.”

  “You mean to say…,” gasped Rhea. Thoughts of her father were suddenly washed away by the bare reality of what Sergeant Perry was saying.

  “Yeah, sorry. You might want to consider getting home. In about five minutes the three of you are going to be butt-naked.” Then he leaned in close to Rhea so that only she could hear. There was an odd, sensitive glisten in the Sergeant’s eyes. “Don’t worry about your dad,” he glanced apprehensively at the two large guards that were beginning to stir, as though irritated by some unseen source. “He’s doing fine.”

  The guards now moved towards Sergeant Peary whom they had targeted as the source of the irritation. But then the doors suddenly opened and a cold chill rushed through them. There, alone, stood Grizzelda. The Marcus doll was holding on frantically to her neck, a look of terror on its plastic face. Black rivers of mascara marred her face, etched there by tears. Her red lips trembled. But it was her eyes that held them fast, that accused them of being the source of her sudden misery. Slowly she lifted a shaking hand and pointed a long finger accusingly at them.

  “You!” she said hoarsely, as though she had been yelling for a very long time. “All of you. It’s all your fault!”

  “As your officially appointed guardian,” muttered Sergeant Peary into his chest, trying to avoid eye contact, “I would advise a full retreat, because that’s exactly
what I’m going to do!” And with that, both, Sergeant Peary and Silverberry disappeared.

  Colin grabbed Rhea by the hand and Spike by the scruff of his neck and they raced out the back way. Outside, in the parking lot, Colin and Rhea pulled oil-cloths from two tables littered with used paper plates and cups, and Spike yanked free a length of bunting decorating the edge of a concrete retaining wall by the building.

  “I can’t go home like this. My mom will freak! We’d better go to my cousins’ place. Okay?” said Rhea, wrapping the oilcloth around herself. “They only live a few blocks away. Come on!”