“You got to be kidding,” Brackett said. “Every kid in Haddonfield thinks the place is haunted. Maybe every adult too.”
“They may be right.”
Brackett reached into his car and produced a long flashlight. Pointing it at the “For Sale”
sign thrust into the scrubby lawn, the sheriff said, “His parents found him standing right there in his clown costume with the ruff around the neck, cute as could be except he held a butcher knife as long as this flashlight and he was smeared with fresh blood.” He flashed his light on the sign. “This should come down. I hear it's been sold. Chester Strode must be drunk with relief. He's the agent.”
“Sold?” Loomis repeated, shaking his head with disbelief.
“I know what you mean. New York people. They thought it would be fun to own a haunted house. New Yorkers,” he groaned, using the word almost as a curse.
“Can we go in?”
“I don't have a key, but maybe...” They mounted the front porch.
“We could go in through one of the broken windows,” Loomis suggested.
“That's what I was going to sug – hmm.”
Loomis stepped to the front door, on which the sheriff held his light. The knob dangled at an odd angle, and there were fresh gouges in the wood around it. Brackett touched the knob and the door swung open. “One haunted house, complete with creaks,” he said.
“If you find it so amusing, why are you taking your gun out of it's holster? Loomis asked with a grim smile.
Brackett didn't care for the remark. Flashing the light around the entry vestibule, he stepped in caustiously, crouched tensely as he scanned the rooms with his light-guided eyes, then gestured with his head for Loomis to come in. Carefully they trod the floorboards, Loomis moving back to back with his friend, like a pair of eyes in the back of the sheriff's head. The psychiatrist kept his right hand plunged deep in the pocket of his trench coat.
Suddenly Bracket stopped. Loomis backed into him. “What is it?”
The light revealed something resembling a white and black shaggy throw rug with jagged red streaks. Brackett kneeled over it and gulped. “It's a dog.” He reached out and dipped a finger into the entrails that had been ripped out of the creature and draped across its hind legs casually. “Still warm. Lord!”
Loomis looked at the mutilated creature, its bulging eyes orangely reflecting the light. “He got hungry.”
“He? You mean...? Come on, Doctor. It could have been a skunk. Or a raccoon.”
“Could have been,” Loomis said unenthusiastically.
“A man wouldn't do that,” Brackett said, holding the light on the glistening guts.
“He isn't a man,” Loomis replied.
They turned their backs on the remains and searched the rest of the downstairs. The place was a shambles. Floorboards ripped up, plaster and lathing chipped or ripped off the walls, damp spots in the ceiling. Brackett made several more sarcastic remarks about the people from New York.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Loomis said.
“Uh, of course. What tour of a haunted house would be complete without a look at the upstairs?”
“After you, Sheriff.”
Brackett snorted and stepped ahead of Loomis. They inched up the stairs, staying close to the wall, for the balustrade was a wreck. As they approached the landing, Brackett paused and caught his breath. “What do you suppose that noise is?”
Loomis cocked his ear. “I believe it's a branch slapping a window. It's coming from that room there. I saw it when we were on the lawn.”
“Of course,” Brackett said, crunching over some plaster pebbles.
Holding gun and flashlight close together, he stepped into the near bedroom. The noise was indeed what Loomis had said. “This is where it happened. She was sitting there, brushing her hair. I'm told she just had panties on. He came in here, and of course she recognized him and did nothing to defend herself. Why should she? It was her six-year-old kid brother, for crying out loud! They found her here, under this...” A sudden gust of wind slapped the branch against the window with terrible force, smashing it and showering glass at their feet. Both men leaped back, uttering curses. Then they laughed nervously.
Brackett led Loomis through the rest of the upstairs at double time, then said, “Nothing here. Let's go.”
Outside, Brackett leaned against his car. “What do we do?”
“He was here and he may be coming back. I'm going to wait for him.”
“I keep thinking I should call in help, maybe get a warning broadcast.”
“If you do, people will see him everywhere, on every street corner, in every house. Just tell your men to shut their mouths and open their eyes.”
The sheriff gestured at his shot gun. “You want something?”
“I've got something.” Loomis pulled a .357 magnum out of his raincoat. Brackett whistled.
It looked like a naval gun. “Don't worry. It's licensed.”
“Lord. You're loaded for bear.”
Chapter 11
He kept his headlights off as he followed the red car with the two girls in it, and he kept his distance. His heart beat heavily but rhythmically, but the beat had accelerated since sundown, and it was beginning to make him nervous and agitated. His palms were sweaty and his mouth dry, and he was uncomfortably aroused, a condition of pain and not pleasure. He drove past the orange-glowing pumpkin-faces that seemed to mock him, past the eager, laughing children parading from house to house in their foolish costumes.
He remembered the clown suit he had worn that night, red and green with a lace ruff and a sock cap with a silly ball at the end of it that kept dangling in front of his nose. He remembered his grandmother's smell as she took a tuck in the material of his costume. He remembered the taste of candy corn at the party that evening, remembered biting off the white tips of the pyramid-shaped candies, then the orange middle, then the yellow bottom, trying to determine if they were made of different-tasting stuff but they were the same candy dyed three different colors.
He remembered too, how in the middle of it, in the middle of ducking for apples, the feeling had come over him, a force like an iron hand that virtually shoved him out of the door and into the street, his little legs carrying him home and a voice telling him what he had to do. In his mind's eye he had seen, that night, a picture of his sister as he had seen it a few times through the keyhole of her bedroom or in the crack of the bathroom door, pink, firm, with beautiful tight buttocks and round high breasts with jutting nipples, and the voice told him he must carve those breasts and buttocks into a thousand slabs of bloody meat. He remembered his own internal voice protesting, but it was such a helpless little-boy voice the the grown-up voice had shouted it down easily and urged his little legs home faster, instructing him to go into the house through the kitchen door, remove the butcher knife from the drawer under the sink, and go upstairs.
He remembered the look in her eyes as he entered her room, a look that darkened from surprise to recognition to horror in the space of a second. He remembered the little-boy voice crying
'What are you doing?' but the grown-up voice crying 'Stick in her belly! Stick it in her heart! Stick it in her face! Stick it in her arms. Stick it in her legs! Stab her! Cut her! Slice her! Slash her! KILL HER!
KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER! KILL HER! KILLER! KILL HER! KILL HER!'
He had known she was screaming because he saw her lips moving but he heard nothing but the roar of the grown-up voice in his ears. He remembered the heat of her blood as it splashed his hands, and the strangely familiar smell of it.
He remembered looking at her almost unrecognizable remains on the floor and hearing the little-boy voice saying, 'Uh-oh, you're gonna get in a lot of trouble when mommy and daddy get home.'
And that's just what happened.
Mommy and daddy were very mad at him when they came home.
And now the voice was talking to him again, and it was almost the same way except that he was a grown-up himself
now, and he was big and strong as his daddy, and this time nobody would be able to take him away and send him someplace.
The brake lights of the car in front of him went on, and he hit his own brakes, drifting to the side of the road to watch. The blond girl got out, the one who had come up to the door of his home this morning, the one who reminded him so much of Judy. He watched her go up to the white house and ring the doorbell while her friend turned into the driveway of the large house across the street and pull into a garage.
The door opened for the blond girl, and she stepped inside. Then, across the street, the dark-haired girl emerged from the garage, rang the doorbell, and was admitted.
He watched.
Five minutes later, a man and a woman came out of each house. The man and woman coming out of the house where the blonde had gone kissed a little boy good-bye. The man and the woman coming out of the house the dark-haired girl had gone kissed a little girl good-bye. Then each couple got into a car. They went off in different directions.
He got out of the station wagon and slid into the hedgerows around the house with the blonde and the little boy in it, the dark uniform he'd taken off the driver blending with the night shadows. He sidled up to a window. Beyond it was a darkened room, but through an open door at the other end he could see the girl who reminded him of Judy talking to the boy. The boy was almost as young as he'd been fifteen years ago. The boy was wearing a shiny jump suit with astronaut patches on it. This was the boy he'd seen bullied at school today.
He walked around the house, silently testing windows and doors, noting that a pair of French windows outside the television room were open, but not venturing in yet. Not yet.
He drifted back to the front of the house and pressed against the hedges as a gaggle of children passed by, close enough for him to grab. It was too dangerous.
When it was safe, he ventured across the street. The house was enormous, with a large porch on two sides. Again, he walked around it, looking in the windows. He saw the dark-haired girl standing before a hall mirror, brushing out her hair and chatting to the little girl who watched her admiringly. The dark-haired girl had big breasts that jutted out even with her arms stretched overhead.
He stalked like a cat to the side and back of the house, noting an unlocked kitchen door. In the backyard, a slate path led to a little house like a bungalow. He went up to it and peered inside. It had a washer and dryer.
He returned to the main house and watched some more. The sex between his legs throbbed in an unpleasant way. The voice was whispering something to him that he couldn't make out yet, but he knew that if he waited it would get louder.
In his belt were the carving knife and rope he had taken from the store in town.
“Well, what shall we do?” Laurie said, looking at her watch. She knew the answer, but hoped against hope that Tommy Doyle would suggest that he play a quiet game by himself while she studied history. Sure!
Tommy pointed to the stack of comic books in the den. “We can start with those. When we're finished, I have some more in my room.”
“And what happens when we finish those?” Laurie said sarcastically.
“Well, I have a big stack of old ones in my closet,” he answered solemnly.
“I thought you might,” she sighed.
They sat down in a small sofa, and Laurie took a comic book off the top of the stack. “'How now,' cried Arthur...”
“What does it mean, he cried? Why is he crying?”
“He's not crying-crying, Tommy. A cry also means a shout. 'How now,' cried Arthur. 'Then none may pass this way without a fight?' 'Just so,' answered the knight in a bold and haughty manner...”
She rattled the comic book. “Stop squirming. What's the matter?”
“I don't like that story.”
“I thought King Arthur was your favorite?”
“Not anymore. Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
He fell to his hands and knees and reached under the sofa, producing another stack of comics.
“Why are they under there?”
“Mom doesn't like me to have them.”
Laurie shuffled through them. “Neutron Man, Laser Man, Tarantula Man... I can see why.”
“I think they're neat.”
“Neat,” Laurie echoed weakly.
“Laurie, is there really a Bogeyman?”
“Of course. He eats little boys who read comic books.”
“Really?” The boy's eyes widened. “Maybe I'll watch TV the rest of the night.”
“That would suit... there's the phone.” She crossed the room to the phone on a table near the opposite sofa, a tremor of nervousness vibrating through her stomach... “Hello?”
Her anxiety wasn't helped by the noise on the other end of the line. It sounded like gunfire.
Finally, a voice. “Hear that? That's the sound of popping corn. That's the sound of a horny teenage girl when her boyfriend's shot her down,” Annie said, bored.
“My heart bleeds for you.”
“Are you having fun? Never mind, I'm sure you are. I have big, big news for you.”
“What is it?”
“Well... oops! Hold on a minute.”
Laurie listened to the noise on the other end of the line with growing alarm. “Ow! Hey, cut it out... C'mon, get out of here... Jesus, that hurt, you big jerk... Lindsey! Lindsey, he's tearing me apart!”
“Annie!” Laurie yelled into the phone, her heart racing. “Annie what's happening?”
“Lester is tearing my crotch out!” Annie shrieked. “Lindsey! Get this goddamn dog out of here!”
Laurie hear growling, scratching of nails on linoleum, then a little girl's voice. “Lester, c'mon, c'mon boy.”
Annie came back on the phone, panting. “I hate that dog. I'm the only person in the world he doesn't like.”
“It sounds like he likes you a lot,” Laurie laughed.
“Nah, he's just a male. Goes for the crotch every time. Well, that's probably the only action I'm gonna see tonight, so maybe I shouldn't knock it.”
“Annie, you are too gross for words. So what's this big, big news?”
“Would you believe you're going to the home-coming dance tomorrow night?”
“Not only wouldn't I believe it,” Laurie said, “I'd say you must have the wrong number.”
“That just goes to show how little you know.”
“Oh? And what do you know?”
“Well, I just talked with Ben Tramer? And he got real excited when I told him how attracted to him you were.”
Laurie's knees turned to rubber. “Oh, Annie, you didn't. Tell me you didn't.”
“You guys will make a fabulous couple?”
While the girls talked on the phone, Tommy Doyle looked out the window at the last group of trick-or-treaters scurrying home in the darkness. His eyes were suddenly drawn to a black shape on the lawn across the street. For a second he thought it was one of those cardboard skeletons with moveable arms and legs that Lindsey's parents had hung from the tree. No, it was too big, too three dimensional. It stood there, gazing at his house, gazing directly at him, not moving but definitely a living human, definitely not cardboard. Tommy gulped and turned away.
Laurie was still on the phone. Tommy tugged on her shirttail. “Laurie?”
“I'm so embarrassed,” Laurie was saying. “I couldn't face him. I don't know if I could ever go back to school, I'm so embarrassed.”
“You'll have to,” Annie said. “He's calling you tomorrow to find out what time to pick you up.”
“Annie, no. How could... hold on.” She responded to the tug on her shirttail. “Tommy, I'm in the middle of a really important call.”
“I know, but Laurie, the Bogeyman is outside. C'mere and look.”
“Don't go away, Annie, I have to check out the Bogeyman.”
“Ask him if he feels like getting laid,” Annie said.
Laurie crossed to the window where Tommy stood holding the curtains apart. “
There's nobody there, Tommy.”
“There was.”
“I'm sure. How about going into the living room and watching some TV? There's a whole bunch of horror movies on.”
She turned away as Tommy remained at the window, peering into the night. The figure reappeared across the street and drifted toward the Wallace's kitchen window.
“False alarm,” Laurie said.
“Too bad. It might have been different.”
“Annie, some day you're going to get into big trouble.”
“I can't wait. Anyway, look, it's simple. You like him, he likes you. All you need is a little push.”
“I'd like to give you a little push, off the top of a building.”
“It won't hurt you to go out with him, for God's sake. He's not exactly... shit!”
“I know he's not exactly...”
“No, I mean, I just spilled melted butter all over myself. I gotta call you back. I just made a mess of myself, as usual. Stand by.” Laurie heard the sharp click and laughed. Annie was crazy, but she loved her. In fact, she loved her because she was crazy. Underneath the craziness was a warm person and a wonderful friend. Like this Ben Tramer thing. Sure it was presumptuous of Annie to tell Ben that Laurie liked him, but maybe it was all for the best. If Laurie wasn't capable of expressing herself to boys, how were they ever going to ask her out? In this day and age, girls were far more forward than ever before. The double standard was falling daily. Maybe Laurie would never be able to go as far as some of her friends – like Linda, whom Laurie had seen go up to a perfectly strange guy at a bar and say she'd like to ball him – but at least she could go further in that direction than she did now. And if not, she had Annie doing it for her. It was still horribly embarrassing, but heck, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, exactly, to get a phone call from Ben Tramer.
He stood watching the girl talk on the telephone. With her dark, curly hair and large breasts, she was not like Judy at all, but that was all right. They didn't have to look like Judy. They didn't even have to be girls.
She held the kitchen wall telephone tucked under her chin while she took a large pot of popcorn over one burner of the stove with one hand and stirred a saucepan of butter with the other.
Halloween Page 9