Monsterland

by James Crowley

  Their first Halloween together, Old Joe had said Billy was tall and thin enough, so he persuaded him to play the haunted barn’s resident vampire. With the long black hooded cloak, ghost-white makeup, and specially fitted fangs, Billy made an imposing figure looming in the shadows of the pumpkin patch. But that . . . that was before. Charlie quickly turned away from the dark folded suit and closed the door. He continued down the hall to his room, telling himself that his mask was somewhere else, more than likely under his bed.

  Charlie’s room was in the corner of the house where the eaves joined the attic to the second floor. The winding bend of a giant oak grew just out the window, giving him the feeling that he lived in a tree house. He sat on the foot of his bed and thought for a moment, then pulled the photograph from his sweatshirt pocket. His mother had taken the photo of the boys with her ancient instamatic camera just last October, a few years after Billy had come to live with them. Billy had been having trouble at home back then, and when he ran away a second time, Old Joe suggested he spend that summer, longer if need be, working in the orchard.

  He recalled the talks he’d overheard from the kitchen before his cousin arrived that June. You’d be amazed, Old Joe said at dinner one night, what a little hard work and some fresh air can do for a boy.

  So Billy joined Charlie that summer in the orchard. They worked hard, but when their chores were done, Old Joe let them run free through the apple trees, swim in the river, and camp in the mountains that bordered the property. Then summer turned to fall, and instead of returning home, Billy stayed. He enrolled in school and lived with them. He became a regular part of the family, and after a while, everyone just thought of him as Charlie’s older brother.

  Charlie put the photograph back in his pocket, lay down on his bed, and looked out the window at the sprawling tree. He was tired and remembered admitting to the school counselor that he was still having trouble sleeping. And even when he managed to fall asleep, strange dreams would wake him in the middle of the night, the old house quiet except for his family’s heavy breathing and the groaning moan of the old oak as it swayed in the wind.

  On these sleepless nights, Charlie often found himself wandering the house, drifting from room to room, sometimes spending hours staring at the family photos that hung in the hall and down the stairs. Alone and afraid, he would look at Old Joe’s medals from the war and occasionally take down the saber that was displayed next to a neatly folded flag. Some nights, Charlie would sit on the front porch and gaze into the darkness, and others he’d wake at the foot of his parents’ bed, with his mother or father sleepwalking him back to his room, where he found himself tangled up in his blankets by morning.

  Charlie closed his eyes. He could still see the picture. He could still see Billy standing next to him, and he could see that they were smiling.

  — chapter 3 —

  Trick or Treat

  “CHARLIE,” HIS MOTHER called, “they’re going to need your help down at the barn.”

  It was late. He must have fallen asleep. Charlie saw out the window that the approaching storm was now clinging to the top of the mountain and had already darkened the late-afternoon sky. The wind had picked up too, which was giving a cluster of birds some trouble as they fought to seek shelter in the high trees beyond the orchards.

  Charlie jumped down to search for his rubber wolf mask under the bed and was relieved to find it buried in a pile of clothes. He pulled it on and paused at his reflection in the mirror, satisfied with his decision to be a werewolf this year instead of a vampire.

  Charlie heard his bedroom door creaking open on its rusty hinges and quickly crouched down behind the bed. He knew it was Ringo from the tapping sound of his nails on the floorboards. The dog was a stray, but the day he showed up at the orchards, Old Joe had said he was sure that the mutt was at least part German shepherd. Charlie thought he sort of looked like a wolf and considered them to be the best of friends.

  Ringo peered up from the doorway, cocked his head suspiciously, and then barked, which prompted Charlie to jump out at the big dog. Ringo dropped down, baring his teeth in a low growl.

  “It’s me,” Charlie said, laughing and lifting up his mask. “I don’t get how you could live here and still be tricked by this old thing.”

  As Ringo moved closer, Charlie pulled the mask back down and growled. Ringo barked again and whimpered in return, before jumping up and knocking Charlie to the floor.

  “Come on, boy,” Charlie said, pushing his dog off him.

  They took the stairs three at a time and burst into the kitchen, planning to only stop long enough for Charlie to grab his sack of school candy and to zip up his hooded sweatshirt.

  “I thought you weren’t going trick-or-treating,” Charlie’s mother said, her ancient instamatic camera already in hand. She was dressed in her mummy costume but had yet to put on her headdress or face makeup. “And what did I tell you about letting Ringo in the kitchen? You know he’ll get into those brain bowls, not to mention the spa-gut-ti that I just finished making—”

  “I’m not going. Just thought I’d bring some of the candy I got at school down to the barn.” Charlie went one way around the kitchen table and then the other, but knew that once the instamatic was out, it was going to be difficult getting past her.

  “Well, you know Old Joe loves having a few chocolate bars around, that’s for sure,” she went on, fumbling with the camera. “Now, turn around for me, Charlie, and stand up straight.”

  Charlie obeyed and faced his mother.

  “There,” she said, snapping a photo. “But let’s try one now without the mask?” Charlie’s mother pushed the rubber werewolf muzzle to the top of his head. “Say boo!”

  Charlie sighed and exposed his plastic fangs to the flash. Then he quickly pulled the mask back down.

  “Well, there’s your Christmas card.” Charlie’s father entered the kitchen wrapping his head in his mummy linens. “Merry Christmas from the haunted house weirdos and our fanged son, with wishes to you and yours.” He half laughed. “How you doing, Charlie?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Heading down to the barn?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I get this wrapped up—get it? Wrapped up? It’s mummy humor—”

  “Yeah, Dad, I get it, wrapped up,” Charlie said flatly.

  “Old Joe’s going to need some help tying things down. Looks like we’re in for some nasty weather,” Charlie’s father added, looking out the window. “But you know he’s not about to let a few storm clouds put a damper on things.”

  “You two hold still, now,” Charlie’s mother ordered, taking another picture and winding back the film. “Oh, and, Charlie, I talked to Ms. Hatchet and she’s going to drop by tonight. I’m so glad you’re in her class this year. She’s been such a dear this past—”

  But Charlie was no longer listening. With Ringo at his heels, he pulled his hood over his mask, threw the candy sack on his shoulder, and kicked open the screen door. They jumped to the bottom of the porch stairs and ran down the hill toward the barn until Ringo stopped to bark at the trees lining the gravel driveway.

  “Oh no, don’t you even think about running off—”

  Ringo whimpered, glanced up at Charlie and then back to the woods.

  “Leave it alone, Ringo, it’s just some old squirrel. He’s trying to get ready for winter and doesn’t need you bothering him.”

  Ringo barked again and bolted off into the trees.

  “Oh, come on, Ringo!” Charlie shouted after him. He looked toward the barn and the mountains that towered just beyond the tree line. Even with the storm brewing, there were already a few early trick-or-treaters making their way toward the pumpkin patch.

  “Ringo!” Charlie called, but the dog was already gone.

  IT WAS QUIET AND THE TREES THAT COVERED THE LONG GRAVEL drive seemed
eerie now that the sun was setting. Charlie walked, counting his steps as he listened to his sneakers crunching on the crushed stone. He had doubled back through the woods hoping that he would cut Ringo off before he got to the road. But there was no sign of him, so he decided to head to the barn, figuring that Ringo knew the property as well as anyone and would eventually show up—he always did.

  Charlie followed the drive toward the edge of the orchards and stopped at a high fence with rolls of loose barbed wire hanging along the top. A faded sign on the rusted chain-link read: WARNING—GOVERNMENT PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING.

  From the road, the fence was almost all that was still visible of the old army base. Tarmacs that were once heavy with military traffic were now overgrown with vegetation. The small garrison had been decommissioned because of “cutbacks,” Old Joe said, but that was before Charlie was born. There were stories about the base, from the old days, suspicious rumors, really, of strange projects that the government had kept hidden. Charlie pleaded with Old Joe to tell him what he remembered, but was routinely rebuffed. His parents had made Old Joe promise “not to fill the boy’s head with nonsense,” and Old Joe was a man of his word.

  “Ringo! Ringo, you out there?” Charlie shouted at the shadowy trees around him. “We can throw a few rocks at the old armory if you want to . . .”

  But his voice trailed off again, and the only answer was the cawing squawk of a magpie that was perched just above his head on a twisted branch. Magpies drove Old Joe crazy. They were always getting into his workbench back at the barn. He often pointed out that when magpies stole food from his lunch, they usually just went for the cookie. He claimed that showed their intelligence, but they still drove him crazy.

  “Hello, Mr. Magpie,” Charlie said, addressing the bird. “You haven’t seen a dog back here, have you?”

  Like Ringo, the bird ignored him. It stared at him briefly, and then flew off into the trees. Charlie looked up again at the darkening sky. He could tell the rain was coming, but he still had a little time before Old Joe would really need him, so he pushed through a hole in the fence and climbed over the pile of crumbled concrete that blocked his path.

  Charlie counted his steps until he hit a row of rusted Quonset huts and dilapidated buildings, one of which, the old armory, had large steel-framed windows that still held a few panes of broken glass. He had been here many times, but that was before, with Billy. The boys used to spend hours in these woods together, despite the warning signs and barbed wire. With Billy gone, Charlie still found himself here every now and then, but it was different. Charlie no longer came here to play and explore; nowadays he came here to smash out what little glass was left in the armory’s high window frames.

  Charlie picked up a hunk of concrete and threw it at the corner of one of the windows. Missing its target, it skipped with an echo across the abandoned building. He tried again and again, rock after rock, each time without success. So Charlie kicked around the rubble until he found a small stone, and with a low, angry grunt, he threw it as hard as he could. It hit the corner of the window, smashing a sliver of the dangling glass, which fell to the ground with a satisfying shattering sound. He smiled. Now he could go.

  Charlie turned and called again for Ringo. When the dog still didn’t answer, he had to assume he was already at the barn with Old Joe. He pulled the werewolf mask down, slung the candy over his shoulder, and turned back toward the fence. He counted out a few steps but stopped abruptly when he noticed something standing in the shadows in front of him.

  “Ringo? Is that you?”

  The shadow was silent.

  “Ringo?” Charlie repeated. He could feel the heaviness of his breath on the rubber of his mask.

  “Ringo?” a voice said.

  Charlie spun around. Someone was behind him.

  “Boo!” An illuminated skeletal face appeared with the click of a flashlight.

  “Yeah, boo,” the figure blocking Charlie’s path added. The flashlight beam shifted to a mask with ghoulish green features.

  “Hey, keep that light out of my face,” the boy in the ghoul mask said to the boy in the skeleton mask. There was a third boy, dressed as a mummy, standing on a pile of rubble above them. He was wrapped in rags fashioned from what looked like an old beach towel, which hung around his feet, dragging in dirty strips.

  “What are you doing here?” the homemade mummy said. The voice was muffled and a little lost under his costume.

  “Looks like he’s smashing windows,” the ghoul pointed out.

  The mummy scratched his bandaged head. “But the sign says no trespassing.”

  “It sure does,” the skeleton agreed. “No trespassing.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Charlie said, trying unsuccessfully to sound strong. “No one comes back here anymore. No one cares.”

  “The army does—they must. Doubt they would have that sign up if they didn’t,” the mummy countered.

  “We could call the cops,” the boy in the skeleton mask said, walking toward Charlie. “Or you could just hand over your candy and we can let it go. No harm done, right?”

  “Candy, candy, we want candyyyy,” the ghoul moaned.

  Charlie’s heart was racing. He pulled his clutched fist from his pocket and held the candy sack firmly with two hands. Back at school, he didn’t really care about the candy. Or at least he thought he didn’t. But now he suddenly felt different. It was his and he was bringing it to the barn to share with Old Joe.

  “Come on, give us the candy,” the skeleton said.

  “No,” Charlie replied, making an effort to steady his voice. He tried to imagine what Billy would do if he were here.

  “No?” The ghoul stepped forward. “Let’s go, hand it over.”

  “It’s mine.” Charlie slowly started to back toward the hole in the fence. The boys were all bigger than him, but Charlie knew he was pretty fast, the second-fastest in his class after Birdy Fargus, actually, so he figured if he could just get to the road that he might be able to make a break for the barn or hide in the pumpkin patch.

  “Come on,” the mummy said.

  “Candy, candy. Me want candyyyy,” the ghoul moaned again, swiping at Charlie’s candy.

  “Go get your own,” Charlie said, pulling the candy sack closer.

  “Go get my own? Ooooo,” the ghoul mocked.

  Charlie could feel his fear turning to anger. When the bigger boy reached for the sack a second time, Charlie tried to push him, but the ghoul barely moved.

  “All right,” the skeleton said, grabbing ahold of the sack from the side. “You asked for it.”

  “It’s mine!” Charlie shouted. “Leave me alone!”

  “Ha-ha, that little kid won’t give you his candy.” The mummy laughed at his friend.

  “I said,” the skeleton demanded, jerking the bag and Charlie forward, “give me the candy . . .”

  Charlie’s foot slipped on the wet ground and he fell, hitting his head on a chunk of broken concrete. When he looked up, the only thing he could see was tiny flashes of dancing yellow light.

  “Let go!” the skeleton shouted, pulling roughly at the candy sack in Charlie’s hands. But Charlie, his head aching, hung on, the older boy dragging him and the sack across what was left of the gravel tarmac.

  “This kid is crazy. Just let him keep his stupid candy,” the mummy said.

  “No way.” The boy in the skeleton mask wrestled with the bag until it ripped. “Give it!” he shouted, and kicked at Charlie.

  Charlie felt his lip swelling, the pounding in his head worsening, and the candy sack slipping through his fingers. It all seemed to be going in slow motion now, and for a second, just as the Hershey’s bar from Ms. Hatchet fell from the hole in the sack and hit Charlie in the head, it was almost like time stood still.

  “Just. Let. Go!” With a final tug, the boy in the skeleton mask jerked the
bag free and fell back onto the ground, sending the ghoul and the mummy into another fit of laughter.

  “What’s your problem?” the skeleton spat, climbing back to his feet with Charlie’s candy sack in his hand.

  “You can barely steal candy from a baby!” the ghoul cried.

  “I got it, didn’t I?” the skeleton snapped, joining the mummy and the ghoul. They stood above Charlie, riffling through the sack.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” the ghoul complained.

  “It’s just my school candy.” Charlie coughed. He was lying facedown on the wet concrete and could already taste the salty blood on his lip.

  “Your school candy?” the mummy repeated. “What’s school candy?”

  “From school today. We went from classroom to classroom at lunch.” Charlie was having trouble catching his breath. “I didn’t go trick-or-treating.”

  “School candy. That’s just sad.” The mummy laughed. “And what do you mean, you didn’t go trick-or-treating? Who doesn’t go trick-or-treating?”

  “Maybe he means he just hasn’t gone yet,” the ghoul offered. “You’re going later, right?”

  “No, I’m not,” Charlie declared. It hurt his head to raise his voice. “What’s the big deal?”

  “What’s the big deal? It’s free candy, kid. Everybody knows that.”

  “Forget about him, will you?” The skeleton was hunched over with his arm buried up to his elbow in the old pillowcase. “May not look like much, but there’s some good stuff in here . . . Reese’s, jawbreakers . . . Here.” The skeleton tossed the mummy some Milk Duds.

  “I think you might have hurt him,” the mummy said, looking down.

  Charlie agreed. Beneath his werewolf mask, he could feel his head pounding and could still see the flecks of dancing light. And for what? Ringo and those stupid squirrels; all he was trying to do was get down to the barn to help Old Joe.