by Matt Drabble
He wandered down his path to the street. “Hey there,” he called out to a women and two children as they made to hurry past. “Would you kids like some candy?” He asked putting on his best smile.
The woman clutched one of the children who was dressed as a ballerina closely, but the little girl and her friend didn’t show any of the woman’s nervousness. A small boy dressed in some kind of superhero costume that he didn’t recognise marched forward brazenly. The boy reached his hand into Donald’s bag and shoveled out as much as his greedy hands could muster. Donald smiled outwardly warmly and inwardly cruelly, let the fat little pig shove his snout in the trough, he thought coldly. The girl wandered forward next as the woman still eyed him suspiciously despite his best efforts to allay her fears. The ballerina stepped up to him timidly and put her hand shyly into the bag. She only brought out a few pieces of candy and said “thank you” quietly. Her tender face smiled and he had to remind himself that these weren’t innocent children; these were “Their” agents sent to tug at his heartstrings and slip behind his guard. The woman collected her kids and wandered away with a curt nod and Donald smiled.
He stood on his porch for the next hour or so handing out his special treats to everyone who passed. His mood brightened and his smiles grew more and more genuine and he didn’t need to fake his joy. He was striking a blow against those that sought to destroy him and his world. This was a night when the revolution started.
Eventually his bag was empty and he had to wave away disappointed faces, but there was none more disappointed than his own. His only regret was that he didn’t get to hear their screams. He could only picture their pain and their shock at discovering that someone had the guts to stand up to them, but never knowing who.
He walked back into his house, chuckling softly to himself. The night was full of crisp clean air and the sounds of shrieking children at play floated on the wind. He hoped that their shrieks would soon turn to ones of pain.
He pushed open his door and made his way to the kitchen. He had a bottle of cheap but potent whisky saved for a special occasion, and his victory could not have felt more special.
His front door was softly rapped again by tiny fingers. He had no more special candy to give much to his regret. Next year he would buy twice the amount and cause twice the damage. He ignored the gentle rapping for as long as he could stand but the soft sound was insistent and would not stop.
He took a step back into the hallway. “We’re all out,” he called.
The gentle rapping grew louder.
“Hey I’m sorry, but we’re all out, try next door,” he yelled.
The tiny fingers became a fist and the rapping became a hard pounding.
“What are you, deaf?” He snapped as he strode to the door. He gripped the door handle hard and fought to control his temper; it wouldn’t do to be seen raging at children now. He opened the door and stared down at nothing, there was no-one there.
He slammed the door hard, pissed at the games of children. He had walked a couple of paces back down the hallway when the banging started again. This time he ran, or at least fast shuffled to the door and flung it open. He stared in disbelief as his porch was still empty. He stepped out quickly and looked up and down the deserted street. There was no cover for anyone to have gotten away that quickly.
He went back into his house a little uneasily. He refused to be intimidated by “Their” games. He was stronger than they were and he would prevail.
The door knocking began a third time and he had neither the energy nor the inclination to return to his front door and be made a fool of once again.
“Come in,” he called sweetly, but the knocking only intensified.
“Who is it?” He shouted louder.
The banging started to make his doorframe shudder and the wood creaked under the assault as the door bulged inward.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” He screamed in anger and frustration.
The pounding suddenly stopped and the door swung open gently. He was expecting to see a brute of a man, tall and wide with powerful fists capable of making that sort of noise. He looked on in shock as a small child stood in the doorway. He couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl but the figure stood no more than four feet high. It wore a miniature tuxedo, pristine in black with a white shirt. Its head was bowed and its face was hidden in darkness.
“I haven’t got anything left,” Donald heard himself say as the child held out a pumpkin bucket in its hands.
The child shook the bucket and the treats rattled around inside.
“I told you I haven’t got anything for you,” Donald said confused by the pleading tome in his voice. “On your way now,” he said flapping a hand dismissively. “Go on,” he said strongly finding his anger again mainly because of how uncomfortable he felt. To his relief the child stepped back out into the night and the door swung shut of its own accord.
He headed back to the kitchen and opened the cabinet over the sink eager to find the whisky. He didn’t bother with a glass and took a long hard slug directly from the bottle. He suddenly paused as he felt eyes upon him. He spun around to the kitchen window and saw the child standing in the garden. The moonlight was dull, but the gloomy light was enough was enough to make out the child. He still couldn’t see the thing’s face but the child held out the orange pumpkin bucket and shook it. Donald shook his head and held up his arms to indicate that he had nothing left to give. The child rattled the bucket more forcibly and Donald felt uncharacteristically afraid. He tackled his fear by walking the few paces to the back door and flinging it open. “Now look here,” he shouted out into the garden, but there was no-one there.
He walked backwards slowly and closed the door against the night. He slid the bolt across and found comfort in the security. He returned to the front door and made sure that it was equally locked.
Suddenly he heard something overhead. His forehead crinkled in surprise as he strained his ears again. His house was kept religiously clean and orderly on the ground floor, but it had been a few years since he had really used the second floor. His knees weren’t great and he had started living downstairs for convenience’s sake. He’d paid to have one of the rooms transformed into a bathroom by a contractor from several miles away. He wasn’t stupid, he wasn’t about to allow one of “Them” into his house.
He heard the sound again. It was a scuttling too big to be a rodent, or at least he hoped so. Running footsteps gently rumbled across his ceiling and he felt his anger rise, someone was up there, someone with tiny feet.
He walked to the bottom of his stairs and stood there staring up into the darkness. He hadn’t ventured up there in some time and the rooms were barren and stale. He flipped the light switch on the wall, but he remained in darkness as the bulb was dead.
“Who’s up there?” He called, not liking the slight tremor in his voice. There was predictably no reply.
Running footsteps shot across the landing and he turned his head from left to right as he followed the noise. “Who’s up there dammit?”
This time he was answered by a laugh, the sound was high pitched and childlike and his fear broke. It was just a child, just an errant child playing games. He forgot his bad knees and climbed the stairs, deciding that whoever the kid was, they weren’t going to like finding him home.
Something glass tipped over and smashed onto the floor in one of the rooms and he doubled the speed of his clumsy climb. He hit the light switch at the top of the stairs, but this one didn’t work either. He carried a lighter in his pocket and he took it out. The flame cast a flickering light along the hallway and as he walked he cast a giant shadow. He heard the laughter again and suddenly it sounded far from that of an innocent child.
But Donald’s will was strong. He had fought in the war, he had kept his nerve when that of his fellow soldiers had faltered and failed. He grew taller when under fire and now he kept moving forward despite his unease. It was just a child, just a child playing games, he told himself.
> The footsteps ran across hardwood flooring and he followed the sound to what had been his and his wife’s old bedroom. He was done calling out to no avail. This was still a country where a man’s home was his castle and he had the right to protect as he saw fit; if some naughty child had an accident playing where they shouldn’t have been, then so be it.
The flickering flame lit his way and the metal lighter grew hot in his hand as he walked closer to the bedroom door. He summoned up his courage and kicked the door open hard. Plaster flew from the wall as the door handle slammed into it. The room was empty.
The bathroom door at the end of the hallway open and slammed shut again and again behind him. He ran back out the bedroom door and up the hallway. The door slammed shut one last time as the echoing whisper of a child’s laughter filled his ears. He grabbed the door hard and yanked it open; he was still alone.
He started to turn away when he felt, rather than saw the shower curtain rustle. He turned around quickly, “Gotcha,” he whispered and threw the shower curtain back. The tub was starting to rust and the pooled water smelled stale, but it too was empty.
Inexplicably he heard a noise back in the bedroom. He knew that it was impossible for anyone to have moved that quickly. His fingers were beginning to blister under the overheating lighter but he barely felt it.
Footsteps walked slowly out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The child emerged from the room and stood rock still at the far end of the corridor. It held out its hands and shook the pumpkin bucket violently.
“I don’t have anything,” Donald whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Suddenly all of the doors on the landing began to open and slam shut over and over again. The doors buckled the frames as they smashed and seemed to rattle the entire house.
“I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING!” Donald shouted in panic as the doors stopped.
He stumbled forward, meaning to get to the stairs and find a way out. He dropped the lighter in shock and he was plunged into darkness. He sank to his knees and scrambled around desperately looking for it. His fingers trembled as he touched the burning metal. He struck the roller with his thumb as he heard the child approach. He struck the lighter again and again. The flame caught and died; caught, flickered and lived and he looked up into the child’s face mere inches from his.
The thing simply had no face. Instead of features there was a white skin-like substance pulled tightly across its skull like a polythene bag. It rolled its head from side to side and the skin stretched tighter. Its mouth gaped open behind the skin in a silent scream and Donald obliged by filling the silence with one of his own.
He shuffled backwards on the floor on his hands kicking his legs out in front of him to keep the thing off him as it advanced, shaking the orange pumpkin bucket. He kicked upward and the thing caught his calf in its tiny hand, but these were no soft child fingers. Sharp claws tore into his flesh shredding the skin and Donald felt his trouser leg soak through with blood. He kicked harder and caught the thing in the chest; it staggered backwards and lost its grip.
He managed to reach the stairs and tried to pull himself up with the banister. He got up onto his one good leg in triumph just as tiny hands shoved him in the back. Then he was spinning through the air and falling ever downwards.
He landed heavily on his shoulder and felt it pop painfully free from the joint. He managed to crawl forwards along the hallway towards the lounge. He knew now that “They” had realised that he was on to them. He didn’t know just what the hell “They” had sent after him, but he still had a surprise in store for all of them.
He dragged himself up on one leg through sheer force of will and bloody mindedness. He staggered to the large oak bureau and sagged heavily against it. He wrenched open the drawer and stuck one hand in as the other hung uselessly at his side. His fingers gripped the metal barrel and he drew his old service revolver out. Oh yes, he thought one very big surprise indeed.
He heard the rattling pumpkin bucket and turned to see the child standing in the doorway behind him; its perfectly tailored tuxedo resplendent and spotlessly clean. Donald turned and fired the revolver. He hadn’t used it for decades, but he maintained it religiously for just such a day when “They” sent their agent through his door.
The shots were deafening explosions in the small room and the acrid stench of gunfire filled his nostrils. He looked in horror and disbelief as the child merely looked down at the tightly grouped holes in its chest. Despite not having a face to express with, Donald could somehow tell that it was amused as it tilted its head to one side. It responded to being shot six times by simply rattling the bucket again.
“I don’t have anything to give you,” Donald sobbed as he sank to his knees. “Please,” he begged.
The thing walked across the room and towered above his crouching and shaking form. It raised the pumpkin bucket again and rattled it aggressively. As one sharp claw dug into his flesh Donald suddenly understood; it didn’t want candy, it was offering it.
----------
Detective Sam Tomkins finished his sandwich as the gurney crashed through the doors and wobbly wheeled its way across the tiled floor. The body was on its way to cold storage in the mortuary below the hospital. “So what have we got doc?” He asked the pathologist.
“Somewhat of a strange night detective,” Dr Pemberton answered, rubbing his tired eyes. “79 year old male. He’s got a dislocated shoulder and a nasty slash wound on his left calf.”
“What did he die of? Heart attack or something?” Tomkins asked.
“Not exactly. The guy’s stomach contents contained an inordinate amount of Halloween candy.”
“Well a sweet tooth isn’t normally likely to kill you is it?” Tomkins said confused.
“It is when it’s packed with shards of broken glass and twisted metal.”
“You mean that someone force fed the poor bastard?”
“That’s the odd thing,” Pemberton replied. “There are no defense wounds, and no bruising around the mouth.”
“He wasn’t forced to eat a sack of booby trapped sweets?”
“No, it appears that he sat down and ate the whole sack willingly,” Pemberton said at a loss.
“Wouldn’t that of hurt?” Tomkins asked scratching his head.
“Like hell,” Pemberton agreed “Like hell.”
“Is that why I’m here, because of some prank on an old man?”
“Trouble is he’s not the only one,” Pemberton replied. “We had a five year old brought in a few hours before the old man came in. Believe it or not the poor kid choked on one of the same pieces of candy. A bit of metal cut the kid’s throat and he choked to death wearing some kind of a creepy tuxedo costume.”
Tale 10.
“you are what you eat”
“Duke what time do you call this?”
Daisy McHale withered the assistant editor with the most damaging stare that she kept in the bag. The nickname was one that had stuck since the early eighties, when The Dukes of Hazzard had been a popular TV show and had contained a character called “Daisy”. She had naturally assumed that the nickname would fade in time but here she was, 38 and still called Duke.
“What’s the matter Petey, lose your watch?” She snapped at the assistant editor whose job it seemed to be was to make hers as difficult as possible.
“The boss is looking for you,” Peter O’Neil said haughtily. “You’ve probably screwed up again.”
“Nah, he probably needs a valued and respected eye on something, God knows he hasn’t got much to choose from around here,” she replied as she flipped him off.
Duke was a tall athletic woman. She ran frequently in order to exorcise the frustrations and adrenalines of work. She had shoulder length auburn hair which was normally kept in a minimal ponytail. She ate right and drank only water. Her body was a temple and she worshipped there daily. Her legs were long and toned which she liked but her chest was flat and bony which she didn’t. She gave off the impression of being a tomboy
, but in reality she had neither the time nor the figure to be a girly girl, even if she’d wanted to. She didn’t date around the office and was considered to be gay - she wasn’t - but the misconception meant that she wasn’t constantly hassled by the sexist pigs and that suited her just fine. Her wardrobe consisted mainly of pant suits for the day and sweats for the evenings. She was a reporter for a health and lifestyle magazine called “Natural Awakenings”. She mainly produced articles about popular trends that were about to hit and she was always keen on finding the next big health kick.
She took the stairs two at a time up to her boss’ office. Gene Mack ran the magazine and was an old school editor stuck with a new age product. She rapped gently on the door.
“Get in here Duke,” Gene Mack’s rough voice shouted too loudly.
Duke entered as commanded. Mack was a short gruff man whose blood was permanently up and a temper that lived on the frayed edge. He was in his fifties and Duke feared that at the rate he was going he wasn’t going to see his next decade.
“What’s up Mack?” She asked ignoring his usual grumpy demeanor.
“Cholesterol, blood pressure, you name it,” he barked. “I guess it’s what I get being surrounded by a cesspool of incompetence all damn day long.”
“I hope that you’re not including me in that analysis?”
“Yes I am, but I guess that you’re not the worst,” he replied begrudgingly.
“What did you want me for?” She asked not taking any offence.
“You heard of Casper Cane?”
“The name rings a bell.”
“Well it bloody well should do, I mean you do work in this industry don’t you?”
“Healthy lifestyles for the rich and famous wasn’t it?” she said trying to remember, “Some kind of borderline cult that promised unbelievable results if you had the cash, all very secretive.”
“Correct, Casper owns Maple Leaf. It’s a large health food and fitness company. They produce diet food and gym equipment. But there is also a health spa resort tucked away in the mountains where Casper lives. They supposedly have some kind of miracle fat cure for the rich, and Casper has made a fortune with it.” Mack replied. “Well what we didn’t know, what nobody knows, is that Casper is also the one behind Brainfreeze.”