The Best American Mystery Stories 2019

by Jonathan Lethem

  “Kind of what?” Mel snapped, eyes daring Amanda to continue.

  “I don’t know.” Amanda bit her lip. “Think of all the trouble she’s going to get in.”

  Mel looked at her, head cocked. “So? Come on, Amanda. It’s not like she doesn’t deserve it. Think about it. Always pestering us all the time. Being so fucking weird.”

  “And don’t forget, the bitch broke into your house and stole your old clothes!” Katie added. “She’s probably, like, all obsessed with you or something. Gross. Plus, it will be hilarious and you know it.”

  Amanda frowned.

  “What if she tells?” Amanda asked.

  Mel laughed. “As if anyone would believe her.”

  “As if,” Katie repeated, trying to copy Mel’s laugh.

  Mel smiled. “It’s the perfect plan.”

  Now, Amanda topped off her wine, told herself to stop it. Stop thinking about that night, stop reliving every moment, every terrible decision she’d made, stop playing the “if only” game. She’d trained herself well over the years. If you spend enough time blocking something out, built sturdy enough walls around it, then it’s almost like it didn’t happen.

  Except on Halloween. One night each year it all came back when the parade of Hannahs showed up at her door, when the life-size rag doll dressed as Hannah-beast was cut down from the gazebo in the center of town, a noose around its neck.

  Say boo, Hannah.

  Now she picked up the knife and started on the eyes of the jack-o’-lantern. Round eyes, she decided. Jim had always done scary slit eyes with dramatic, angry arched eyebrows. A frowning mouth full of jagged, dangerous teeth.

  Her pumpkin was going to be happy. Cheerful.

  She was finishing up the second eye when there was a knock at the door, another round of trick-or-treaters. Supergirl, a soldier, two zombies, and one Hannah-beast who made sure to say, “Boo!”

  Amanda gritted her teeth and held out the bowl.

  She’d just started on the nose when there was another knock. A Hannah-beast and a vampire.

  Trick or treat.

  Boo!

  This Hannah-beast was collecting candy in a red plastic gas can with a hole cut in the top. Too goddamned much. Amanda stared at the gas can full of bright candy wrappers, thought of saying something, something adult, like “You’ve taken this too far” or “Don’t you think that’s in poor taste?” But before she got the chance, the girl was gone.

  Before she even got to close the door, another group was coming up the walkway toward the porch.

  Jesus. Why so many Hannah-beasts this year? It had to be a record.

  This time it was a boy dressed as Hannah-beast. He was accompanied by a girl who looked to be dressed as a prostitute, and another boy in a long black trench coat and a ski mask.

  This Hannah-beast had visible stubble on his chin under the thin blue makeup. “Boo,” he said, voice bullfrog deep.

  Fuck you, Amanda said back to him in her head. She kept her lips tightly pursed so the words wouldn’t find their way out and thrust the bowl of candy in the boy’s direction. He took a whole handful, then was gone, the others trailing behind him.

  Come back, slow down, don’t leave us, we love you, Hannah-beast.

  “You’re only supposed to take one!” Amanda shouted at him. He gave her the finger behind his back, not even bothering to look at her.

  Amanda closed the door, refilled her wine (the bottle was almost empty now), and went back to the pumpkin. She was further along with it than she’d realized. The nose was done and had a delicate triangle shape. Now for the mouth. A happy pumpkin needed a big grin. Some chunky teeth maybe. Cheerful, but not too goofy. She picked up the paring knife and started at the left corner of the mouth, working her way down, doing a light line at first, just breaking the skin to get the design roughed out, then going in deeper.

  The pumpkin was soon smiling back at her.

  “Hello, you,” she said to it, thinking, Won’t Erin be pleased?

  Job well done, Mom.

  A shadow passed in front of the kitchen window. Amanda glanced up just in time to see a figure moving by the living room window—someone in a cape with a black eye mask and a rainbow wig.

  “Fuck!” Amanda jumped back off the kitchen stool, the knife slipping. She’d cut herself at the base of the thumb. There was blood on the mouth of the pumpkin, covering its lower teeth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Trick or treat!” voices called. Amanda wrapped a kitchen towel around her hand, went to the door. A Hannah-beast and a slutty devil.

  “You’re not supposed to cross the yard!” she scolded. “You’re supposed to stay on the walkway.”

  “Um. We did,” said the girl devil.

  “You crossed the yard. I saw you from the kitchen.”

  “It wasn’t us,” the devil said with a shrug.

  “Boo?” the Hannah-beast behind her said, cautiously.

  “Fuck off,” said Amanda, slamming the door in their faces, looking down to see the blood had soaked through the towel.

  1982

  They went from house to house until her pillowcase was heavy, heavy like she really did have a dead dog inside it, which was what the girls were telling everyone they met.

  Hannah-beast’s a real monster, that’s for sure! Be careful, or she’ll eat you up! She’s got a dead poodle inside her bag. She’s gonna snack on it later. Yum, yum, yum.

  You’re doing so good, Hannah. We love you, Hannah. You’re scaring the shit out of the whole town, Hannah. This is your night. The night of Hannah-beast. Say boo. Boo! Boo! Boo!

  They flew through town; Manda was holding her hand as they ran, and Hannah’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her face felt tight, her head itched under the rainbow wig, but she was happy, so happy, the feathers of the boa tickling her as she ran, the cape flying out behind her. Everyone in town, all the kids from school, they all saw her. They saw her with the other girls, and they knew . . . they knew she was something special.

  But now it was late. Nearly ten. The streets were clear of trick-or-treaters. Porch lights had been turned off. They sat on the wooden floor of the gazebo in the park, eating candy, trading favorites. Manda didn’t like anything with nuts. Mel hated Mounds bars (which meant Katie did too). They gave Hannah all their peanut butter cups, didn’t even make her trade for them.

  “I should go home,” Hannah said. Even though she knew Daddy would be sleeping his bourbon sleep until the alarm went off at seven tomorrow.

  “No way! Not yet!” Katie said, grabbing her arm.

  “We’ve got one more special surprise, Hannah,” Mel said.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a scavenger hunt,” Katie explained.

  “Do you know what that is?” Manda asked.

  “Sure, I guess,” said Hannah, thinking it sounded like a thing from birthday parties, even though she hadn’t been invited to a birthday party since second grade.

  “It’s where you follow clues, gather objects, and find a prize.”

  “Like a treasure hunt?” she asked.

  “Yeah, like a treasure hunt,” Katie said, smiling, bobbing her head.

  “Well, what’s the prize?”

  Mel laughed. “Think about the word prize, Hannah. It’s short for surprise, right? And it wouldn’t be a surprise if we told you.”

  “It’s gonna be good, Hannah,” Katie promised. “Something you’ll never forget.”

  “Are you ready?” Mel asked. “Ready for the first clue?”

  “I don’t know,” Hannah said. “It’s late, and my dad—”

  “If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” Manda said.

  “Of course she wants to do it,” Mel said, giving Manda a disgusted look.

  “Yeah,” Katie said. “You want the surprise, don’t you, Hannah?”

  Hannah hefted her sack, heavy with candy, over her shoulder. “BOO!” she howled at the top of her lungs
, and the girls all laughed and patted her on the back, and she was the star of the show. It was the night of Hannah-beast. Hannah-beast unleashed, that’s what Mel said.

  “You can leave your candy with me,” Manda said. “It’ll be easier without it. And I’ll keep it safe, I promise.”

  Mel handed her a piece of paper, and Hannah squinted down at it through the eyeholes of her mask. “‘You’ll find me in Old Man Jarvis’s garage. I’m made of metal. I ring but I’m not a phone.’”

  Hannah looked up from the paper to the others.

  “What are you waiting for?” Mel asked. “Go!”

  Hannah started off running toward Old Man Jarvis’s place. She looked back and saw the girls standing in the gazebo, watching her. “Aren’t you coming?” she called.

  “We’ll meet you at the end.”

  “But how will I know what to do?”

  “Just follow the clues,” Katie said. “You can do it!”

  “Yeah, you can do anything!” shouted Mel. “You’re Hannah-beast!”

  2016

  Amanda wrapped up her hand in gauze and surgical tape. The bleeding had finally stopped.

  “Fucking idiot,” she mumbled to herself.

  She went back out to the kitchen, poured the last swallows of wine into her glass. She lit the votive and dropped it inside the pumpkin, stepped back to admire her handiwork.

  The smiling face leered back at her—round eyes hopeful, expectant, a slack-jawed grin giving the thing a bewildered look.

  Her stomach twisted, the wine turning to acid.

  Hannah. It was Hannah’s face.

  Hello, Manda Panda.

  Long time no see.

  The air seemed to go out of her. The cut on the base of her thumb throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

  At that moment, the power went out, plunging the house into darkness and silence.

  The wineglass slipped out of her hand, crashing onto the tile floor.

  1982

  I ring but I’m not a phone.

  Hannah worked the clue around in her brain as she entered Mr. Jarvis’s garage through the open door. She squinted in the darkness as she walked around the old Plymouth parked there. There were tools hanging on the wall: rakes and hoes and shovels. And a workbench at the end. She walked over to it.

  I ring.

  Ring around the Rosie.

  She looked at the tools on the bench and the wall: hammer, saws, screwdrivers, wrenches.

  “None of you ring,” she said.

  She bit her lip. She could do this. She had to do this. Show them that she wasn’t a dummy. Not like everyone thought she was.

  “I’m Hannah-beast,” she whispered. “I can do anything.”

  Then, like a miracle (the power of Hannah-beast brought miracles!), she saw it! There on the shelf above was what she’d come for: an old brass cowbell. It was sitting on top of a crowbar. She picked up the bell, saw it had a note tied to it. She moved closer to the window and read the note by the light coming in from Mr. Jarvis’s front porch.

  Ring me for one FULL minute. NO CHEATING. Then take the crowbar underneath and go to the Blakelys’. Use the crowbar to pry open the door to the shed. Inside, look for something red. Bring this note with you.

  Hannah stuck the note in her pocket, held on to the bell, and started ringing it and counting, “One, two, three . . .”

  She was at fifty-five when the front door to the Jarvis house banged open, and Mr. Jarvis came walking stiffly toward the garage, calling, “Who’s there? What the hell is going on?”

  She started counting faster: “Fifty-five-fifty-six-fifty-seven-fifty-eight-fifty-nine-sixty!” She dropped the bell, grabbed the crowbar, and tore out of the garage, nearly running into Mr. Jarvis in the driveway.

  “Hey, come back here!” he yelled. But she did not slow. Did not turn. She zigzagged her way through backyards, across the Caldwells’ field, and over to the Blakelys’. The old wooden shed was in their backyard along a split-rail fence. She tugged on the door handle, but it was locked, as the note had said, so she slid the chiseled end of the crowbar between the door and frame, pushing it in as far as it would go; then she pulled her full weight behind it. The old wood on the doorframe cracked and splintered and the door flew open.

  She laughed. She was Hannah-beast. No locks could stop her.

  The red thing was waiting for her right in the middle of the shed: an old gas can with a note tied around the handle.

  Use the crowbar to smash out the window of the shed, then leave it behind. Take the gas can to the Caldwells’ old barn. Look for something small and brass. Keep all the notes with you.

  Without pausing to think, she smashed out the old single-pane windows with the crowbar, then threw it to the ground. As she sprinted across the yard, lights came on in the house. A man shouted, “Stop right there!” but she didn’t even turn around, just ran faster, harder, the wig bobbing around on the top of her head, the cape flying out behind her.

  “BOO!” she screamed as loud as she could.

  2016

  “What the fuck?” Amanda said, blinking in the darkness. All the background noises of life were gone: the humming refrigerator, the ice maker, the furnace clicking on, and fans starting.

  She tried to remember where the breaker box was in the basement. What you were even supposed to do to try to get the power back on—flip a switch, change a fuse? This had always been Jim’s department.

  She stumbled forward, stepping over the broken glass and spilled wine, toward the window, saw it wasn’t just her house that was out. It was the whole street. The whole town, maybe. She didn’t see a hint of light anywhere.

  Amanda held still, watching, listening.

  A siren whined far off. A girl screamed. Someone laughed.

  Amanda thought she smelled smoke.

  Her throat grew tight.

  The grinning jack-o’-lantern, with the candle sputtering inside, was now the only light in the room, filling the kitchen with a fiery-orange glow. The flickering eyes were watching, following her, saying, I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.

  “I’m sorry,” she said out loud, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I didn’t know what would happen. I should have stopped it, but I had no idea. None of us did. I was young and scared and stupid.”

  Tears filled her eyes; her throat grew tight as she tried to keep down the sob she felt coming.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “Sorry for being such a fucking coward.”

  The pumpkin only stared, the hideous grin seeming to grow wider, more taunting.

  She was not going to be forgiven.

  Not this easily.

  1982

  Running, running, wind in her blue face, blowing the cape back, and the hair, oh the hair, the great rainbow happy clown wig. She’s a wild thing. Hannah-beast unleashed. The gas can bumped against her thigh, the gas in it sloshing around like water in an empty belly. Her brain buzzed from sugar, from the high being around those girls had given her, and now, now she was on a hunt, a scavenger hunt, and she was going to get a prize, a SURPRISE, something good, something wonderful, something that would make the girls love her even more.

  Love her more, more, more. Her heart pounded as she ran, felt like it was going to explode right out of her chest. The barn was in sight, a big old leaning thing—miracle it was still standing. The Caldwells were sleeping, tucked safe in their beds, the lights in the white farmhouse all turned off, too late for trick-or-treaters. Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell had two kids, little kids, still in elementary school, fourth and fifth grade, lucky little buggers. Elementary school wasn’t like middle school, where the halls were long and dark, and people jumped out at you, shoved you, kicked you; people left horrible stuff in your locker—dog shit in paper bags, notes that said “Why don’t you just curl up and die, Hannah?”

  She entered the barn, ducked into the shadows, pausing to catch her breath, trying to slow her racing heart. The barn was open at one end and
had a hayloft with a wooden ladder leading up to it, and it was still full of old hay bales from back when there used to be cows and horses. There was a long row of windows, most with the glass busted out. The floor was dirt. There was a broken tractor. An old motorcycle. Engine parts. Kids’ bicycles. The barn smelled like old wood, grease, and gasoline.

  Something brass.

  How was she going to find something brass in here? Needle in a haystack.

  But they’d made it easy for her.

  So easy.

  Too easy?

  Did they think she was that dumb? Or were they just being nice?

  Nice, nice. Nice as spice. Manda Panda maybe, but not the others. Maybe Manda had left this for her, right where she could find it. Manda was on her side. Manda wanted her to win, to get the big surprise of a prize.

  At the other end of the barn, there was a dim glow. A flashlight turned on, left on the floor. And there, in the beam of the flashlight, was an old brass lighter with a note tucked underneath.

  She picked up the lighter, opened it up, and flicked it to see if it worked. The wheel struck the flint, and a flame came to life. Hannah knew how to work lighters. She sometimes lit Daddy’s cigarettes for him while he was driving. “Light me up, Hannah Banana,” he’d say. She’d pull a Camel out of his pack and get it going for him, take a few puffs herself first just ’cause it made Daddy smile.

  She picked up the note:

  You’re almost done! Take the three notes and burn them with the lighter. Leave the ashes in the barn. Take the lighter and gas can and bring them to the tallest oak tree at the edge of the yard. We’ll meet you there and give you your prize.

  Hannah scrabbled the notes out of her pocket, held them with this final one, and flicked the lighter, watched the flame swallow them up. She held them until her fingers were hot and she couldn’t stand it any longer; then she dropped them, watched what was left of the pages sink and flutter to the dirt floor like burning moths. Once they were down there and had burned out, she stomped on them to make sure—didn’t want to leave anything smoldering, not in this old barn.