by Mark Parker
Finally, when Halloween is but a few scant days away, Trevor comes home late for dinner one night, sailing past my mother’s complaints about keeping us all waiting, and easily commandeering the kitchen. He is cocky without being arrogant, knowing just how to play my parents without tripping over the line into outright manipulation. Dinner is taken up with anecdotes of football practice, of classes, even of Jenny, whom he has rarely mentioned to my parents before. He is clearly in good spirits.
After dinner, he deftly avoids any chores beyond loading a few items in the dishwasher, then quietly tells me to follow him when he steps outside. We walk down to the river, which still rushes past with impressive force, as if running late for some distant destination. Trevor digs a healthy roach from his pocket and sparks it up as he says, “I scored for us, little man. Didn’t want to say anything ‘til I was sure I could deliver, but it’s in the bag now.”
“What did you get?” I ask, smoke curling between my teeth.
“Acid,” he announces, clearly pleased with himself. “The finest windowpane. ‘Shrooms are nothin’ next to this. You’re gonna take your first real trip. If you think you’re ready, that is…”
I know he is teasing me, but I can’t stop myself from responding, too quickly, “Hell, yes. Of course I am.” After a moment, I add, “When? Halloween?”
“Yup. I told you I’d make it special, didn’t I?”
I nod, feel a smile crawling across my face. “What are we gonna do? Go canoeing again?”
“Maybe. We’ve talked about that; talked about going into Ann Arbor; talked about a bunch of stuff. Not sure yet.”
“Who all is ‘we’?” I ask, figuring I already know.
“You, me, and Jen,” he confirms.
Even though I honestly like her, I can’t help feeling a pang of jealousy when he mentions her, knowing that the bond that has existed between Trevor and I will likely never be quite the same.
We kill the roach while mulling the possibilities, and are meandering back in the direction of the house when our mother opens the back door and calls for us, saying it’s time to study.
“I’m going to study at Jen’s,” says Trevor, veering off for the garage and his bike, “My books are already over at her place.”
My mother starts to open her mouth and then seems to think better of it, turning her attention instead to me as I troop past her and indoors. I’ve found that sometimes I can study when I’m stoned, drifting amongst the words on the page, immersing myself in the paragraphs, but I don’t think I’ll be able to do so tonight. I’m too excited.
Too late, I hear my mother behind me, and realize she’s following me. My father is already barricaded in his study and I am easy prey.
“I said ‘hold on.’ Young man, I’m talking to you.”
Resigned to my fate, I turn to her.
“I want to talk to you about your brother.”
I nod, unsure what to say.
“Now, I know you might be inclined to…protect him, but I want you to tell me the truth. It’s important. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I say, not understanding.
“Look at me.” She pauses for emphasis. “Is your brother doing drugs?”
Ah, the inevitable question. Although why she’s asking me and not him seems less than clear.
“No. He couldn’t be. I mean, how could he? He’s playing football and getting good grades…” I hope my argument is convincing and that the smell of smoke is not too strong upon me.
“That’s true,” she says, as if mulling these facts over for the first time, and “I guess you’re right,” although she still somehow seems unconvinced. “But I want you to tell me if you see anything, understand?”
The conversation over, at least for now, she wanders off on a path that will eventually lead her to the couch. I continue on to my bedroom, to a pair of headphones and a book open before me, in case my mother’s interest is rekindled.
It isn’t until much later, weeks or perhaps even months later, that I recall this conversation and wonder how much differently things might have turned out, had I told my mother the truth.
***
“She couldn’t have moved, she’s been dead for a long time.”
***
When Halloween morning finally breaks, it is dark, cold, and drizzly. It seems appropriate, somehow, and certainly not capable of dampening my spirits.
Not too long ago, I heard the expression “triple witching day” in regards to some sort of stock market conditions. This day seems to fit that term for me: it is Halloween; it falls on a Saturday; and it is the night on which the clocks are turned back, granting us an extra hour of night. Normally, the additional hour would not matter; our parents would not let us stay up late enough to take advantage of it. But on this night, they are attending a big party in Ann Arbor and trusting us to behave, after obtaining numerous assurances that we will do so.
Trevor has told me that we’ll take our hits around five, figuring they’ll kick in around six, granting us a good six hours of tripping time before our parents get home, no sooner than midnight we figure. He says the extra hour of sleep, when sleep finally comes, will be most welcome.
Jen arrives around four-thirty and we spend the next half-hour listening to music, nervously tapping toes and drumming fingers as we watch the clock. When the hour finally arrives, Trevor takes out a small baggie containing a piece of illustrated, perforated paper, comprising several small squares. He tears off one for each of us, adding instructions to chew them thoroughly before swallowing. It is not pleasant, but it is a gourmet meal compared to how the ‘shrooms tasted.
We are still trying to decide what exactly to do on this looming, glorious evening. A promised ride has failed to materialize, eliminating the possibility of a trip to Ann Arbor. A repeat of our canoeing adventure is likewise impossible: Lisa’s parents somehow heard about our earlier journey and have declared the canoe off-limits. We are casting about for ideas as I feel a creeping tingling in my hands and a mild churning in my stomach. Small flashes are beginning to spark in the corners of my eyes when Jen blurts out, “Let’s go trick-or-treating.”
Trevor is as skeptical as me.
“That’s kid stuff, Jen.”
“Yeah, why would we want to do that?”
“Just think about it,” she says. “We’ll walk all over town, see all sorts of things, peek into people’s living rooms, check out their reactions when they see us mixed in with all the little kids…”
“Exactly,” says Trevor. “When they see us. That’s one of the parts I’m not too wild about. We’re out there trippin’, gigglin’, with eyes like marbles…might not be the best idea.”
“OK, so we’ll be bigger than your average trick-or-treaters, but if we tag along with a group of kids, people will probably just think we’re, like, chaperones or something. And with costumes and masks, no one will even know who we are.”
“It’s almost 5:30. Where are we gonna come up with costumes at this point?”
“I already thought of that. My parents went to a costume party last year, and the costumes they bought are still hanging in our downstairs closet—the Phantom of the Opera and a masked maiden. For you,” she says, pointing at me, “we can just cut up a sheet and find a mask at the drug store.”
Trevor and I put up resistance for a while longer, but the lack of truly compelling alternatives helps guarantee our eventual surrender. Twenty minutes later, we walk out of Rexall Pharmacy with a Freddy Krueger mask in hand, headed for a rendezvous with Jen at Gresham Park.
She has fetched the costumes and a soiled raincoat—which, as it turns out, goes much better with the Krueger mask than a sheet would. I don the raincoat, grateful for the added layer in the chill air. Never warm on this day, the temperature began dropping in mid-afternoon and has now plumbed far below comfort level.
Like lost moments slipping away, my breath floats before me on the air, tantalizingly close but impossible to capture. Eventually the
exhalations disappear, like rain falling on the water, each vanishing breath bringing me one step closer to death. My thoughts suddenly seem very profound.
Properly outfitted, we venture out, seeking a group of kids, sans adults, to attach ourselves to. My mask seems constrictive at first, stifling my breathing and holding the world at bay from my senses, but soon I adapt, my flesh becoming one with the rubber as I become one with the night. Things are getting very strange, but I am enjoying it immensely.
We spy a clutch of children up ahead, no adults in sight. Suddenly Jen is skipping after them, skipping, and we are doing the same, giggling at first, then laughing hard, eyes tearing up, unable to stop. The children look back at us, unsure what to make of this strange trio.
“Who are you guys?” asks their leader.
“Can’t you tell?” replies Jen. “The Phantom of the Opera, Freddy Krueger, and a damsel in distress.”
“Distress?” asks one innocently. “Do you need help?”
I can tell Jen is biting back more laughter when she says, “Thank you, no. I think what we need is some candy.”
A couple of the more generous little ones hold out their bags to us.
“No,” says Jen, a smile widening beneath her half-mask, “we have our own bag,” as she holds up a sack I didn’t even know she had. “We just want to go with you. Is that OK?”
They nod, six ghostly, Vampiric, and super-hero faces all moving in unison, still unsure but eager to get back to their appointed rounds.
At the first house, an enormously fat lady opens the doors, her floral print dress seeming to swim and writhe across her jiggling arms and swollen bosom. The skin on her face, the siding on her house, the leaves on her trees—everything is moving now, undulating. Neon outlines glow in the darkness, exposing a wireframe structure that seems to underlie all things. “My, aren’t you big ones,” she says, eyeing us warily but finally handing over the goods when we manage to remain polite. None of us feels like eating; it’s the act of acquiring that matters.
It goes on like that, each house ushering in new characters, new visuals, the night unfurling before us like a motion picture. Sensurround, I think to myself, this is true Sensurround. I feel like I could do this forever without getting bored, even though there are intriguing hints of other things to do, to experience, almost everywhere—laughter a couple houses away in one direction; shouts from the next block over in another direction; sirens and squealing tires in the distance.
Everything is changing constantly, we are changing. The thought presents itself to me. Come tomorrow, none of us will be the same. It is only a fleeting acid insight, but it is true, of that I am sure. Unlike other such thoughts that I try to etch in my memory, thinking them to be brilliant, worthy of later recall and examination, this one really does stick. When the thought surfaces again later, much later, like a gas-bloated corpse inevitably floating upward, I am struck by just how right I was.
Trevor grows bored before Jen and I. “Time for a change of plans,” he says, breaking off from the pack of trick-or-treaters and motioning for us to follow. “I have an idea.” By the time the kids realize we’ve abandoned them, we’re almost out of sight. “Hey…” I hear behind us, the words swallowed by a streetlight.
Trevor leads us down a darkened side street, dogs growling in the shadows as we pass. “Where are we going?” asks Jen. “There aren’t many houses out this way.”
“I know,” Trevor says, “but there’s one we need to visit,” His eyes seem to burn holes through his mask; through the darkness itself.
“Not the Draeger house?” says Jen.
Trevor laughs, says nothing.
Persistent, she asks, “Why there?”
“I think we could use a little shot of adrenaline.”
I feel a thrill of fear climb the ladder of my vertebrae; a delicious shiver vibrate through me. The Draeger house is not like the warm, cheery pillboxes whose porches we’ve stood upon so far tonight. It is different.
But then, tales of Halloween usually involve a house, don’t they? A house that’s known to everyone in town, a house that’s shunned and perhaps even feared. A house of which stories are told.
The Draeger house is one of those. It is old, dilapidated, surrounded by a large, weed-choked lot and a half-collapsed fence. The house’s occupants are seldom seen, but the rare encounters are not easily forgotten. Several kids, myself included, have been on the receiving end of screams from old Mr. Draeger, for transgressions both real and imagined. Adults view him as eccentric at best, hopelessly insane at worst.
“What are we gonna do?” I ask.
“Depends,” says Trevor. “Let’s see.”
The house is coming up on our right, beyond a thick, overgrown stand of maple and birch, now largely leafless. There are few streetlights out here on the edge of town, less ambient light to diffuse the starlight. I gaze up as I shuffled forward, my mouth hanging open slightly. It is like the old song says: the sky is full of diamonds.
I am brought back to earth by Jen’s voice, cast low in whisper even though we’re still a ways from the house. “There’s a light on…”
“Figures. Old man Draeger’s always home.”
“…and it looks like the front door’s open.”
A few steps more.
“Yeah,” says Trevor, “looks like it might be.”
“Those look like…my God, it is, there’re pumpkins on the front porch,” says Jen. “You don’t think he’s actually doing Halloween handouts, do you?”
“Maybe razor-blade caramel apples,” I offer, afraid that I already know where Trevor’s mind is going.
The fence leans out toward us, poised to pounce. There may have once been a gate, but it is now long gone. A cracked flagstone path is occasionally visible beneath piles of dead leaves and the odd bit of rubbish. Trevor doesn’t hesitate, stepping past the fence and up the path toward the house. In his wake, Jenny and I exchange a brief look. Amusement and curiosity play across her features. I can only guess what’s to be seen in mine.
There are indeed a half-dozen or so pumpkins on the porch. Only one is carved, and that is an unfinished job, the knife still protruding from the orange skin. The lights on the porch and those I can see inside are flickering; they are all candles, not an electric light to be seen.
Despite the temperature, I can feel sweat upon my brow. I realize that my heart is trip-hammering in my chest. I am again struck by the sense that I am walking through a movie.
The porch stairs creak as Trevor steps upon them. He glances back over his shoulder, more to reassure us, I think, than to make sure we are following.
“Are you sure we want to do this?” I hear myself ask, ashamed at the sound of the words.
“Why? You scared, little man?”
“Maybe a little. Everything’s different now. I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. The world is our oyster,” he says, cupping his hands to illustrate. “Let’s explore.”
He steps across the porch to the open doorway.
“Trick or treat,” he yells, “give us something good to eat.”
Seconds drip, covered in silence. Impatient, Trevor pushes the door all the way open.
“Hello? Trick or…” He falters, his words hanging suspended in the air. I can’t see why at first, until the door completes its swing.
There is nothing to see because there is everything to see. Candlelight flickers within, casting uncertain shadows on towering heaps of darkness.
“Holy shit,” I hear Trevor say. We all step closer, more astonished than repulsed, although the smells that assault us now are impossible to dismiss. Trevor steps inside.
“Wait,” I say, but it is only a whisper, and goes unheard.
The entryway is like a beach, holding a century’s worth of tidal deposits; all manner of flotsam and jetsam. Stacks of everything imaginable and some things unimaginable are stacked side-by-side, precariously balanced, some hea
d-high, some ranging all the way to the distant ten-foot ceiling.
I step closer to the nearest stacks, unable not to. They are composed of yellowed newspapers, old magazines, junk mail, clothes, plastic trash-bags filled to bursting…more than I can even take in. A few candles are placed here and there on top of some of the shorter stacks. Trevor and Jen are already walking ahead through the narrow corridor defined by the stacks.