by J. W. Ocker
It almost took less time to search the roof than it did for Lowell to suggest it. All they found was a sealed can of paint and a fist-sized hunk of concrete that somebody must have thrown up there. They didn’t find anything by peering down into the alleyways that surrounded the shop either.
The three Ghastlies settled beside the large vent. Lowell picked up a stray eyeball and bounced it on the roof.
“Are you okay?” Audrey quietly asked Douglas. “You seem far away.”
“Well, I’m twelve years old, sitting at a murder scene, trying to find a monster whose victims keep ending up in my house. Oh, and who might have chased me outside my bedroom. And slashed a giant pumpkin while I stood oblivious nearby. I kind of would like to be far away.”
“That surprises me.”
Douglas looked over at her. “What?”
“You’re Douglas Mortimer. The Cadaver Kid.”
“The Cadaver Kid. Haven’t heard that one.”
Lowell laughed. “Me, either. It’s a good one, though.”
“You’re the boy who gets death. While the rest of us don’t know a thing about it, you’ve already seen it, dealt with it, and moved on. You’re way ahead of us.”
“You two seem to be much better at handling this whole serial killer business than I’ve been. I haven’t seen Lowell this excited in a long time, and you’re all making plans about finding him while I’m moping in my room.”
“Come on, man,” said Lowell. “You’re closer to this than the rest of us. You were the one that had the encounter, and you are the one who has the reminders of the deaths in your basement. You have no place to hide from it. Of course it’s going to be different for you.”
“He’s right. But that’s not even what I’m talking about,” said Audrey. “You seem to get this whole thing better than us, deeper than us. We’re just playing a game. We know we’re not going to find anything at this crime scene, that wandering around town is hardly patrolling, that midnight meetings in cemeteries are completely unnecessary. We’re having fun.”
“Isn’t that a healthier place to be? I’ve heard that being around too much death is a bad thing for kids our age. We’re not supposed to know anything about it. It’s supposed to be a game.” He loosed his yellow tie down his chest with a quick pull at the knot.
“My father shields me from a lot of his work,” said Audrey.
“He does?”
“Since he’s a first responder, he sees a lot of bad stuff. Car wrecks, construction site accidents. I guess he can add murder scenes to his résumé, now.” She paused and ran her hand through her hair a couple of times, the purple stone surfacing here and there from its black depths like an exotic fish. “All types of gruesome stuff that he won’t tell me a thing about.”
“Same here,” said Lowell. “Dad still thinks I believe he runs around blowing a whistle at bank robbers in eye masks, like in the cartoons.”
“So?”
Audrey looked down at her hand and twisted her ring, the purple stone disappearing and reappearing with each revolution around her finger. “I wish my dad would tell me more. At least some of it. Like your parents let you in on stuff. I feel like a big part of the world and a big part of my father is hidden from me. A part of the world I need to know about if I’m ever going to make sense of it. And it’s a part of my father I need to hear about if I’m ever going to really know him.”
“I’m sure your dads will tell you more eventually.”
“Right. When I’m old enough. That’s what he says, too. Have your parents ever told you that?”
Douglas tugged at the strands of hair on his forehead and thought about it. “They don’t always let me in the morgue when Eddie’s working.”
“But you know what he’s doing down there. Maybe my father’s right. Maybe I’m not ready. Your parents seem to think you are. That says something.”
Douglas didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, “I like your ring.”
“Thanks.” Audrey held it up higher in the late afternoon light. “The stone is amethyst. My aunt got it for me when she visited London last year. I like your tie.”
“Don’t get him started,” said Lowell. “Next thing you know, he’ll be listing all the knots he knows.” He raised his voice half an octave, “Windsor, Half-Windsor, Pratt, Four-in-Hand …”
“You know all those knots?”
“My parents taught me by letting me tie the ties on the deceased for funerals. Then I started tying my own ties. I used to wear clip-ons, but people at school kept yanking them off. Like this guy over here.” He elbowed Lowell in the ribs. “Let’s go down and get hot caramel sundaes.”
“Audrey,” said Lowell as they made their way to the ladder at the back of the building. “Have I ever told you about the time me and Doug snuck into the crematorium? It’s a great story.”
Douglas didn’t immediately follow them. It wasn’t that great a story. He walked to the front corner of the roof, purposefully avoiding looking at the dark stain just a few feet away. The sky was as colorless as bone ash, and a slight autumn breeze chilled his cheeks. From here, he could see all the way down the street and over the rooftops of the shops across the way. It was the center of Cowlmouth. Infamous for its Day Killer. And that fiend was out there somewhere, counting the days.
The ghosts on the lamps poles flickered here and there in the breeze.
OCTOBER 31
MONDAY
HALLOWEEN
The paper tombstones on the back of their chairs were ripped where they weren’t torn down. The inflatable Frankenstein’s monster had lost a quarter of its air, causing its square head to cant to one side like it had broken its neck. And there was a large box of turkeys and Pilgrims sitting on the desk where the jack-o’-lantern had been, itching in their feathers and black wool for their turn at Miss Farwell’s classroom.
It was Halloween. You could feel it. Halloween always felt different.
And this Halloween felt even more different.
Partly, because Cowlmouth had an actual monster on this holiday of monsters. Mostly, though, it was for another reason.
It had been more than three weeks since George Rivets had been found behind the wheel of his delivery truck. More than three weeks since the last murder. Three weeks ago, the biggest decision that had to be made was whether to leave the house. Today, it was whether to cancel trick-or-treating.
It would be the first Halloween in the history of Halloweens to not have trick-or-treating. One could make the case that it wouldn’t even be Halloween without trick-or-treating, and, in fact, child philosophers all over Cowlmouth were making such a case.
For the coffee-drinkers, it wasn’t an easy decision. After all, at some point the town had to return to business as usual. That point might as well be Halloween.
So for the entire week leading up to the holiday, the students had been wondering whether they would be allowed to haunt the houses of Cowlmouth, moaning doorbells and rapping doors like ghosts at a séance. Whether the costumes that each one had bought or created would get any use, or whether they would have to be packed away for another year, empty monsters in boxes, tucked away in closets and attics and under beds.
It was after lunch when Miss Farwell finally made the announcement. “I know you’re all waiting to hear if trick-or-treating will be canceled tonight.” She paused and her hand played with one of the flaps on the cardboard box of Thanksgiving on her desk. The sixth graders’ anticipation expressed itself in a level of quiet that might have rivaled the Mortimer Family Funeral Home morgue at its deadest. “Well, the school board and the mayor and the police chief have all met.” She paused again, and Douglas could almost hear her planning the recipes for Thanksgiving dinner in her head. “And because today is a Monday and because it’s been three weeks since anything … bad … has happened, they’ve decided not to cancel trick-or-treating.”
The uneasiness broke in a wild cheer that almost left a few of the students too hoarse to even say “tr
ick-or-treat.” Douglas joined in, despite being all too aware of the sad reason why they were going to be allowed to put on costumes and hunt for candy door-to-door. Thanks for taking Monday for us, Mrs. Laurent.
“Hold on, quiet down, quiet down.” The students settled back into their desks, visions of tiny candy bars and gummy insects dancing in their heads. “There are some rules that will be imposed to ensure your safety. First, there’s a curfew. Nobody under the age of eighteen may be out past eight o’clock.”
The musical scale doesn’t have an aw note among its dos, res, and mis, but Miss Farwell’s audience was able to collectively find one to hit so perfectly it would have made their music teacher proud. Halloween was the one night reserved for kids, the one night they didn’t have to come home when the streetlights came on, and the one night when being a school night didn’t matter.
“Stop it. That gives you plenty of time to trick-or-treat. Second, if you’re not going with your parents or other adults, you must be in groups of at least three. The police are increasing their patrol tonight as a safety precaution, but if any of them see a group of fewer than three trick-or-treaters, no matter how old those trick-or-treaters may be, the officer will pick them up and escort them straight home.”
“I’d rather see what it’s like to ride in a cop car than beg for candy, anyway,” Douglas overheard somebody whisper from the back row.
Douglas was happy that Halloween wasn’t canceled, but it was an emotion that had a lot to compete with inside of him. He leaned back in his chair, his thoughts less focused on the costume that was currently waiting for him on his bed, and more on murder. Three weeks wasn’t enough to make him forget it, even a little bit.
Currently, he was thinking that if it weren’t for the murderer, they wouldn’t need to be in groups of at least three. And also if it weren’t for the murderer, he wouldn’t have two friends to go trick-or-treating with. Lowell would have been around, of course, but Douglas probably wouldn’t have met Audrey. That was something. Maybe it was salvage in this situation, but it was still something.
The high-pitched scrape of chalk on the board broke his reverie, making him realize that Miss Farwell had moved on from this year’s Halloween rules to those of English grammar. He opened his textbook and tried to concentrate.
Of course, now that trick-or-treating was officially on, the rest of the day dragged like a corpse without a gurney. Eventually, the final bell rang, and Douglas took off to climb into his waiting hearse to head for home.
In his room, Douglas sat at his desk and stared at his costume. It was laid out flat on his green comforter and looked like somebody had disappeared in their sleep, leaving only empty clothes behind. With everything going on over the past month and a half, he hadn’t thought too much about his costume, but when it was time to choose one, it was obvious what he would be.
Most coffee-drinkers thought Halloween was about fantasy. That’s why they encouraged kids to dress up as princesses and warriors and superheroes. But that wasn’t the truth. Not really. Any day could be, and was, about fantasy. Just because a five-year-old was only allowed to put on a princess getup in public once a year, didn’t mean the child wasn’t pretending to be one on the other 364 days. No, dressing up on Halloween was never about the fantastical; it was about fears.
Moss and Feaster, who claimed to face the town’s monsters nightly, had always told Douglas that Halloween was the one night of the year when everybody else could face down monsters, too. On Halloween, people didn’t need to be afraid of what they were afraid of every other night on the calendar. Creatures in closets. Things that go bump in the night. Scaly hands reaching from under beds. Shadows across ceilings. Voices gurgling in the plumbing. Dark, hungry basements. Death. Well, they were afraid of them, but not in the same way they usually were. Maybe that’s why the town was okay with having Halloween despite the Day Killer. Sure, they had other reasons to allow it, but when it came right down to it, maybe Halloween was the one day that Cowlmouth could finally face its monster.
To face his own monsters, Douglas had chosen an oversized hooded black robe, an undersized plastic scythe, and a flimsy skull mask that affixed to his head with a thin elastic band. Douglas Mortimer, Grim Reaper. He was in charge of his own soul tonight.
“You sure I can’t paint your face, Douglas?” mumbled Mr. Mortimer as he stood in the doorway, an orange bowl of candy corn in his hand, a handful in his mouth. Both his parents had wanted to paint his face to look like a skull instead of buying him a mask. But not because they minded spending a few bucks. Being morticians, they were expert makeup artists and loved showing off their skills to a more appreciative audience than a church full of mourners. Past Halloweens, they’d painted his face goblin-green, vampire-white, and zombie-gray. Once, even into a masque of red death. Of course, he had to lie down on his back for them to work their magic.
“No. It’s okay. I might get tired of it, and I can always take off a mask.”
“Your call. Well, go ahead and put it on. I didn’t dig your grandfather’s old robe out of the attic for you to tuck it into bed. Your friends will be over any minute and it’ll be curfew before you know it.”
Douglas quickly wriggled into the black robe, grabbed the scythe, and snapped on the mask before walking into the bathroom to check himself in the mirror. As he pulled the hood over his head and stared into familiar eyes in the unfamiliar context of pale bone-colored plastic, he had an involuntary mental image of himself at the base of the ladder staring up at his window in infernal disappointment.
The back door croaked out its ugly buzz, and he ran down the hall past his parents who were sitting in the kitchen, to answer it.
“You sure you don’t need a coat? It’s like January out there,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“No, it’ll ruin my costume. I’ll be fine.”
“The robe’s pretty heavy,” offered Mr. Mortimer.
“And you’re sure we can’t paint your face?” asked Douglas’s mother.
“No, for the thousandth time.”
“Okay. Have a good time. Stick with your friends. Be back by curfew. If you get any caramels, save them for me.”
“Okay. Bye.” Douglas grabbed the white pillowcase that his father was holding out to him and dashed down the back stairs. To avoid tripping, he lifted the hem of his robe a few inches in a way that Death, himself, would never have been caught dead doing.
On the back porch, a pair of child abominations stood waiting. One was a large raven: black pants, black shoes, black shirt, black felt feathers covering its arms and back, and a black half-mask with a long black beak obscuring the human face beneath. It didn’t, however, hide the long black hair that hung loose down to the feathered shoulders. Strips of reflective safety tape adorned Audrey’s pants like creases and matched a strip on both her chest and back. It only somewhat ruined the effect of the carrion bird costume.
Lowell wore two long brown horns on either side of his head—the same horns he had on when pranking Douglas’s class—and a large, gold ring dangled from his nostrils. A plastic double-bladed ax with a short handle was propped on his shoulder. Minotaur. A skinny one, and one dressed casually in jeans and a sweater with holes in the elbows, but the man-bull monster of ancient Greek myth nevertheless. Like Douglas, each horrid creature carried a bag of some sort. Lowell’s was a striped pillowcase. Audrey carried an obviously mom-made cloth Halloween sack, black with an orange jack-o’-lantern stitched onto it.
“Man, nice costume,” said Lowell.
“Thanks. You guys look awesome, too. Where’s your little brother?” Douglas asked Lowell. They usually found a way to ditch him every year, but he figured that they wouldn’t be able to this year.
“Dad’s on patrol, so he figured since he was walking the streets anyway, he’d keep Josh with him.”
“Wise move,” said Audrey. “By splitting you two up he’s got a greater chance of at least one of you surviving the night.”
Lowell flared his nos
trils at her, making the large ring swing slightly. “Shall we go do some serious candy damage to our pancreases?”
The Raven, the Minotaur, and the Grim Reaper walked out of the mortuary and immediately started canvassing the neighborhood. The early darkness of the autumn season was freshly laid, and there was a full moon out, although it had to fight with a sky full of large clouds to get the best view of the festivities. Douglas tightened his hood a bit. His mother was right about the temperature.
Normally, Cowlmouth was relatively deserted after sunset, even in those past days when it didn’t have a killer roaming its streets. However, on this All Hallow’s Eve, monsters thronged the streets. Tiny witches, miniature ghosts, shrunken ghouls, and other creatures of absurd scale all flowed down the sidewalks, stopping at each door with entreaties and half-joking threats. But the air, instead of being heavy with groans and growls and shrieks, vibrated with the chatter of children as they, behind masks and hoods and face paint, drew courage from their anonymity, from continually facing strangers in doorways and monsters on streets, and from their brimming bags of candy.
And in the midst of all that costumed revelry, a ghastly gang of three were having more fun than they’d expected to, almost forgetting the dark pall that the Day Killer had left over the town. In fact, they had been filling their sacks for almost an hour and a half and not a one of them had mentioned the words murder or killer even once.
At one point, Douglas stumbled into an apparition staggering down the sidewalk. Douglas’s first impression was of a headless man in a period costume carrying under his arm an evil-looking jack-o’-lantern. It took him a few seconds to register the badly cut eyeholes in the oversized fake shoulders that covered up the wearer’s head.
“Boo,” said the headless specter, which, under the circumstances, was a perfectly acceptable acknowledgement in lieu of “excuse me,” before running off, presumably to chase after schoolteachers.