Please don’t treat me like a child, Bradley Wallace, Whilly said from somewhere nearby. I know enough to be careful.
The boy nodded. “Sorry,” he apologized before turning back to the house. He stepped up toward the front door, affecting a manner he hoped would appear both courtly and proper. The toothy jack-o-lantern grinned at him approvingly from its perch near the door as he pressed the bell with the tip of his walking stick. The silver panther gleamed brightly under the overhead porch light.
The door opened almost at once, and Mrs. Smith, a cheerful older lady who loved kids, stood framed in the doorway, limned by a background of light which gave her a strangely eldritch appearance. She held in her hand a large wicker basket filled to the brim with candy.
“Trick or Treat,” the boy announced formally, as though presenting himself at some elegant social function. He was trying to stay in character.
Mrs. Smith’s jolly green eyes looked him up and down approvingly. “Well, well, and who might you be?”
“I am Barnabas Collins,” he informed her in a carefully manicured voice, bowing courteously. As he raised his head his lips parted dramatically to reveal the glistening vampire fangs (he made sure to coat them with saliva to get that effect). Mrs. Smith gasped in mock horror, enjoying the game almost as much as the boy. Laughing lightly, she held out the basket and he genteelly picked out a Milky Way bar.
He thanked her politely and, with another slight bow, turned with a flourish of the cloak to stroll primly down the stone walkway.
His heels clicked ominously against the pavement. As he gained the sidewalk, he heard Mrs. Smith commenting to someone in the house, “He really gets into his character,” before the closing door cut off her voice.
The streets around him were alive with scurrying children of varying shapes and sizes, and costumes. There were cowboys and Indians, superheroes like The Incredible Hulk and Spiderman, monsters, zombies, vampires, even a few sheet-ghosts in the Charlie Brown mode (they’d apparently gotten trigger happy with the scissors and ended up with three or four eyes), and the boy marveled at all the various guises he passed.
I still think this is just glorified begging, Whilly commented as Bradley Wallace approached the next blazing house, and the boy almost broke character by laughing.
These people were new to the neighborhood, he recalled as he firmly depressed the glowing door buzzer, and he’d never met them. A leering jack-o-lantern with jagged teeth and slanted, satanic eyes sat atop a newly painted porch railing and mocked him with its evil glare. He looked away with a shiver.
The door opened and a middle-aged woman with greying hair bound severely under a fine mesh hair net and a tight hard face with a plastic, lopsided Mrs. Potato-head smile stood before him. He wondered briefly, if Mr. Potato-head was home, too.
“Trick or treat,” he intoned in the same sophisticated (he thought) tone he’d employed on Mrs. Smith.
But Mrs. Potato-head’s stuck on smile turned to a frown of disgust, and her eyes filled with anger. “Aren’t you a little big for trick or treat?” she snapped without preamble. “Kids your age should be going around for UNICEF, not candy!”
And with a disgusted grunt, she slammed the door in his face. Bradley Wallace stood facing the closed door in shock and amazement. He hadn’t even had time to react, or to explain that he was only thirteen. He felt humiliated and suddenly guilty, as though he shouldn’t be out here having fun with all these other kids. And what the blazes was UNICEF anyway?
As Bradley Wallace walked dejectedly back to the sidewalk, his balloon of joyous enthusiasm effectively popped, Whilly tried to cheer him up by saying that the woman’s girdle was probably too tight. The boy couldn’t help but giggle at the image of Mrs. Potato head wearing a girdle, but his spirit remained clouded. The words of his parents began to echo through his mind - was he too old for this after all?
Though that one woman was by far the most obnoxious Bradley Wallace encountered that evening, several people at other houses expressed undisguised surprise that he wasn’t working for this UNICEF, and he determined to look that word up in the dictionary when he got home. He tried to laugh such comments off, but knew his face flamed red each time, and knew he felt guilty. The only trouble was, he didn’t know what he felt guilty about.
Finally around eight o’clock, after the fourth such encounter, all sense of fun had totally evaporated for Bradley Wallace and he decided to go home. A rather dejected Barnabas Collins wended his way slowly through the circuitous route toward his house, a nearly empty trick or treat bag dangling limply at his side.
Whilly had fallen into step beside the boy, but was unable to raise his friend’s sagging spirits. The streets around him were less crowded now, most of the excited trick or treaters returning to their respective homes for cider and goodies. It had gotten colder, Bradley Wallace noted, pulling his cloak more tightly around him.
Suddenly, almost imperceptibly, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and fear clutched sharply at his heart. He was being watched.
He glanced nervously about him, focusing on a small group of trick or treaters disappearing around the corner ahead. They were all small children, harmless. He was about to turn away when a moving shadow caught the periphery of his vision. He looked back sharply, and gasped. A lone figure stood beside a telephone pole, partially obscured by a large hedge, a tall figure, and massive. He couldn’t make out any features from where he stood, but revulsion welled up in his throat like vomit. He could feel the palpable, inherent evil of that figure. There was no good in it, he could tell. Only death. A strange familiarity crept into his frightened mind as the shadow vanished behind the hedge.
“Whilly,” he whispered, desperate for the sound of his own voice, “Do you still go to the forest to hunt?” They had avoided talking about that night in the forest as much as possible, and Bradley Wallace didn’t even know if Whilly ever went back there. He supposed subconsciously he did know, but was just too scared to speak of it.
Yes, the dragon answered, realizing what the boy intimated by his question. And I haven’t seen another of those creatures.
“I think I saw one of them up at the corner, near the telephone pole. It’s hiding behind the hedge.”
He indicated the corner with a slight nod of his head, instinctively gripping his walking stick more securely.
I don’t see anything there now, Bradley Wallace, the dragon told him.
“I told you, it’s behind the hedge!”
I will fly ahead and look.
He felt Whilly moving away.
“No!” he hissed fearfully, and relaxed slightly when the comforting presence returned to his side. “I’m scared. Stay with me, please?”
I’ll protect you, Whilly assured him, though Bradley Wallace could see in the dragon’s mind that he wasn’t certain there was anything to protect the boy from; he knew Bradley Wallace’s overactive imagination often got the better of him, and this might be one of those occasions. Still, the dragon was wary.
Bradley Wallace took a tentative step forward, glancing nervously from side to side. The intersection up ahead near where the fiend lurked was deserted, but there were houses on either side of the street. No one would dare attack him here, would they? But then he realized that every house within view was dark and apparently empty. Could it be possible that no one was home in any of them? Had the creature purposely waited until the boy reached this spot before attacking? He shook with fear, and reached out with his mind to touch Whilly, but even the dragon’s presence was small comfort.
Bradley Wallace tried to swallow but his throat was too dry. A deathly silence hung in the crisp, clear air, the same silence the boy had experienced back in that forest on that other night. It was the silence of the grave. His footfalls echoed against the darkness like gunshots, and he cursed his damned school shoes! Gripping the walking stick like a cudgel, he pressed on stiffly toward the dimly lit corner, keeping to the opposite side of the street from where he saw
the thing. His heart thudded wildly in his chest, threatening to burst through his rib cage at any moment.
He knew Whilly was beside him, but wished the dragon could be visible, thinking in some irrational way that that would make a difference somehow.
Fear controlled his every thought now, and his imagination reigned supreme. Every shadow took on a ghastly shape, every plant or tree reached out for his throat, every hedge disguised . . . it. Suddenly the telephone pole loomed just ahead, seeming to tower above him like a massive redwood tree.
He stopped. And stared ahead.
The pole, like the hedge beside it, was cast in an eerie glow from the dim streetlight on the corner, and every shadow threatened him. He could not quite see around the hedge. Not yet. Not for another few steps. He held his breath, and took those steps. He released the breath in an audible gasp. It was there! The thing! Lurking just behind the hedge! Waiting for him. It stepped forward into the small pool of light, its horrendous features filling him with revulsion, its dripping, glistening fangs filling him with terror. It’s eyes blazed blood red. And then it smiled.
In the split second before he ran, Bradley Wallace knew that this creature had been sent by someone, sent to seek him out, sent to kill him. Terror enveloped him, and he bolted up the opposite street, trampling all reason with each pounding footstep. He ignored Whilly’s cries to wait, ignored the fact that the dragon could easily fly them away from danger, away from the solid, determined footsteps pursuing him.
Away from the fiend!
As he pelted up the length of the street and neared another corner, a familiar tinkling of music reached his ears and managed to pierce the whirlpool of panic churning inside his head. He flashed his eyes toward the fast approaching cross street and almost screamed with joy as old Shannon rattled into view and turned the corner toward him. The old truck’s twin headlights blazed out at him like monstrous insect eyes, forcing him to stop and shield his face against their blinding intensity. Then Shannon clunked and sputtered to a stop and Mr. O’Conner climbed quickly from the cab, a worried look etching his wrinkled features. Bradley Wallace threw himself at the old man in a tackling hug of relief, nearly knocking both of them to the ground.
“Whoa, Bradley Wallace,” Mr. O’Conner began, fighting to keep his balance. “What’s all this about? You tryin’ to make the football team?”
Bradley Wallace shook his head frantically, turning to point wildly down the street behind him. “Something after me!” he panted crazily, struggling for breath. “A monster! It’s trying to kill me!”
The old man squinted his eyes and peered through his wire-rimmed spectacles at the darkened, empty street, slashed in two places by the shafts from Shannon’s headlights. “I don’t see anything, lad,” he said, indicating the street with one gnarled hand.
The boy whipped his head out of the folds of Mr. O’Conner’s familiar white coat and whirled to stare dumbfounded at the emptiness that stretched out before him. The silence seemed to be laughing at him. Where was the thing? What happened? He turned back to the old man helplessly. “It was there, Mr. O’Conner, I swear it!”
“There, there, lad, you’re just exhausted.” The voice was calm, and one hand reached up to caress his forehead softly, soothingly. Strangely, Bradley Wallace began to feel better at once, and the fear constricting his heart began to dissipate. The thought entered his head, but he wasn’t certain he himself originated it, that Mr. O’Conner could always make him feel better. Always.
“Now, then,” the old man purred, “Why don’t I give you a ride home, eh?”
The boy nodded and allowed himself to be escorted to the truck and seated in the passenger side. He watched fearfully as Mr. O’Conner trudged around past the windshield toward the driver’s side, afraid the fiend might leap out of the darkness and drag the old man away. But Mr. O’Conner safely entered the truck and flashed Bradley Wallace a reassuring smile as he let out the clutch and put the old vehicle into gear. The tinkling of the ice cream theme was all that dispelled the silence during the trip home.
In the few minutes it took them to arrive at the Murphy front steps, Bradley Wallace began to feel safe and unafraid, as though just the old man’s proximity was enough to banish all fear from his soul.
He knew, intellectually, that Mr. O’Conner was no match for the creature he’d encountered, but the feeling of security persisted nonetheless. Not a single word was even exchanged between them, but none seemed to be necessary. It was really weird.
The old man bid him goodnight, and Bradley Wallace stepped from the truck to the sidewalk. Before moving up the stairs, it occurred to the boy to ask Mr. O’Conner what he’d been doing in the neighborhood in the first place.
“Just thought I’d drive around and see all the fancy costumes,” the old man answered matter-of-factly. “Thought I might spot me shillelagh,” he added with a wink.
“But I’ve never seen you around here on Halloween night before,” persisted Bradley Wallace, the old man’s timely arrival somehow tugging at his curiosity.
Mr. O’Conner shrugged, but didn’t smile. “There’s a first time for everything, Bradley Wallace. Remember that.”
Their eyes locked momentarily, and the boy felt as if something passed between them. But he couldn’t quite get hold of what that something was. Then the moment ended. “I’m sorry to have acted like such a baby,” he apologized a bit sheepishly, suddenly feeling foolish for his histrionics. He always liked Mr. O’Conner to see him at his best, for more than almost anything else he feared losing this man’s respect.
“Don’t ever apologize for feeling, lad,” he admonished sternly, his voice almost a reprimand. “If we stop feeling, we stop being human.”
Bradley Wallace nodded carefully, not really understanding, but not wanting to appear stupid by admitting it. He thanked Mr. O’Conner once more, and with a tiny wave the old man was off, his white ice cream truck soon swallowed up by the severe darkness. Only the tinkling of his music remained, but that soon faded as well. And Bradley Wallace was alone.
He stood a moment on the bottommost step, shivering from the cold and glancing nervously up and down the block. It had been there, he assured himself; he had seen it. But if that were true, the fiend must still be somewhere in the neighborhood, hunting him like an animal, murder its obvious goal.
He turned quickly to dash up the stone steps, and bumped smack into a solid wall of invisibility. He nearly screamed in fright. “Whilly!” he whispered fearfully, putting a hand to his rapidly palpitating heart. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”
Sorry, entered his mind. Are you all right? You were very upset when you ran off.
“Well, excuse me,” the boy riposted snidely. “It’s not everyday I
get stalked by some fiend right out of Hell!” His sarcasm only barely concealed his intense fear, and Whilly could sense this; the human emotion called pride was a particularly dangerous one, he’d noted on more than one occasion. But Bradley Wallace relented almost at once. “It was real, wasn’t it?” he asked quietly, his voice so tiny and childlike. But Whilly didn’t answer. All that greeted the boy’s query was a studied silence. “Wasn’t it?” Bradley Wallace repeated, a sick feeling beginning to work its way into his stomach. Whilly couldn’t desert him now, too. “Whilly?”
I didn’t actually see it, the dragon finally answered.
“What do you mean you didn’t actually see it?” the incredulous boy repeated. “It was right there by that telephone pole!”
I saw the image of it in your mind, Bradley Wallace, but I didn’t actually see the creature itself.
The intimation of the dragon’s statement was clear he might have just been seeing something the boy’s imagination had conjured up.
But it was real! He felt like shouting that aloud. Instead he insisted, “Didn’t you see it chasing me up the street?”
He could almost see Whilly shaking his massive head sadly from side to side. I followed you at once, Bradley Wallace, but
I didn’t see any creature.
This wasn’t getting anywhere, Bradley Wallace thought, his mind awhirl with fears and doubts and questions. But his conviction in what he saw stood firm against them all. “You must’ve just missed it, then.”
Whilly remained silent.
Without another word, Bradley Wallace circumvented the invisible dragon and hurried up to the front door without a backward thought and entered the house, still gripping the walking stick like a weapon.
Invisible red eyes followed the boy’s progress. Perhaps it really had been there, Whilly thought to himself as he flapped away into the night. But what if it hadn’t?
As part of the Murphy Halloween tradition, Bradley Wallace’s mother had steaming apple cider ready for him when he entered the kitchen, and shaking more from his experience than the cold, he drank two large mug-fulls. When asked about Trick or Treat, he merely responded that it was “fine.”
He obviously couldn’t tell her about the creature, and he wasn’t about to mention the rude people who criticized his age just to hear her say “I told you so” and gloat while pretending not to. He’d lost all interest in his Halloween candy by this time, and didn’t even eat one Milky Way bar. His mother’s warning not to eat too much wasn’t even necessary this year.
He did, however, look up UNICEF in the dictionary, and found out it was initials for United Nations Children’s Emergency Fund. But he still failed to comprehend its connection to Halloween night, and went to bed that night mulling the matter over in his head. At least it beat thinking about the fiend.
But his dreams wouldn’t let him forget. The demon stalked him all night long, through dark, deserted streets and alleyways, claws extended, jaws slavering, always gaining on him but never quite catching up, as though toying with him, waiting till it was good and ready to rip out his throat. He woke the next day tired and deeply troubled. October had been a real bummer.
A Boy and His Dragon Page 41