The Halloween Children

by Brian James Freeman

  Shawna wasn’t on-site that late, but she got a few calls at home. Only one caller mentioned a gunshot. The others blamed kids and fireworks, or described a neighbor’s car that must have backfired.

  You see, we’re a suburban community. People living in the same building or the one attached—they’d recognize it was a gunshot. Nothing else could be that loud and that close. But then they’d talk themselves out of it, since “such things couldn’t happen here.” I did everything I could to help them accept the more comforting interpretation.

  Shawna explained how carefully she shielded Stillbrook residents from the police investigation, kept any whisper out of the rumor mill—because it was a short hop to press coverage, and then the whole complex would suffer.

  A management nightmare. Who’d want to live in a place where something this terrible could happen? The director at Luxury Arms in Cleveland spoke about a double murder in a premium unit. Happened twenty years ago, and to this day he has to offer two months free and other signing incentives just to maintain eighty percent occupancy. That’s why I scrubbed blood off the wall and floor and repainted the whole bedroom myself—couldn’t trust the discretion of outside contractors. Don’t dare mention this story to anyone, Harris. Not even your wife. Worst thing would be for this news to get out. For people to try to guess which unit was the site of this terrible tragedy.

  A false note of mystery to end on, since the suicide obviously occurred in the apartment she no longer rented out. 6E, now the site of a second gruesome death for her to hide from residents.

  —

  Let me digress again to say I’m telling you this because places have a history, okay? And that’s important.

  You don’t need some ancient Indian burial ground beneath the ancestral mansion of a troubled family—because honestly, how much crazy psychic energy can a single family produce over the generations?

  If a place is going to be haunted, it’s more likely to be an apartment building, since there’s a high turnaround in tenants, and folks from a variety of backgrounds will bring different quirks and neuroses and illnesses with them.

  Going with the odds, an apartment building simply has more opportunities for crazy, haunted people to live there.

  It’s a decent theory, right?

  Makes a hell of a lot more sense than blaming kids, if you ask me.

  —

  When I got to the office, Shawna already had the day’s spreadsheet printed out. She handed it to me before I had a chance to say anything. I barely glanced at the paper, trying to come up with an easy way to inform her of the current crisis.

  A smiling Guess what I found last night? wasn’t going to cut it.

  “Proves I was right to cancel the Halloween party,” Shawna said. “Some of our tenants are already pulling stupid pranks.” She pointed to the sheet in my hand.

  I stood behind one of her guest chairs, holding the back of it for support. “I’m afraid we’ve got more important things to worry about than…” I stopped as I read the first item, already checked off as completed. Building 6, common hallway. Maintenance tools scattered on stairwell.

  “Our mutual friend Joanne Huff called that one in. I cleaned it up myself.” Shawna reached beneath her desk and lifted my tool chest from the floor. She walked around and set it in the guest chair in front of me. She dropped it loudly to make a point. My tools were stacked in the wrong places. “Could have been a tripping hazard. You should store your things in one of the lock cages.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” The second item on the list made me even more nervous. The location on that row was unit 6E. In the next column, the task description read: Items for removal to storage.

  So Shawna already knew about the body. She put on a cool, businesslike front, pretending this was an ordinary task—at least on her official document.

  “Don’t be surprised at what you find,” she instructed me. “And make sure nobody else knows what you’re up to.”

  Why wouldn’t I be surprised? Perhaps Shawna knew I’d already seen the strangled “item.”

  From the beginning, her manner suggested we could only speak in code—a precaution to ensure this latest horrible occurrence would never become public. Who’d want to live in a place where something this terrible could happen?

  “The items are all bagged and boxed up,” she said. “I took care of that part for you.”

  The plural made my stomach lurch. Items. When Shawna stacked my tools in the kit, she made sure the hacksaw wasn’t visible. She buried it on purpose, beneath the hammer and hand drill and screwdrivers. The blade would be scrubbed clean, but maybe a hint of gristle remained between sections of metal teeth after they’d ripped through skin and muscle and bone. I took care of that part for you. The body had already been in the bathtub, a convenient place for dismemberment. She hacked him into pieces, bagged and boxed them, then rinsed the blood down the drain. Shawna did the packaging and clean up; my half of the job would be disposal.

  “I can trust you, right, Harris?” She stood close, without the desk between us, and as she smiled I noticed a red smear of lipstick across her front teeth. “This has to stay between us. You can’t even tell your wife.” Shawna moved closer, and I wanted to run out of there. Maybe back to bed, a long sleep, and I wouldn’t come out from under the covers until this awful stuff had taken care of itself. I could pretend it never happened.

  “A private investigator has been watching Joanne Huff. He’s from her insurance company. They want to make sure she’s getting the proper settlement.”

  She spoke in a little girl voice, as if she were flirting with me—and with that gruesome Bride of the Vampire smile.

  “I gave him my full cooperation. The tenants wouldn’t like to know that, but sometimes I have to let the interests of the entire community take precedence. You understand, Harris?” She stood within easy reach of the guest chair with my toolbox. I thought maybe if I didn’t agree, she’d grab the hammer from the top and lunge at me, swinging.

  “Sure,” I said, but I took a subtle backward step.

  “I let him use 6E. Gave him keys, turned on the electricity. He assured me he’d be discreet. I didn’t want anybody to know he was there.”

  “Like a ghost,” I said. My own little attempt at code, but Shawna didn’t react to it.

  “Not sure he found whatever proof he was looking for,” she said, “but he’s done now. We’ll put his equipment in storage.”

  “His equipment?”

  “Monitors and microphones and those little cameras. All that technical gadgetry. He’s paying a weekly fee, and we’ll store it for him. He said he might need to come back.”

  “Come back?”

  “Well, he thought he might need to investigate further. He takes what he has to his bosses, they review the tapes—that kind of thing. Honestly, I’m sorry to lose him. He’s been one of my least troublesome tenants.”

  “Until now,” I said.

  Her inappropriate laugh made my skin crawl. “He paid in advance for two months’ storage,” she said. “And he paid an extra month on the apartment, too.”

  She seemed so bloodthirsty then. The worst kind of femme fatale—delighted to cash a dead man’s check. I needed to get past this ridiculous code—sorry to lose him—get a direct acknowledgment of what she really knew. “Shawna…did you, um, actually see him?” Meaning: Did you see the crumpled body? Did you see his pallid skin—his swollen tongue and bugged-out eyes?

  “Yeah, I was just over there this morning. He paid me in cash, and I helped him box up his surveillance equipment.”

  Email from Jessica Shepard

  From: Jessica Shepard

  To: Jacob Grant

  Did you get some crazy emails from me last night? If so, please just delete them. I think I got hacked or something. My mom called me this morning and I have no idea what the email to her said, she wouldn’t even quote it!

  I’m worried maybe something happened when I was downloading songs yesterday fr
om a torrent site. I’m doing a full scan on my computer to make sure it’s clean. Sorry if anything weird came your way!

  Speaking of weird, I’m getting some creepy vibes from this place. Hard to explain. Sometimes I feel like someone is watching me.

  Sorry, I’m in kind of a strange mood today. I’d better get to class. Sending lots of love to everyone back home!

  —Jess

  P.S. Did you know there are ten to twelve pints of blood in the human body? Makes me thirsty just thinking of it.

  Lynn

  There are things you learn about your spouse after you’re married that genuinely surprise you, but you probably already know that, don’t you, Mr. Therapist.

  I’ve written enough about Harris for now, but I should discuss what happened with those teenagers who were telling Amber that horrible story about the boy who murdered his family and who, for some reason, lived in our apartment.

  I did like you suggested and slept on the idea of whether or not to talk to them.

  In the end, my maternal instincts won out and I went to confront them.

  I knew I wanted to be clear and concise when I explained why they had been jerks to tell Amber that story, and I fell back on my Introduction to Speech class from high school.

  Who thought something you learned in high school would have a practical use in the real world?

  What I could remember really did help me, though.

  We had this one week in class where we had to convey a point in a persuasive manner without knowing how much time we would have to speak.

  So the teacher, Mr. Garton, would be sitting in the back of the class with his clipboard and a stopwatch and he might yell “Time’s up!” after thirty seconds or a minute or five minutes.

  The class would then discuss whether you had convinced them of whatever your point was supposed to be.

  The way we were given our topic was really different, too.

  Mr. Garton wrote down topics on slips of paper and put them in a jar on his desk, and then we each selected one, so the process was fully random and you couldn’t pick an easy topic you were already passionate about.

  When it came my turn to pull a slip of paper out of the jar, I landed this beauty: The “neighborhood play” in baseball is a travesty of justice the likes of which no self-respecting sport would ever allow.

  The words may as well have been written in another language.

  I didn’t hate baseball, but I didn’t like it, either, and I certainly had no clue about a “neighborhood play.”

  I didn’t even know what part of the game involved neighborhoods.

  Was that a batting term? Something with the pitcher?

  Or was it something to do with actual neighborhoods, like those old-timey stickball photos in the diner we loved down the street?

  Luckily, this new thing called the Internet (or the Information Superhighway, as our teachers were still calling it then) filled me in on the major details and I was able to speak to the class like I knew what I was talking about.

  This talk with the bad teenagers was going to be much easier because I didn’t need to do any research.

  I already knew my point: Scaring little kids is something only assholes do.

  That said, I still put together a “persuasion list” of compelling reasons to agree with me.

  These were compiled in order of importance in case I didn’t get to make all of my points.

  Use your big guns first is how Mr. Garton put it.

  Once I had my “persuasion list” ready, I started composing my speech in my head, and when I had worked through my entire “speech” several times, I went looking for the teenagers.

  I found them where I expected them, down in the common room of their building, next to where the storage units are.

  Sunlight streamed in through the dirty windows at the top of the room, which was the sole purpose for those windows. Only someone ten feet tall could actually see out of them.

  The teens were playing a card game of some kind at the beat-up table in the corner.

  Music was blaring from one of their phones like a little boom box.

  Music like that makes it hard for me to even hear my own thoughts in my head.

  I shouldn’t be afraid to name names here, but in case someone else is reading this, I’ll just call them by some nicknames I made up on the fly.

  I approached the four teenagers playing cards and I cleared my throat.

  They couldn’t hear me over the music, so I did it again, even louder, which sent me into a coughing fit.

  The teenagers turned their attention to me, and their leader, who I’ll call Tall Asshole #1, spoke.

  “Hey, what’s up, Mrs. Naylor?” he asked as he laid a card down on the table.

  All of his friends groaned, and I wish I knew the game so I’d know if it was about the card or about me interrupting their game.

  I had been ready to launch into my speech, but Tall Asshole #1 knew my name, which caught me off guard since we’ve never been formally introduced.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  For the longest time, I’ve felt anonymous in this apartment complex, but now I’m starting to feel like everyone has been watching me.

  “I asked what’s up?” Tall Asshole #1 said again.

  “I’ll tell you what’s up,” I said, trying to get back on the script I had prepared in my head. “You shouldn’t be making up scary stories to scare little girls.”

  “What?” Tall Asshole #2 asked, faking that he was genuinely puzzled.

  “Don’t play coy with me. And turn that shit music down!”

  The words were out of my mouth before I even knew what I was saying.

  I never swear in public, but that music was making my brain shake like the epicenter of an earthquake.

  Short Asshole #1 leaned across the table and pushed a button on the screen of the phone, silencing the music. I instantly felt better.

  “Thank you,” I said, even though they should have done the polite thing and turned the music down when they realized I was there to speak with them.

  “No problem, Mrs. Naylor,” Short Asshole #1 mumbled.

  “Mrs. Naylor, are you feeling okay?” Tall Asshole #1 asked.

  “Yes, I’m fine. I’m here to tell you not to try to scare Amber again. I wouldn’t look kindly upon that.”

  “Mrs. Naylor, I think you’re confused,” Short Asshole #2 said, speaking for the first time.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mrs. Naylor,” Tall Asshole #1 said, “Amber is the one who has been telling us the scariest, craziest stuff we’ve ever heard.”

  “Bullshit,” I snapped, swearing for the second time and not even realizing I had used the bad word instead of the “safe” version, “bullpoop,” which Harris and I had coined for accidental utterances around little ears at home.

  I just couldn’t believe that these awful teenagers would tell such vicious lies right to my face.

  “Mrs. Naylor, he’s telling you the truth,” Short Asshole #1 said. “Amber makes up these stories. They’re freaky and kind of amazing. She’s super-talented. You should encourage her creativity.”

  “You will not tell me how to raise my daughter.”

  “Whoa, it’s all cool, Mrs. Naylor. We’re just making a suggestion. It’s cool. Maybe you need to calm down. Your face is super-red.”

  I couldn’t believe how far they would push these outrageous lies, you know?

  He said my face was red, but I was literally seeing the color red before my eyes.

  I’ve never been that angry in all my life, and I can’t remember exactly what else was said before I stormed back upstairs, but I do know the last thing I said to them because it was high on my “persuasion list” I had prepared:

  “Leave my little girl alone or I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your short lives.”

  Email from Jessica Shepard

  From: Jessica Shepard

  To: Jacob Grant

  Have you ever
heard of the Halloween Children, Jacob?

  They’re everywhere around here. I can’t seem to avoid them.

  For Halloween this year, I bought a “sexy pirate” costume. I’m adding my own accessories to the costume, to make it unique and fun.

  Do you think the Halloween Children will like me?

  —Jess

  Harris

  Returning in daylight should have made the building seem less ominous. The trip up the stairs was certainly smoother than my stumble down them last night. The typical sounds followed me along the way: the grind and slosh of a basement washer, the Durkinses’ squawking bird, the breathy rasp of hallway heat ducts, the clack of typing from the college student’s apartment.

  But I knew what I’d seen in unit 6E last night and I dreaded what I’d find in there now.

  Both doors on the top floor were shut, thankfully. From Joanne Huff’s apartment, the Hello, Maryland! weatherman remarked that it would be unseasonably chilly on Halloween Day, so your little witches and goblins will really need to bundle up for this year’s trick-or-treating. Watch out for razor blades in their apples and check each chocolate bar for sewing needles, right, Meredith? That’s right, Chuck. And make sure you supervise your children at all times. Be particularly cautious to avoid axe-wielding apartment managers, since we wouldn’t want those little Buzz Lightyears and Princess Ariels to end up sliced and diced and tossed in different dumpsters all over town. It’s real hard to find all the tiny pieces once they’re scattered around like that. Now we’ll turn it over to Jenn for her cooking segment.

  Well, with the mood I was in, and the aches and pains in my legs and shoulders—I wouldn’t have been surprised if I really did hear that kind of crazy stuff coming from Joanne’s television.

  My head hurt most of all. Not simply physical pain but disorientation and unease. Is there such a thing as an emotional migraine? A spiritual concussion? I had something like that.

  The door to apartment 6E was locked. I used my passkey once again for entry.

  The mini-blinds were all closed, but those Target cheapies never did much to block sunlight. The living room was bright and empty, though not quite clean enough to showcase for potential tenants. Dust webs hung from the ceiling; deep scratches marred the hardwood floor.