by Mark Parker
“You’re not that scary,” she said, then quickly added, “trick-or-treat.” She held out her plastic pumpkin, already heaped with treats.
“I didn’t mean to be scary at all,” Jonathan said, and held the bowl down within her reach. “Here, take as much as you want.”
“Excuse me,” a young—well, younger—man’s voice called out as the man himself mounted the steps. Jonathan glanced up. “Where’re Vera and Cora? The owners?” the man added, his voice thick with unwarranted suspicion. “Are you a friend?”
“A guest.” Jonathan smiled in an attempt to seem less a threat. “A paying guest,” he felt the need to clarify. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident. The ladies are at the emergency room having Vera’s arm set. Mrs. Dempsey asked us, well, me, to see to it the children’s fun isn’t ruined.”
“Oh, wow. Shame,” the young man said, his tone making it plain that as long as Jonathan hadn’t chopped the women to bits with a hatchet so that he could pass out poisoned treats to the children, he wasn’t all that concerned with the details. He turned and appeared ready to wave the all clear, but rather than walk away, he whirled around. “Listen. I know it’s Halloween and all, and you’re just trying to get in the spirit of things, but it’s a bit too early for that. At least while the young kids are out. Maybe you should…” He didn’t finish his sentence, he just wagged a finger at Jonathan’s face. “That…that’s just not cool, okay?”
Jonathan felt his brow furrow. “Here,” he said, forcing the bowl into the man’s hands. “You do the honors.” The guy nodded at him, but never took his eyes off Jonathan’s forehead.
Jonathan left the front door wide open and, passing by the closed door to the sitting room, walked to the claustrophobic powder room at the far end of the hall. He patted his hand along the wall until it found the light switch. He flipped it on, and peered into the antiqued mirror. At first he thought he was imagining things. There, in reversed script, were the words “Kid Killer” on his forehead. He blinked. Leaned in. Blinked again. He turned on the tap, grabbed one of the ridiculous rosette guest soaps, and spread its lather across the black-blue ink. But when he rinsed the soap out of his eyes and focused again on the mirror, the message remained clear and dark above his eyes.
“Goddamn it, guys,” he called out. How had they managed it? When had they managed it? Sure, he could see Gordon and Max fighting to hold back their snickers, but certainly Timothy would have intervened. Then again, Timothy had spent most of the last hour staring at the fire or out the window, talking about ghosts. He grabbed a hand towel and held it under the water. He scrubbed his forehead, but the ink was indelible.
He threw the towel to the floor, stopped the tap, and stomped off toward the sitting room. He flung the door open, the sound of it hitting the wall, causing Gordon and Max to look up at him with half-startled, half-amused expressions. “Very funny. Now how the hell am I going to get this off?” There was no way he’d get through airport security tomorrow. The thought of tomorrow jolted him; he had a sick and sinking feeling that it would never arrive, that he’d be trapped here forever. He knew the thought was irrational, but it stuck with him. Like he’d finally, after all these years, been caught.
Gordon tilted his head. “The pressure of rotting children’s teeth too much for you?”
Jonathan tramped up to Gordon and bent over him. He felt his angry pulse in his neck. “What am I supposed to do about this?” He leaned in closer and jabbed his finger at his forehead.
Gordon pushed back into the chair, then flashed Max a look of confusion. He turned back to face Jonathan. “I don’t know. Take it to see a psychiatrist.”
Max gave a single snort.
Jonathan stood erect, turning now on Max. “To hell with you, too. Whose idea was it? Not yours, I bet. When we were kids, you couldn’t even piss unless Gordon put you up to it.”
The look of amusement fled Max’s face. “Jonathan. Get a grip. What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?” Jonathan’s voice roared in his own ears. He pointed at the words on his forehead. “This is what’s wrong with me. How could you guys do this?”
Timothy drew closer, his haunted expression replaced by one of concern. “Do what?”
“Ah, dammit. Not you, too, Tim.”
The light in the room seemed to dim and then brighten in pulses. Jonathan felt a cold sweat form between his shoulder blades. His breath was labored. He knew he had to relax. “You’ll die of apoplexy,” he heard his long dead mother’s voice as clearly as if she stood beside him.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Timothy said.
Max forced himself up and stumbled over to get a better look at him. “He’s right, buddy. There’s nothing wrong.” His voice rang with sincerity this time.
Jonathan couldn’t believe they were still trying to have him on. His eyes landed on the previously ignored gilt-framed mirror hanging over the fireplace. He pushed past Max with almost enough force to push him down. He leaned in, ignoring the heat of the fire on his pant legs, and stared into his own wide eyes.
The writing was gone. Not smudged. Not smeared. Completely gone.
Disappearing ink of some kind? Maybe some form of suggestion? The young father. Had he pulled some kind of street magic to amuse himself by shocking an old man on Halloween?
“Maybe you should sit down,” Max said. Timothy was already by Jonathan’s side, guiding him to the tasteless settee Max had only just abandoned.
The witch cried once more.
The three other men looked at each other, then turned in unison toward him. Max held up his hand. “You stay put. I’ll see to the little shits.”
Max shuffled out of the room, his heavy, whiskey-burdened steps thumping down the hall. The shrill cackle sounded again. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” He heard Max call out, his tone churlish. “You goddamned little piranhas.”
Gordon turned toward him. “Are you sure you couldn’t do with a stiff one?”
“No,” Jonathan said, his refusal too staunch, too much of a protest. “No,” he said again, cooler, calmer.
Gordon snorted. “Too bad. Sitting by this fire has given me a boner.”
Jonathan closed his eyes. Shook his head. “You are a pig. A total pig.”
“True,” Gordon said, “but I just got you to relax.” Jonathan opened his eyes to find a look of genuine concern peering back at him. “Listen. We just have to get through the funeral. The executor of Stanley’s will is going to meet us there. He’ll hand each of us our damned envelope. We’ll shred what’s in them, burn what’s left. Slather it in mustard, swallow it, and shit it back out. This time tomorrow, we’ll be on planes out of here.”
Jonathan drew a breath. Felt himself nodding, grasping on to this glimmer of hope. Yes, they would leave this place. They would go back to the lives they’d formed.
Max shuffled back into the room. “Door was open,” he said. “So I turned on the porch light.” He crossed to the settee. “And I sat the whole damned candy store out on the porch,” he said, seemingly exhausted from his efforts. Jonathan noticed beads of sweat had risen on Max’s forehead, and damp rings had formed under his arms. Max turned and collapsed onto the seat, shoving Jonathan over as he did.
“I ripped down that damned trick doorbell,” he continued. Then paused and nodded at the bottle, as if he’d sobered up some and didn’t much like it. Gordon held it out to him, and he snatched it from his grasp. “And then I locked the goddamned door. Problem solved.” He opened the bottle and freshened up his drink. Clutching the tumbler of whiskey, he leaned back. “There was one little freak out there. Creepy kid with one of those plastic pumpkins. Said you’d given her some candy already, but she wanted to know if she could have some more to give to a boy who was too shy to come to the door.”
He leaned back and glanced sideways at Jonathan. “I told her if the little pussy wanted candy, he could come himself or do without.” He paused. “How you doin’, buddy?” He reached o
ut and squeezed Jonathan’s shoulder.
“He’s fine,” Gordon spoke for him. “We’re all fine. Isn’t that right, Timothy?” Then he raised his hand to his mouth, stifling a yawn.
“We’re all fine,” Max echoed him, seemingly indifferent to any objection Timothy himself might have. “Maybe it’s just the relief of getting this whole mess with Will off my chest, but truth is, I’ve never felt better.” Max swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Let the fire die down a bit, will you?” He tugged on the front of his damp shirt. “I’m sweating like a jailed frat boy with a pretty mouth.”
Jonathan startled when a phone started ringing somewhere in the house. A ringing of the kind he hadn’t heard in more than thirty years, a clapper striking a metal bell. The sound continued for a full minute or longer, but the four sat in silence, staring at each other, none willing to seek out the source of the din. The ringing stopped, only to start anew a few moments later.
“It’s probably our innkeepers reporting back on the business line,” Jonathan said, collecting himself. “They wouldn’t know our numbers, would they?” Max shrugged. He didn’t seem to give a damn who was calling or why. Gordon turned and raised an eyebrow, a silent confirmation that he could wait the ringing out. Ignore it till it went away. Having silently conveyed that message, Gordon closed his eyes and rested his head on the tatted headrest cover. Max, too, seemed to be giving out for the night. He began soughing.
Timothy had returned to his lookout by the window, his shoulders stooped, his face nearly resting on the glass. One of the Dempsey’s strobe lights started to pulse beyond the glass, triggered by an errant visitor or perhaps an animal. The frenetic flashing seemed to increase the urgency of the antique phone bell.
Jonathan sighed, and placing his hands on his knees, forced himself up. He followed the ringing out into the hall, then turned left toward the back part of the house. He passed the powder room, the furthest boundary of terra cognita, and carried on along the darkened corridor. The hall, which struck him as being too long to fit within the footprint of the house, led toward a space he felt certain, in usual circumstances, was kept off-limits to paying guests. He shuddered as he passed through a nearly palpable boundary between the ordained and the forbidden, asking himself twice if he should stop, turn around, return to his fellow inmates, and let the bells clang for all eternity. But the incessant ringing compelled him, and with every step it grew louder.
At the end of the hall, he pushed through a swinging door and reached in, patting the wall for a light switch. His fingers found it, and flicked on the overhead light.
With the first flash, it was obvious that their innkeepers had put all their resources into updating those areas reserved for guests. Though spotless, the kitchen’s decor hadn’t been touched in years, maybe not since before Jonathan had left Waterville for university. The walls were a sad, faded institutional yellow. An ancient avocado refrigerator hummed a love song to its mate, a range of the same color and vintage. They had probably come into this kitchen together, and would undoubtedly be carted out to the dump together when their time came. He pushed past an irrational sense of jealousy, and focused on the source of the din, a phone colored a deeper yellow than the wall to which it clung. It was somewhat more modern than the rest of the room’s appliances, but still a refugee of a different era. Jonathan staggered across the checkerboard—and undoubtedly asbestos-lined—linoleum tiles to snatch up the receiver and hold it to his ear. His eyes focused on the phone’s gray push buttons.
“Hello,” he said, then thought to add, “Vera and Cora’s line.” He wondered if he should’ve used the bed and breakfast’s name instead, but what the hell, he didn’t work for these people.
He waited for a response, but there was only a static-fleeced silence on the other end. “Hello,” he repeated himself, jumping to the conclusion that it was a Halloween crank call, then with the next breath wondering if kids still made crank calls now that everyone had caller ID and cell phones. “Hello,” he said a third, and he was determined, final time. If there were no response, he’d slam the receiver down. A good, old-fashioned hang up that would cause the bells inside the phone to clang, not the anemic smartphone click you had to settle for today.
“You gotta get out of there, Johnny,” a voice cut through the static. “Run.”
Jonathan felt his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry.
“Who?” Jonathan held the receiver out, staring at it out of habit, expecting it to betray the identity of the caller. He shook his head, angry with himself. He put the receiver back to his ear. “Who is this?”
“Ah, Johnny, you know who it is.” Another blast of static caused him to yank the receiver away. “It’s Stanley.” It sure sounded like Stanley, or at least the way Jonathan assumed Stanley would sound after so many years, well, decades really. The lights around him dimmed. His heart beat in painful thuds.
Jonathan dropped the receiver, and it struck the wall, falling and swinging on its curled bungee of a cord. The memory of Will hanging in that barn, the figure eight he’d scrawled in piss beneath him, rose again before his mind’s eye, and Jonathan suddenly couldn’t bear the sight of the receiver, dangling inches above the ground. Stanley’s words, now a distant, tinny gabble, continued to hiss through the earpiece. “You have to listen to me, Johnny. It’s too late for the others. Just go.” He bent and caught hold of the receiver, lifting it, dropping it back into its cradle with a click.
Jonathan felt sick to his stomach. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. This type of joke was too dark even for the combined forces of Max and Gordon. Stanley was dead, sealed for eternity in a midrange metal casket.
Or was he?
Jonathan forced his breathing to slow. Forced himself to remember who he was. What he believed. First and foremost, he was a realist. He couldn’t reconcile calls from the great beyond with the everyday brick and mortar world in which he lived. If the voice on the other end of the line was Stanley’s, that meant Stanley was still alive. And then it came to him in a flash. The summons. The closed coffin. The setting. Nothing but amateur theatrics. The whole thing had to be some kind of sick hoax.
Acting on a hunch, he pulled his smartphone from his jacket pocket and opened a search. Stanley Crofton. Cora Dempsey. Waterville Theatre. The first article that appeared was headlined, “Crofton Leads Local Cast in Comedic Production,” so he clicked on the link. Eighteen months ago the Waterville Players had staged a comedic adaption of an old Hitchcock film, featuring multiple characters, but only four actors to play them. The female lead, Cora Dempsey, had played all of the female roles. Max tapped on the photo that accompanied the article, using his thumb and forefinger to enlarge the woman’s face. She didn’t resemble the Mrs. Dempsey he had met—not at all—but the actress was in heavy makeup, and her hair appeared to be a wig. It could be her. It has to be her. Doesn’t it?
Jonathan reached up and wiped the perspiration from his brow. Inspiration struck him. He turned back to his phone, this time searching for Stanley’s obituary, then for news stories about his suicide. He found none.
There would be no funeral tomorrow, as there had been no death.
Had Stanley’s conscience led him to seek catharsis through this little melodrama they were producing? Did he plan to pop out of that matte-silver casket tomorrow like some avenging Jack- in-the-box angel? How much did Cora and Vera know? Or the handful of mourners manning the folding chairs at the viewing? Did they consider this gambit an elaborate piece of performance art, or were they merely humoring Stanley by participating in an elaborate trick on his old friends, who hadn’t cared enough to stay in touch, who had done everything possible to leave the past in the past—leaving Stanley there with it?
He turned, intending to rush back to the parlor, but Timothy stood in the doorway, blocking his way. “This hasn’t changed,” he said, glancing around the kitchen. “She used to bring me back here sometimes. After lessons, while I waited on my mother.”
“Stanley. He isn’t…” Jonathan began, but Timothy wasn’t listening.
He moved deeper into the room, and as if on cue, the phone began to ring again as he passed it. He lifted the receiver. “Yes. It was Jonathan. Yes. See you soon,” he spoke into the mouthpiece, then returned it to its cradle. “Mrs. Dempsey asked if you’re okay. She said she was sure you could hear her, but you wouldn’t respond.”
“No,” Jonathan said. He shook his head with certainty, though that certainty faded with each shake. Timothy might be losing it, but he was not. Then his mind flashed back to the disappearing ink, with its damning accusation. Maybe he was going mad, too. Could madness be contagious? Could one bad apple…? No, he couldn’t accept that. “That wasn’t Mrs. Dempsey…”
“I used to sneak in here sometimes,” Timothy interrupted him, a smile twisting his lips. “When I knew Miss Tanner would be out. I found all her hiding places. And made a few of my own. I wonder…” He pointed toward the ceiling, a gesture signaling a found memory, then crossed the kitchen to the doorway to the old servants’ stairs. Jonathan felt compelled to follow, but they didn’t go very far. Timothy knelt at the base of the stairway, and began pulling out the riser of the third step from its stringers with his bare fingers. The nails securing it in place acquiesced in silence and came out with a single smooth gesture. Timothy leaned the riser against the wall and then looked back over his shoulder with a delighted gleam in his eye. “It’s still here. Right where I left it.”
Timothy reached into the space and produced an antique tin with the words “Irradiated Coffee” in proud calligraphy above the promise of “MILLION DOLLAR FLAVOR.” He turned and sat on the second step, then pried off the tin’s lid, tilting it in Jonathan’s direction so he could see its shifting contents. A tin whistling yoyo, just like the one Jonathan had lost as a child. Bits of brightly-colored cardboard—baseball cards, he realized in a flash. The glint of a coin. A few cat’s eye marbles. A clear blue shooter, pontil facing up. A time capsule treasure trove of boyhood belongings, the inventory of which needled his memory. Timothy tilted the can back, reached in and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. Without examining its accessories, Jonathan recognized it as the Fisherman model, simply because this, along with the can’s other contents, completed the list of the smaller items they’d accused Will of stealing.