by Jerry eBooks
He stepped into the hall, headed for the stairwell. Passing Mrs. Wise’s apartment, he glanced in through the open door. She was sleeping, curled up on her own couch. She never looked more beautiful, at peace.
He entered the stairs. The boy waited at the landing on the floor below. They went down, one following after the other, until the boy was gone, again. A group of tenants, dressed in extravagant costumes, laughing and shouting, were leaving just as Roger emerged into the lobby.
The boy was by the front door, which remained open after the group had left. In the shadows beyond the street lamps across the street, shadows gathered. Another tribe of trick or treaters, Roger thought. Teenagers, on the prowl. On the edge of trouble on a night anything could happen.
“They’re jealous,” the boy said. “They don’t have any place to go. Or, maybe they don’t want to go where they have to. So they pick on loners, like me, going somewhere.”
“Where do you need to go?”
The boy took his hand, again. Roger could almost feel the fingers. They went out into the night.
The shadows boiled. Fury sparked in their darkness. Roger hesitated.
“You’re afraid,” the boy said. Again, he faded.
Roger closed his hand on nothing. He imagined angels descending from the sky, burning stars for eyes, the moon on their wings, their forms and words clothed in wrath. Something from childhood, dreams, old and comfortable, primal, like a growling dog. Something else writhed in his grasp, scratched his palm.
“You’re hurting me,” the boy said, this time looking up at him, terror growing in the glimmer of his eyes.
His expression was a childhood memory of a reflection in a mirror.
Roger walked, into the darkness. His heart swelled, his throat filled, and a roar escaped him that he’d been holding inside himself forever. He moved with the fire that shot jets and missiles through sky to bring death from above. He came with the pain of the lost, the forgotten, the ones who walked alone, who cared but had no one to care for, who asked silence and emptiness for what those things could not give.
What waited for the boy rose to him and crashed down, flowing into his body, his memories and thoughts. Ghosts of his making answered the challenge, joined his enemies. Voices whispered, go back. Give up. Join us.
Street garbage whirled. Forgotten masks, plastic weapons, swirling capes gathered by wind struck him. The shards of broken bottles clawed his face.
The boy cried out. Roger’s hand grew cold.
Small, dead animals smashed into him. The stench of their blood, their guts and putrefying flesh, filled his nose and mouth. Burning cigarette butts singed his flesh.
From deep inside, fevers long dormant fed on the fuel of resentments and jealousy, bitterness and hate that was in the air all around him. In the night, the living and the dead mingled, mixed, until life and death shared dominion over flesh and would not be torn apart.
He wore his mask in all its terror. The costume of his past owned him. The boy screamed, his enemies tried to pull him from Roger’s grasp.
Roger called on the angels in his mind, and they became him. He pulled the boy close, held him in his arms. The boy’s breath was hot on his face. Their hearts beat strong and fierce beside each other. Between them, hope bloomed, and the kindness of mercy. They were alive and they were angels, and their wrath tore them from the grasp of shadows.
Wind howled. Roger tasted blood, felt the concussive blast of thunder passing through him, propelling him through life and death. He ached with a fever that burned bone and muscle. He didn’t know how much longer he could last. But he’d been through worse, all of his life, even in the quiet times, when everything that was in him slept. He was only feeling what he’d carried, what he’d been, deep inside for all his years.
Shadows broke before him, consuming each other like wounded sharks. Life and death fell away from the lie that they could share a place and time. The world came back, concrete hard, night cool.
A car horn honked. From someone’s backyard, a group of teenagers shouted “trick or treat,” then laughed. A police siren wailed, far away. The air was cold and crisp, raw in the lungs. Between the light from street lamps and store windows, shadows slid from his feet like water from oiled cloth.
Roger walked for a while before looking down. The boy’s hand remained in his, though he couldn’t feel it. He realized he hadn’t been walking his own way, but the boy’s. He thought the boy could probably walk the rest of the way to where he had to be by himself. But he was curious, and wanted to see all there was to see on this stretch of road he’d picked for himself.
The walk ended in a cemetery. He climbed the fence. The boy went through it. They stopped at a marker. Roger felt the lines in the stone, mouthed the names, the dates.
“Billy,” he said. “You died first.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So were my Mom and Dad.”
“How’d you—” He couldn’t find the words to the rest of the question.
“I was sick and they didn’t want me to die in a hospital, so I died at home. In one of the apartments on the top floor. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay with them. So I did. But then, Mom got cancer, eventually. She didn’t stay. And Dad, he died of a heart attack. He was old, by then. He didn’t stay, either. I think they went looking for me, where I was supposed to be.”
“All of that was long ago.”
“Yes. I went to find them. But they—the ones we passed, they wouldn’t let me. And nobody in the building could help. Until you came along.”
“It’s an old building. You’ve been there all that while.”
“I don’t have to be, anymore.”
“No friends.”
“There are others. Everywhere, there are others. But it’s hard to see each other. Like it was hard for you to see me. They can’t leave, either.”
“Now they can.” Roger looked around, settled on staring at the lights in the apartment buildings.
“No. They can’t.”
“We took care of what was holding you back.”
“For me. Everybody’s different.”
“Everybody’s different,” Roger repeated.
“You know that. That’s the trick.”
He closed his eyes. “They must be lonely.”
No one answered. He opened his eyes. The boy was gone.
“They must be lonely,” he said, again, before heading back on the road to his apartment, on the way to where he was going. He took his time. There was no rush. Because the road he’d picked was a long one, and hard. But it didn’t look like it was going to be lonely, anymore.
end
Pitch black. Blindly feeling my way. Spiders crawl in my hair. Bony fingers touch my arm. Reaching for the door, my hand plunges into a pile of warm guts. The door creaks open and—
We were right back where we’d started on the porch of Mayor Barton’s mansion. The line to get in was much longer now, populated by superheroes and fairies, vampires and pirates, each clutching a candy-filled pumpkin or pillowcase.
Adeline looked at me through the eyeholes in her black cat mask: “What’s next, Harper?”
My sister was brave for a seven-year-old, I had to give her that. “What’s next?” I peeled back the shredded sleeve that was sticking to my blood-soaked forearm. “That wasn’t scary enough for you?”
Using one paw, Adeline twirled her tail. “That was boring.”
I felt unsatisfied too. The Mayor’s Haunted Halloween Mansion was pretty much the same every year: gauze spider webs and plastic skeletons, bowls of spaghetti intestines and grape eyeballs. Rumor had it that a ghost named the Colonel lived in the mansion’s attic. If only the Colonel had shown up that night to give us a thrill, things might have turned out differently.
As it was, we’d had no thrills, no chills, causing me to feel even more reckless than usual. That and the fact that this Halloween would be my last for trick or treating since I would tur
n eleven next fall. So really, it was now or never.
Whatever the reason and against all good sense, I bent down to my sister’s ear and whispered, “You know . . .”
Curious, she cocked her feline head.
Coming closer now: “They say she gives the most unusual treats.”
“Who?” Adeline asked.
I rose, saying, “The lady on the bluff.”
She blinked in alarm. “What about those dogs?”
“What about them?” I shrugged, though my stomach lurched at the thought of the pack of wild dogs that roamed the ravine below the bluff.
“They’ll get us for sure.” Adeline protectively tucked her tail beneath her arm.
“You’re the one who wants a scare.” I fingered the flap of rotting flesh pasted to my cheek. “This, Adeline Taylor, will be your scare. Take it or leave it.”
She surprised me by nodding, cat ears bobbing: “I’ll take it.”
I could have said no, then. I should have laughed and said, Only kidding.
* * * *
With no rain in over two weeks, the fallen leaves had turned crisp. Scuttling along the street, they made scraping sounds against the pavement. Nearing the bluff, the wind picked up. More dead leaves scuttled, whipped our ankles, scraped the street.
“Have you gotten a treat before?” Adeline asked.
“No, nobody has. Not since Susie Quail. And that was over ten years ago.”
“What did she get?”
“A basketful of puppies.”
My mind was busily crafting the story I would tell and retell about this night, imagining the awe showing on the faces of my friends who would never dare to come here. Cole Cameron was sure to drop Emma Jacobs like a hot potato when he heard about it, and finally ask me to be his girl. If Adeline and I managed to make it through this in one piece, it would be well worth it.
Still, I considered turning back.
“Do you think we’ll get puppies too?” my sister asked.
“You don’t want puppies from her, Addie.” I shook my head. “That basketful of puppies turned into those rabid ravine dogs.”
“How did that happen?”
“Susie returned the puppies, told the lady they were bad, and supposedly the Quail family moved away after that. Since then everyone accuses the lady of feeding the pack. They say that if only she will stop feeding them, the dogs will finally die off and we’ll be safe again.”
“Do you believe that?”
I glanced at her. The dogs would go after Adeline first, I worried. Her soft, furry cat costume made her an obvious target. The dogs would go after Adeline and how could I possibly save her?
But there was no point in turning around now; we were already there.
Hers was the only house still standing on the bluff. Over the years, the rest had fallen victim to cascading rains that sent the hills sliding. Perched on the bluff’s very edge, her clapboard cottage looked as if it were teetering in midair, like if too many people walked to the back of the house at once it might finally tip over and crash into the ravine.
Again Adeline surprised me by marching right up to the front gate. Why isn’t she afraid? I wondered. Because she feels safe with me . . . A pang of guilt stabbed my heart. Adeline should be afraid of the lady. She should be afraid of those dogs since I had no means to protect us.
Together we passed beneath the vine-cloaked archway and headed up the walk toward the front steps. Three cheerful jack-o’-lanterns lined the porch rail, their smiling mouths and oblong eyes dancing with light from the candles within. A huge hairy spider spun lazily from strings tacked to the eaves. A wreath of fir boughs and pinecones adorned the door.
I put my arm across Adeline’s shoulders. Her face beamed with pride for having been so brave: This place wasn’t scary after all.
Before I could knock, the lady opened her front door. She wore a sparkly white Glinda the Good Witch costume and held a bowl overflowing with candy. I had to wonder why she bothered with costumes and candy since no one ever came here anymore.
“Trick or treat,” Adeline and I sing-sang in unison. What else were we to do?
The lady smiled at Adeline and said, “Aren’t you adorable.” She paused, appeared to consider. “Would kitty like candy or a special treat?”
Afraid for my sister, I reached for her hand, intending to stop her.
Adeline’s hand shot into the candy bowl, and she grabbed more than was polite and stuffed it into her plush pumpkin, chirping, “Thank you!”
I sighed in relief.
Except then the lady turned to me.
My heart sped up.
“Aren’t you a fright,” she said. “And what would you like?”
I raised my arms zombie-like and groaned, “Brains.”
She laughed. “No brains, but I do have plenty of candy. Or . . .” Her eyes lit up. “Do you prefer a more unusual treat?”
Adeline tugged on my sleeve; I looked down at her. Don’t do it, she mouthed.
I straightened up. I’d come this far. “A more unusual treat, please.”
“Harper,” Adeline hissed.
The lady nodded my way. Then she disappeared from the doorway, returning moments later holding a wicker basket. She held it out toward me. Her special basket.
I wondered if it contained wild puppies that would lick my wrist. Coiled snakes to bite my fingers. Scorpions for stinging my hand.
I reached inside. My fingers closed around it. I pulled out my hand and unfurled my fist.
Well, that was disappointing.
I had expected something wicked or strange.
Something alive.
Seriously, if Susie Quail got a basketful of puppies, couldn’t I at least get a kitten?
Seeds. Instead, I got seeds. A small, gauze bag full of seeds nestled in my palm. Maybe I’d grow a tree out of my hand.
Disappointment must have shown on my face because the lady said, “You’ll be surprised.”
I wanted to ask, A good surprise or a bad surprise?
Before I could, a dog barked somewhere in the distance.
Adeline pulled on my sleeve again and whispered, “Let’s go.” She sounded frightened, and I too felt that things had shifted, felt the insistent rumblings of my own fear.
Racing back to the archway, I noticed dead snails strewn all across the yard. Just their shells, I suddenly realized, as if some creature had sucked every last bit of life right out of them.
* * * *
I took great care throughout the rest of our night’s trick or treating: Look both ways, one step at a time, cross your fingers and watch your toes. And after we returned home I inspected our candy for straight pins and razor blades.
* * * *
I slept restlessly, haunted by nightmares of giant snails searching for their shells. The wild dogs laid in wait for them, pouncing once they crested the bluff. The snails had no hope of escape, they moved far too slowly, and the dogs ate them one at a time and with great relish.
That afternoon, sitting cross-legged on the grass in my grandfather’s backyard, I stared at the seeds in my hand. There were five in all, shiny and smooth, each pale yellow with defined edges and a bulging belly. They looked like pumpkin seeds and I wondered if they were from the lady’s jack-o’-lanterns.
“You’ll be surprised,” she had said.
Those puppies must have seemed like a good surprise at first. Cute, playful puppies. Then when they turned into a pack of wild dogs, that must have been quite a bad surprise.
In my grandfather’s work shed I shoved the seed packet into the rusty orange coffee can, the one with the picture of Aladdin and his magic lamp on the side. With my fingers I buried the packet beneath washers and bolts, begging Aladdin’s genie to grant me three wishes too: that I’d never have to touch, see, or even think about those seeds ever again.
* * * *
“What did they grow?” Cole Cameron wanted to know.
In the school cafeteria at lunchtime, I had just fini
shed telling the tale of my and Adeline’s daring feat, maybe embellishing a few details here and there.
I wasn’t prepared for follow-up questions.
“I don’t know yet,” I replied in all honesty.
I planted the seeds first thing after school.
Marched into the work shed. Dug the packet out of the bolts and washers. Cursed Aladdin’s genie for refusing to grant my wishes. Tossed a coin into the can to pay for my cursing. It was a quarter well spent because I felt slightly better.
In the most secret corner of my grandfather’s property, behind the work shed and beneath a tangle of lilac and oleander, I scared out the spiders and several mice when I wrenched branches aside and clawed through piles of leaves until I reached bare ground. There, carefully, tenderly, I laid each seed in the earth, then gently covered them in a soft blanket of soil.
It made no sense, this location. Barely any sun speckled through the thicket of bushes.
It wouldn’t matter, I speculated. What mattered was that the garden must be hidden.
Adeline found me drowning the whole area in water from the garden hose.
“Whatcha doin’?” she asked, her mouth full of Halloween taffy, her hands casually shoved into the pockets of her purple corduroy overalls as if this were no big deal.
“Nothing,” I said meaner than I’d meant to. “Mind your own business.”
I didn’t want to talk about it because I felt dirty and disgusted with myself and decided the only thing to do was take the rest of the day off and go to Shelby’s Drugstore counter for a root beer float—go anywhere away from the seeds I knew were sprouting at that very moment.
* * * *
Overnight, the garden grew.
It grew long green vines. I watered them in the morning and again at night.
The next morning the vines sprouted pretty, pale flowers.
By Friday, a flower turned into a gourd. Yellow and warty, with lime green stripes running along all sides.
Adeline was the first to recognize its face.
Gently she flipped up the gourd from where it hung on the vine. Flipped it from the bottom so that I was looking at the top.