Q. Why do you think he was so angry with you?
A. I really don’t know. He’d had some bad luck. The woman in Thailand wasn’t really working out, it seemed. I guess I was an easy scapegoat.
Q. Did you feel threatened?
A. Not at the moment. My mind was elsewhere. But I should’ve felt threatened, because it was a threat. I shouldn’t have underestimated him because now, well, you know.
Kendra
One particularly warm November evening on the Quigley House porch swing, John asked Kendra how she’d liked her first season. Had Halloween week—a week they’d been open seven days—been too much for her?
“No,” she said, looking out at the growing dark. “It was fun.”
This night she was a giant cockroach, the abdominal portion of the costume cut open, oozing green and red and black strings. Her hands ended in large fuzzy pincers. She cut at the air with them, wondering if they’d make a sound on car windows.
“Good,” John said. He put his coffee mug on the ground, folded his hands on his stomach. “I’m glad it was fun for you.”
They rocked for a bit. Kendra stared at the cup on the floor.
“I’ve noticed you’re a bit quieter lately,” John said.
Kendra shrugged. “Preoccupied, I guess,” she said.
“Is your friend still doing okay? Still a fan?”
“Who, Shawn?”
“I believe that’s his name.”
She sighed. “Who knows,” she said.
“You mean he hasn’t been asking about us? About you?”
“I don’t really wanna talk about it,” she said.
“Okay,” John said, pushing the swing with his feet.
Shawn, lately, had become distant, cutting their calls short, citing schoolwork or fatigue or parental problems. Sometimes, he simply didn’t answer at night, no matter how many times she rang. His absence clawed at her, filled her head with a pounding, relentless dread. In late October, she’d called Camille, had asked about him, whether he seemed different, whether he was with anyone. Camille said that she hardly saw him—they shared no classes and only crossed paths fleetingly in the hall.
“He looks the same as ever,” Camille had said. “Thinner than shit, but really, I don’t pay attention.”
On the porch, John picked up his mug, sipped. He blinked, said, “This is the first year we’ve been down applicants.”
“What?” Kendra said.
He sighed. “Halloween week isn’t usually this difficult.”
“What do you mean?” she said. “We were full every night.”
He scratched his chin, looked out at one particularly odd-shaped tree. Its thin trunk curved to the west side of the house, and its branches drooped downward, creating a small arc of wood. “We were,” he said.
“And you have a waitlist.”
“Mmm,” he said.
Kendra leaned into him, put her hand on his shoulder. “I think lots of businesses go through ups and downs,” she said. “No biggie.”
“Of course,” he said. He turned to her, and she saw, for the first time, how tired he was: his face, usually bathed in a crinkly excitement, was drawn and dark. “We close next week,” he said.
“Oh my god,” she said.
“Not close, close,” he said. “Close for the season. You know that.”
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”
“We open again March through May, but sometimes those months people back out. Fall’s really the only haunt season, and October’s really the only haunt month. Spring, summer, people aren’t wanting scares as much.” He paused, sipped his coffee. “But I want to change that. What do you think, Kendra? What do you think of changing our entire idea of haunts?”
“Sounds great,” she said.
“So you’d help me. You’d be willing to do what it takes.”
“Sure,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “I’m doing a series of promotions,” he said. “And I might need you to, well, I’d have to talk to you about it when things are more certain.”
Kendra’s heart raced, imagining a job promotion. To see the look on Christy’s face! “What do you need me to do?”
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ll tell you in the spring if I need anything. Now, let’s just get through this week, take our break, get through the winter, then talk in March.”
“Will I get to see the cells?” she said.
He stood up. The yellow porch light cast a truncated shadow across the wood. “Someday,” he said.
“Just a peek?”
He smiled, wanly, and walked back into the house.
On the final night of the season, John hosted a wrap-up party for all non-administrative employees. He bought beer, wine, catered in food from five different restaurants: one Chinese, one Italian, two pubs, and one sandwich shop. In his front living and dining area, he cleared out tables and replaced them with chairs and couches, hooked up five speakers to his personal CD player, and hung two ornate chandeliers above each room, effecting a sort of trashy opulence. There was no theme to this party—most of his staff was sick of all things horror—but rather, he decorated generically: yellow, red, and green streamers, a few balloons (one that shouted, in bold lettering, thank you!), and a few sprinkles of star-shaped glitter on the food table. On this evening, only one group of contestants went through the house: a group of four brothers from Erie, Pennsylvania. They only lasted until nine p.m., the second-youngest yelling reprieve during Cell Two, so the party started early, and Kendra, once she and Christy and Sarah waved goodbye to the brothers, raced up to the house, flung open the door, and said, “We’re done! They’re gone!” A few sound guys were already fixing plates at the food table, and Cory sat spread on the couch, drinking a bottle of beer, smiling.
“Well, congrats on your first season,” Cory said, as Kendra sat next to him. “Wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Nope,” Kendra said.
The music started—mid-’90s alternative. Stone Temple Pilots. Alice in Chains. Pearl Jam. Kendra said, “God, these songs are so terrible.”
“Terrible?” he said. “What, you want some rap?”
She frowned. “Because I’m Black?”
“No,” he said, turning red. “No, I mean. It’s what the younger kids listen to. It’s—”
“Just stop,” she said, looking away.
He put his hand behind his head, scratched. “You did good,” he said. “John sure likes you.”
“I can’t believe it’s already over,” she said.
“We start up again in March,” Cory said. “But it’s a lot less hectic.”
“I’ve heard,” Kendra said.
They sat for a while, drank their drinks. Cory offered her half his sandwich. She shook her head.
“Hey,” Cory said. He paused, turned toward her, leaned in, lowered his voice. “You play your cards right, you could be an actor here. I swear. That’s how much he thinks of you.”
“An actor,” Kendra said.
Cory leaned back, nodded. His scruff seemed especially messy this evening, stopping and starting at random places along his jawline. “Play your cards right,” he repeated.
“He did say something about me helping out, doing more. Do you think he meant that? Like, being an actor?”
Cory shook his head. “You’re still underage. I doubt it. But then, with him? Who knows.”
“Yeah, he asked me if I’d be willing to do what it takes.”
“That could mean a lot of things,” Cory said. “Just stay tuned. You’re on the up-and-up.” He smiled, fashioned his left hand into an ascending airplane.
They sat for a bit longer, then got up, walked around, mingled, laughed. She hadn’t interacted much with anyone besides Sarah, Christy, John, and Cory, so most of the people she encountered she knew only from the costume room or via CB or from the Quester. All of them seemed much more integral to the operations, so assured and confident and knowledgeable. When she saw or talked to them in the ha
ll before a tour, she usually cut it short, certain they thought of her as some low-level fringe employee.
But there, at the party, she felt immensely seen. As she floated from conversation to conversation, many of the employees, lips loose from alcohol, revealed a secret fondness for her. She was better than Christy, they whispered. Christy could be a bit much.
“Not that she’s not good at what she does,” said Seth Hinkerman, a Cell One actor with muscles everywhere. “But you’re the chillest parking-lot girl we’ve ever had. Like, I’ve had comments from some of the contestants. They really like you.”
“But I just stand there,” she said, feeling sparkly and warm.
“Don’t matter,” he said. “You got a presence.”
At ten thirty, Kendra found herself on the couch again, this time with Christy. She felt uncomfortable sitting next to her, especially after the barrage of hate her coworkers had thrown at the blonde, but Christy seemed unusually approachable right then, all smiles and laughs and easy-flowing gestures.
“You’re so pretty,” Christy said, her eyes slitting. “I mean, I usually see you in makeup.”
“Thank you,” Kendra said, though she didn’t know if Christy meant it. It was hard to tell with her. “You know you’re gorgeous, so.”
Christy shook her head. “It’s not like that,” she said, pushing her hair from her shoulder. She took a swig of beer. “I’m always showcasing, you know,” she said.
“Showcasing?”
She took another swig. “Yeah,” she said. “But hey, I know things have been tense between us. I said some things I shouldn’t have. I’m a theater person, you know.” She winked.
“Yeah,” Kendra said, unsure what “theater person” meant.
Christy played with her fingers, looked into her palms. “I hope you don’t think I’m intruding or anything,” she said, “but I heard about your dad.”
Kendra choked. The only people she’d told about her dad were Sarah and John, and though it made sense that word would’ve gotten around, she hadn’t expected anyone to bring it up, especially not Christy. She looked away, started to get up.
“Wait,” Christy said, extending her arm. “I just want to say I get it. Like, grief, or whatever. My mom died a couple years ago. Breast cancer. She was sick a long time.”
“Oh,” Kendra said, sitting back down. “I’m sorry.”
“It still hits me, like rushes over me sometimes. It’s stupid. I’ll be doing something normal, like driving, listening to music, and I’ll hear some old song from the seventies and I’ll be like, ‘I need to ask my mom if she liked that band,’ totally forgetting that she’s gone. And when I realize, it’s like no time has passed at all. I’ll just be crushed for hours.” She sniffed, rubbed her nose. “Anyway, I just thought I’d share.”
Kendra leaned back, folded her hands over her stomach. She, too, had experienced that forgetfulness. The other day, folding her clothes in the laundry room, she’d thought: When’s the last time Dad ever folded his own clothes? only realizing later that for a moment she’d thought of him as alive, as a figure to be detested. It’d been almost reflexive, thinking that thought, and in her bedroom, daylight streaming through the red curtains, burning her eyes, she’d cursed herself, wondered if things would’ve been different if she’d been a little kinder to him.
“What I mean to say,” Christy said, “is I’m sorry, okay? We shouldn’t be arguing. We shouldn’t be enemies. We’re all family here, as they say. And you and me, we should be even closer because we’re stuck out there all night.”
“Right,” Kendra said, feeling suddenly regretful. Over the last few weeks, she hadn’t talked much to Christy, and Sarah had followed suit. At school, she ate lunch with Sarah, met her at Sarah’s locker, talked about Quigley, and when the subject of Christy came up, they’d take turns mocking her, brushing their hair from their shoulders dramatically and saying things like “Oh my gawd, Cory forgot to special-order my costume again” and “When I played Fastrada in Pippin I seriously got a standing ovation” and “I seriously can’t help it if guys want me. I mean, really, it’s not my fault.” Afterward, they’d burst into tearful laughter.
“So what do you think of all this?” Christy said, gesturing to the party. “I mean. Crazy, huh?”
“It’s been good,” Kendra said.
Christy looked at her watch. “But it’s sorta boring, right? Just sitting here and drinking?” Christy said.
“No,” Kendra said, wishing Christy would talk to someone else. “I’m not bored.”
“But hey,” Christy said, sitting up. Her beer breath warmed Kendra’s eyes.
“What?”
Christy inhaled deeply, smiled. “Listen,” she said, looking furtively around the room, “I just thought of something. There’s another way to the cells. Not just from the main haunt entrance.”
“What’re you talking about?” Kendra said.
“Just . . . there’s another way. More than one way in and out, you know.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To downstairs,” Christy said, and Kendra’s heart fluttered. “Marcus showed me. I think he thought he might get lucky.” She scoffed. “But we went down there after everyone left. Even John was gone—can’t remember where. But I saw it.” She looked around. “Hey,” she whispered. “Let me take you down there. We could go now.”
“What?” Kendra said, goose bumps covering her arms.
“I wanna make it up to you,” Christy said. “And anyway. Look around, Kendra. Nobody’s paying attention! I mean, the only person I’d be worried about is Sarah, and look at her, she’s busy talking to what’s-his-face. We could sneak. The door’s just off the kitchen hall. Come on.”
“You’re serious?” Kendra said.
“You wanna see,” Christy said. “I know you do.”
“Yes, of course, but aren’t they still cleaning up? Aren’t they—”
“Kendra. They’re all up here. Everyone. Look around you.”
“But John. He’s—”
“He’s probably in bed. Seriously, last year? He made an appearance and then left. Cory cleaned everything up.” She scanned the room. “I mean, he’s old, Kendra, just like you said.”
“He’s not that old.”
“Come on. Look. Everyone’s turned away. Hurry.”
Before Kendra could object further, Christy grabbed her hand and pulled her through the kitchen into the adjoining hall, where she was suddenly surrounded by dark, the hall lit only by seeping moonlight. Her airways constricted. She concentrated on her breath. Two doors on the west wall stood ajar: one led to a storage room, one to a closet. Christy, her smile gleaming, chose the door to the storage room.
“Careful,” Christy said. Her voice came from below. She was kneeling. “Watch your step.
Kendra heard a creak. “I can’t see,” she said. “Isn’t there a light?”
“No,” Christy said. “Here. Take my hand. It’s a trapdoor. Be careful.”
Kendra descended a series of metal steps, each footfall unsteady, clanging.
“Grab the rail,” Christy said.
“If we can’t see anything, what’s the point?” she said, grabbing the rail.
“We’ll see things,” Christy said. “Once we’re down there. I’ll find the light. Marcus showed me.”
Once they both stood on solid ground, Christy said into the dark, “Just wait here. Don’t move.” Kendra waited by the stairs, holding on to the rail, ready to bolt. The air was damp. She felt, suddenly, that she was violating an important trust.
“I’m going back up,” she called to the darkness.
“Wait. Kendra,” Christy said from somewhere remote.
A long wheeze sounded above. And then: white light. Kendra shielded her eyes.
“Aha!” Christy said. “There we go!”
Kendra blinked, looked around, her hand still firmly wrapped around the handrail. The room was impossibly large, empty, and gray. A scoreboard was mounted on
one wall, turned off. Around her, she felt movement—Rats? Mice? Snakes? In each corner sat a miniature jail cell, iron bars connected to concrete. In the northeast cell was a shadowy human figure seated in a red folding chair, its face obscured by a green gas mask.
“Holy shit,” Kendra said.
“Don’t worry,” Christy said, standing a few feet from the cell. “It’s just a prop.”
Christy walked into the cell. Her steps echoed. She became small. “Well, hello there Mr. Mask!” she shouted. “Aren’t you a scary, scary thing!” She giggled, patted the top of the figure’s mask. “Very, very scary.”
Kendra shook her head. She knew from movies that this was the point where they were supposed to play around with the monster in the chair. Christy, the pretty blonde, would talk to it suggestively, maybe give it a lap dance, while Kendra, the no-nonsense Black character, would say, “I wouldn’t do that. Please don’t.” Minutes later, the monster-slash-killer would disappear, only to reappear behind them with a weapon, slashing to pieces the Black character who’d ultimately been deemed inessential to the storyline.
Christy looked out at Kendra, put her hands on her hips. “Jesus, Kendra,” she said. “Are you just gonna stand by the stairs? I mean, you wanted to see, so look around! It’s a little ridiculous, isn’t it? Look how low-budget everything is! Just a room with four little jail cells. But this is, what, Cell Five? If anyone gets here, they’re pretty beaten up already. And it’s pitch-black, and everyone goes mad in pitch-black.”
The figure stood up. Kendra screamed. Then she laughed. “Lonetree?” she said. “Is that you?”
The figure towered over Christy. It wore bib overalls, a flannel shirt, work boots, all streaked with blood. Christy turned around. The figure stretched out his arms, lifted Christy by the shoulders. Christy squirmed, her feet jerking in the air.
“Yes, very impressive,” Kendra said. She looked up the stairs, chuckled. “But don’t worry, Christy. You and I both know that the Black one always dies first.”
She thought, then, of The Shining, the movie she forever associated with this sort of tokenism. It’d been the biggest disappointment of her entire movie-watching career to see Dick Hallorann axed by Jack Torrance. Hallorann, a Black man who’d had the gift of the “shining,” who’d communicated cosmically with Danny Torrance, who’d been en route to enacting full-fledged heroism, had met his demise not five minutes after he’d arrived at the Overlook. Five minutes. His single line inside the hotel had been: Hello? Anybody here?
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