by David Lubar
Micah knocked on the door.
It swung open, revealing total darkness.
“Come in.” The voice was deep and slow.
Micah hesitated. He knew better than to walk into a strange house—especially a strange house that was totally dark.
Orange-colored light flickered on the other side of the room. Candlelight filtered through two triangles and a gaping slit. It was a jack-o’-lantern. This was the first sign he’d seen this evening that Halloween existed in this town. Micah took a step toward it.
More lights switched on. The room was suddenly filled with light. And filled with people.
“Happy Halloween!” they all shouted.
They were all wearing costumes. Both the kids and adults were dressed for Halloween. He spotted his parents off to one side, in prince and princess costumes.
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” a man wearing a space helmet said.
His parents came over. His mom held out his costume. “When I told our new neighbors how much you loved Halloween, they decided your first Halloween in your new town should be one you’d never forget.”
And that’s exactly what it was. Micah knew he’d remember this night forever. He’d been tricked. But the trick was a real treat.
HAMMER IT OUT
All I saw at first was the tiniest tip of the
handle. At that point, I didn’t even know it was a handle. All I knew was something shiny caught my eye right off the trail in Bryland Woods. “Hey, what’s that?” I asked, pointing with my fishing rod to a spot between two trees.
“What’s what?” Ryley asked. He squinted toward where I was pointing.
“That,” I said, jabbing my rod closer to it.
Ryley shrugged. I went over, dropped to my knees, and reached down to touch the shiny piece of metal.
“Whoa!” I jerked my hand back.
“What’s wrong?” Ryley asked.
“Nothing.” I took a breath and reached out again. I’d expected it to be cold. But it was warm. Not hot. Definitely not burning hot. But warmer than a piece of metal should be on the floor of the woods, in the shade of the trees, in the early morning.
I touched it again. Then I felt around it. I got my knife out of my tackle box and started to dig. That’s when I realized the object was a handle. Soon after, I discovered it was attached to the head of a hammer.
“Wow,” I said as I pulled it free from the ground. “Look at that.”
“Man, that’s not for hammering nails,” Ryley said.
“You’re right about that,” I said. “I think it’s some kind of war hammer.”
“Great! You found it!”
Ryley and I spun toward the voice. A guy was standing there, right behind us. He was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He was skinny, with really long reddish-blond hair. He held his hand out.
I stepped back away from him and shook my head. “It’s mine,” I said.
He laughed and reached farther, stretching toward me.
“Hey!” I shouted as the hammer jerked against my grip. I clenched my fist and pulled my arm back. “Stop it!”
“That’s not yours. It’s mine,” he said.
“Finders keepers,” I said. I put my other hand on the head of the hammer and pulled it to my chest.
He thrust his hand even farther out. “Give it back!”
My fingers were slipping. Maybe it really was his. But this was no way to get it back. I didn’t like the way he was trying to force it out of my hands. I knew I couldn’t hold on much longer. Well, if he wanted it, I was going to let him have it.
I opened my fingers and shoved my hands out, flinging the hammer toward him. At the exact same time, he gritted his teeth and shouted even louder, “Come to me!”
The hammer flew from my hands and bonked him on the head.
He blinked hard, once.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He blinked hard again.
“Mister, are you all right?” Ryley asked.
He didn’t blink a third time. Instead, he flopped back and hit the ground.
“You killed him,” Ryley said.
“No, I didn’t!” I shouted it even though I wasn’t sure he was wrong. But I could see that the guy was breathing. “He’s not dead. Just knocked out.”
The hammer was lying next to him. I left it alone for the moment, knelt down, grabbed the guy’s shoulder, and shook him. “Hey, wake up.”
“Maybe we should just leave,” Ryley said.
“We can’t leave him here, knocked out in the woods,” I said. “A bear might come along or something.”
I shook him again.
He opened one eye. Then he sat up.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Thor,” he said.
“Try using a heating pad,” Ryley said.
The guy and I both stared at him. “Old joke,” Ryley said.
“Not funny,” the guy said. “I’ve heard that a million times.”
“Thor,” I said. “Like the Norse god of thunder?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“You don’t look very much like a god,” I said.
“I’m in human form,” he said. “We do that sometimes to pass among the mortals and perform heroic deeds.”
“Like losing your hammer?” I asked.
“That was an accident,” he said. “I got lost in the woods. Then I got tired and took a nap. Next thing I know, I wake up without my hammer.”
I picked it up now. “Maybe you don’t deserve it,” I said.
He opened his mouth to argue, but then he sighed. “You could be right. I seem to lose it all the time. Things always go wrong when I come down here.” He stopped and rubbed his forehead. I guess he was still a little dizzy from getting clunked by the hammer.
“Want me to hang on to it for you for a while?” I asked.
His eyes widened, and he studied me for a moment before speaking. “Would you?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Thanks.” He turned away from me and wandered off. And that’s when the mortal-form spell I’d cast on my body and mind also wore off. I’d discovered over the millennia that it was so much more rewarding to experience things for the first time, even if I was actually experiencing them for the hundredth or ten thousandth time.
I waited until Thor was out of sight and savored the memory of the look on his face after he’d gotten clobbered. “That was fun,” I said to Ryley.
“It’s almost too easy,” he said. “How many times have you done stuff like this to him?”
“Thousands,” I said. “I’ve lost count.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” he asked.
“Nope. I’m Loki, after all,” I said. “I wouldn’t be much of a god of mischief if I didn’t play tricks on unsuspecting victims.”
“You’re much Lokier than he was,” Ryley said.
“That’s not funny,” I said. “And I’ve heard it a million times.” But then I laughed. Because it was sort of funny. And if you can’t laugh at yourself, you really can’t do a good job laughing at others.
THE SILVER ’SHROOM
“Now, Quincy, I want you to behave to-
day,” Wenefer told her son. She was busily weaving dandelion stems into place mats for the banquet. Tonight, the elves were having the fall feast, the most important celebration of the year, and the tastiest.
“I’ll try,” Quincy said, spinning an acorn on the tip of his finger.
“And don’t play with the food,” Wenefer said, taking the acorn from him.
Quincy was bored. He wanted help with the feast. “Can I do anything?” he asked.
Wenefer stopped weaving and smiled at him. “If you wish, you may gather the mushrooms.”
“Super!” Quincy said, running toward the woods.
“Be careful with them,” his mother called after him.
Quincy did a few cartwheels and a somersault on his way to the mushroom patch. It was wonderful having such an
important job. Mushrooms were the best part of the feast. And these mushrooms would be extremely good. The most skilled gardener among all the elves, Putterswoop, had tended the patch himself. These mushrooms would be delicious.
Too bad Putterswoop can’t be here, Quincy thought. He had gone to the other side of Tall Cedar Woods to try to stop the trolls from making war with the gnomes. The elves did their best to keep peace in the woods.
“What’s the hurry?” The voice came from behind Quincy.
“Hello, Zipper,” Quincy said, turning to see the small gray squirrel who was his friend. “I’m going to gather mushrooms for the feast.”
“Ick,” Zipper said. “I don’t see how you can eat those things. Acorns, yes—mushrooms, no.” The squirrel caught up to Quincy with three quick hops, then loped along beside him. “I didn’t know it was time for the feast.”
“I guess that’s because Putterswoop isn’t here,” the elf said. “He usually spreads the word.”
“That explains it.” Zipper ran ahead of Quincy, then skittered to a stop by the mushroom patch. Looking over his shoulder, he asked, “Have you learned any new tricks recently?”
“I sure did,” Quincy told him. “I learned to turn leaves into silver. Watch this.” Walking toward Zipper, Quincy pointed at a leaf at the edge of a branch on a hickory tree. He started to speak the magic words he had learned. The tip of his finger tingled as the power built up. Right before he reached the last word, he tripped on a twig.
“Oof,” he said, hitting the ground.
“Are you all right?” Zipper asked.
“I’m fine,” Quincy said. “I didn’t get—” The rest of the sentence froze in his throat when he saw what he had done. One of the mushrooms, one of Putterswoop’s special and cherished mushrooms, had turned to silver. “Oh no! Now I’ve done it.”
“Why don’t you just turn it back?” Zipper asked.
“I don’t know how,” Quincy moaned. There were only five mushrooms in the patch—just enough to go around when sliced very thin. Now, one of them was silver and definitely not fit to eat. He knew his mother would be angry.
“This always happens to me,” Quincy said. “I don’t mean to do anything wrong, but somehow I mess everything up.”
“You may as well make the best of it,” Zipper said. “There are still four left.”
Quincy gathered the mushrooms. Then he told the squirrel, “I don’t think you should come back with me. I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble, too.” Putting the four regular mushrooms together, and hiding the silver one in the middle, Quincy tied the bundle with pieces of grass. Then he headed back. He didn’t want to go, but he knew there was no use stalling.
His mother didn’t look up when he approached. As he got closer, he saw that she was staring down at an unfinished place mat. He’d never seen her look so sad.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“You might as well forget about them,” his mother said, pointing at the mushrooms. “There isn’t going to be a feast.”
Quincy dropped his bundle. This was terrible news. “Why not?”
“Diggleby came by right after you left. He had no idea it was time for the feast,” Wenefer said. “That didn’t worry me at first, because he’d just returned from the Shadow Realm. But Rinzer and Mayblue, who were just here, had no idea, either. And they hadn’t gone anywhere.”
“How could they not know?” Quincy asked.
“When Putterswoop left, he was in such a rush that he forgot to ask anyone to call the elves together,” Wenefer said. “You know they never remember to come unless they’re reminded. Nobody knows that the feast is tonight, and it’s too late to find everyone now.”
“That’s terrible,” Quincy said. It would be feast time in several hours. The elves in his home, Sunnyknoll Patch, had been preparing food all day. But with elves spread throughout the forest, there was no quick way to spread the word. Quincy looked at the mushrooms. His feeling of relief was quickly replaced with a wave of sadness. He wouldn’t get into trouble now, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore. The silver mushroom was no longer important.
No, Quincy realized, the silver mushroom was suddenly very important!
“I’ll get everyone here,” he told his mother, untying the bundle. He took out the silver mushroom and set it on the ground.
“What in the world did you do this time?” his mother asked, staring at the shiny mushroom.
“You’ll see.” Quincy grabbed a stick and hit the mushroom. It rang clear as a bell. The sound, made by elfin magic, carried throughout the forest, calling everyone to the feast.
Quincy waited, hoping it would work. Soon, the elves began to arrive. They came from near and far. Nobody minded getting a smaller portion of mushrooms than usual. It was better than having no portion at all. Besides, there were plenty of other things to eat.
As Quincy was starting his meal, Zipper came up to him.
“Say,” the squirrel asked, “did I hear a dinner bell?”
“No,” Quincy told him, inviting the squirrel to join the feast. “Actually, it was a dinner mushroom.”
GOBBLE GOBBLE
As long as I can remember, my whole
family had the most magical and special way to celebrate Thanksgiving. We don’t eat turkey smothered in gravy or tangy spoonsful of cranberry sauce. We don’t cram a slice of spicy pumpkin pie into our overstuffed stomachs or glug a thick and creamy glass of eggnog. We don’t eat anything. At least, not before everyone else has had a chance to eat. Instead, we help serve food to less fortunate people. We all do: Mom, Dad, my older sister, Rebecca, and my little brothers, Cam and Oliver. And me, of course. I’m Rosalie.
We did this at the New Faith Food Shelter. People had been serving food to the hungry all day. By sunset, a lot of the volunteers were exhausted. That’s when we liked to come. We’d show up at the back door, by the kitchen, and Pastor Michael would hand Dad the carving knife and Mom a big ladle.
“Thank you for coming,” he’d say.
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Mom would say.
And we’d start serving food. I loved it. Whether I was scooping mashed potatoes or grabbing a serving of green beans with a pair of tongs, I liked working the hot line. That’s what it’s called—I guess because the food is hot.
And the people on the other side are great. Some of them don’t have anywhere else to go. It feels good to help them. They’re all humans, no matter how rich or poor.
But we also have to deal with human nature. Any time anything is free, you can count on someone being a cheater. They’re easy to spot, even though they pretend to be needy. I don’t know why they do it. But there are always people who come for a free meal when they could easily buy one for themselves.
That’s just wrong. This year, I spotted one of them as soon as he stepped through the door. He was wearing a tattered jacket. But his shoes were new, and so was the watch that peeked past his frayed cuff. He looked at the food like someone who was about to snatch a purse.
I glanced at Mom and Dad. They nodded. We all exchanged glances, having a conversation with our eyes. Dad put a large slice of turkey on a plate for the man. Instead of handing the plate over right away, Dad asked, “More?”
“Yes. I’m very hungry,” the man said.
I noticed he didn’t say please. And when he got his plate, he didn’t thank anyone. I kept an eye on him. As I’d expected, he rushed back to the line for seconds. Most people, no matter how hungry they are when they come in, won’t ask for another helping until they know there’s enough for everyone.
He stayed and ate until it was time to close up the shelter. I brought him some extra cranberry sauce. That’s my favorite Thanksgiving food. It’s like a dessert you can eat through the whole meal. Cam made sure the man got an extra-large slice of pumpkin pie. That’s Cam’s favorite. Our generosity might seem strange to anyone who doesn’t know us, but we believe the more you give, the more you get back.
Finally, he left
, waddling like a duck stuffed with marbles. So did we. We followed him down the street until he reached his car. It was very new and very expensive. He took off the jacket and tossed it in a trash can.
Then he got in his car and drove away.
“Dinnertime,” Dad said.
We shifted out of human shape, spread our wings, and flew, bat-like, following him to his home. When he stepped out of the car, at the end of the driveway in front of his mansion, we swooped down, shifted form again, and pounced.
The look of terror in his eyes was a wonderful appetizer.
“Not too much,” Mom said as we each drank our share. “We don’t want to turn him into one of us.”
“Yeah,” Dad said. “Imagine what a greedy vampire he’d be.”
“But I’m glad he’s a greedy human,” I said as I wiped a dribble of blood from my chin.
“For sure,” Rebecca said. “You can really taste the extra cranberry sauce.” That was her favorite, too.
“And the pumpkin pie,” Cam said. “Turkey Day blood is my favorite blood of the year.”
“Even better than Halloween,” I said. I licked my lips and enjoyed the lingering flavors of the holiday.
We shifted again and flew off, leaving the man passed out in his driveway. He’d live. But he’d have a monster of a headache when he woke and the memory of some really terrifying dreams. And maybe next year, he wouldn’t steal food from those who really needed it.
But I wasn’t worried. I knew someone else would show up to take his place at the center of our next family Thanksgiving celebration. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s human nature.
CANDY CORN
My eyes grew wide.
My jaw dropped.
A tiny gasp shot from my throat.
I stared at the words on the sign and clenched my fists.
Temporarily out of stock.
The sign was taped to the bottom of an empty shelf that should have held bags of the best treat in the world.
“It’s no big deal, Valerie,” Mom said. “We’ll get something else for the candy dish. Oh, these look nice.” She reached for a bag of chocolate kisses.
