But Halloween was the worst of all…because Parker’s father actually liked it. He would start decorating the house and planning his costume by mid-October—paying little attention to Parker’s own costume or excitement—and by the time the thirty-first rolled around, their house was a gaudy mess of fake spider webs and ghosts hanging from trees; plastic tombstones scattered across the front yard; and nearly a dozen glowing jack o’lanterns lining the porch and front walk.
As dusk darkened the October sky on Halloween night, Parker’s father would appear in full costume—the most memorable being an incredibly life-like Frankenstein, complete with stitched, green skin and nuts and bolts in his skull—and inevitably he would be reeking of liquor.
When Parker would come downstairs dressed in his own costume—a hobo or a clown or a fighter pilot; usually something his mother helped him make—his father would make merciless fun of him, calling him “fag” or “sissy” or “homo.”
Then he would spend the rest of Halloween night sneaking sips of whiskey and jumping out from behind the tall shrubs that bordered the front porch and terrifying unsuspecting trick-or-treaters. Many of the children would scream in terror and run crying back to their parents waiting on the sidewalk—but very few of those parents would complain; Parker’s father was a very large man.
Eventually, as the years passed, fewer and fewer children came trick-or-treating to Parker’s house, and he knew his sadistic father was to blame.
Parker learned to hate his father even more for ruining Halloween.
Parker double-checked that the front porch light was turned off and retreated to his library. Dropping his briefcase to the hardwood floor, he practically collapsed into his favorite reading chair, immediately feeling at home in its soft leather embrace. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to settle his breathing.
He was feeling worse. He’d decided to skip dinner—he wasn’t very hungry at all, which was unusual—and spend his evening reading and listening to music.
Parker pushed on the armrests and the chair readjusted itself into a lounger. He reached over and took his book-in-progress from the end table and rested it on his lap. He closed his eyes again (just for a second, he thought), and just as he heard the first distant chatter of trick-or-treaters out on the street, he drifted off to sleep—and dreamed of his father dressed as Frankenstein chasing him down a dark sidewalk.
It was little surprise that a beloved book resting in his lap had helped to lull Parker to sleep. In many ways, books were his security blanket and salvation.
Not surprisingly, he had learned his love of literature from his mother. As far back as his memory stretched, he could remember his mother borrowing stacks of books from the local library and reading to him in his tiny bedroom. Reading wasn’t limited to bedtime in their house; it was an any-time-of-the-day activity. It wasn’t until Parker was a little older—and reading himself—that he understood what his mother was doing, what she was providing for them both.
An escape.
An escape from the nightmare world they lived in.
An escape to faraway worlds and experiences that were often magical and mysterious and, most importantly, happy.
This certainly explained why his mother read two or three books herself each week. She couldn’t defend her son from the almost daily physical blows and psychological torment, but she could teach him that other worlds—better worlds—existed within his reach.
After she was gone, Parker realized that his mother had blessed him with the most precious gift of his lifetime—hope.
Parker awoke with a start, heart thudding in his chest, face bathed in a sheen of sweat. He jerked to a sitting position, and the book tumbled from his lap onto the floor. He couldn’t remember his nightmare, but he knew it had been a bad one.
He looked around the dark room, confused, the flickering orange flames from the gas fireplace the only available light.
Something was wrong—with him and the room.
I could’ve sworn I switched on the lights in here…and I know I didn’t turn on the fireplace…and why was everything so damn blurry and out of focus?
Parker bent over and picked up the book and placed it back on the end table. His hand was shaking. He carefully got to his feet, steadying himself against the chair. He was dizzy and could feel a blue-ribbon headache blooming in the back of his head.
I’m dehydrated, he thought. Need water.
He started to shuffle his way out of the library—but stopped abruptly, legs frozen, eyes wide, when one of the shadows in the corner of the room detached itself from the wall and slithered behind a tall potted plant.
“Who’s there?” Parker asked in a trembling voice. “I saw you. You can’t hide in here.”
There came no response.
Parker held his breath, listening for a sound of any kind.
Nothing.
Summoning courage, he took a slow, silent step forward—just as someone banged three times on the library window.
Parker let out a little scream and almost knocked over the big, museum quality globe that was the centerpiece of his library. He steadied himself again and focused on the lone window in the room, a dark square floating against an even darker backdrop. Had someone knocked on the outside of the window—or the inside?
The thought made Parker’s head spin, and he brushed it aside.
Enough of this, he thought, and deliberately made his way out of the library and into the hallway. The foyer ceiling light was on, and he shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness. He started for the kitchen—
—and the front doorbell rang.
Parker froze and looked at the door. Stupid kids.
The doorbell rang again.
“Go away!” he bellowed. “No trick-or-treaters allowed!”
He was answered by a violent pounding on the door—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Using the wall to support himself, Parker shuffled into the foyer and took out an umbrella from the base of the coat rack. He held it high over his shoulder, poised to strike, and reached for the doorknob.
Parker yanked open the front door—“I told you kids to get out of here!”—and found the porch empty.
He squinted into the darkness, peering up and down the silent street. It was later than he thought—how long had he slept?—and the sidewalks were devoid of trick-or-treaters.
A sudden rustling noise came from the bushes that bordered the right side of the porch. Parker lifted the umbrella high above his head. “Who’s there? Come out and show yourself!”
When no one answered, Parker leaned back inside the doorway and flipped on the front porch light.
He turned back to the bushes on the side of the porch—and froze in terror.
His eyes locked on a large, green puddle of rubber—a Frankenstein mask—lying on the edge of the concrete porch, and right next to it, scrawled in big, dripping red letters, a single hateful word: FAG
“Nooo!” Parker wailed.
He stumbled toward the mask, his face twisted in disbelief, and then he sniffed the faint scent of liquor in the night air. The smell struck him like a physical blow and he slammed back against the house, hitting his head against the brick and dropping the umbrella. Dad?
Rustling came from the bushes again, and this time, Parker could see the shrubs moving.
“Dad?” he whispered, not recognizing the sound of his own voice. “Is that you?”
The shrubs abruptly stopped moving. A gentle breeze stirred the bare trees. A dog barked. Somewhere down the street, a car started and drove away.
“It can’t be you.” Parker took a step forward, his voice louder now, already edging into panic. “You’re dead. It can’t be you.”
Another step—and the smell of liquor touched his nose again. “Nooo! It can’t be! I killed you, you son-of-a-bitch!” He surged forward. “I ran you down like the junkyard dog you are!”
He dropped to his knees and picked up the mask in both hands—and that’s when his tired
heart finally burst inside his chest.
Parker, a simple man with simple hopes, had just enough time to look at the mask and think Wait, this isn’t Frankenstein; it’s Shrek, isn’t it? before everything went black and he collapsed dead to the porch floor, still grasping the rubber mask in both of his hands.
November 6, 2016 edition of the Baltimore Sun newspaper:
JUVENILES ARRESTED FOR HALLOWEEN PRANK GONE AWRY
Baltimore County Police Detectives made several arrests yesterday in the tragic, accidental death of Forest Hill resident and longtime Fallston Middle School teacher, Benjamin Parker.
Names are being withheld because the suspects are juveniles, but numerous sources report that three arrests were made yesterday afternoon at Fallston Middle School, including one female and two male students.
Parker, 51, a resident of the 1900 block of Hanson Road, was found dead on his front porch the morning of November 1, 2016 by concerned neighbors.
An investigation was launched after police found a hate message sprayed on Parker’s front porch and a mysterious rubber mask still grasped in the deceased’s hands.
While the coroner’s report listed cardiac arrest as the official cause of death, subsequent toxicology reports indicated the presence of an unusually high dosage of a yet-to-be-named drug, which most likely caused blurred vision, severe confusion, heightened anxiety, and hallucinations.
An unnamed police source revealed that one of the students allegedly spiked Parker’s coffee during school hours, then all three students allegedly appeared at Parker’s Hanson Road home later that October night to play a Halloween prank on him.
All three suspects are being held in the Baltimore County Eastern Precinct until a bail hearing can be arranged…
Monsters
“Did you hear it this time?”
Manning leaned forward in the driver’s seat and cocked his head to the side, a movement designed to show that he was really listening this time. He shrugged his shoulders. “Just the crickets, baby. And the wind.”
Baby shook her head and shivered and felt an army of goosebumps march across her forearms. The night air was unseasonably cool, but not that cool. Her eyes searched the darkness, found only tall trees dancing in the summer breeze beneath a fingernail moon, shadow partners following their rhythmic lead.
Her name was Mary Beth and she hated being called “baby” almost as much as “darling” or “gorgeous,” but now was not the time and this was not the place to start an argument. It was downright spooky out here in the middle of nowhere and she just wanted to get it over with and get back to the motel to a big glass of iced-tea and the clean, cool sheets of her bed.
“Don’t worry, little darling, I’m right here to take care of you.” Manning put his arm around her and pulled her closer. He smelled of sour whiskey and cheap aftershave. His Trans-Am had designer bucket seats—leather, of course—and with a blanket stuffed down into the space between the seats it allowed for comfortable cuddling. He’d learned that trick many years ago.
“What would you do if something came out of the woods?” she asked, looking nervously out his side window. Her window was barely cracked, but his was more than halfway down. “A monster or something?”
He laughed loud and harsh and mean. “A monster? You mean like the Mummy or Frankenstein?” He shook his head, arched his eyebrows. “Shee-it! I ain’t never seen no monster before, but you can bet I’d jump on out and go right to ass-kicking if I did.”
Mary Beth almost laughed and was glad she didn’t. Manning was a lot of things, she knew, but an ass-kicker wasn’t one of them. She had played the dumb redhead role perfectly when they’d met earlier at the bar, but the facts were all committed to memory. Parker Manning. Twenty-nine years old. Ran his father’s furniture factory over on Elf and 14th. Spent money like it was paper. Local playboy, especially with the teeny-boppers. And worst of all—and this was her favorite—he still lived at home, with his folks, in an attic-converted apartment.
“You mean you wouldn’t be scared?” she said.
“Hell no.”
“Why not?” She made her eyes wide and fascinated.
“First of all, because there ain’t no such thing as monsters.” His chest was swelled out now and his heavy breathing filled the car with the flavor of cinnamon chewing gum. Again she swallowed a giggle. “Second of all, because I’m Parker Manning and I’m not afraid of anything.”
“So you’d protect me?” she purred, leaning in a little closer and kissing his earlobe, flicking it with her tongue.
“You’re damn right I would . What kind of a man do you think I am?”
And then, with the frantic grace of a fourteen-year-old in a dark movie theater balcony, Manning made his move. He rolled his bulk onto her, his chest pinning her tight against the seat, and then his tongue was inside her mouth like a fat, sloppy slug. His fingers found the three buttons at the top of her blouse and roughly pulled them open.
Christ, she thought, this was Mr. Playboy’s idea of romance and seduction in the moonlight. Ten minutes on a deserted dirt road, a little sweet-talking, and then get right to the good stuff. Jesus, she sure could pick ’em.
He paused to catch his breath and she took advantage of the break. “How ’bout we go outside, big boy? Take a blanket and have some fun underneath the stars.” It was still creepy as hell out there, but she no longer felt she had the advantage inside the cramped front seat. She wanted out.
“Nuh, uh,” he said. “Ain’t no stars out tonight. How ’bout we get that shirt off instead.” He yanked the bottom of her blouse out from her jeans and began to pull it up over her head. He let out a whistle when he caught a glimpse of her pale breasts.
Instinctively, her arms came up to stop him…and she panicked. With one swift movement, she pushed him off her and raked at his face with her left hand.
He shrieked and reacted with a backhand slap to her face. “You bitch. You stupid, stupid bitch.” He started the car and the engine was painfully loud, the stereo still louder.
“Get out,” he screamed above the music.
Mary Beth slowly reached over and unlocked the door, ignoring her stinging cheek. She knew exactly what would happen next: she would swing a leg out the car door and just before she got out, she’d turn back to him, lips pouting, big eyes blinking, and apologize and promise to make it up to him…
She pushed open the door, held it slightly ajar, so that the inside light flashed on. Manning’s face was flushed red and thin railroad tracks of blood crossed his forehead. Mary Beth opened her mouth—
—and he surprised her.
He gave her a hard two-hand shove and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The Trans-Am swerved wide, tires spinning, sending her tumbling out into the night, screaming like he had never, ever heard a person scream before…
Manning sped home in silence, windows rolled down, the air cool and soothing on his ravaged face. You sure can pick ’em, he thought. Crazy, crazy bitch. That’s the last time I pick up a stranger. Acting all hot and bothered at first, then all scared, then friggin’ crazy as a mountain man. And all that screamin’ and hollerin’, like she was back there dying or something. Christ, all she had to do was pick her skinny ass up off that dirt road and hike a few miles into town. Not like I abandoned her in the middle of nowhere.
He pulled to the curb in front of his parents’ split-level house and switched off the ignition. It felt damn good to be home again. He was halfway up the driveway—no one ever walked on the grass, not even the mailman—when he smelled rain in the night air and turned back. Both car windows were still open.
He yanked open the passenger door and screamed.
An upstairs light clicked on inside the house.
He screamed louder.
The front door opened and he heard his Daddy’s voice behind him, tired and clearly agitated. “What the hell’s going on, boy?”
Manning dropped to his knees and lost his club sandwich and bourbon dinner on the n
eatly-clipped grass.
When Daddy reached his side, Manning motioned inside the car—
—to the gleaming metal hook which was swaying gently on the inside door handle, a bloody stump of flesh dripping red and black onto the leather seat.
Manning’s final thought before he fainted at his Daddy’s feet was of the woman’s tortured screams echoing in the wind-blown summer night.
Like Father, Like Son
Father’s Day was always a big deal when I was growing up. The old man loved it. Breakfast in bed. (And let me tell you, back in those days, Mom made a ham and egg omelet so big the plate could barely hold it). Afternoon barbecue in the back yard. Horseshoes. Ball-tossing. Lots of laughter and silly stuff. And then an evening drive downtown for ice cream cones and milkshakes; all four windows rolled down, cool spring air blushing our cheeks; Dad at the wheel, singing along with the radio in that crazy voice of his, big hands swallowing up the steering wheel; Mom, sitting sideways in the passenger seat, rolling her eyes at us, feigning embarrassment.
There were three of us boys—the three stooges, Dad always called us. I was the oldest and most of the responsibilities fell on my shoulders. Come the big weekend, I was in charge of making sure the lawn was mowed, the hedges clipped, and the sidewalk swept. I was the one every year who bought the card down at Finch’s Grocery Mart and made sure that Marty and Lawrence signed it. And, most importantly, I was in charge of organizing the gifts. Of course, back when we were kids, our presents were never very expensive or fancy. Usually just something simple we’d each made in school. Individually wrapped and sealed tight with a few yards of shiny scotch tape so as to prolong the official gift opening ceremony after breakfast.
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