He nodded.
“Well, Mr. Walker left everything to his wife if he should die. Only she died with him, which means that she couldn’t get the house and everything. If they both died, all of it was supposed to go to their kids, only all of their children were murdered too, right?”
“Yeah.” He wasn't sure where it was going, but the logic of her argument made perfect sense.
“So, the house and everything in it has to go to someone, only the only people left are the families of Mr. Walker and Mrs. Walker, and they don’t know what to do with the place.”
“Well, they could sell it.”
“Yeah,” she answered. “But would you want to live in a house where everyone was murdered?”
“No way!”
“See? No one wants to buy the place, because of the murders. So they’re kind of stuck with it.”
It made perfect sense. Well, almost. “Didn’t some people move in there once?”
She nodded her head. “Yep. They heard all kinds of creepy noises and left a week later.”
Tom nodded his head and reached for another slice of the Carlotti Master Munch Pizza, which had everything but anchovies on it. He chewed and Mindy looked away, her eyes drifting back toward the TV.
He could work with that. Scary noises? Noises couldn’t kill, could they? So he was in good shape. An hour in the house and they’d be gone again and all would be well.
“Of course, there were supposed to be others, you know.” Mindy’s voice had taken on an ominous tone he knew all too well. When she’d read him stories when he was just a kid she had used the same voice whenever something bad came along.
“Other whats?”
“Other victims. People who tried to sneak into the house and were never seen again.”
“No way.”
“Way!” She wiped at her mouth with her napkin and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to hide a smirk—she did that sometimes when she was teasing—or if she was serious. “Had a couple of homeless people who tried to sneak in there to sleep and they were never seen again. Well, not alive anyway.”
He made himself keep eating, because Carlotti’s pizza was his favorite, but suddenly he didn’t have much of an appetite left.
Halloween came in with a howling cold wind that was perfect for the day. Leaves jumped and curled and hissed into streams that washed through the air and wrapped themselves into every possible crevice before flying off again.
Tom spent the first part of the day at school, wishing he could wear his Jason Voorhees costume to class, but knowing he’d get yelled at for it. So instead he just kept his cool and waited like everyone else.
When the last bell rang he bolted for home, walking the eight blocks with Sam and Larry and going over the plans. Trick or treating came first, of course. After that, they were all going to get together at Larry’s place for dinner. Mrs. Reddington, in addition to being one of the prettiest moms Tom had ever seen, was also making everyone dinner and letting them sleep over. No one expected there would be much sleep, or course, because there was a marathon of horror movies to watch and Mr. Reddington—who had to be the luckiest man in the world when you thought about his wife—would be making popcorn and handing out sodas. It was what they did every year.
And then, after the Reddingtons went to bed, they’d be sneaking out of Larry’s bedroom window and heading for the Walker place. Easy-peasy, as Larry and his mom were fond of saying. Tom didn’t know if he should be worried because he could spend time with Mrs. Reddington—who made him feel nervous every time she smiled in his direction—or because he was going to see a real ghost or maybe even more than one.
Mrs. Reddington was the sort who insisted on coming with them when they went trick or treating and though Larry moaned and groaned about it, Tom was secretly delighted. She’d dressed herself in a slinky witch’s outfit that showed off her figure and Tom enjoyed stealing glances—a task made easier because his mask hid so much of his face. He walked into a few things, but it was worth it for the furtive looks he used to study the woman he wanted to marry someday.
The neighborhood was done up, almost every house on the block was festooned with orange and black decorations and several of the houses had parties going on, a pleasant side effect of Halloween falling on a Friday. There were plenty of adults dressed in costumes too, and more than one man stared at Mrs. Reddington’s creamy cleavage even as all of the kids got candy from the offered bowls of treats. Tom felt involuntary flares of jealousy each time, but wisely suppressed them. They’d carefully plotted out the path they would take, one that guaranteed maximum chances for candy, of course, and halfway through the entire trek across the neighborhood streets they came to the Walker house and everyone stopped and stared.
Mrs. Reddington stared hard at the house and Tom wondered what, if anything, she knew about the secrets that were locked inside the place. For a moment he thought she might actually cry with the way her lower lip trembled, but then she closed her eyes and quickly crossed herself—an unusual thing to see a witch do, surely—and told them it was time to get to the next house in a voice that was almost normal. And then they were off, seven kids total and one parent to watch over them, and he forgot about the house for a while.
After they got back to the Reddington house—minus Megan, Sabrina, Jason and Eben who were all dropped off at their own houses—the world’s prettiest witch handed them all plates of spaghetti and meat sauce and then changed herself into the world’s prettiest friend’s mom again. Mr. Reddington kept his word and made popcorn with insane amounts of butter and salt, and they ate until it was hard to move, all the while watching some of the newer horror movies, which had been edited for content and formatted to fit the TV, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
At nine-thirty they were put to bed, and even though they were maybe getting too old for kisses good night, Mrs. Reddington kissed them each on the cheek anyway and only Larry didn’t blush because of it. It seemed crazy to think she might not realize how amazing she was, but that appeared to be the case.
At ten o’clock Tom was just drifting toward sleep when Larry shook him awake. “It’s time.”
Tom nodded his head and clamped his lips shut against a moan of panic. The Walker house scared him, more so since he’d seen the fear on Mrs. Reddington’s angelic face earlier.
Sneaking out was not hard. It never is, really, for ten-year-old boys on a mission. Larry gathered his Ouija board and they carefully climbed out of his bedroom’s ground floor window, moving single file and dressed in their costumes again, because Halloween only comes once a year and costumes are far too cool not to wear. Batman—Larry, a ghost named Sam and Jason Voorhees practically slithered across the lawn and then scurried through the shadows as they covered several blocks. Jack-o-lanterns leered and screamed in silence from stoops and porches, their eyes and mouths flickering with orange light, and the sweet smell of roasting pumpkin seemed to permeate the cheap hockey mask that covered Tom’s face. The air was cold enough to stop sweat from spilling across his eyes and despite himself he felt a grin growing on his lips as he anticipated the possibilities of a visit with the specters of the dead.
They crept across lawns and down streets and people saw them, perhaps, but if they did they paid them little mind. They were grownups and the time had come for them to have their older Halloween fun. Or maybe, they simply remembered being ten and celebrating the scariest night of the year.
And all too soon the Walker place was looming over them. Earlier he’d been too enthralled by Mrs. Reddington’s beautiful face to notice the house that he ignored most times, but now, in the darkness, he couldn’t help but stare at the old structure that seemed too large somehow, too dark and too menacing. The windows were closed, he could see the glass panes, but they refused to cast a reflection from the moon or the stars above. The wraparound porch was strong and sturdy, the boards seemed perfectly even and yet they gave a sense that anyone walking across them would risk f
alling to his death. The doors, surely no larger than the doors at his house or Larry’s, seemed too big, swollen and distorted. The knobs were thick cut glass, beveled into the shape of oversized diamonds, but even that glass refused to offer a glimmer of refracted light. They seemed instead to absorb the very night and hold onto it greedily.
There was a small part of Tom that looked forward to entering the house, the same part that thrilled at lurking among the dead a year before. Somehow, that inner voice seemed quieter this year, tinier, a fading ghost of courage that spoke out as loudly as it could and still only managed a whisper.
Larry coughed into his hand, and Sam, who sometimes had asthma and sometimes did not, sighed out a soft, whistling breath from lungs that seemed smaller than they should have. Knowing that they were both scared too helped Tom’s tiny flame of courage bloom larger than before.
“How long are we staying?” Sam’s voice was even squeakier than before.
Larry got braver just like that. His infectious grin grew a bit broader and Tom’s eyes widened for just a second as he realized a simple truth: Larry was braver because he knew Sam was scared. They were more alike than he had ever realized. Of the three of them only Sam still seemed to feel the worst of the fear.
“We’re in for as long as it takes, dummy.” Larry moved up the stairs with all the courage in the world and Tom made himself follow before he could think about it. A moment later they were both looking back at Sam, and Tom felt another thrill: the last of them was more afraid than he was. It was a good feeling.
All of the courage drained from them as soon as Larry’s hand on the backdoor knob turned and the door opened. They’d known it would open, of course, because Larry had managed to sneak off earlier and unlock it. Still, the squeal of hinges was enough to send shivers across young flesh.
Flashlight beams cut through the darkness that filled the old house, carving tiny gashes of illumination that hardly seemed significant against the weight of night they tried to hold at bay. Larry was the first to walk inside. Larry was always the first. He was brave that way. Still, his hands trembled a bit and the beam from his light jittered against the floor and then the far wall.
The house was not in perfect shape. It had been without life for too long to keep itself pristine. There was a faint smell of rat droppings but not as strong as Tom expected. The air was still and oh, so very cold in the deep, dark heart of the place. He wasn’t sure past the eyeholes in his hockey mask, but he thought he could see Larry’s breath as he exhaled past his batman cowl.
Sam honked out a breath and then took a deep sucking gasp off his asthma pumper. Tom managed not to let out a shriek, but it took a lot of effort.
They looked around the barren living room for several moments. It wasn’t really empty. There were still pieces of furniture, end tables and book shelves and a rolled up rug along one wall, but everything else had been taken. The rumors that the house was still full of furniture weren’t quite true. But there was enough left to hide a hundred monsters if Tom had to guess. Enough, surely, to make his nerves moan.
“Let’s go. Come on. I don’t wanna be here all night.” It had been Larry’s idea, but he didn’t seem so psyched about hanging out in a haunted house any more.
They settled on the ground with the unconscious grace that only children and contortionists are allowed to share and Larry opened his Ouija board’s box with a flourish. The old board had been his mom’s before it had been his and the edges of the cheap cardboard were stained with dust and mildew. That just made it seem more authentic in Tom’s eyes.
“So, who are we calling on?” Sam’s voice shook, but the gasping quality was gone.
Tom opened his mouth to answer and realized he had no idea. He turned toward Larry.
“All of the Walkers. Any of the Walkers. Who else, dude? What other ghosts are there?” His voice was confident again, and as abrasive as ever. There was some comfort in that simple fact.
Tom started to speak a second time and let out a squeal instead as the flash light he’d been holding in a death grip—hard enough that his hand ached from squeezing, though he was barely aware of it—was torn from his hand and thrown across the room. He watched the beam of light flip end over end into the darkness, saw bare floorboards and then the black soulless eye of a window that refused to send back a reflection of the light, and then the ceiling and then the wall and then the light exploded into darkness amid a tinkle of thin plastic.
“You trying to fucking kill me?” Larry’s voice was sharp and he’d used the F word, which was normally absolutely unthinkable, but at the moment Tom barely even noticed.
“I didn’t throw it! Someone took it from me!” Tom bristled. The light had never even come close to Larry, whose hand was clutching at his chest like he was afraid his heart would explode.
Sam scoffed. “You did too, I saw you! Well, you can’t have mine!” Sam’s voice was sounding mousy again and he’d pulled the sheet from his face and left it lowered, his eyes glassy in the glimmer from his flashlight. He waved the light like a sword. “You’re gonna have to walk home in the dark!”
Maybe he planned on saying something else; maybe he was done with his rant. Whatever the case, the light he’d been wielding soared away and skittered down the long hallway toward the back of the house. Long before it reached its destination the lens broke and the bulb beneath followed suit.
The Ouija board slithered across the ground and hissed along the hardwood floor as it vanished toward the back of the house. It’s possible that a group of adults would have discussed options, but the boys were only ten and they did exactly what they should have at their age. They panicked.
Larry stood up and held his light in both hands, trying to aim at every shadow at the same time. He let out a nervous moan that seemed to go on and on as Tom ran toward the door they’d used to enter the house and Sam let out a braying sob while he tried to pull himself into a ball on the ground.
The voices came from everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, the floor beneath his feet. As Tom clutched the door knob and tried to twist it frantically to the left and the right without any success.
“Who are you? Why are you here? Did you want to play with us?” The words merged into a mass of sounds, young and old voices speaking over each other, a nearly meaningless cacophony.
Tom looked back toward his friends, his heart thudding madly and breaths lost in a cloud of panic. He could barely see Larry behind the flashlight’s erratic beam, but he could see Sam clearly enough. Sam was still curled in on himself, his hands over his head to ward off any possible blows—sometimes Sam had bruises and no one ever talked about them—his eyes were closed and his mouth was open in a breathless scream.
And then Sam flipped over onto his stomach and his left leg lifted high into the air. The impact was unexpected and Sam’s nose and chin smacked into the flooring hard enough to make him wince. His eyes flew wide and his hands left their place around his head as he started moving backward, dragged by the darkness toward the hallway.
“Larry!” Sam’s voice was loud and clear as he looked toward the remaining flashlight and the boy who held it. Larry trained the light on him and let out a sound that wasn’t at all like his normal voice, not at all calm or in control and this time around Tom found no comfort in that unsettling noise.
“Sam, what’s happening?” Larry’s voice shivered.
“Don’t let them get me! Don’t let them get me!” Sam’s hands clutched at the floorboards, fought to get a proper grip on the old wood, and failed. His skin squealed as he was yanked brutally backward, and his voice echoed the sentiment.
He vanished into the darkness of the long hallway. His scream did not peter out. It ended abruptly.
“No fair,” the voice whispered near Tom’s left ear. “No fair, Daddy always takes the best ones.”
Tom jumped away from the doorway as surely as he’d have backed away from an angry cobra. His skin felt cold and his heart, well, his heart was working as
hard as a hummingbird’s. “Uhh.”
The light disappeared. Maybe it was taken away; maybe it was simply turned off. He had no idea. All he knew was that by the time he’d turned to where the light should have been, Larry was screaming. Not a little yelp of fright, but a wrenching bellow of terror that surely tore at vocal chords and left his throat bloody and raw.
Tom stood perfectly still and looked around wildly, wishing for more light, praying to somehow be allowed to see in the darkness.
His wishes and prayers were not answered favorably.
“Larry?” His voice was a gasp. He cleared his throat and tried a second time. “Sam?”
“They’re here with us now.” The voice belonged to a little girl, maybe his age, maybe even younger, it was hard to tell when he couldn’t see anyone.
Through the one window in his range he could see a faint glimmer of orange. The jack-o-lantern on the stoop of the Lambert house still flickered in the late night, despite the cold air and the strong breeze.
He took a trembling step toward the glow of the pumpkin’s light and a second later the darkness ate the light from the window completely. Tom froze, afraid to touch whatever might have blocked his view of the one window.
“I’m sorry.” He cried, tears stinging his eyes as they started down his face. “Please let me go. Please let me go. I want my mommy.” Because the words sounded too distant, he pulled off his Jason mask and gasped in the musty air. “I want my mommy.”
The voices kept talking, the words mixed into a twisting whisper of noises.
And then the first hand touched his face, feeling the features. Tom tried to back up, to recoil from the cold contact, but something pressed against him from behind. More hands, perhaps, or just maybe a wall. He couldn’t tell for sure.
Cold hands touched his face again, cupped the back of his head and forced him to look up, into the darkness that buried any hint of light or the outside world.
“Shhhh. Your mommy isn’t here. But I am. We are. We’ve been waiting for you. All of you. We have been so alone.” The voice was kind, the words meant to be loving, but the hands of ice that held his face stole away any possible warmth. “We are always so alone.”
This is Halloween Page 23
