by Steve Frech
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“Took me a while to figure it out, myself,” Kyle says, leaning in closer to the valve, “but this is kind of like a trapdoor. This here,” he says, pointing to the bit of plastic above the battery, “is a receiver. You can get them at any electronics store. Once it gets a signal, it opens the door,” he says, flipping the valve, which creates an opening to the box. The clicking sound it makes is the clicking sound I had mistaken for the clicking of Helen Trifauni’s pen. “That allows whatever’s inside to get out, and what we found inside is what’s really crazy.” He lifts the flaps on the top of the box, and reaches in. He lifts out a smaller, white cardboard box. One end has been cut away. Inside, I can barely make out what looks like egg packaging. As Kyle lifts it out and sets it on top of the larger cardboard box, a few dead roaches fall out onto the table.
I glance back and forth in confusion from the box to Kyle.
“I … I don’t understand.”
He turns the white box over to show me a red stamp that reads, “LIVE DELIVERY”. There is a postage label that has been obscured by thick, black lines of marker.
“People order live cockroaches online for a number of reasons,” Kyle says. “Most times, it’s to feed a pet lizard or snake. Some schools order them for science classes. Point is, anyone can get them. This right here,” he says, indicating the two boxes, “is a sort of ‘cockroach bomb’. They let the cockroaches loose in the bigger box and then opened the valve with a phone to let them out in your restaurant.”
“Wait,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re saying that someone put them here, under the seat in this booth?”
“Not just this booth. We found one of these under the seat of every booth in here,” he says with a sweep of his hand around the dining room. “We destroyed the other ones, but I wanted to keep this one, because I didn’t think you’d believe me without proof.”
I believe him. I believe every word, but can’t tell him why, because he won’t believe me.
“Do you have any cameras in this place?” he asks.
“No. I don’t even have an alarm.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s The Hollows. I didn’t think I would ever …”
I feel stupid, but it’s true. Crime is non-existent in this town. All I had was a simple lock and no cameras. What would anyone steal? Come to think of it, how did they get inside?
He shrugs. “Well, we’ve taken care of it. You may find a dead roach now and again for a few days, but other than that, you’re good to go.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it.” He takes a look around the shop. “I don’t know how else to say it, Mr Reese, but it looks like, and please excuse my French, but it looks like someone is fucking with you.”
“No shit.”
*
I go home and sit in the living room chair by the window. I stare out and watch the cottage and the woods for hours. I don’t answer my phone. I only get up to feed Murphy and take him outside to do his business. Once he’s done, we go back inside and I resume my post.
Chapter 7
No … no … please …
The handle turns with a groan that echoes through the basement.
Silence.
I slowly reach down to pull the door open. The instant before my fingers touch the handle, the door explodes outwards. I’m blown backwards and sent careening across the grimy floor. Shrapnel from the steel door flies past me.
My body slides to a stop. My ears are ringing as the dust settles around me. I can’t move. Every bone in my body is broken, but I somehow manage to pull myself to my feet. I cough and splutter, attempting to catch my breath.
There’s a wet, ragged whisper behind me.
“Jacob …”
I bolt upright in bed.
Sunday. Halloween morning.
I don’t remember coming upstairs to my room last night. Murphy’s here, too, taking up two-thirds of the bed.
I throw off the sheets, head to the bathroom, and take a shower. I reach for the shampoo bottle and miss, knocking it off the side of the tub. I quickly reach to catch it, and the pain in my side flares. I look down at the matching scars—two small, round patches that look like someone plastered and painted over to match my skin. Standing there under the stinging water, I lose track of time. I think about what happened, what’s happening, about Laura, and I feel so helpless that I’m hit with an impulse—it’s Sunday, and I’m going to go to church.
I can’t remember the last time I went to church. It was something my parents were never really big on. I asked my father about it one time. I must have been ten or eleven years old.
“Dad, is God real?”
“Some people think he is. Some people think he isn’t,” he replied without looking up from the computer at his desk in his office.
“Do you think God is real?”
Dad shrugged.
That was the extent of my theological studies. At ten or eleven, there were more pressing issues, like Little League Baseball or Nintendo, but this morning, I feel compelled to go.
I finish up in the shower, shave, and put on what I guess I would call my “Sunday Best”. Fastening the last button on my shirt, I stare in the mirror at my reflection. The clothes are sharp, but they can’t hide the fact that I look like a wreck. I’ve aged five years in a few days. I massage the heavy bags under my eyes in the hopes of getting the blood going, but if it has an effect, I can’t tell.
Murphy watches from the bathroom doorway, confused by this new procedure.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I’m not sure I get it either, Murphy.”
*
Standing in front of the open doors to the Old Stone Church, the only thought in my head is that this is a huge mistake. It’s a beautiful autumn morning, people are pouring in around me, and I’m hit with that same feeling I had at my parents’ funeral—I’m a fraud—but I start walking, as if I’m being pulled by a tractor beam through those doors.
Once inside, I can’t turn and leave without having to go against the flow of people, like a fish fighting upstream. I move off to the side and watch the people file in and find their seats in the pews. Their polite conversations echo in the rafters overhead.
It’s the standard church layout. There are two columns of pews, divided by the aisle leading to the altar, which is bathed in light from the stained-glass windows surrounding the apse. A large crucifix with Jesus on the cross hangs above the altar. The original church had been built in the 1600s, but it burnt down shortly after the witches’ trial. Only the tombstones and the Hanging Tree out front were spared. This new church had been completed in 1810, over the site of the original structure. While other parts of the church had been updated through the years with modern touches like drywall, the chapel hasn’t changed since 1810. It looks even older. Standing in the room, you might have thought you were in a medieval village church somewhere in the English countryside.
More people pour in, and the pews are starting to fill. I wonder if there will be a bigger congregation than normal because it’s Halloween. I accidentally lock eyes with a few people as they enter. They are Groundworks regulars who are mildly surprised at my presence. I say a quick hello to a handful of them, but move further away from the doors, keeping to the wall at the back of the chapel.
It doesn’t help. People still continue to recognize me. I’m sticking out like a sore thumb, especially since I’m standing up. I go and sit down in the furthest spot from the doors in the last pew.
There’s almost no angle of recline. I have to sit perfectly straight. I try to find some way to have a little slouch in my posture, but the pew in front of me is too close. It’s like I’m sitting in an airplane and not first class. I can’t believe God would want us to be this uncomfortable while singing his praises.
More people file in. There are handshakes and “good mornings”. Every now and then, a laugh rises above the conversation. I catch occ
asional snippets of people talking about tonight’s celebration. Thankfully, my pew is empty and no one comes to speak to me. I keep my head down and pretend to be looking at my phone to deter any contact.
This is ridiculous.
What was I hoping to get out of this? Why did I think this would help?
The congregation grows quiet.
I should go. I’m going. I’m going to get up and—
Too late.
Reverend Williams emerges from a side door in the apse and steps to the podium. He’s tall and thin, with a shock of white hair and glasses that give him a scholarly look. I know him enough to say “hello”, but not much else.
“Good morning,” he says.
There is a collective cheerful murmur of “good morning” in response.
“Happy Halloween,” he adds.
It gets a few warm laughs.
“We have just a few things to go over about tonight’s festivities before we begin. First of all, I hope to see you all there. You have put so much of your time and effort into tonight, and I think that’s really what makes The Hollows so special. Our social director, Mrs Ronson—” he nods to someone in the front pew “—will be running a face-painting booth on the green, and Mr Dempsey has graciously offered to manage the Dunk Tank. So, don’t miss a chance to throw a softball, and possibly dunk him in some water. I know I’m looking forward to that, and have been practicing all week.”
Mr Dempsey rises from his seat, turns, and waves to everyone.
“There are also some raffle tickets still available,” Reverend Williams continues. “We have some great prizes from our local businesses, and all proceeds go to the high school marching band, which will also perform tonight. Speaking of which, as a reminder, there is no parking on or around Main Street. If you’re attending, you’ll be directed to park at the high school and walk to the celebration.” He consults the papers on the podium in front of him and smiles. “Well, that’s it for the formalities, and now, on to business. Please take your hymnbooks and we’ll begin with …”
I mumble my way through the songs, feeling more foolish than ever. I’m being disrespectful to everyone here. I’m an imposter.
The hymns end, and everyone has a seat.
Reverend Williams takes to the podium, again, with a short stack of papers in his hands. He gathers his thoughts, and begins to speak.
“You know, the other day, it occurred to me what this day must have meant to the generations before us. As most of you know, November first was ‘All Hallow’s Day’ or ‘All Saints Day’, and the night before was ‘All Hallows Eve’, which became ‘Halloween’. That was a night when spirits, and ghouls, and goblins would roam the Earth. The popular perception today is that everyone was terrified on All Hallows Eve, but that’s simply not true. They viewed Halloween the same way we do. It was a night to cut loose a little bit. On Halloween, they weren’t really scared of werewolves or witches or vampires. They got to be them. For one night, they got to be the monsters. It was the one night when you weren’t scared, because by pretending to be the monster, you take away what is scary about them, which is the unknown. And let’s face it—it’s fun. Becoming our fears, pretending to be these monsters, and in a way, mocking them, takes away their power over us. It takes away our own fears. It helps us understand why we fear them, and that’s a good thing. Anyone who says that we shouldn’t celebrate Halloween because it’s a pagan holiday, well, they’ve just told you what they’re dressing up as—a stick in the mud.”
He’s good. I even chuckle at that one.
“But I thought we’d have some fun. We’re going to look at these classic Halloween monsters, because I think they have something to teach us. So today, I’m going to present to you my stab at a doctoral thesis. Mike?”
He motions off to the side, and a young man wheels in a digital projector on a cart. He then brings in a projector screen, and sets it up behind the podium.
“Mike is my grad assistant for the morning,” Reverend Williams says as Mike sets up.
Mike pulls down the screen and positions the projector. He also brings out a laptop, and sets it on the podium. Mike hits a button on the projector and the screen fills with the image of the home screen from the laptop. It’s a strange juxtaposition to see these modern items in a stone chapel that is stuck in the past.
“Thank you, Mike,” Reverend Williams says, and pats him on the back. Mike nods and walks off to the side in the apse. “Round of applause for Mike, everyone.” There is good-natured clapping, and Mike waves. “He helped me put all this together, so you can blame him.”
Standing behind the podium, Reverend Williams’ hands go to the laptop. On the screen, the pointer glides over to the PowerPoint icon and clicks. The home screen disappears and is replaced by a title card with a photoshopped image of the Reverend wearing a large graduation cap. The text under the image reads, “Reverend Alexander P Williams, PHD, Esq., LLC., TBD, ASAP presents …”
“Now, as many of you may have guessed, this is not an entirely serious dissertation, but it’s kinda fun, and I believe we can learn something from our favorite monsters.” He takes a thoughtful breath. “You have to ask yourselves—what are those classic Halloween monsters? Monsters like Dracula, witches, mummies, werewolves, Frankenstein’s monster? More importantly, what were they? The answer is people. They were, and sometimes still are, people. They are humans who have been corrupted. The truly scary part about these monsters is that we can become them. All of them are cursed people, people who have given in to the worst sins, and that got me thinking—what if these monsters are the personification of sin?”
He pauses for dramatic effect. Then, he comically mimes his head exploding, drawing laughter from the pews, and I’ll admit it, I am totally hooked. “And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I give you my doctoral thesis.” He taps a few keys on the keyboard and the screen advances to the next slide.
Seven Deadly Sins & Seven Halloween Monsters: A Comparative Study
Underneath the title are photos of the various classic monsters—a vampire, a witch, a werewolf, Frankenstein’s monster, a mummy, a ghost, and a zombie.
“The Seven Deadly Sins are pride, sloth, lust, greed, wrath, envy, and gluttony. What I’m going to try to show you is that each of these monsters represents one of those sins, and again, I must reiterate, this thesis will be published absolutely nowhere, but if you would like to offer me a grant, I’m okay with that. So, let’s start with the one our own town has a little history with.” He taps the button and the slide show advances to a picture of a stereotypical witch with green skin, warty nose, and a pointy hat.
“Now, which sin do you think a witch represents?”
“Lust!” someone calls out.
Reverend Williams turns to the picture, studies it, and turns back to the person who said it, who I can’t see.
“Really, Bob? You look at that, and think ‘lust’?”
That one gets a laugh. From behind, I see someone shrug their shoulders.
“I know, I know,” Reverend Williams laughs. “There are more modern-day representations of witches that might make you think that, but I’m going with the old school. I drew a different connection. I think that a witch represents envy. A witch is someone who has made a pact with the devil because she wants something. She is so envious of something that she’s willing to sell her soul to Satan to obtain it. Then, what does she do? She feeds off other people’s envy. People bargain with the witch to get things they want because they are envious. They want to be beautiful, or they want riches. They only want these things because they are envious of those around them, and they will give up their soul to get them. And when we think of envy, what color do we think of?”
“Green,” the congregation murmurs, making the connection to the witch’s skin in the photo.
“So, you kind of see how this works. Next up, we have Dracula.” Reverend Williams taps a key, and the screen fills with the image of Dracula. Like the witch, it’s the c
lassic version, with the cape, slicked hair, and pointed fangs. “Anyone want to take a guess?” He tilts his head towards the pews. “Bob?”
“Lust?” Bob answers, tentatively.
“Lust! There you go, and I know this one for a fact. Our modern image of Dracula is straight out of the Victorian views of morality. Here is a monster that corrupts with an intimate physical act. It is almost literally a kiss that goes too far. It’s a metaphor for …” He looks around like he’s unsure if he should say it, and then dramatically whispers, “intercourse.” Everyone chuckles at his feigned embarrassment. “Dracula is seductive. He’s mysterious. He is the perfect personification of temptation that will lead you to ruin.” He pauses and looks at the congregation. “Ain’t gonna lie, this one was the easiest argument to make. Some of these other ones might be a bit of a stretch.”
He taps the key, and the slide show advances to a picture of a werewolf. It has pointed ears, red burning eyes, a snarling snout, and a muscular chest barely contained in a tattered shirt. His sinewy arms end in black claws. His whole body is covered with gray hair. His head is thrown back in a howl.
“The werewolf,” Reverend Williams says. “Any guesses?”
“Wrath!” a woman chimes.
The Reverend puts one finger on his nose and points at her. “Bingo! Kelly Woodward, right out of the gate! Well done.”
There are grumblings of “of course” from the pews.
“Want to do the rest of the sermon?” Reverend Williams asks.
“Nope,” she replies.
Reverend Williams laughs and goes back to the slide. “Yes. The werewolf is wrath. The werewolf is special because out of all the monsters, it is the one most like a human, because it is a human. It only becomes a werewolf during the full moon. When it is the werewolf, it is blind with power. It’s savage. It preys on the weak. As a werewolf, it will destroy the ones it loves as a human. It brings destruction to itself and all those around it. He may not be aware of what he is doing, but the werewolf is wrath. It is in his nature.”
