Doorbells at Dusk

by Josh Malerman

  Zombies will never die.

  Most of the kids wore costumes I didn’t recognize, and I figured they were like Kid Crowbar, characters from current children’s shows I’d never heard of. For the first time in years, I kind of regretted not having a television. I liked knowing about cartoons and superheroes. Some kids wore classic costumes. Robots made of cardboard boxes and aluminum foil. Ghosts. Vampires and vampire hunters. Werewolves. Mummies and pirates. Wizards and firefighters. Army men and princesses. Barbarians and priests.

  Who lets their child dress up as a priest?

  The teenagers and parents were mostly not dressed up. But there were enough wearing costumes for me not to get indignant about it. Many people were just dressed in black, wearing masks. Ghouls and politicians. Melting madmen. Screaming women with axes lodged in their foreheads. Burn victims. More zombies. And cartoon character heads that, in 3D, just looked creepy. I saw squid masks and shark masks. Even a cockroach mask and a microwave oven mask with the guy’s head lit up and cooking inside. There were demons and drag queens. Medusas and auto mechanics. Frog men and jungle queens and everything in between.

  Everyone seemed to be having a great time. I’d calmed down a little from the encounter with the cop and was feeling the negative effects of the crowd pressing in all around me. The stale beer smell, the body odor, the occasional fart, the bad breath, people coughing next to me, brushing up against a sweaty arm. People laughing right next to my ear. People shouting something stupid that was supposed to be funny.

  I imagined getting stampeded, trampled to death by hundreds of costumed assholes and dying in a pool of blood on the street, staring into the blank eyes of a discarded, smiling Lolli Tuesday mask.

  “Do kids still watch Lolli Tuesday?” I asked Monkey.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Lolli Tuesday.”

  “Why?”

  “Is that creepy-ass shit still on?”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “I don’t think it’s on anymore.”

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s right up there.” Monkey pointed to a flashing neon sign mounted on the side of one big-ass house. The neon sign flashed three images; a smiling jack-o’-lantern with spindly arms and legs, with one hand held over his head in a friendly wave, the other hidden behind his back; a surprised jack-o’-lantern who has just pulled a meat cleaver from behind his back; a frowning jack-o’-lantern who has just sliced his own head open with said meat cleaver.

  “That’s new,” Monkey said, pointing at the neon sign.

  “I wonder how much that thing cost.”

  “He probably rented it.”

  “Still.”

  Monkey and I wouldn’t admit it, but we were bums, jealous of Mr. Impossible’s affluence.

  The crowd pressed tighter around us, and we could barely squeeze through the bodies. People laughed and cheered, some cried out in alarm.

  “What the hell is going on?” I asked.

  Taller than me, Monkey looked over the heads of the crowd and laughed. “Holy fuck!”

  “What is it?”

  “Some kid in a cape is running on top of everybody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s running on top of the crowd. Oh, shit.”

  “What?” I asked. “What’s happening?”

  “There are two of them. Running after each other, man.”

  I jumped up to see what he was talking about, and it took me a few jumps to put a complete picture together. A kid dressed in spiky black body armor with a sinister-looking helmet and face mask ran across the heads and shoulders of the tightly packed crowd. People screamed at him, reached up to grab him, but he was too quick. He stumbled and rolled once, and got right back up, launching himself forward with a boot to some fat goblin’s face.

  Coming up behind the kid in the spiky body armor was another kid in a purple jumpsuit, purple domino mask, and a purple cape trailing off behind him. He had a tougher time making it across the crowd because it had thinned out in the spiky body armor kid’s wake. This purple superhero had to cross gaps in the crowd with leaps and bounds. He was in hot pursuit of the bad guy, and he wasn’t slowing down for anything.

  On my fourth or fifth jump, I saw the spiky body armor kid was right up on us, then one of his black boots drove down hard into Monkey’s shoulder and the other boot kicked him in the face. But, before Monkey could react, the kid was gone.

  Monkey turned toward me, blood dripped from his eyebrow. “What the fuck?” he said. His voice was shaky, and I could tell he was trying not to cry.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  But before Steve could answer, a purple boot stomped down on his neck and the little purple hero pushed off and propelled himself over my head to land somewhere in the sea of bodies behind me.

  It was kind of cool watching that little kid in that purple superhero costume flying over me with his cape waving in the night sky.

  But I’d never tell Monkey that.

  The kid in purple had pushed off Monkey and drove him backward into the arms of a large person, presumably a man, dressed like a grizzly bear in a tutu. Grizzly held Monkey up under the armpits. Monkey appeared to have been knocked out cold, but he soon recovered and pushed himself out of Grizzly’s arms in a manner that seemed a bit ungrateful.

  But Grizzly didn’t seem to notice, and, without saying a word, he patted Monkey on the shoulder consolingly, turned away, and slung his arm around a petite brunette dressed like a big game hunter.

  I grabbed Monkey’s arm and asked him if he was all right.

  He nodded, turned around, and pushed through the crowd. I figured he was hurting more than he wanted to let on.

  I kept close behind him and offered apologetic shrugs to anyone who turned around to scowl at us.

  We made it about another thirty yards and stopped at the edge of a clearing in the crowd. Monkey blocked my view, and he wasn’t moving. Men laughed and shouted, and women screamed, and I heard a lot of ‘holy shits’ and ‘what the fucks.’ Then a kid growling, and another kid screaming.

  “Monkey?” I said, trying to push forward, but he was pushing back into me. Hard.

  “Holy fuck,” he said. “Jesus Christ!” He pushed back even harder, turned, and caught me in the gut with his elbow, knocking the wind out of me, then he was behind me, and I was facing the clearing.

  A man dressed as a five-star general crouched beside a boy dressed in camouflage. An orange plastic assault rifle lay at the boy’s side. The kid’s face was covered with blood. Another child, a girl dressed like a zombie, snarled in the clearing. Fresh blood coated the front of her ragged pants suit and clotted on her face. Two women dressed like nuns held her arms, but the girl kicked and growled and moaned, doing her best to escape their grasp and resume her attack on the boy in combat fatigues.

  Or at least that’s what I thought was going on. And I guessed that a few moments before a circle had formed around these two kids and a bunch of assholes had been cheering them on as they fought each other. They probably thought it was cute. They likely let it go a little long because it was a boy versus a girl.

  So funny.

  So cute.

  It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

  My dad’s favorite phrase.

  Speaking of dads. The general’s cell phone lit up his face. This guy was likely the army kid’s father, and he was probably calling an ambulance.

  I didn’t want to stick around. The parents might start fighting next, and I didn’t want to get in the middle of that.

  Violence and weed just don’t go together.

  I turned away, in the mood for the booze I held clutched in my fist. I even thought about twisting it open and taking a swig right there. But I didn’t. And I didn’t see Monkey anywhere.

  It didn’t matter. All I needed to do
was walk toward the happy jack-o’-lantern chopping a meat cleaver into its own forehead.

  The crowd got rowdier after witnessing a little kid-on-kid blood sport. I passed teenagers sucking each other’s faces like it was the end of the world, hands down each other’s pants, grinding hips. A man held both of his kids in a head lock, one under each arm. An old woman dragged a hogtied toddler behind her. Two soccer moms grabbed my ass.

  I pushed through a group of about eight adults in lame white bedsheet ghost costumes and stumbled onto the sidewalk in front of Mr. Impossible’s house.

  Man, I was high as fuck—marijuana mixed with adrenaline.

  Monkey stood among a gathering of costumed children on the porch and looked like a dejected overgrown kid himself, a mentally challenged adult who doesn’t understand that he’s too old to go out trick or treating with the neighbor kids.

  I walked to the bottom of the porch steps—there wasn’t any room on the stoop. “Steve?” He didn’t look like he was in any mood to be called Monkey. “You been out here waiting long?”

  Steve didn’t answer. A girl in a Dalmatian costume turned and gave me a dirty look. A boy dressed in a three-piece suit said, “We runged the doorbell about eight times.”

  A boy in a saggy pumpkin costume pressed the doorbell, again.

  “Try knocking,” I said.

  Saggy Pumpkin took this as his cue to beat the shit out of the door with both fists.

  “That’s probably good,” I said, and the kid started kicking the door. I just let him go at it.

  “I don’t think anyone’s home,” a woman’s voice called from the sidewalk. She was probably chaperoning the band of beggars. “Come on now.”

  Saggy Pumpkin stopped banging and kicking, turned around, and looked extra saggy. He pushed through the other kids on the porch, knocking a toddler dressed like a cowgirl into a bush, and stomped out to the sidewalk next to his mother. She reprimanded him for knocking the girl off the porch but didn’t check to see if the girl was all right. She grabbed Saggy Pumpkin’s hand and dragged him off to the next house.

  The cowgirl didn’t seem put out by getting knocked into the bushes. She just laid there, eyes wide and smiling. It was kind of spooky.

  Then the front door opened and Mr. Impossible was standing there in a candlelit foyer. He wore an orange prison jumpsuit and held a black witch’s cauldron cradled in both arms. He looked at Monkey and I and said, “Aren’t you two a bit old to be out trick or treating?”

  Monkey didn’t answer.

  I told him to hand over the candy. He laughed, gave Monkey a concerned look, then leaned over to let the kids reach into the cauldron and grab their treats. Once the kids cleared off the porch, I pointed to the cowgirl still lying in the bush, still smiling up at the stars.

  Mr. Impossible sauntered out onto the porch, passed the cauldron to Monkey, and looked down at the girl, hands on his hips. “Gracie, is that you?”

  The girl giggled.

  “Why are you napping in my bush?”

  “I’m not napping,” the girl said. “Those boys pushed me.”

  Mr. Impossible turned and glared at us. “These boys?”

  “Those aren’t boys,” Gracie said.

  “You’re right,” Mr. Impossible said. “They’re not. I don’t know what they are.”

  “One’s a monkey,” Gracie said.

  Mr. Impossible got a chuckle out of that.

  Steve didn’t.

  “Well, Gracie.” Mr. Impossible reached into the cauldron and grabbed a handful of candy. “You want some homemade Halloween buckeyes?”

  The girl’s eyes lit up. “Yes!” She moved her arms and legs in a way that reminded me of a wind-up doll that’s fallen over.

  “You need some help?” I asked the girl.

  She shook her head and kept on moving her arms and legs.

  I offered her my hand. She turned her head away as if it were Brussels sprouts.

  “It’s all right, Gracie,” Mr. Impossible said.

  “Fine,” Gracie said. She grabbed my hand, and I pulled her up and to her feet. It was like lifting a balloon.

  “There you go,” I said.

  Once she was upright, she snatched her hand away and held it out along with her other one, forming a bowl for Mr. Impossible to fill up with Halloween buckeyes.

  She picked up her bag and plopped the candy inside and ran off without a ‘thank you.’

  “Happy Halloween,” Mr. Impossible called after her.

  Gracie ran to the next porch and stood behind the gang of waiting kids, ready for more sugary goodness.

  “How the hell are you guys doing?” Mr. Impossible asked.

  I pointed at Monkey.

  Mr. Impossible grabbed Monkey by the shoulders. “What the hell happened to you?”

  Monkey looked away. “Kid stomped on me.”

  Mr. Impossible laughed. “What?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It was crazy. These two kids, maybe five or six years old, were running on top of the crowd. Steve got stomped.”

  “Cool. Sounds like something I would have done as a kid.” Mr. Impossible looked at the crowded streets, then back at Monkey. “You need a little Band-Aid or something?”

  “No,” Monkey said, pouting. “I don’t need a little Band-Aid.”

  “Well, then stop acting like a pussy and come inside.” Mr. Impossible slapped Monkey on the chest. “Let’s go.”

  We followed Mr. Impossible into his big-ass house. I’d never been there before. The foyer was huge. A winding staircase led up to an open second-story landing. Aside from the Halloween decorations, there wasn’t much in the way of wall hangings or adornments. This place, like all his previous houses, looked like a model home.

  “Monk,” Mr. Impossible said. “Looks like you need to crack open one of those beers and chug the fuck out of it.”

  “Where’s the fridge?” Monkey asked.

  “Dude, you need to lighten up,” Mr. Impossible said.

  Monkey touched the cut over his eye and frowned.

  “All right, come on.” Mr. Impossible waved for us to follow him.

  “What about the buckeyes?” I asked.

  “You guys want one?” Mr. Impossible asked.

  “I can’t eat peanut butter,” Monkey said.

  “You allergic?” Mr. Impossible asked.

  “No,” Monkey said. “Just don’t like it.”

  “How about you?” Mr. Impossible looked at me.

  “I don’t like chocolate,” I said.

  “Really?” Mr. Impossible raised his eyebrows.

  “Really,” I said.

  “That’s not right.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Then why are you asking about the buckeyes?”

  “Who’s going to hand them out to the trick or treaters?”

  “Right. I almost forgot. I got started with the celebrating a couple hours ago.” Mr. Impossible picked up the cauldron, flipped a sign taped to the lip so it faced outward. The sign read: TAKE ONE.

  He placed the cauldron on the front porch and closed the door.

  “You think they’ll take just one?” Monkey said.

  “No way. And I don’t care.”

  We walked up the winding staircase, down a long hallway to his office. Built-in bookshelves were filled with textbooks and academic journals. Mr. Impossible wasn’t a big fiction reader. He had the periodic table of elements hung on one wall and on another wall there was a poster of some naked supermodel sitting on a toilet, reading a book about quantum physics. The book covered up her tits.

  Mr. Impossible opened what I thought was a closet door and revealed a flight of stairs. We climbed the stairs into an expansive third floor recreation room lit with lava lamps, neon beer signs, and strings of Christmas lights. A massive television hung on one wall. Along the wall opposite was a wet bar and shelves lined with booze and collectible beers. There was a pool table, a foosball table, a dart board, a workout bench, and some free weights. A c
ouch shaped like the letter C sat facing the TV, along with two comfy looking recliners. A card table stood in the middle of the room with four metal folding chairs. On the card table sat a plastic tray with a pile of weed on it and some rolling papers. Next to the tray was one of those fancy root beers that come in a glass bottle. The hand wrapped around the root beer belonged to Mr. Impossible’s son, Chapman.

  Chapman was tall and thin and handsome, which was weird, because his dad was short and not good looking. He wasn’t ugly. Mr. Impossible looked like what a squirrel would look like after a fairy godmother transformed it into a human being.

  Maybe the kid took after his biological mom? I don’t know.

  Oh, and Chapman’s teeth are all perfectly straight and white.

  Mr. Impossible’s are not, and we’ll just leave it at that.

  “Hey, Chap,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  Chap nodded, smirked, and returned his attention to his phone.

  Mr. Impossible rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t mind him. He’s forgotten all the social skills he learned in childhood.” He placed both hands on the bar and looked Monkey in the eye. “I think you need a shot.”

  “Yeah, he really does.” I grabbed a nearby shot glass that looked fairly clean, set my bourbon on the bar top, broke the seal, and poured a hearty dose. “Here you go, Steve.” I slid the shot toward him.

  Monkey frowned.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, and slammed the shot. It was mid-shelf shit and burned going down, but I didn’t mind. It was what I was used to.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Mr. Impossible said, shaking his head at my bottle. “Greene Angry? I haven’t had that since college.”

  “I like it,” Chap said.

  Everyone ignored this.

  “Monkey,” Mr. Impossible said, “you want a swig of Gainsail Black?”

  Monkey’s eyes lit up. “Shit, yes, I do.”

  Neither Monkey nor I could have afforded the Gainsail. That was for celebrities and Internet billionaires.

  Mr. Impossible produced a sparkling clean shot glass and poured. He smiled and pushed it across the bar.

  Monkey slammed it and gasped. “Ah,” he said. “Ahhhhh!”

  “Good shit, huh?” Mr. Impossible said.

  Monkey coughed.