Halloween Carnival, Volume 5

by Brian James Freeman (ed)

  The two women traded personal details as Bobbi’s purchases were scanned, rapidly bringing each other up to date on the most significant events in their lives since high school graduation.

  With the impulsive warmth that Lane remembered so well, her old friend invited them to lunch. “Now that I’ve found you, I can’t let you just walk out of my life again,” she exclaimed. “We have so much to talk about—and I do believe our babies feel the same—look at them! Best friends already. It would be cruel to separate them, don’t you think? You don’t really have to rush off?”

  Lane shook her head. Kate had given grandmother and granddaughter the gift of several hours to spend together. “I was just going to look for somewhere nice for lunch.”

  “My house! I’ve got a heap of fresh shrimp—if Madison doesn’t like that, there’s pimento cheese or PB and J.”

  “Where do you live? Is it far? Will it be hard to find?” Although she had learned to drive in this city, it had more than tripled in size since she’d left, with new freeways and developments obliterating the quiet neighborhoods Lane remembered. “I don’t know my way around.”

  Bobbi grinned, a familiar, mischievous gleam in her dark brown eyes. “Oh, you’ll know how to get to my house, all right. It’s on Cranberry Street.”

  —

  Cranberry was one street over from Blueberry, where Lane had spent the first twelve years of her life. She remembered well enough how to get there, but since the girls wanted to stay together, Ruby came along to direct: “When you get to Cranberry Street, she’ll show you Grandma’s house.”

  The entrance to the old neighborhood was a wide, quiet boulevard that wound like a slow, concrete river through the heart of the residential area, divided by a central esplanade where trees and flowering shrubs grew.

  Lane had not thought the children were paying attention to where they were going—she never did, at their age—but when she put on her turn signal, Ruby cried out: “No, not this street! Cranberry is the next one.”

  “I know, Ruby, but this is Blueberry—where I lived when I was your age. Wouldn’t you like to see my old house?”

  “I would,” said Madison.

  The pink brick house on the corner was as she remembered, but Lane stared in bafflement at the house next door. Her old home had disappeared. A chain-link fence enclosed the property, which boasted a mini-mansion so new it was still under construction. The tree she used to climb, the bushes she played under, the flowerbeds and lawn were all gone, churned up in mud in front of a house that was patently too big for the lot, dominated by a huge garage.

  “Which one?” Madison asked. “Did you live in that pink house, Nanny?”

  “No. That was the house next door. My house is gone.” She felt hollowed out and did not understand why.

  “How can your house be gone?”

  “Somebody bought it and tore it down to build a new house.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, probably the people that bought it wanted to live in this neighborhood, but they needed a bigger house.” Glancing along the street, she saw this was not the only new, much bigger house to replace a modest single-story home from the 1950s.

  “Why?”

  Putting the car back into drive, she moved on. “Can you think of reasons somebody might want a bigger house?”

  “If they have lots of children.”

  “Or lots of pets.”

  “So they could have a home movie theater, and a gym, and a game room.”

  “More bathrooms.”

  While the girls competed to come up with reasons for a bigger house, Lane drove to the end of the street, then took a left and went on six blocks to cross the boulevard. Ruby noticed as the car turned right into Azalea Court.

  “Hey, where are we?”

  “Haven’t you been here before?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Blueberry, Cranberry, Blackberry, Bayberry, Gooseberry—and she could not remember how many other berries—had been part of a brand-new subdivision in 1950, streets filled with affordable starter homes built to an identical plan. On the other side of the esplanade the streets were named after flowering plants, and the houses were larger and more expensive. It had been unknown territory to her when she was seven, like the girls in the backseat, but once she was a little older, she went exploring and developed a fascination with the more exotic and individual buildings she discovered on the far side of the esplanade.

  “Spiders,” gasped Madison. They all stared at the oak tree, draped in white gossamer strands. A spider the size of a large dog clung to its trunk; two others, puppy-sized, dangled from the branches.

  Ruby laughed gleefully. “Cool! And look next door—zombies! A zombie invasion!”

  Lane checked her mirror, tilting it to see her granddaughter’s face. The little girl was pale, but her eyes were wide, absorbing the sights that delighted her new friend. She was reminded of her own long-ago relationship with bold Bobbi, who never worried, the way Lane did, about dangers or getting into trouble.

  The residents of Azalea Court had really gone to town with their seasonal decorations, she thought, turning her attention back to the street. Ghosts, witches, a multitude of jack-o’-lanterns, flapping bats, black cats, and gravestones decorated the well-tended lawns. One red-brick walkway hosted a parade of brightly painted skeletons—more Día de los Muertes than Halloween.

  There were no construction sites, no tear-downs here: The handsome old houses, designed by architects to appeal to their well-heeled clients, had retained their value into the twenty-first century.

  She stopped the car in front of one she named after its most striking feature, a rounded, tower-like end construction topped by a roof peaked like a witch’s hat. She stared up at it, trying to remember why it made her feel uneasy, but the memory would not be caught.

  Ruby breathed heavily on the back of her neck. “What are you looking at, Mrs. Madison’s Nanny?”

  Madison chimed in: “What do you see? I just see a house.”

  “The tower house. Sit back, please.” She drove on.

  “What’s the tower house?”

  “That’s what I called it. It used to fascinate me. That tower appealed to my imagination, I guess. It didn’t seem to belong to the world I live in; it was more like something from an old book, a fairy tale or a fantasy. I wondered what might be inside, and what sort of people lived there.”

  “Did you go there for trick-or-treat?”

  Her stomach gave a queasy lurch. “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “I would,” said Ruby.

  “It was across the boulevard, and we weren’t allowed to walk that far. We didn’t know the people who lived over here,” she explained as she reached the intersection.

  “I’ll ask Gamma to take me there tonight. She will. I’ll find out who lives there—maybe a witch!” Gasping with excitement, Ruby clutched at Madison. “You, too! Madison’s Nanny, can she please come trick-or-treating with us?”

  “Please, Nanny!”

  Lane had not yet crossed the boulevard, although there was no reason to wait, with no other vehicle in sight. “Sweetheart, you’re going to a party—”

  “I don’t want to. I want to go trick-or-treating with Ruby.”

  “You’ll have to ask your mom. And Ruby will have to ask her grandmother.”

  “She’ll say yes, I know she will! You can meet my brother and my cousins,” Ruby said.

  Lane spotted Bobbi’s silver Lexus and pulled into the driveway behind it. Bobbi was waiting at the door. “What took y’all so long?”

  Ruby clutched at her grandmother. “She showed us the tower house. Can we go there tonight? Can Madison come trick-or-treating with us?”

  Startled, Bobbi met Lane’s eyes. “The tower house? You told them that story?”

  “Gamma, can she? What story? Can we go trick-or-treating at the tower house?”

  “No story,” said Lane quickly. “I just wanted to see if i
t was still there.”

  “Of course it’s still there.”

  “My old house isn’t.”

  Bobbi winced. “I should have warned you.”

  “Gamma, Gamma, please? Please, can she come?”

  Bobbi looked at Lane, who shrugged. “I told Madison she’ll have to ask her mother.”

  “Phone,” said Madison, with an imperious thrust of her hand toward her grandmother.

  Lane handed over her cell. “Do you know your number?”

  She frowned. “Don’t you have us in your contacts?”

  “Of course—your mom’s cell is under ‘Kate,’ but your landline—”

  She’d already found what she wanted. “Mommy? It’s me. Can I—may I—please go trick-or-treating with Ruby tonight? Her granny says it’s okay. Ruby. What? Yes, she’s here—but can I? Okay, okay.” She handed the phone to Lane.

  “Where are you? What on earth is going on? Who’s Ruby?”

  Slowly, carefully, but as succinctly as she could, Lane explained.

  “She’s talking?” Kate’s voice was hushed, reverential.

  Lane couldn’t help smiling, as smug as if it was her own doing. “She and Ruby hit it off right away—like best pals already.” She watched Madison put her arm around Ruby’s waist, saw the other girl reciprocate with a friendly squeeze. “Wait till you see.”

  “I didn’t know you still knew anybody here. Where do they live?”

  “Not far. Actually, it’s the same neighborhood I lived in when I was Madison’s age.”

  There were a few more questions, Kate needing to be reassured, but the outcome was never in doubt. Madison had never wanted to go to the school Halloween party, and this alternative, the appearance of a new friend, was a godsend.

  Lane stowed her phone in her bag and followed the others inside. It was a strange experience, to be inside a house with the very same design and floor plan as her childhood home; it struck her like a weird sort of déjà vu. Even the furniture was familiar—maybe Bobbi had inherited it from her parents. In the kitchen, there was a lunchtime feast of cold, succulent Gulf shrimp to be eaten with either red sauce or Thousand Island dressing, a mound of fresh salad, saltine crackers, and grapes and apples.

  “Tell us the story about the tower house,” Ruby commanded once the iced tea had been poured and they were sitting around the table.

  “What story? I don’t know any stories.”

  “Oh, you liar,” Bobbi drawled, and cackled before addressing the children: “This lady used to tell stories all the time—scared me half to death, some of them. The one about the tower house was really weird. And she swore it was true. Most of the time I didn’t believe it when she said that, but that story, I believed. I kind of had to.”

  The girls stared at Lane, open-mouthed, eyes gleaming. “Tell us!”

  Not since her own daughter had grown out of make-believe had Lane known such an eager audience. She shook her head. “Sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “I do.” Bobbi’s look was a challenge. “Go on—you can tell it much better than me.”

  Lane mimed helplessness.

  “Well, okay, then.” Bobbi cleared her throat and began. “As I recall, an old, old lady lived in that house, all by herself. One summer, all her grandkids came to stay. There were seven of them. She was too old to keep up with them, so she told the older ones to watch the little ones. The house was big, and she said they could play anywhere, outside or inside, with one exception. They were not allowed to go into the tower room, and never, ever go near the big wooden chest in that room.”

  Smiling slyly, Bobbi glanced at the girls. “Well, you know what kids are like, don’t you? Do they ever do what they’re told?”

  “I do,” murmured Madison, but Ruby grinned proudly, shaking her head. “I don’t.”

  “That’s what these children were like. Too curious for their own good. At first, the older ones kept the younger ones in line, but one day, one of the little boys was bored, and he decided to go into that tower and see what was there. The only thing in a big empty room was this big old carved wooden chest.”

  “Carved how?”

  “With designs and things. Pictures of animals and people. The little boy traced these pretty carvings with his finger and made up stories about them until he got bored again and decided to see if there was anything to play with in the chest. So he lifted up the lid and looked in, but it was too dark and the chest was too big, and finally he just had to get inside and feel around, and then, while he was sitting there, the lid came down, slowly and quietly. And nobody ever saw that little boy again.”

  “Did he yell? Did he scream? Couldn’t he push it up again and get out?”

  Bobbi shook her head.

  “Why didn’t they look for him?”

  “Oh, they did. They did at first. And his favorite sister went on looking even when the others had given up. And one day she went into the tower room—for about the tenth time—all by herself, and she lifted up the lid of the chest that none of them were supposed to touch, and she could see that it was empty, but just to make sure, she climbed inside, to check that there wasn’t a secret compartment, or another way to get out, and slowly and quietly, the lid closed down.”

  “No!”

  “She had been such a quiet girl that they hardly noticed she was gone, and, after a while, they forgot about her.”

  “No!”

  “And one day, they were all playing hide-and-seek, and one little kid went to hide in the chest in the tower room, thinking that nobody would ever find her there—and she was right. And another time, two of them went into it together, thinking, you know, they would protect each other, but again the same thing happened. Finally, there was just one girl left, and she meant to be good and mind her grandmother, but one night she was dreaming about her missing cousins, and she got out of bed and went walking in her sleep to the tower, and opened the chest and climbed inside.”

  She stopped speaking. The girls stared at her. “But the parents? Why didn’t the grandmother call the police? What happened?”

  Bobbi speared a large shrimp, dunked it in the red sauce, and ate it. “Lane made it up. Ask her.”

  “I didn’t make it up,” said Lane. It had come back to her while she listened. “I used to tell you stories I’d read—I never made them up myself. That one was written by Walter de la Mare. Back then I thought it was a ghost story, but now I realize…He called it ‘The Riddle,’ which gives you a clue—really, it was more of an allegory. About memory and the passage of time. The old lady’s thoughts were drifting, she remembered the child she had been, her friends, maybe her own children, even grandchildren, now all grown up and lost, the way time takes everyone.”

  They all stared at her as blankly, as if she had started speaking in a foreign language.

  “Ruby, don’t play with your food; eat that shrimp or leave the table.”

  They went on to speak of other things—Halloween costumes, Bobbi’s other grandchildren, the cousins who would be joining them that evening.

  “Can we go trick-or-treating at the tower house?” asked Ruby.

  Bobbi shook her head. “Forget it.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too far, for one thing—”

  “It’s not.”

  “And I don’t know who lives there.”

  “Please.”

  “It’s nicer to go to the neighbors who know you—or know me, anyway.”

  “Please, Gamma, please, pretty please, can we go to the tower house?”

  “No. I said no, and I mean it. Now stop nagging and finish your lunch.”

  Lane thought that was the end of it, but after the children had left the room Bobbi suddenly asked, “So what did happen in the tower house?”

  “What?”

  “Were you just pretending, to scare me? After you came out. Why wouldn’t you talk about it?”

  A sense of unreality swept over her, the opposite of déjà vu. “I never went inside that house.”


  Bobbi laughed scornfully. “This is me you’re talking to, remember. I saw you with my own eyes.” Reading the bafflement on Lane’s face, she slowly shook her head. “Really? How could you forget?”

  “Why would I go into a stranger’s house?”

  “Because I dared you.”

  Suddenly it made sense. They’d played the “dare” game for a year or more, and some of Bobbi’s challenges would make any parent quail. “Honestly, I don’t remember anything about it.”

  “I could never forget,” Bobbi said emphatically. “I can practically see the look on your face now. And somehow you were never quite the same afterward. And the way you told the story—”

  “How could I have told ‘The Riddle’ like it was supposed to have happened to me?”

  “You went into the house, and you met a girl—older than us—who told it to you. All her brothers and sisters and cousins had disappeared into the tower room, and she was afraid to go in to look for them by herself, so you agreed to go with her. She led you up a winding staircase into the tower room, which was empty except for this big old chest, and while you watched, she opened it and climbed inside, and the lid came down.

  “You rushed right over and opened it immediately, but she was gone! You were leaning in, looking, trying to figure it out, but afraid to lean in too far in case you fell inside yourself. It looked completely empty. Then you heard a soft voice speaking behind you, a high old lady voice saying, “Go in, go in,” and you looked around and saw this little old lady—she was only little and frail-looking, but you were sure she meant to try to push you in, so you ran out past her, down the stairs and outside.

  “Laney, you were scared. You were as white as a sheet. It was obvious something had happened to you, and that’s what you told me. I could hardly believe it…but what was I supposed to think? You really don’t remember?”

  “When is this supposed to have happened?”

  “It happened. I don’t remember the exact date, but we were eleven. It was the last time we ever played dares. You told me that was the last dare, and you’d won, and I couldn’t argue. You’d never talked to me like that before. And afterward, you were…different.” She turned her head sharply. “What was that?”