Tales Around the Jack O'Lantern

by Terri Reid

  Tales Around the Jack O’Lantern

  A MARY O’REILLY SERIES SHORT STORY

  by

  Terri Reid

  Tales Around the Jack O’Lantern – A Mary O’Reilly Series Short Story

  by

  Terri Reid

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Terri Reid

  Tales Around the Jack O’Lantern – A Mary O’Reilly Series Short Story

  Copyright © 2014 by Terri Reid

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  The author would like to thank all those who have contributed to the creation of this novelette: Richard Reid, Sarah Powers, Andrew Reid, Jennie Ellefson, Katie Solomon, Denise Carpenter, Juliette Wilson, Maureen Marella, and Jenny Bates. Also, special thanks to Jon Powers for his excellent work on the cover image.

  Happy Halloween!!!

  Chapter One

  (Ten years ago)

  The candles in the jack-o-lanterns on the front porch were already burning low and the candy dish sitting on the hallway table in the O’Reilly’s Chicago home had been refilled three times. The street lights were glowing brightly and most of the neighborhood goblins, ghouls and princesses had finished their Halloween ritual and were either tucked securely in their beds dreaming of candy corn and miniature-sized candy bars or actually sorting through their bounty from a successful rampage of trick-or-treating.

  Mary O’Reilly, the youngest of the O’Reilly clan, had graduated from college at the end of the summer and was now enrolled in the Police Academy eagerly anticipating becoming a police officer in the Chicago Police Department like most of the other members of her family. She sat back in her favorite chair in their living room, an afghan tucked around her legs on the cool October night, and turned to the rest of her family. “Okay, it’s time to get started,” she announced.

  Her brother Art, one of the twenty-three year-old twins, grabbed a handful of candy from the bowl and headed towards the couch.

  “Arthur Patrick O’Reilly,” Mary’s mother, Margaret, scolded. “You leave that candy for the trick-or-treaters.”

  “Ma, it’s already after nine,” he argued, popping a piece in his mouth. “They should be home by now, not prowling the streets.”

  “It’s only the teenagers out now, Ma,” Sean O’Reilly, the oldest sibling in the group added, taking a few pieces from the bowl too. “And they shouldn’t be knocking on doors anyway. They’re too old.”

  Timothy O’Reilly, the large, bear of a man who was the father of the clan, chuckled, “I seem to recall the three of you eager and willing to take your little sister out door to door in hopes of getting some candy for yourselves when you were teenagers.”

  Tom, the other half of the twins, grinned. “Well, it was better than stealing candy away from Mary,” he laughed, taking a seat next to Art and swiping some of his candy. “And besides, it was a public service. The neighbors didn’t want to be left with all that extra candy.”

  “You’re no better now than you were then,” Margaret teased gently.

  “Except now we help buy the candy,” Sean replied.

  “Okay, enough about candy,” Mary said. “We have some serious business here. The annual O’Reilly ghost story night is about to begin. Everyone needs to settle in.”

  Sean walked over to the doorway and dimmed the lights while Timothy lit the candle in the large jack-o-lantern sitting on the coffee table between them. They all took their seats in the living room, the light from the candle flickering wildly around on the walls. Margaret carried in a tray filled with cups of hot apple cider and plates of pumpkin bars and placed it next to the jack-o-lantern. While her family helped themselves, she took her place in the old rocking chair and took a deep breath. “Well, I believe it’s my turn to start the story telling,” she began. “I’ve been thinking about what I’d share for a while now. And, with Mary in the Police Academy, I thought it was time I shared a story your father and I both experienced that I haven’t mentioned before.”

  She was silent for a moment. The house was also silent; the only sound to be heard was the slight tick-tock of the clock in the hallway. The candle now burned brightly, only wavering slightly, filling the room with a soft glow. The eyes of all of the members of the O’Reilly family turned to the shadowed face of their mother. And she began her story.

  Chapter Two

  It was a night like many others in the life of the wife of a police officer, alone and worried. Margaret O’Reilly had done the dishes, put her daughter Mary to bed and even read her a story. But throughout the evening she’d been bothered by a nagging fear. It was the kind of fear that eats at your heart and digs at your nerves. Most nights she was able to chalk it up to an overactive imagination, but this night she jumped every time a car drove by and stared at the phone for minutes on end, waiting for it to ring. Waiting for that message from the captain, offering his sincerest regrets.

  She put in another load of laundry and took the last one out of the dryer. Folding towels was mindless enough that she could do it and not think about it. But even from the laundry room off the kitchen, she kept glancing to the phone on the wall, waiting for it to ring, praying it would not.

  She kept calling herself a fool. Kept telling herself that he was fine. But, she knew in her heart of hearts, that something really was wrong.

  Finally, she finished the laundry and started pacing in the kitchen. She glanced up at the clock and the panic increased. He should have been home by now. Or, he should have called to tell her he was going to be late. That was the rule. The only rule. If he was fine, but was going to be late, he had to call. Had to stop her from worrying.

  Walking over to the phone, she put her hand on the receiver. She didn’t really want to call, didn’t want to make it look like she was checking up on him. But she had to know.

  “Margie?”

  The voice from the other side of the room startled her and she jumped, sending the receiver crashing to the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief, she saw it was John Polichek, Tim’s partner, standing in the kitchen doorway. “Johnny,” she said, and then she realized it was just John and not Tim and the fear that had been weaving through her gut froze solid. “Timmy?”

  “Hey, sorry, don’t worry,” John said. “Tim’s fine. I promise.”

  A wave of overwhelming relief washed over her. She swallowed twice before she could speak. “Really?” He’s fine?” she stammered.

  John smiled at her and nodded. “Yeah, we walked into a little trouble down on the East side, but Tim’s fine,” he said. “They sent him to the hospital, to get
a couple of stitches. But, he’s good. I just wanted to stop by here, ‘cause I knew you would be worried.”

  Exhaling slowly, she leaned against the wall, trying to control the flood of emotions and the tears. “Thank you, Johnny,” she said, picking up a kitchen towel from the counter and wiping her eyes. “You’re right, I was worried.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. “You’re a good wife. And Tim’s the best partner a guy could ever have.”

  She smiled. “I won’t tell him you said that,” she said, surprised that she could tease him. “We wouldn’t want it to go to his head.”

  Johnny smiled and nodded. “Yeah, well, just this time you can let him know what I said,” he replied.

  She kicked against the receiver on the floor and shook her head. “I guess I’d better pick this up in case he decides to call,” she bent down and turned to place the phone back on the hook. “Would you like some coffee…”

  She turned, but Johnny was no longer near the kitchen door. “Johnny?” she called out.

  Walking through the kitchen and into the hall, she saw that the bathroom door was open, so he hadn’t gone in there. Maybe he had to get back to the station. Maybe he mentioned it, but she didn’t hear him when she was turned away to get the phone. She hurried to the door to look for his car, but no one was on the street. Shrugging, she went back to the kitchen, her heart lightened and waited for Timmy to get home.

  As soon as his car turned down the street, she was out of her chair and hurrying for the door. When he opened it, his arm wrapped in a cast and a bandage over his forehead, she moved forward into his arms. He didn’t say a word, just held her against him, each seeking and giving the comfort they needed. After a few moments, she leaned back, running her hands gently up to his shoulders. “How are you?” she asked.

  He placed a kiss on her forehead. “I’m good,” he said softly. “I’m fine. I got hurt and had to go to the hospital.”

  She nodded. “I know,” she said, leaning into his arms again.

  “You know?” he asked. “I told them not to call you. I told them you’d be worried sick.”

  She shook her head. “No, no one called,” she explained, her head nestled against his chest. “Johnny stopped by and told me that you were okay. He said he knew I’d worry, so he wanted to tell me himself.” She smiled. “He also said that you are the best partner a guy could have.”

  She heard the sharp intake of breath and she felt him stiffen beneath her. Pulling away, she looked up into his eyes and saw the tears. “What?” she asked frantically. “What?”

  “Johnny,” he replied haltingly. “Johnny didn’t…”

  “Did something happen to him on the way back to the station?” she demanded. “He was just here…”

  He shook his head and placed his forehead against hers. “Johnny was with me when we walked into the ambush,” he explained hoarsely. “He was the first guy in. He…he didn’t make it.”

  Chapter Three

  There was silence once again in the living room when Margaret finished and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “He was a good man,” she said.

  Tim nodded. “Aye, he was,” he replied. “And knew what it was to be a good partner. Sometimes I still feel him watching over me.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?” Mary asked. “Ghosts watching over people? Ghosts being here on the earth?”

  Tim took a deep breath and nodded. “I do, yes,” he said. “And, actually, when I was a young lad growing up in Chicago I had an experience that caused me never to doubt that there is a world out there that few understand. And, since I believe it’s my turn, I’ll share the story with the rest of you.”

  The day had finally arrived, twelve year-old Timmy O’Reilly was old enough to have his own paper route. How he’d envied those other boys with their pockets filled with change, buying the latest comics books or stopping for a treat at the ice cream parlor. He was at last, a working man.

  He had thought of nothing else that day in school. He got his knuckles rapped twice by his teacher, a nun with a very sour disposition, for not paying attention to the board work. But all he could think about was the stack of papers that would be waiting for him when he got home that afternoon.

  He ran all the way, crisp autumn leaves crunching beneath his shoes, the crisp wind turning his cheeks pinks and blowing his hair off his face. Taking the front steps two at a time, he dashed through the front door calling to his mother, “Are they here yet?”

  Coming from the back of the house, his mother smiled at her eager son. “Yes, Timmy, they are,” she said. “Now, why don’t you take a moment and study your route, then we can fold the papers and pack them in your bag.”

  Timmy shook his head. “No, we have to fold them right away,” he replied. “The circulation manager told me that I had to be real quick. So, let’s fold them and I can learn the route on the way.”

  Shaking her head, but allowing her son to lead the way in his new business venture, Mrs. O’Reilly sat on the living room floor and began to fold the papers and pack them neatly in the large canvas bag with the paper’s name emblazoned on the side. With both of them working, side by side, the bag was soon filled and Timmy was ready to go. With the canvas bag handle looped around his shoulders and the bag resting on his back fender, he straddled his bike, route addresses in hand and started off. “Bye Mom,” he called, his face glowing with excitement. “I’ll be home for supper.” He only said that because it was something his father had said and it made him feel like a real working man.

  “Good-bye dear,” she replied, biting back a smile. “Good luck with your route and remember, you are representing the paper.”

  Pushing off and pedaling into the street, he thought about his mother’s last words. He was representing the paper now. He wasn’t just Timmy O’Reilly; he was part of the Chicago Beacon. He needed to be sure he remembered that.

  He biked the four blocks to his first street. It was like all of the streets in his neighborhood, tree-lined and residential, with neat little Chicago bungalows lining the street. The porches already had decorations in place for the celebration of Halloween at the end of the week. The jack-o-lanterns were carved and stared at him with dark, vacant eyes and smiles, awaiting the candles that would light them up. Ghosts, scarecrows and witches also shared the porches with the carved pumpkins, awaiting the ghouls and goblins with the bags for trick or treating. Timmy already had his costume planned; he was going as a policeman, the only costume he ever wore.

  Slowing at the porch of the first customer, he realized it was the home of a classmate. Jenny Callahan, one of the cutest girls in the seventh grade. She stood next to the railing and watched him. He felt sweat pool between his shoulders and his hand got a little clammy. If he messed this one up, the whole school would know about it. Taking a deep breath, he reached for a paper and threw it on the porch. He’d been practicing his throw for several weeks, and it paid off when the paper hit the porch and slid to land next to the welcome mat near the front door. “Cool,” he said, his grin broadening. “This is going to be great.”

  Jenny smiled at him, then bent and picked up the paper. “Wait, Timmy,” she called, walking into her house. Confused, he waited. Did he do something wrong? A moment later she walked out and came down the stairs. She handed him a shiny dime. “My mom always tips our newspaper boys,” she said.

  Timmy smiled back at her and stuffed the dime in his pocket. “Wow, thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

  Yeah, this was going to be a great job, Timmy thought as he pedaled away from Jenny’s house. He continued down the street, each paper landing precisely where he wanted it to go. And as he continued his route, the sky darkened, the streets became less occupied and he could tell that night was settling in. The final street on his route was a dead-end, so he decided he would deliver to one side of the street, then the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, finish with the other side of the street and finally go home.

  The trees on t
his particular street were spaced closer to each other and their overhanging branches formed a tunnel down the middle of the narrow street. The sidewalks were in disrepair and often leaned to the side or were crumbled in the middle. He rode his bike carefully, not wanting to fall over. Timmy glanced quickly down the sidewalk, he couldn’t remember ever coming down this street before.

  As he approached the first porch, he picked up the next paper, waited until the next porch came into range and fired it off. Slap. Slide. Perfect hit. Even in the dimming light, he had good aim. He continued with the next six houses and then came to last house at the dead end. The sidewalk here was nearly non-existent and the house was set away from the street, so he couldn’t see the porch. He laid his bike against the tall, black wrought-iron fence at the edge of the property. Weeds, bushes and dried chrysanthemums encased the fence and nearly swallowed Timmy’s bike. Pulling a paper out of the bag, he walked to the tall gate, pushed it open and froze.

  The old house reminded him of the sidewalk, leaning and dilapidated. The windows were dark and what was left of the porch was leaning dangerously in the opposite direction of the rest of the house. He started to step back, away from the gate and back to his bike. But then he remembered his mother’s words. He was a representative of the paper and it was his job to deliver the news.

  Swallowing his fears, he took a deep breath and walked forward towards the house. The leaves under his feet crunched with such noise he wondered if they were really corn flakes instead of leaves. The air around him seemed to be still and heavy. It was harder to breathe, but that could have been because his heart was beating so quickly.

  As he placed his foot on the first step he heard a rustling sound in the overgrowth next to the house and he nearly stepped back. Then he looked down at the paper in his hand, and placed his next foot on the step. Looking around the porch, he tried to find a safe place to put the paper. But where the porch was not rotted away, it was covered with spider webs or thick vines. He had no other choice than to deliver it in person.