Halloween

by John Passarella

  Impatient, Aaron cleared his throat.

  “Michael. My name is Aaron. I’ve followed your case for years, and I still know very little about you. I want to know more about that night. About those involved.”

  His back to them, The Shape stood motionless.

  And silent.

  No reaction whatsoever to Sartain or to Aaron.

  Growing a bit uncomfortable with the continued silence, perhaps, Aaron sought to pry a reaction out of him. “Do you think of them? Feel guilt about their fate?”

  Nothing.

  Aaron looked to Dana, shrugged. She stepped close to him. To lend moral support, but also in preparation for what would come next.

  “Do you remember Laurie Strode?” Aaron asked. Generalities hadn’t penetrated his indifferent veneer, so maybe specifics would. One particularly specific detail.

  At the mention of Laurie Strode, The Shape stretched his fingers—and then his hands became still at his side. Sartain noticed the brief movement.

  “Did she remind you of your sister, Michael?” Aaron asked, seeking a breakthrough. “Is that why you chose her?”

  The Shape half turned toward them. For a breathless moment, Dana thought he would respond… but then nothing. Frustrated, Aaron looked back at Sartain. The time had come, per their discussion prior to the visit. Understanding the meaning of Aaron’s inquiring gaze, Sartain nodded, giving permission for them to proceed.

  Aaron took a deep breath and looked to Dana.

  Of course, she knew exactly what he wanted.

  She unzipped her bag.

  Aaron addressed Michael: “I borrowed something from a friend at the Attorney General’s office. Something I’d like you to see.”

  As Aaron reached inside Dana’s shoulder bag, she noticed a slight trembling of his fingers. He pulled out a portion of a white Halloween mask, a piece of Michael Myers’ history.

  Sartain moved forward to observe the exchange.

  Clutching it by the fake hair in back, Aaron held the full mask out before him, like bait or a lure, designed to provoke a reaction—any reaction.

  The Shape stood motionless.

  But the other patients in the courtyard became restless, agitated, pacing madly. Concerned, Dana looked around. It’s as if they sense something on an atavistic level inaccessible to us, she thought. Heedless, Aaron continued to hold the mask at arm’s length, like a silent accusation.

  “You recognize this, don’t you, Michael?” Aaron said, his voice elevated, his tone accusing, if only to provoke a response. Though worn, creased and frayed a bit at the edges due to the passage of time, the mask would be unmistakable to him. “How does this make you feel? Say something.”

  A few of the patients started screaming. The young man stuck on his red square dropped to his knees and pressed his palms to his temples, moaning. The burned man in the wheelchair wailed, digging his fingernails into the ruined side of his face as if trying to expose the bone underneath.

  Most alarmingly to Dana, some of the patients tested the strength of their chains, tugging their wrists and ankles against the unforgiving metal until their limbs began to bleed with their frantic efforts. She wondered if bloodied hands would be slippery enough to slide free. And once freed, would they try to stop the cause of their agitation, the presence of the interlopers?

  And yet Aaron was undeterred. He shouted, “Say SOMETHING!”

  By now all the patients in the courtyard had worked themselves into an uncontrolled frenzy, a chorus of madness. All but one.

  The Shape remained eerily still.

  2

  HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS

  Already awake by the time her alarm clock buzzed, Allyson reached out and switched it off before the sound disturbed anyone else in the house. She’d always been a morning person, accused at times by close friends and family of being annoyingly chipper at dawn while they clung to their energy drinks or steaming mugs of coffee as if they were life preservers. A new day presented new opportunities, and Allyson figured, if you planned to seize the day, you might as well start with the beginning of it.

  She’d picked out her workout clothes the night before, but the forecast called for a chilly morning, so she opened her closet door and flipped through the bustling row of hangers, sliding aside her tops until she came upon her gray quarter-zip running jacket with long pink-and-navy-striped sleeves, which paired well with her powder-blue running shorts. As she slipped on the jacket, she turned back to her room, her gaze falling—as if for the first time—on some of the childhood crafts and mementos she’d never tossed or boxed for attic storage. Middle-school crafts, a few stuffed animals, a Magic 8-Ball and a few items she’d probably be embarrassed to have on display if any high-school friends dropped by. At seventeen years old, she had a late-adolescent duty to move on and grow up, but somehow the transitional task of “putting away childish things” had never assumed any real urgency.

  She closed the door to her closet—which surely had enough free space to hold at least a few of those childhood artifacts—made her bed and slipped out into the cool morning air. After putting her light-brown hair up in a ponytail she performed a few dynamic stretches to warm up before launching into her morning run. Even so, it took several blocks before she worked out the kinks in her stride and began to focus on her breathing and form. Once fully engaged in her run she felt as if she were meditating in motion, her breathing steady and controlled. Her movements fluid, natural, and calm, she passed a five-foot-high wrought-iron fence bordering a house now beyond the periphery of her vision. In the blink of an eye she caught a blur of motion and—

  —a dog lunged at the fence, barking ferociously.

  Allyson’s heart rate spiked, and she stumbled, veering from the fence, her last breath lodged in her throat. But the dog stayed on his side of the fence, no immediate threat to her, allowing her to regain her composure after several uneven strides. A few deep, calming breaths and the moment slipped behind her, but not forgotten. She chided herself for breaking one of the cardinal rules for running alone. Always be aware of your surroundings.

  Her “seize the day” mentality had a relevant corollary: stay in the moment. Not always easy for someone her age. Like her friends, she tended to agonize over past missteps and then second- and triple-guess every future decision. With practically her whole life in front of her, she had as many ways to succeed as to spiral into failure due to poor choices. But that wasn’t the real worry. What if the paths to success were obscured and hard to find, while the roads to failure were broad? Or the ultimate fear—that success waited at the far end of a tightrope in a rough wind.

  Slowing, she ran past a residential community garden and noticed many of the flowers and vegetables had died. Inside the garden, a woman wearing a red-and-orange saree wrapped a plant to protect it from the changing weather, the chill in the air. Breathing deeply, hands on her hips, Allyson stopped and watched the patient woman. Something in the way she handled the plant made Allyson think of a parent trying to protect her child from the random cruelties awaiting her out in the world.

  * * *

  While Karen, Allyson’s mother, prepared breakfast, juggling her attention between bacon in a skillet, eggs in a frying pan, and a stack of bread for the toaster, Ray proceeded with single-minded purpose in slathering peanut butter over the catch of a mouse trap. Karen wondered if Ray anticipated the mouse gorging itself before the trap sprung.

  “You see this?” Ray said. “I switched from marshmallow fluff to peanut butter. We’ll see if the little devil snatches it.”

  “Leave any in the jar?”

  “Oh, there’s enough for another trap,” Ray said.

  Playing at the level of a background conversation, the countertop radio alternated between periodic traffic reports for the morning rush hour and the drive-time DJ crew laughing at an intern convinced the radio station was haunted. Karen assumed they were pranking the young man, but had trouble following the conversation as Ray had also turned on the TV
for a dose of the morning news but had inadvertently switched to a channel whose programming consisted solely of earnest infomercials. “But wait, there’s more…” There was always more. A deal too good to pass up. For a limited time only. Operators were standing by.

  After setting the catch lever notch in the opening to set the trap, Ray crouched to open the cabinet and reached toward the back to set it down. “Freeloader’s days are numbered.”

  “Worried he’ll take a seat at the breakfast table?”

  “You’re a lovely woman,” Ray said. “But you lack the killer instinct.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” Karen said, laughing. She flipped an egg and absently brushed her hand against the skillet of bacon, burning a finger. “Ouch!”

  “You okay?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said, pressing her finger to her lips. An occasional minor burn was the price paid by a busy cook, the fine for multitasking in the kitchen.

  “No aloe plant?”

  “Keep forgetting.”

  Fresh from her post-run shower, Allyson entered the kitchen in school clothes, a pink cardigan and jeans, fussing with her backpack zipper. She always seemed three steps ahead of everyone else in the house. Karen wished she had as much energy as her daughter. “Everything okay?”

  “Stupid zipper,” Allyson said. “Always gets stuck.”

  “Try some WD-40,” Ray said absently as he prepped a second mouse trap.

  “Ew? Seriously? That stuff reeks!”

  “What? It evaporates.”

  Allyson yanked on the zipper. “Besides, the zipper teeth are caught on the cloth.”

  While Karen doled out breakfast portions to three plates, she said to Allyson, “I rescheduled my last session, so I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Allyson said, finally freeing the zipper. “It’s not that big of a deal,” she added casually.

  Maybe too casually, Karen thought.

  “Of course it is,” Ray said, satisfied that he had a big enough dollop of peanut butter on the second trap to tempt the most suspicious of rodents. “You got into National Honor Society. It’s a very big deal.” With the catch lever in place, he carefully withdrew his fingers. “I was top of my shop class, making ashtrays and birdhouses.”

  Allyson nodded at the mouse trap. “No instruments of death?”

  “Unfortunately, inventing a better mousetrap has so far eluded me.”

  Karen navigated to the kitchen table, carrying two of three plates. “And we’re looking forward to meeting Cameron.”

  “I knew his father, Lonnie, and his Uncle Wames. The entire Elam family has a… reputation.”

  Karen shot him a disapproving look. “Ray, c’mon.”

  “What? You know about his situation,” Ray said, picking up the loaded trap. “It’s a relevant factor. The whole household is—”

  As he turned toward a different cabinet he jostled the trap and it snapped in his hand, the hammer smashing his finger. Startled, Ray flinched, dropping the trap and what remained of its blob of bait to the floor. Blood welled up from his finger. “Goddam it!”

  “Don’t look at me,” Karen said. “I suggested a humane trap.”

  “That’s not fair, Dad,” Allyson said, failing to stifle a laugh. “Cameron isn’t like that. He’s a nice guy.”

  Karen retrieved the third plate and set it on the table. Maybe, for once, they’d all have time to have breakfast together.

  Ray walked to the sink to wash his finger under cold water then dabbed it with a paper towel. “I’m not saying he’s not nice. It’s just—you’re too smart to go out with troublemakers and dipshits.”

  “You’re right,” Allyson agreed, since she thought of Cameron as neither one nor the other. Karen filled three mugs with coffee while Ray grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

  Allyson sat at the table. “Did you guys invite Grandmother like you said you would?”

  Karen exchanged a look with Ray, a knowing exchange between the adults Allyson pretended not to notice. But Karen had caught the quick flicker of her gaze before she poked at a fried egg with her fork.

  “I did,” Karen said, after too long a pause. “Talked to her yesterday.” She took a breath before sitting. “She’s not going to be able to make it.”

  Allyson grabbed her backpack sitting on the empty chair beside her and gave her mother a skeptical look as she pulled the zipper tight. “Really?”

  Ray sat opposite Allyson, avoiding eye contact with her by directing his attention to Karen. “Bad morning for fingers,” he said to her. “Which one did you burn?”

  Karen waggled it at him, her gaze remaining on her daughter, but when Ray kissed her finger, she couldn’t miss the disapproving look he gave her. Probably trying to tell her, Allyson’s not buying it. Pull the ripcord, bail out, before it’s too late.

  Karen remained committed, for Allyson’s sake. At least that’s what she kept reminding herself. “She’s agoraphobic. In serious need of cognitive… um… behavioral—”

  Fortunately, as Karen had begun to flail, losing more credibility with each word that passed her lips, the doorbell rang.

  “Vicky’s here,” Allyson said. “I gotta go.”

  “But you haven’t eaten any of your breakfast,” Karen said.

  Allyson looked down at her plate then back at her mother. “I’ve had enough,” she said, letting the statement hang for a moment. After a glance at the fruit bowl on the table, she added to lighten the mood, “Ate a banana before my run this morning.”

  “But—but, where’s the protein?” Karen asked as Allyson wound her way out of the kitchen.

  “In a bar in my bag,” Allyson called from the next room. “I’ll eat it on the way.”

  “You know,” Karen said to Ray, “I don’t believe she has a protein bar in her backpack.”

  Ray pushed away his own plate and stood up, staring down at her.

  “Karen?” Ray said with exasperation, shaking his head. “What the hell?”

  3

  By the time Allyson stepped outside, Vicky and Dave had retreated to the curb. Sipping mango bubble tea from a clear plastic cup, Vicky wore her denim jacket, decorated with her growing collection of metal pins, over a maroon ringer t-shirt with a white collar and dark overalls. Her red Converse high-tops added a splash of color. Her straight blond hair flowed over the leather strap of her large knit shoulder bag, which she carried instead of the standard high-school backpack. Dave, on the other hand, toted the expected backpack with the addition of a green canvas pouch slung in front of him, which—if Allyson had to guess—contained non-school-approved supplies. He wore his fur-trimmed hat, a flannel coat with Navajo patterns, dark-green cargo pants and scuffed brown boots.

  Of course, they had no plan to leave for school without her. They’d stepped away from the front door in case Allyson hadn’t been the one to answer the doorbell, because Dave had already—big surprise—fired up a joint. As she joined them, he took a deep hit, no longer concerned about discretion.

  “Off to an early start, Dave,” Allyson commented. Then immediately worried she’d come across as too judgmental after sitting through her mother’s performance.

  “Medicinal,” Dave said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Don’t ask,” Vicky said, rolling her eyes.

  “For school,” Dave said, grinning. “Raises my bullshit tolerance quotient.”

  Vicky cast a sidelong look at Allyson. “Told you not to ask.”

  Despite his nonchalant attitude, Dave trailed a bit behind them as they walked, effectively shielded from any approaching adults, keeping the joint low at his side when not pressed between his lips.

  Every house they passed displayed a variety of Halloween decorations, but most had at least one jack-o’-lantern on their steps or beside the front door and faux cobwebs stretched across bushes, windows, or doorways. Except Allyson’s house, which was the exception that proved the rule.
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  Vicky nudged her with an elbow. “Something bothering you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem tense,” Vicky said. “Instead of relaxed. Like you usually are. After your morning run. What gives?”

  “Yeah, well,” Allyson said. “My mom is a liar. She told me she invited my grandmother tonight, but she didn’t. She never even contacted her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I called her.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  Allyson nodded.

  “That’s bullshit,” Dave chimed in.

  “What’s your mom’s deal?” Vicky asked. “Why would she say that?”

  “She literally just tries to keep me away from her. Turns into a nutcase this time of year.”

  “If I were you guys,” Vicky said, “I wouldn’t celebrate either. I’d put up a Christmas tree instead. Just skip over all the spooky Halloween shit, right?”

  Feeling the effects of his joint, Dave nodded seriously. “Jumping to Thanksgiving would make sense. Puritans, cornucopias, plagues, starvation, slaughtering the Indians. That stuff isn’t creepy at all.”

  “Dave,” Vicky said. “You’re rambling.”

  “What can I say? I’m a ramblin’ man.”

  “Oh, brother,” Vicky said, shaking her head. Turning to Allyson, she said, “Does she ever talk about it?”

  “Pretty much all she talks about. It defines her life. She’s been traumatized ever since. You should see her house.”

  “Freaky.”

  Dave frowned in thought. “Wasn’t it her brother that cold-blooded murdered all those babysitters?”

  “No,” Allyson said. “I think people made up the bit about them being related because it made them feel better. Like it couldn’t just happen to anyone.”

  “I mean, that is scary,” Vicky said with a sympathetic shudder. “To have a bunch of your friends get butchered by some rando crazy person.”

  “Is it though?” Dave asked. “I just feel like the world has way worse shit now. One dude just killing a few people, I don’t know.”