The Halloween Children

by Brian James Freeman

  For this reason, Lynn might wince whenever I complained about our neighbors. What a nuisance they were. How the world would be better off without them. Some of them. Most. Sure, the kids might have heard me say stuff like this now and again. It shouldn’t have done any harm, and I never liked Lynn to make such a big deal about it. Especially when the joke was between us, and the kids weren’t anywhere around.

  “Us two.” I waved a forefinger back and forth between us, reminding her the kids weren’t around, that we’re allowed to have a different language when we’re alone, that parents need an occasional sanctuary from obsessive concerns about two preteen children. Moments of privacy. Secrets. Which brought us full circle to the start of the discussion, which I’d now won decisively.

  Though I didn’t say all that. Just “Us two” and the finger gesture.

  Lynn wrinkled up her nose in a universal symbol of distaste, clearly directed at “my attitude,” and I braced myself for a shrieking, severe restatement of her argument.

  Instead, she said, “Do you smell something burning?”

  Lynn didn’t wait for my response. She jumped up from the living room couch and headed toward our kitchen. I followed behind, knocking over a neat stack of socks in the process.

  My wife went straight for the stove. Nothing on top, but black smoke clouding from the oven and the smell of burnt cloth and singed hair. She flung open the oven door and the odor intensified, but something worse accompanied the smell. A muffled cry. A kind of animal sound but hauntingly familiar.

  Because it wasn’t an animal. Although hard to decipher, these were human sounds, a choked gagging attempt at speech.

  Lynn yelped like she’d been burned. Her body blocked my view, so I couldn’t see into the oven. She reached for insulated mitts, folding them over instead of taking time to place her hands in, then quickly pulled out the baking tray. She dropped it with a clatter on the stovetop.

  The creature was still alive. It wriggled against binding cords of twine, tried to roll its body or twist its head where it had burnt and fused to the metal tray. There was a small gag tied around its mouth, and it screamed through the cloth, an awful vocabulary of anguish.

  And then Lynn was screaming, too. Telling me to do something, do something now.

  But I was paralyzed. I couldn’t make any sense out of what was happening. A little man, bound and gagged, placed on a cookie tray and baked in our oven. He was an impossible size, about a foot long where he lay, and wore a little doll suit of clothes to match. The clothes were burnt, his skin an odd texture of white and pink and golden brown. His body buckled on the tray, and it clattered against the stovetop. Lynn kept screaming, and I know she was telling me to put him out of his misery, telling me to kill him, but I wanted her to be quiet so I could hear the little man. What was he saying? What did he want me to do?

  Sentences. He was trying to form sentences—that regular beat of words in human speech, but the words were too muffled and foreign for me to understand.

  Perhaps if I untied the gag. If I reached with delicate fingers and pulled at the tiny knot in the tiny strip of cloth.

  Now, Harris, now. And Lynn had given me a cast-iron frying pan and she was making chopping motions in the air with her hand and pointing at the strange little man. Do it now. Hurry, I can’t stand it, hurry before—

  “What’s going on?”

  Mattie’s voice, full of curiosity. He was standing at the entry to the kitchen, unsure if he should enter.

  Lynn’s face filled with horror. She told him not to come in, said there are some things a child shouldn’t ever see, ever, and then another twist in her face and I knew Amber was behind our son, peering over his shoulder, ready to push them both into the room.

  Lynn hated me in that moment, my weakness, and she reached for the frying pan, but my own parental instinct finally kicked in and I shrugged her off, raised the pan, and brought it down hard on the gagged, screaming head.

  I hit it so hard, I ended up knocking the tray off the stove. A spray of blood went up, the tray flipped over, then over again, landing straight up on the kitchen floor.

  As the horrible, uncanny thing lay dead there, all of us watching in stunned silence, I realized it wasn’t a little man after all—though it had been dressed like one. In quiet stillness, even with the disguise of the costume and the horrible crisping of its features, I finally understood what I was looking at. The burnt diagonal strip of black cloth over one eye, like a pirate’s eye patch. And the gag, not covering a human mouth but a beaked one that can mimic human sounds.

  I don’t know why I said this out loud, and it took me awhile to convince Lynn I wasn’t making light of what had happened. But as we stared aghast at that poor dead animal, as Amber asked, “What is it, Daddy?”—all I could think of was another of Amber’s silly childhood names for things, a mistake she’d uttered at a pet store when she was five years old, making the girl behind the counter laugh.

  What is it, Amber? I’ll tell you.

  “Para-tweet,” I said.

  Lynn

  Our kids did something terrible.

  Or, let’s be realistic, Matt did a terrible thing and got poor Amber to cover for him. That’s the only possible explanation.

  He drew his sister into some kind of sick joke.

  How awful Amber must have felt, seeing how it played out.

  As much as the sounds, the smoke, and the smell bothered me, imagine how they made poor Amber feel?

  If she felt responsible in any way, that makes it even worse for her.

  Will she see the smoke, even when she closes her eyes to try to sleep?

  Will she smell the cooked flesh and feathers?

  Will the bird cry out to her tonight in her dreams?

  All I can think is, What will happen next? Left alone, this kind of thing surely won’t be an isolated incident.

  So we can’t leave it alone.

  Harris and I, we have to put aside our differences and create a united front. We have to be effective parents.

  Both of us, for once.

  Nothing like this can ever happen again.

  Jesus, that poor bird.

  Harris

  “He was wearing a little pirate costume.”

  Mattie spoke as if making a simple observation. No shock of horror at the bird’s corpse, or the way that small costume cooked and fused to its burnt feathers. I knew Lynn would hold that against him, that he didn’t cry and carry on the way Amber did at the sight of the neighbors’ exotic bird pulled from our smoking oven.

  When we were alone, I expected my wife would tell me about serial killers and their early training with animals. The fact that this particular tortured animal had been dressed as a little man would add weight to her argument. I mentally prepared my counter argument: Serial killers start with spider legs and fly wings, then go on to stray kittens and puppies. There’s no birds in between. Everybody knows that.

  You think I’m making light of what happened later? No. I’m simply telling you how the situation struck me at the time—and humor, of course, is how some people react during a crisis. Dark humor, in my case. And remember, we’re only talking about a bird. Sure, the thing might mimic words in our language, but that didn’t make it one of us. I’ll admit to being creeped out when I heard those muffled syllables, thinking it was a man’s voice screaming for help, let me out, I’m burning up, oh God, I’m burning up. In actuality, the gagged bird was attempting its usual sounds, discovering meaningless phrases. Pretty lady. Polly wants a cracker.

  I mean, it was a nasty and horrible prank, don’t get me wrong. Terrible way for that bird to die. But is it any worse than dropping a lobster into a pot? I’d made no secret of my dislike for the bird and wasn’t sorry I’d never again have to hear that annoying squawk. So sure, let’s suppose for a moment that Mattie really did cook the neighbor’s bird in our oven—and I don’t believe for a minute that he did. I still found it pretty hard to get worked up about the so-called crime.
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  Lynn was the exact opposite. She was determined to identify the culprit, learn the truth about what happened.

  She had a plan.

  First thing she did was put the kids in separate rooms so they couldn’t influence each other’s stories. Classic divide and conquer. She shut Mattie in the kids’ room and Amber in our bedroom, then she strategized with me in the kitchen. Lynn was thinking aloud at first, almost muttering as she moved aside some Seen-on-TV gimmick appliances to get at the larger food containers in our cabinets. One phrase I remember was “Can’t believe you said ‘Para-tweet,’ ” but I knew better than to engage in conversation at this point. She sized the containers over the dead bird, imagining some respectful delivery in a Tupperware coffin. Smoke still lingered in the room, along with the smell of burnt feathers and seared meat. I coughed for a minute, then switched on the blower over the stove.

  “We should take it out of the costume. Oh Harris, find me a spatula, would you? This poor thing is stuck to the tray. God, our kids. Our kids. You’ll have to take it to Todd and Marie. I can’t bear to face them.”

  The whole time, I’m thinking a small garbage bag would suffice. The Durkinses don’t need to see this. Much better for them to think birdie just flew away.

  “Scratch that, Harris. Mattie or Amber should take it to them. That can be part of their consequence.”

  She actually said “consequence” instead of “punishment.” That’s language from parent-teacher conferences, not the kind of thing you’d hear in a regular home like ours.

  “It’s best that you be strict with Amber, and I’ll take the firmer approach with Mattie. We might have to threaten them if they don’t tell the truth. Turn them against each other if we have to.” As she outlined her strategy, she placed a bed of Bounty towels in an oblong Tupperware container, then lay the spatula-scraped bird on top. “We can’t waver on this. Don’t you dare undermine me, Harris.”

  I wouldn’t dream of it, and I told her so, the vent rattling over the stove, the bird ungarnished in its plastic sarcophagus. The animal’s muffled cries still lingered in my memory, an unsettling mix of human and mechanical speech, like the voice of a robot suddenly discovering it could feel pain.

  “God, where’s the lid for this one, Harris? Where’s the damn lid?”

  —

  Lynn’s strategy wasn’t terribly effective during the interrogation of Mattie. We stood in the den, two adults towering over the kid, and he wasn’t giving the reactions she expected. Almost no reactions at all, other than a puzzled, quizzical expression. No remorse, certainly.

  Which made sense if he hadn’t done anything. An innocent boy would be puzzled by his kind mother’s serious, stern questions—almost as if she’d transformed into a different person. He wouldn’t know what she’d want him to say. He’d stay calm, infuriating her further, and she’d sigh and rephrase her questions, her voice louder with each new iteration.

  “I didn’t do it, Mom.” He looked at her with wide eyes, then at me. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Of course, a prejudiced observer could read these calm statements differently. He acts too innocent. His statements don’t vary, as if they’ve been memorized. This is a game to him. The child acts this way because he knows exactly how to frustrate his interrogator.

  The worst possibility, and I think what Lynn feared all along: Mattie was so calm, not simply because he didn’t feel guilt, but because he didn’t feel anything. He’d killed a living creature, and it didn’t bother him. Our son had no soul. He was a monster.

  That fear pushed Lynn further. She scowled at him, said she didn’t believe him, said things would go rough if he didn’t admit the truth. “We’ll talk to Amber, too. Your sister will tell us what really happened. And if she doesn’t, we’ll just have to punish you both.”

  “I didn’t,” Mattie said. “You know I didn’t.” But he was a bit scared now. Scared at the threat, of course, but maybe scared of his mom, too. It’s like his guard fell down. It seemed like he was nearly ready to confess—whether he was guilty or not.

  I had a vivid memory from my own childhood. My father accused me of…well, I don’t remember exactly, and it’s not important. Say a window or flowerpot got broken, some money went missing, my sister fell and cried and said I pushed her. Doesn’t matter. What I remember is how angry my father got, and how he wouldn’t listen when I said I was innocent. He pointed to a wooden paddle he’d made in the garage, then hung on a nail in our living room wall. He’d written “Board of Education” on the thick piece of wood—a mean-spirited pun, I guess, though I hadn’t understood it at the time. I said again I didn’t do it, actually yelled at him because he wouldn’t listen, and he said That’s it and reached for the paddle. Afterward, I noticed splinters in my hands. Didn’t remember doing it, but I must have covered my butt with my hands part of the time he was spanking me, thinking that would hurt less. But it really wasn’t the splinters, or any other physical hurt that stayed with me.

  Being accused of something awful when you’re little—that’s the worst part. Knowing you’re innocent, yet unable to convince the people who matter the most. Your parents, the ones who normally protect you, become angry and uncaring—and that transformation has a strange, almost supernatural power. As a helpless kid, you feel like you’re trapped by some horrible magic spell, or that your mind has opened up to some sinister force.

  That’s how it struck me, at least. I never forgot that feeling.

  So it was rough to see Mattie in the same position. Hell, Lynn was even scaring me a little bit, and I knew this approach was all part of her strategy. A kid couldn’t figure that out, though—wouldn’t be world-wise enough to realize his mom was acting severe and angry for now, but as soon as this incident blew over things would be back to normal and she’d love him again, would laugh and smile and make his lunches and drive him to the after-school games. Instead, what Mattie understood in that moment, that rage flashing in his mother’s eyes, told him: You are not the sweet child I gave birth to. You are a liar, and you’ve committed horrible, unspeakable crimes. You are an evil, possessed thing. I have always hated you, even though I pretended otherwise. The next time I say I love you, I will be thinking about killing you. If I smile, it is because I imagine holding your head under water or pushing you in front of a car or sticking a knife into your throat and twisting it.

  You’ll think my imagination’s a little overactive here, I can guess, but maybe that’s my point. When a little kid gets yelled at by his mom and dad, who knows what goes through his mind. Parents don’t spank their kids anymore, and that’s fine, but we hurt them in other ways. We can’t help it.

  So yeah, I knew Lynn said not to undermine her, but I needed to give poor Mattie something to hold on to. Some reassurance that things would be okay, no matter what.

  I winked at him.

  A private signal. Wait out the storm. Dad will help you fix it later.

  An almost imperceptible calm washed over him. He didn’t give me away, kept nodding at his mother’s comments, but a little gleam appeared in his eyes. A sidelong glance that indicated he didn’t feel trapped anymore. I was glad I rescued him.

  “We’re not getting anywhere,” Lynn said. “You don’t seem to realize how serious this is. Here’s what I’m thinking, though. We’ll talk to your sister, and maybe that will change my mind, but I don’t expect it will. What I’m thinking is, we’re going to have to cancel Halloween. No trick-or-treating, no costumes and decorations, no candy, no monster movies. Nothing.”

  She finally got him. Mattie had held up so well, like a little soldier, but now he pretty much fell apart, started crying and bawling. You can’t. You can’t. Oh, no. Please. Please, no.

  Broke my heart.

  Amber waited in our bedroom, and she would have heard her brother’s wails even through the closed door. She must have thought we were torturing him.

  Her turn next.

  Lynn

  When children are in crisis, and
their parents can’t form a united front to deal with it, wouldn’t you agree that’s another sign the marriage is in trouble?

  I don’t even need an answer, Mr. Therapist. Asking the question is enough.

  My plan was for me to be the one who got tough with Matt, since Harris was always such a pushover with that boy.

  I don’t know how he expects his son will grow into a responsible adult without clear-cut rules to guide him.

  Letting Harris try the “bad cop” role with Amber afterward was a kind of test.

  I wanted to see if he could be firm but fair with her, maybe adapt some of the stern phrases I’d used so effectively with Matt.

  Whatever happened, I’d learn something, right?

  I’d figure out if Harris is the kind of person who could raise our kids.

  Maybe earn some of my respect for a change. You need to respect the person you share your life with.

  So we went to talk to Amber, who still sat on the corner of our bed.

  Our bedroom was exactly as we’d left it, which didn’t surprise me.

  In contrast, Matt would have paced the room while he waited, opened and reopened the blinds, looked into our end tables, found something to read or borrowed some of Harris’s spare change and tiddledywinked it across the bedspread.

  Amber hadn’t moved at all. Not even to get a Kleenex or two to wipe the tears away from her face.

  She looked up, her eyes and nose red. She focused on me, and I just shook my head back and forth without saying a word.

  Get this right, Harris. She’s our best shot at the truth.

  Matt can be sneaky, but Amber wants to be a good girl. Be smart. Smarter than a little kid.