by Charles Day
Deep inside, Nick felt something was not right, that feeling he’d had once or twice, as if someone were about to sneak up on him from behind.
Jenny grabbed his hand and squeezed.
Something was about to happen, Nick could sense it.
Mrs. Needlewhitter continued to pace back and forth. In the kitchen. Out of the kitchen. Into her living room she shuffled in her fluffy slippers, scratching her rear every so often. She’d had about enough of Halloween and the kids who still knocked at her door.
“Knock, knock, ring, ring, enough already!” she yelled to herself as Baxter jumped. “Dirty rat kids! I’ve had it with this darn evil holiday.”
She mumbled under her breath and then looked over at her dog, causing him to cower. “And what are you good for, Bax? You’re not even trying your best to scare the little trolls away.”
The old lady scratched her rear, hard. She felt it helped with the circulation of her blood and all. These sorts of ideas came from religiously watching Dr. Oz every day. Besides, she needed to get her blood flowing, as she prepared to scare the small costumed freaks off her porch and chase them out of her yard. The flow of blood inside her old veins and arteries kept her heart pumping in preparation. Go get your candy somewhere else.
She knew, every year, the kids would come back. They’d take a chance on her, again and again. Maybe they thought the old lady would have a change of heart and open her door with a huge smile on her face. That she’d reach into her pumpkin-shaped ceramic bowl filled with Snickers and Milky Ways, and gleefully toss the tasty, wrapped, chocolate morsels into their waiting trick-or-treat bags.
She agreed to herself that, when Halloween approached, she’d go up to her calendar that hung above the light switch in the kitchen, and she’d circle the holiday with her red pen. Sure enough, when the evil day came, the children would knock on her door. They’d wait with their open bags and beg for candy. Problem was, when they didn’t get their treat, she a remembered how many times the little punks resorted to the tricks. Well, enough was enough. It had to stop.
These tricks bestowed upon her usually involved eggs—rotten, smelly, dirty eggs—smashed against her house and splattered on her driveway, or dripping from the top of poor Baxter’s head. A sticky yellow substance that the poor dog tried to get with his saliva-filled tongue as the goo slid down his snout. When he finally did get a good glob of it, the old lady swore it looked like her dog was drooling a yellowish slime. That pissed her off even more. She hated Halloween.
Of course, the more she held back the candy, the more of a target she became. The pranks started to occur without needing a holiday.
They began coming to her house after hours, when she’d locked her door and turned off the light for the night. A few of the bolder kids would jump over her white picket fence, which was already decorated with a fair supply of cheap toilet paper, then the little runts would knock on her door, turn, and run, hightailing it behind some bushes, out of sight.
Poor Mrs. Needlewhitter would have to get up out of her old rocker and fix her large pink bathrobe while getting a good scratch on her rear. She would then head to the door as fast as she could. Granted, her walk was faster than a snail crossing the sidewalk, but any mature turtle would have her beat, for sure. She knew that, aware that old age was creeping up on her with a vengeance. And of course, when she finally got to the door to see what all the loud knocking was for, no one was around. She hated that part.
Mrs. Needlewhitter would peek out onto her porch while she let Baxter out for a sniff, to make sure they had left her property. She’d then go back inside, shut the door, turn off the porch light, and leave poor Baxter out there for the remainder of the night. She hoped that with Baxter on guard, they wouldn’t try it again.
Unfortunately, that’s when Baxter usually ended up with egg on his head. After thinking about all she’d gone through in the past, she usually felt vindicated in letting Baxter stand guard in her yard.
“Baxter!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. She didn’t see him, even though he was right at her feet. “Jeez! I almost stepped on ya, mutt.” She leaned down and patted him on his rump, thinking she was reassuring him on top of his head. “Darn, I’m getting blind as a bat there, Bax. Well, come on, dear. Let’s go outside. You need to protect your mommy.”
Baxter didn’t move. Instead, he flopped onto his back, which the old lady knew meant only one thing: a belly rub. But he got only a nudge from her furry pink slipper.
“I said get up, Bax, and get out there to do what you were bred to do.” She wasn’t letting him stay put any longer, and somehow he knew it. So he stood up, tail between his legs, and followed the old lady to the front door.
She opened it, and he trotted out with his head high, his tail wagging a bit. And then Baxter quickly jumped off the porch, barking as a few costumed kids walked along the sidewalk near her fence.
Mrs. Needlewhitter stepped out onto the porch and squinted as hard as she could, to see what all the barking and ruckus was about.
“Baxter, what is it, boy? If it’s any of those costumed freaks, this lady don’t celebrate Halloween anymore, you hear me? No candy, no pumpkins, and especially no kids! I’m shutting down early for Halloween. So don’t bother to come a-knocking.”
Then she heard a shrieking young voice, a sound from someone who seemed genuinely scared, someone whose voice she recognized but couldn’t quite put a face to. She was trying though, trying to recall the familiar tones.
“Mrs. Needlewhitter! Please call the cops! My brother Nick!” Samantha screamed. “He was taken by a bunch of bullies into that old house up the road, the abandoned one. They’re going to hurt him, I just know it!”
“What? Who? Where is this going on?” Mrs. Needlewhitter yelled back, clearly confused by what she’d just heard.
Samantha moved in closer as Baxter slapped his front paws over the gate, still barking. She needed to shout above his growls and snarls, so she cupped her hands around her lips and shouted it out again. “It’s my brother, Nick! He’s in trouble! Please! Call the cops, Mrs. Needlewhitter, please!”
Lou took his time entering the room; he sniffed at the smells of melted wax and smoke from recently extinguished wicks which filled his nostrils. The others followed, and they all shared the same facial expression—worry.
“You see, guys. I was right. Look.” He pointed to the window where he’d seen the light. “Candles everywhere. The smell of smoke still fresh, and that can mean only one thing … someone was just here.”
There seemed to be a cracking in his voice, a nervousness that Nick immediately picked up on.
Lou shone the flashlight around the room, and Nick saw what he never expected to see: pumpkins, a whole mess of them. Smashed pumpkins, full, partial, carved, small, medium, large, at least fifty, or possibly even more than that, surrounded by half-burned candles.
Could the haunted house be where all the pumpkins were taken?
Nick became confused. Someone else besides Lou was involved,. Or perhaps they were working together. Perhaps the legendary Pumpkin Thief was not a legend. Perhaps he and Lou were a team.
“What are all these pumpkins doing in here?” Nick spoke softly, still holding on to Jenny’s hand. He hadn’t realized he spoke his thoughts out loud until Ralph spoke.
“Who cares about the pumpkins? We got a bigger problem here, Nicky.” Ralph pushed past Nick and approached his leader. “So, what are we doing, Lou? Are we taking care of Nick, or getting out of this stupid house and back on the streets for some last minute trick-or-treating?”
Lou looked at the Kiss member before him, a painted white face with a large black star around his eye, wearing black jeans and a ripped black shirt.
“We need to find out who’s in here with us,” Lou said, turning his back on Ralph as he spoke.
Jenny released her grip on Nick’s hand, then approached Lou and Ralph. Byron remained by the door of the room, playing lookout
.
“Lou, we’re done here,” Jenny said. “I followed you in, like you said, just so you guys wouldn’t hurt Nick, and to stall you all. The cops are probably on their way right now, because Nick’s sister and her friends went to rat you out, and that’s that.” And then she looked over at Maria and Nick. “Let’s go, guys. We’ll meet the cops outside.”
As she began to walk away from Lou, who had a defeated look on his face, the banging resumed—from downstairs.
Nick wondered if it was the cops, knocking on the door, ready to cuff Lou and his cronies. He watched Jenny run from the room. Nobody else moved … until they heard her scream.
Mrs. Needlewhitter still had difficulty trying to understand what the small girl was saying. She couldn’t even see who it was out on the sidewalk by her fence. Too far for her old and weary eyes. She had an idea, though. It sounded like Samantha. That was enough of a hint to send her off her porch, in her pink furry slippers, to go and see what all the fuss was.
“Baxter, get back here and up on the porch. Now, you mutt!” She reached the gate. “Is that you, my dear, dear Samantha?”
She hated the kids in her neighborhood, but she liked Samantha, or better yet, she tolerated her. The youngster was one of the very few who didn’t tease the old lady, and Mrs. Needlewhitter had a good memory. Samantha had also helped her out when she needed assistance in her garden one day.
Mrs. Needlewhitter had been having trouble getting some netting off her bushes.
She had used netting not so much for the rabbits in the area, but more for the deer. The old lady had to cover all her flowers before dusk to keep the deer from making a meal out of her hard work. They came from the woods and fed on her garden. And if Baxter were inside, which most nights he was, unless she forgot to bring him in, the deer chomped on all her flowers, a free meal. The netting helped to keep them from grazing like cows. At the end of the season, Mrs. Needlewhitter took off the netting and stored it. Last summer, she had trouble tugging at the stuff, and Samantha had stopped to help her gather it all in.
Samantha was okay in her book. The other kids, though, they were the rat punks who liked to cause her trouble. She didn’t care much for them at all. Samantha, on the other hand, was not like them. She was a good girl. So when the old lady heard her screaming, she came to Samantha’s aid as quickly as she could, for an old lady with arthritic knees.
“Oh, my dear, what is it? You sound like you just witnessed a murder!”
“Well, that’s what’s going to happen to my brother if the police don’t get to him soon. Lou and his butt-kissers are probably giving him a beating right about now. Could you call the police and tell them to go to that old abandoned house in the woods?”
The old lady reached around to her backside, then gave her rear a good scratch. She then pressed her left foot down, toes pointed, to get her blood circulating. She could feel the blood flowing again as she leaned over the fence and stared straight into the tear-filled eyes of The Wicked Witch of the West Streaks of green were made from those tears, and it made her worry.
“Now listen, young lady, boys will be boys, and I don’t like their antics one bit, neither, but you I admire. You helped me out in a bind with my deer netting, and I owe you one for that.”
Samantha started to smile under her pointy black hat, and she wiped her green tears, “Thank you, Mrs. Needlewhitter.”
“Not a problem, dear. Now run along. I’ll go make the call, soon as I get back inside, taking Baxter with me inside too.” She turned to make her way to her door, letting Baxter run inside. As she did so, she watched the small Wicked Witch of the West and her friends run toward Samantha’s house. She’s a good little girl.
Nick and Maria ran out of the room full of candles and smashed pumpkins when they heard Jenny’s screaming. They found her shaking at the head of the stairs.
“Nick, oh dear God, there’s a tall, creepy-looking man. I’m not sure, but he looked like that guy, Jack Skeleton from the Tim Burton movie, only he had an enormous orange pumpkin mask that covered his head.” Jenny spoke this all in one breath, sucking in air as she hugged Nick.
He embraced her, and patted her on the back, a little reassurance that all would be okay.
He looked over her shoulder and down the dark stairs to the foyer, which held only a trace of light from the full moon’s rays, sneaking through some broken windowpanes above the nailed boards. He also realized that the bullies weren’t as tough as they pretended to be because they didn’t come to help.
“Jenny, I don’t see anything. Whoever it was, they’re gone.” Nick finished his statement but wasn’t sure if he had succeeded in making her feel any less anxious. He also wanted to calm himself down, because things were getting really weird.
Nick, intent on being a real detective, knew that having a clear mind was important, and good practice. He needed to remain calm. Someone was in this house with them. Lou provided the proof earlier, unless he was bluffing about what he saw in the window. But those candles were fresh. Jenny had witnessed a tall man with a huge pumpkin mask who resembled the lead character in one of his favorite movies. Whoever this person was inside this old, abandoned house, he had no idea Lou and his bully buddies would be here.
Was the Pumpkin Thief here? Was the legend Nick had heard about all these years true? Had the creature come to his neighborhood?
“Nick, I want to go. Let’s get out of here.” Jenny pulled away from his grip and stared straight into his eyes. “You hear me?”
He heard her. He saw the fear reaching out from her eyes. Nick was deep in thought. “Okay, Jenny. Maria, you’re coming, right?”
“Oh yeah. I came with Jenny and I’m leaving with her.” Maria reached for Jenny’s hand.
As the three walked down the stairs, Nick saw him at the bottom step. A very tall and thin individual stood there, his arms stretched out like he was about to give them all a big old bear hug. He wore a very fine black suit with a large orange tie.
The mask he wore scared Nick the most. Wherever he’d bought that enormous pumpkin mask, it looked really creepy, almost professional. Like something for use in a Hollywood movie.
The large Pumpkin Thief, with a carved out face and an evil grin smeared across his face, stared up at them. Nick knew that whoever was behind this costume had succeeded in bringing the legend to life. The legendary Pumpkin Thief, here in Nick’s neighborhood, here to claim all the pumpkins and place them in hiding. The goal of the thief? To allow a clear path for evil to flood Nick’s town. He really hoped someone human was behind that mask.
Mrs. Needlewhitter shuffled her furry pink slippers up the driveway until she reached the three steps that led to her porch. She stopped for a second, only to catch her breath before grabbing hold of her old porch railing. She took those three steps slowly, until she had both pink slippers firmly planted on her front porch.
Through the window, she saw Baxter use his snout to move the drapes to the side. As she made her way toward the door, she knew she had to get in touch with the police right away. She didn’t trust that punk, Lou. She didn’t know what he was capable of, and she’d given her promise to Samantha that she’d make the call, so that’s what she’d be doing the moment she was back inside.
Mrs. Needlewhitter reached for the doorknob and held it for a quick second, then realized what she’d done. She froze as goose bumps popped up all over her old, wrinkled flesh. Nevertheless, she turned the knob anyway, and gave the door a push. But the knob didn’t turn, and the door didn’t budge.
She’d locked it from the inside, and although she knew she should have released the button before heading outside, she’d forgotten.
“Baxter, I have to get in. I need to call the police … oh, dear.” She began to worry. And she had good reason to do so. Sure, she needed to get in touch with the police to get them over to help Samantha’s brother, but she had a bigger problem. She was locked out of her house and getting colder by the minute. She w
asn’t dressed properly for this. Her aging and wrinkly skin would be subjected to the natural elements of the harsh conditions of Mother Nature. And to make matters worse, she wasn’t dressed appropriately for any dirty, rotten, rat punk kids who might decide to come to her door, especially when she looked like a fool, standing in front of her house and all, nearly naked.
Mrs. Needlewhitter did figure in that the chances of getting many trick-or-treaters was slim, since it was late, and besides, she’d done her best these last couple of years to drive away any kids wanting candy from her. But there were always a few who’d come back every year.
The old lady was also worried about poor Nick and her promise to help Samantha with the call to the police. But how? She’d been locked out. Maybe, she figured for a second, she could climb through the window. If she had left one of them unlocked, she’d be able to climb in.
“Oh dear,” she mumbled under her breath. “I never unlock them this time of year.”
Whenever the weather changed to cool days and crisp nights, Mrs. Needlewhitter did her best to keep the windows shut and locked until the following spring. Unless, of course, Indian summer showed up for a few days; then, she’d let some of the warm air pass through her house.
But this was no time to reminisce about the weather. She needed to get into her house. She made her way over to the porch window where Baxter still stared out while wagging his tail back and forth like a wiper blade. She could feel the increasingly brisk northerly winds sneak under her robe, like cold fingers crawling up her legs. Those goose bumps returned, popping up all over her flesh.
As she came closer to the window, Baxter wagged his tail faster, clearly excited. His dark eyes followed her every move until she started to bang on the window with her fists, sending him back a few paws.
“Baxter, I need to get in. Help me, you useless mutt, it’s getting so darn cold out here.”
