* * * *
Ignacio banged the crude cross back into the ground with a good-sized rock, soaking its base from his water bottle to swell the soil around it.
He had sanded the post where the mower had scarred it, and then he “aged” the spot with some dirt and grass.
A quick scan offered relief that the blond had not seen him, nor the minister, nor anyone else.
Ignacio hopped back on his mower and continued his work, praying no one would ever know of his screw-up, and he could keep his job.
* * * *
McGlazer continued to cough and convulse. By centimeters, the candy eased up from his esophagus to be ejected with velocity equal to its insertion, plunking into the empty trash can.
It was another couple of minutes before McGlazer could stop coughing and think clearly enough to pray gratitude as he tried to comprehend what had just happened.
His heartbeat throbbing in his ears, McGlazer rose, wondering if he had really just been…attacked. He saw nothing contrasted against the wall’s bare spaces. No floating mass. No “specter.”
The candy lay in a puddle of saliva on the shiny bottom of the trash can, appearing innocuous.
Chapter 8
The tall figure paced a room lit by pumpkin-shaped strands hanging over barred and curtained windows.
Plastic jack-o’-lanterns glowed from window sills and floor corners. A crate serving as a nightstand sat beside an immaculately made single bed covered by a quilt with a pattern of grinning ghosts and skeletons. Even the tiny doorless compartment that housed his toilet was strung with lights.
A monster-of-the-month-themed calendar hung taped from the wall. October featured the Headless Horseman. All the blocks were X’ed out, save the 30th and 31st.
This “haunted house,” though cramped, was a place of contentment, even joy. Everett had coloring and music and lots of time to make masks of every color of construction paper.
He had plenty of glue, tape, and even scissors—plastic, of course. Magazines and books held pictures for him to cut out or color. These were his teachers, showing him a world of people and animals doing things that mostly were not trick-or-treating, but that was okay. At least they were not making little boys do things that hurt or felt wrong.
Recently, his mommy and daddy had let him have a stapler. He could put his masks together much better. Sometimes the staples stabbed his fingers but that was okay. Each prick brought blood and blood tasted good and reminded him of little bats that could turn into widow-peaked vampires with capes like the one he got last year from that guy who could scream really loud.
Everett stopped pacing to dance to music coming from an antique record player atop a stand beneath the window, its rack loaded with LPs. Almost constantly in use, it now played “It’s Almost Halloween” by Panic! at the Disco for roughly the fortieth time that day.
The song always filled him with so much excitement for Halloween! Especially now; his calendar said it was soon!
Everett went to his bin of crayons. Many were intact and unused—but not orange, black, and purple. Yellow got pretty good use too, as did brown and, of course, red.
A very dark red was perfect for his present purpose. He took it to his calendar in an underhand grip and slashed an X through the 31st with a mischievous titter.
The wall behind the calendar and all other wall space was covered with cheap rubber masks or cutouts of black cats and scarecrows, with crayon drawings of Halloween scenes: graveyards full of shambling corpses, shrieking cats, and chain-dragging ghosts or towering mansions with broken windows from which gawked vampires and witches.
Some of the older drawings, their corners curling from age, were crude and childish. The new and crisp ones were a different matter. An art expert might have marveled at their brilliance, given a chance to view them.
He admired the new X on his calendar, then went to his record player to restart the song. It was the only one from the entire record he actually liked.
Sometimes listening to his spooky records and making masks excited him, made him want to get out, even if it wasn’t Halloween yet. So, pretending to be Frankenstein escaping his dungeon, he tried. He pushed against the heavy steel door, straining his shoulders and arms until his muscles ached.
The windows had steel bars like a jail where you keep robbers or bad guys. He couldn’t just climb out. And Ma and Pa told him why, but it still felt like he was a bad guy sometimes, even though he would never do wrong things to little boys. He didn’t want to do those things; he wanted to have Halloween.
But he couldn’t get the bars loose, or bend them open like a gorilla. Nor could he jump all the way up through the roof, like a superhero. He couldn’t push the walls down with his legs and he couldn’t run right through the heavy door or any of the walls.
He had to keep trying. He could never ever stop till the whole world was decorated for Halloween.
The pushing and jumping and straining against the bars was making his arms and legs and back feel strong, like a gorilla. He knew he was getting bigger, could feel his shirts and pants getting tighter around him, but now they were torn at the shoulders and thighs, the seams open.
Pushing the walls and jumping made him feel good. Even when he got tired, he would keep doing it, until he had to fall asleep and dream of talking jack-o’-lanterns who told him how to decorate the world.
He was growing up, like Candace, only she was younger. Maybe he was a grownup now. He hoped so! Maybe he could stay out later for Halloween.
The song stopped. Everett went to restart it.
He sifted through the stack of recently played records lying across the top of the rack. So many memories, so many soundtracks for his endless daydreams and nightmares of perfect Halloweens. “A Nightmare Before Christmas,” The Chordettes’s “Mr. Sandman,” several adult crooners in whimsical costumes on weathered album covers.
Everett hugged the albums against his chest, much like Candace often did with her books. Then he sat on his bed and sifted through them again.
Soon he came to an album with harmless, hackneyed witch and ghost stereotypes rendered on the cover, called Halloween Songs for Children.
He set the others aside and held out the LP, folded the cover, and snapped the album in half.
* * * *
Fire rained from the sky.
A manhole cover burst open like a giant jack-in-the-box. A giant snake’s head rose from it, stitched atop a tree-thick squid’s tentacle.
The thing rose with a malignant hiss, towering over Gary Dukes, its body coiling for a strike—or to gulp him up whole.
Weeping acid tears, Dukes raised the .38 in his shaking hand and fired at the snake, just as it lunged.
A chorus of shrill, squealing roars made him turn to see a half-dozen horned, glowing-eyed baboon creatures high above, swinging from tree to tree via their long arms as they screeched hellsong.
He shot at the nearest one, but must have missed.
Dukes dove away, just as the baboon demon landed where he stood, but now the snaketopus was bearing down on him.
He rolled away, but as he hit the grass it burned under him, pungent smoke filling his lungs.
He leaped up, trying to scream but succeeding only in coughing. He managed to get up and run back to the street. As he came up beside a mailbox, its hatch flew open and a horde of screeching bats emerged, all musk and leather and fishhook teeth.
He swatted at them uselessly—forgetting all about them when he saw a rat-headed alligator clawing its way up through the smoldering lawn.
Dukes tried to steady his hand, for all the good it would do; his gun was turning to drooping rubber.
Behind him, a raging roar filled his ears, promising in the ancient language of predation to grind him to gristle.
Dukes saw it coming: the careening, flaming thing that was half-mouth and h
alf-hearse—windshield eyes and a snapping engine hood snout.
Dukes stepped into the middle of the street and took aim with his quivering gun at the burning hearse he saw barreling toward him, its muzzle-hood opening wide to swallow him.
He pulled the trigger, despairing at the bright orange flag that emerged from the pistol, reading Plorp! in cartoon letters. The demon car nonetheless veered sideways with a startled squeal, skidding on a bed of roiling blackness. Dukes dove out of the way.
Dennis threw his arm across his mother as he swerved. “Get down, Ma!”
Dennis opened the door and got halfway out, crouching behind the driver’s door as Dukes rose and aimed the gun at him.
“Mister Dukes!” Dennis shouted. “Easy, man!”
Dukes pulled the trigger—and the gun clicked empty, to Dennis’s relief. The crazed neighbor ran away as if pursued by demons.
“My God! What’s wrong with him?” Ma asked.
“He’s strung out on something.”
Dennis took off after him, as his mother called, “Dennis, be careful!”
Dennis caught up. “Easy, Mister Dukes!” He deftly grabbed Dukes’s shoulders and rolled him face up, curling into a protective ball around him as they slammed onto the neighbor’s lawn. “It’s me, Dennis Barcroft!”
Dennis was relieved to hear sirens, coming fast.
Neighbors appeared and stood at a safe distance, too shocked to try and help. The cruiser driven by Hudson splashed blue and red light across the trees and faces.
Hudson and his partner, Monahan, hopped out as the ambulance’s siren drew closer. “Step back, everyone! Dennis, Elaine, you okay?”
“Yeah, dude!” Dennis sank his weight atop the bigger man. “Just hurry! He’s ape-shit strong!”
“Just kill me!” Dukes begged in a high-pitched tone that raised stinging goose bumps on Dennis’s arms. Then his voice sank to a low moan. “Kill me!”
Hudson and Monahan knelt to help restrain the quivering mass of man, waving in the rushing EMTs to administer sedatives, to silence Dukes’s morbid pleas.
“Mister Dukes, it’s Deputy Hudson Lott, Cronus County Sheriff’s Department. Remember me? No one is going to hurt you! Do you understand?”
Soon, Dukes settled into motionlessness, only whimpering occasionally. But the sedatives did not relax his expression of horror. Dennis released him to Hudson.
Ma dusted off Dennis’s jacket as Monahan and the EMTs loaded Dukes into the back of the ambulance. Hudson came to Dennis. “What happened?”
“Ya got me, man. We came around the corner and found him freaking out, throwing lead,” Dennis explained. “Mister Dukes is such a square, man. I never thought he would use.”
“Not so sure he did use,” Hudson said. “I frankly don’t know what to think.”
“Are you saying he just…lost his mind?” Ma asked, grabbing Dennis’s hand like he was a naive five-year-old who hadn’t just wrestled a large man to the ground.
“I don’t know. But I do know we’ve had three other cases like it just today. Mostly children.”
“Uncool.”
“Decidedly,” Hudson agreed. “And no telling who might be next. Can I get statements?”
* * * *
“Creeping crud…” Ruth worked her way out of the thorn-and-vine-infested woods to emerge behind the same house where the Outlines had rehearsed just the previous day, praising herself for not actually cursing at the dense, scraggly growth, brushing dirt from her rarely worn jeans. Carrying a duffel bag, she checked up and down the lonely street, then at the old house, sparing a huff of disapproval. Despite this, she approached a basement window hidden behind weeds and overlaid with boards.
She knocked twice at the plywood board covering the window, held in place by a single nail at the corner that served as a hinge.
Angelo Betzler, cousin-once-removed from Stuart’s nemesis Albert, appeared. He grinned at her with teeth that, though white as snow, still managed to be hideous, somehow predatory. Smarmy in the cut-off denim vest he wore without a shirt, he raised the window. “Don’t you know it’s still midday, sugar ass?”
“Cut the shenanigans, Angelo.”
Swingin’ jazz swam at her from a scratched and cracked single-speaker radio.
She turned to descend a stepladder set against the inner wall, feeling Angelo’s eyes violating her backside. “I know what you’re doing, Angelo.”
“Ain’t you supposed to wear dresses all the time?”
“So you’ll have a chance to peek at my panties?”
“Seen it all before.” He tossed something onto the long table behind him. Ruth noted with disgust that it was a nudie magazine.
She handed him the duffel bag. “You heard any news?”
Angelo stepped to the worktable where an improvised chemistry apparatus like a low-rent Doctor Jekyll getup was assembled beside a large tray and a battered police-band radio.
“Oh, yeah.” He plucked a piece of the orange-and-black-wrapped candy from the tray, tossed it up, and caught it. “Six cases.” He tossed the candy to her. “I told you this shit would induce serious terror trips. And violent reactions.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t seem to have worked on Reverend McGlazer.” Ruth regarded him like he had shortchanged her. “Could anyone have immunity?”
“No way. You sure he ate it?”
“If it’s around, he ate it.” She glanced at the girlie mag and wrinkled her nose. “Now that he’s quit drinking, his sweet tooth is like your…filthy sex need.”
Angelo stepped well into her personal space. “Did you see him eat it?”
“No, but it’s gone from his desk.”
“Try again. Leave another one or two lying around.”
“Don’t you think that’s a little suspicious?”
“What difference does it make?” Angelo tried to touch her hair, but she moved away. “Long as even a handful of them work, you’ll get your riot.”
“It has to be on a massive level,” she insisted. “This has to make the national news. Did you leave some upstairs, inconspicuously?”
“Sure.” He brushed her lower lip with his finger before she could swat his hand. “Next time those freaks rehearse, they’re bound to run across it.”
“Good.”
“And you really think all this’ll shit-can Halloween?” he asked.
“It will, here in Ember Hollow.” She raised his chin, made him look her in the eyes. “And that’s all I care about. The rest of the country can go to hell for all I care. And I’m betting it will.”
“Lady, you are one gospel short of a testament, if you get my drift.”
“Don’t you worry, Angelo. When Nico gets out, you’ll have access to all his connections. I’ll make sure. Then you can sell your drug recipes to them. Me and Fab can retire and open that orphanage.” She inspected the dusty walls, waxing dreamy-eyed. “Maybe even right here in this old house.”
“That’s real sweet sky pie you’re baking there, baby.” Angelo came almost nose to nose with her and put his arms around her waist. “Does your toy boy know about our connection?”
“No. And he won’t.” She pushed him away. “Not unless you want him to lead pipe you, like he did that dirty snitch. Now, when will the rest be ready?”
“I already finished the cook.” He leaned over the table, inspecting his own craftsmanship. “Just need to wrap ’em.” He motioned at the deep metal tray lined with balls of glossy tainted confections.
“Oh…” Ruth’s eyes lit up. “You’re ahead of schedule, then?” She went to the table and raised one of the candies into the weak light of the bare bulb overhead.
“Yep.” Angelo stood and eased in behind her, pushing his crotch against her. “Wouldn’t mind getting paid a little early too.”
She dropped the candy and faced him. “I sup
pose you wouldn’t.”
“But you’re not exactly”—he stepped closer still, nearly threatening in his persistence—“liquid right now, are ya, baby doll?”
“Next Sunday,” she answered, stepping sideways out of his grasp. “After tithe offerings.”
Angelo sniggered. “Perfect.” He slid to catch up with her again, putting his hands on her hips and pulling her toward him. “But I think a little advance might be in order. Dig?”
She made no expression, offered no encouragement—not that he needed it. As he caressed her hips, she fluttered her eyes. “Oh, yes. I think I do.”
He kissed her forcefully, making her kiss him back. Their breathing grew faster, heavier, until she wrestled away.
“What?” He pulled at her top, nearly tearing it at the seams.
“Okay, okay, just…”
“Just what?” His slimy-sensual tone had a note of anger. “I delivered. You’re up to bat, honey.”
“I know.”
She doffed the top, letting him leer at her in her lacy pristine-white bra. “Just turn around, please,” she said demurely, her nipples rising.
“Yeah, right,” he said with a sickening sneer. “I already seen the goods, baby. Remember?”
“And I’m a lady, Angelo. Don’t you remember?” She cast her eyes down, covering herself. “Shy…”
“Naw, that ain’t how I remember it at all.” But he did turn, unhooking his big rodeo belt buckle.
Ruth unhooked her bra and removed it—then wound up the fastening ends in her fists.
“I’m gonna want that big finish like last time, you know,” Angelo said, tossing his belt to the table with a clatter.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered.
In a deft motion, she looped the bra over Angelo’s head and yanked it tight around his neck.
Angelo was fighting for air before he could react. Ruth hauled him backward, forcing his back to the floor. He looked up at her in purple-faced, helpless terror, digging at the edges of the tough, twisted fabric. His throbbing erection fell as limp as the rest of him would soon be.
“You tell the devil I’m kicking him out of Ember Hollow!” Ruth hissed into his pain-contorted face.
Red Harvest Page 8
