Red Harvest Page 13

  Helga leaned over and shoved the passenger door open. “Get in!”

  The caped horror was an arm’s length from the Trans Am when Ryan dove into the seat. Helga gunned the engine, not waiting for him to pull his feet in.

  Everett swiped at Ryan’s foot with his fistful of cutlery—but missed.

  In the back, Trudy and Angus shouted a cacophony of strident pleas, terrified when they saw that the stranger wasn’t giving up, was continuing to chase the car, inhumanly fast.

  Ryan wrestled himself inside and slammed the door.

  The madman stopped his pursuit.

  Breaths of relief escaped them all.

  “Shit!” Angus squeaked. “What the hell is wrong with that guy?”

  There was no conversation, as they all recovered their breath and their senses. Then, while Ryan situated himself in the passenger seat, Helga giggled.

  “What’s the joke, lady?”

  Meeting Helga’s gaze in the mirror, Trudy joined in with a clap, leaving Angus to wonder if her mind had broken.

  “Men. No sense of irony,” she noted.

  Ryan shot an impatient glance back at her. “What?”

  Helga raised the rubber spider. “That dude had you losers for dinner.”

  Angus face-palmed. “Aaah…Shit.”

  “Here’s to Devil’s Night!” said Trudy, and the mood returned, just that easily, to the relaxed celebration it had been before.

  Her interest drawn by the DJ’s chatter on the radio, Helga shushed everyone and turned up the volume.

  “—show your support tomorrow night, as Ember Hollow’s very own Chalk Outlines perform on top of the marquee at The Grand Illusion Cinemas, downtown. These kids are making some serious waves!” said the DJ, as he ramped up “Rumble at Castle Frankenstein.”

  “Ooh!” Helga turned it up to sing along, soon joined by Trudy.

  “I was hunted, far from home

  Haunted, cursed to roam

  Desperate to be freed

  From my insatiable need

  To kill by full moon’s light”

  The boys joined too, all singing in a perfect blend of youthful sincerity and sarcasm, as Helga made the hard right onto lonesome Haunted Hollow Road, toward the pond at its end. The main road and its unnerving pedestrian faded to an awesome story they could tell their friends later, as the pumpkins decayed.

  * * * *

  Everett watched the shrinking tail lights of the Trans Am, till it turned into the tree-lined gravel road. “Stopped playing. Very mean.”

  Just a few yards away stood a dusty sign that read: haunted hollow fishing pond, next right. And beneath that: closed till spring.

  Everett thought about letters and words and remembered from his spooky books how they connected to each other to tell him things.

  He would be playing with his new friends after all, it appeared. He walked after them—until his attention was drawn to something across the pumpkin field. A huge, dark old house, the kind Everett often drew and read and dreamed about, the kind his old records portrayed as party central for the dead and the strange—those like him.

  Everett’s smile grew wide again, and he trudged across the field.

  Chapter 14

  Albert Betzler, resplendent in top hat with matching wool cloak and a pasted-on goatee, led the line of costumed Krelboynes to the rear corner of the old Victorian. He cocked his ear toward the house, listened for a minute, then removed his plastic vampire teeth to speak. “Excellent. They don’t appear to have arrived yet, so we can execute Plan A.”

  Two of his gang of four—papier-mâché hunchback Del, still wearing his glasses, and Norman in a plush, full-body teddy bear costume—lifted their masks to take in the delicious autumn air. The house’s pervasive mustiness was strong, even outside.

  Behind them stood two much larger figures:, Tyrell— a rather chintzy bigfoot—spinning a basketball on one fuzzy finger; and Maynard, dressed as a hulking, hooded executioner, sporting a massive broadax to complete the ensemble.

  Hunchback Del raised a chain and capered about, clinking it. “How’s this?”

  “Absolutely eldritch!” lauded Albert. “Norman?”

  They turned to Norman. He took his time donning the fuzzy full-head bear mask that was doomed to be whimsical and cheery in even the half-light of an old house. He tried, though, mustering a muffled growl as he raised round paws and paddled at the air like a sleepy kitten.

  Albert stroked his false goatee. “Maynard, may I?”

  Maynard tossed the massive ax to Albert, who nearly fell trying to ride out the weight. Once he’d regained his balance, he handed it to Norman. “There.”

  “Wait! This is real!” Norman protested.

  “Go to the head of class, Louis Pasteur!” Albert adjusted Norman’s grip on the ax to make it seem more threatening, then shoved the bear head back on. “All you have to do is wave it around.”

  Norman practiced, caught off guard when Albert sprayed fake blood all over both the bear costume and the ax. “Hey!”

  “Maintain composure, Norman. The package says it washes out.”

  Albert tossed the bottle over his shoulder and turned to Maynard and Tyrell. “You guys will serve as our big finale.”

  Tyrell flashed a fuzzy thumbs-up. Maynard, munching on a protein bar, turned to connect knuckles with the hirsute basketballer.

  Albert led them around the corner to the weathered back deck and climbed the short set of stairs. Albert stopped at the back door, causing the others to crowd behind him. “Del, do you have the lock-picking set?

  “Um…”

  “What? Does that mean no?”

  “My dad took it away,” Del grumbled. “After I got into his trunk and found his sex books.”

  Albert took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. “Del, you could have—”

  Maynard shouldered past them and punched the door, sending it flying off the hinges and to the floor, raising a rectangular cloud of dust.

  “Breathtaking!” Norman exclaimed. The boys entered, stopping just inside the dim hallway to take in the peeling wallpaper and old paintings on the wall.

  Del pointed to an old portrait of a mustachioed gentleman who might have been constipated at the time of posing. “Hey! I wonder if the eyes follow you around the room.”

  Tyrell took it down and poked two long, fur-gloved fingers through the canvas at the eyes, then handed it to Del, like he was delivering a package.

  “Um…thanks?” Del held the portrait to his face and peered through both his glasses and the fresh finger holes, glancing back and forth to imitate a scary stalker.

  First to enter the living room, Norman was impressed to find The Chalk Outlines’ gear packed against the wall. He took off the bear head to exclaim, “Sweet mother of Sagan!”

  Albert entered, shushing him.

  “Check out all this rock-and-roll stuff!” Norman stage whispered.

  Albert beheld the equipment, his default devious expression accentuated by the goatee.

  “It’s so neat!” Norman gushed. “Like a real rock band setup!”

  “Duh. Stupidert’s brother is leader of that grotesque musical travesty The Chalk Outlines,” noted Albert, his eyes narrowing. “These are their instruments.”

  Tyrell entered and exclaimed, “Gonzo!” as he opened the coffin-shaped case that held Pedro’s bass.

  “Wow!” Norman said, forgetting to whisper.

  Maynard took a seat behind the drums, barely fitting his bulk in the space fitted for Jill. He picked up the drum sticks and tried to spin them in his fingers. “That hot-ass drummer chick plays with these sticks. Bet she’d like to play with my stick.”

  “That’s rather unambiguous, don’t you think?” Albert asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Let’s find
some hiding spots, shall we? Stupidert and DeShaun will be coming along soon.”

  A paper bag, barely discernible in the house’s thickening shadows, sat on an end table beside the band’s gear—the tainted treats from Angelo’s lab in the basement.

  Marvin, searching for a hiding place, spotted the paper bag. He poked his paw inside and was delighted to withdraw several pieces of orange-and-black-wrapped candy. Hiding the bag under his armpit, he crept to the hall closet.

  Chapter 15

  Candace walked through the neighborhood, humming to herself. She worked the candy back and forth in her mouth as she strolled, thinking of Stuart’s cute, earnest face.

  An odd sound drew her attention to a row of shrubs to her left. She stopped and peered into the bushes. The darkest section seemed to waver, then formed a large leafy hand that reached toward her.

  Candace recoiled. Then the shrubbery snapped back to normal, like a rubber glove.

  Candace gathered herself and renewed her pace. “Silly…”

  Within a few steps, she had to slow, as her peripheral vision began shimmering, vibrating. A low scraping sound rose behind her, making her spin—to see nothing. Then glowing green jackal’s eyes blinked open and peered at her from within an overturned trash can. Behind it, a large pile of leaves shifted—and crawled toward her.

  Candace shook her head till it pounded—but when her vision settled, the leaf blob was still coming—and gaining speed.

  The leaves burst apart against the yard’s fence, only to reform on the other side. Candace burst into a run.

  A garden hose unspooled from the side of a house to her right and rocketed toward her feet. She leaped over it with a squeal as dense shadows writhed and rose and flew and flowed toward her like puddles of evil black ink.

  “Mama!” she cried. “Daddy!”

  She stumbled as she turned hard onto her drive.

  Breathless from the incline, she nonetheless ran like hell, all too aware of the blackness behind her, threatening to swallow her. Twisting spirals of bright burning stars lengthened and focused to stab her from above.

  Her house came into view, dim light glowing from the window of her mother’s bedroom. She begged her mother to feel her desperation and open the door in time for her to dart inside.

  A black tidal wave rose around and above her, demon fish snapping at her through its surface.

  She made it to the door, hitting and turning the knob with such timing that she hardly slowed at all, as she spun over the threshold and slammed the door.

  She rested against it and gulped familiar-scented air. Eyes tightly shut, she listened.

  When she opened her eyes, she was confused to see a knife embedded in the door beside the knob.

  She wrenched it loose, thinking she might need it if something broke in. The knife melted like burning wax. She dropped it.

  Candace watched her hand, waiting for searing pain that never came. She took two slow steps forward, staying focused on the dim light limning the edge of the door to her parents’ room.

  At the door, she stopped, pushing it open a few inches. “Mama?”

  As she eased the door open, an ethereal light flooded her face, warming her, erasing her terror. Lit by a celestial glow cascading through the broken ceiling, Mamalee floated above the bed headboard, peering down at Candace with beatific eyes. Angelic wings spread from her back.

  Mamalee raised a finger to her smiling lips. “Shhh.” She pointed to the armchair near the window, where the curtains rose and fell from the fall breeze.

  Her father sat in the armchair with his eyes closed, a boyish grin on his lips like he was dreaming of a time long before damaged children and annual cross-country moves, perhaps his own childhood.

  Candace was happy to see such contentment and heavenly beauty in her parents. “Mama, I was so scared.”

  Mamalee shushed her again. “Let that slip away, child. Sleep.”

  Candace shuffled to her parents’ big bed, watching in wonder as tiny lights like fireflies emerged from Mamalee’s eyes and danced around her head.

  She settled into the bed as Mamalee hovered over her. “I will watch over you, my baby. Always.”

  Candace’s eyes fluttered. She was asleep in seconds.

  Chapter 16

  Full dark fell like an anvil in a Looney Tunes episode.

  Hiding behind the line of shrubs against the house, Tyrell, unmasked, spun his basketball on each finger in succession, then back, then every other, like a mirthless, hair-covered Harlem Globetrotter.

  Nearby, Maynard lay curled up on the ground, snoring. Tyrell nudged him. “Hey! Wake up, dude!”

  Maynard sat up. “What?”

  “Get up. I need to stretch my legs.”

  “Your legs are plenty stretched already, Storko.”

  “Hee-hee, ho-ho. Come on.”

  Maynard stood. “Wait a minute. What do you need me for?”

  Tyrell appeared sheepish even in the dark.

  “Well?”

  “This place is a little spooky, all right?”

  “Aw, jeez,” griped Maynard. “I told you, don’t go to that Screecher Feature.”

  They shoved their way out of the bushes.

  * * * *

  Norman trembled at the sounds of a growling, scrabbling thing lurking just beyond the closet, surely sniffing for fresh meat.

  Keeping one hand cupped over his mouth, he held his heavy ax close with the other, ignoring the wet stain darkening the crotch of his bear suit.

  The bag of candy lay spilled and forgotten on the floor, along with a single wrapper.

  “Not real…Not real…Oh, God…” he whispered to himself as a tear crawled down his cheek.

  * * * *

  Albert sighed as he sat slumped on the dusty old commode lid, flicking his flashlight off and on.

  He peeked through the crack between door and frame, saw only still shadows, then turned and went to the grimy mirror, underlighting himself with the flashlight. “It’s alive!” he intoned in quite a reasonable imitation of Colin Clive.

  He turned and studied the torn shower curtain. He yanked it open, wielding the flashlight like a butcher knife as he mimicked a screeching violin.

  He sat again, checking his calculator watch, cursing Stuart and DeShaun for no-showing. He stepped out of the bathroom. “Okay, guys. Everybody come out. Norman, go get Maynard and Tyrell.”

  He went to the instruments, and his devious smile reappeared, partially ungluing the goatee. “You think you can outsmart me, Stupidert?” he mumbled. “Think again.”

  He kicked over the drum kit, pleased by the noisy, hollow echo. “Hate to defecate on your parade, Chalk Outlines, but…” He mimicked the sounds of violent diarrhea.

  The exhilaration he felt was perhaps comparable to his first science fair win, after which he had smirked at that stupid kid who had composed the silly theory about atomic fission and refusion. Ha! What a joke.

  He raised the bass guitar from its case and plucked at the strings. “Come on, you guys! Let’s Tipper Gore these ghoulish blasphemies against the musical arts!”

  He raised the bass high, hefting it like a sledgehammer as he eyed the drum kit. “Norman! Guys! Come on. You’re going to miss all the recreation!”

  Hearing no response, Albert took a breath and swung the bass into the drums, shattering and scattering them and their stands about the room.

  He howled as he bashed the bass into the hardwood floor. Its neck splintered with a screechy twang. He admired the destruction he had wrought, then impatiently dropped the bass, went to the front door, and opened it. “Tyrell! Maynard! Don’t you guys want to help me trash these atrocious noise pollution machines?”

  Wind blew leaves from the big maple in the front yard that stood silhouetted by the full moon.

  “Del?”

&
nbsp; No sign of anyone.

  “Jeez, where are all you guys?”

  He was ready for a jump scare, setting himself to give a stony no-sell. But it never came. “You dimwits can forget about trying to scare me.”

  Leaving the door open, he went back to the instruments and strummed the neck of the wrecked bass with the toe of his shoe. “Norman? You still in the closet?” He didn’t sound quite as self-assured as usual.

  Albert walked to the closet and reached for the knob, but stopped on hearing a scream from outside. “What the…?”

  Norman burst from the closet, bellowing, candy-colored drool running down his chin—and the ax raised.

  Chapter 17

  The stalker was a demon-grinned mad hatter. The lid of his top hat erupted like a volcano, releasing a leering white rabbit, which in turn split apart to reveal a flying swarm of razorblade playing cards, all whirling into a formation targeting him. Norman had to defend himself.

  He swung the ax, bringing it straight down onto Albert’s foot.

  Albert’s cries joined Norman’s in a chorus of horror and pain.

  Norman cowered against the wall as the cards buzzed him, nicking his cheeks and neck, then circling to do it again, like the biplanes that had tormented a defiant King Kong on the Empire State Building.

  Whimpering, Albert pried at the ax in his foot, yanking it free at last—only to separate a piece of his foot with it. He fell to his side crying, refusing to look at the wound, the blood, the separation.

  The boys, immersed in a duet of delirious fear meeting transcendent pain, remained unaware of a new arrival emerging from the shadows of the front room.

  Everett.

  His gaze fell to the ax on the floor lying just inches from a pool of blood. “Choppy treat!”

  The boys saw him and went silent.

  Snickering, Everett took the ax.

  Albert scooted against the wall and tried to continue—through it, or perhaps over it. Norman scurried on all fours back into the closet and slammed the door.

  Everett was digging in his coat pocket for paper masks when Tyrell and Maynard bounded up the back steps and appeared at the doorway.