Silent Harbour

Chapter 15: All Hallows' Eve

My alarm wakes me up at 6 am the next morning. The crisp fall air hits my face as I walk the short distance from the front door to the car parked in the driveway. With each breath of cold air I inhale, I feel more and more alert. The roads are fairly empty–everyone in town is surely sleeping in, something I had hoped to accomplish until this last-minute undertaking.

The sky is overcast with the first hints of dawn breaking over the horizon. The contrast between the mist and the vibrant reds, oranges and golds adorning the treeline is both breathtaking and eerie. As I continue the drive through the county, I notice a few more pumpkins and spooky decorations set out on porches and am reminded that today is Halloween.

I chuckle at the crude irony of potentially running into Arthur on Halloween–his least favourite holiday. Peter and I used to go trick-or-treating together every year, come rain or shine without fail. We'd always start our route at the old farmhouse, after successfully badgering Arthur into hanging a couple of cobwebs to get into the holiday spirit. Each year, he'd put his foot down with mutterings about modern consumerism ruining the true essence of the day. In his mind, the perfect Halloween consisted of wrangling up the week's harvest, lighting a bonfire in the back, and avoiding pissing off any spirits that may still linger.

As you could expect in any small town, Silent Harbour was no stranger to taking a simple holiday like Halloween and turning it into a weeklong festival. In fact, most of Arthur's trepidations regarding the day centred around this drawn-out celebration.

The first day of the festival, affectionately named 'A Celebration of Pumpkins,' featured pumpkin carving contests, pumpkin pie baking competitions, and pumpkin patches from which the townspeople would select their soon-to-be jack-o'-lanterns for display outside their homes.

The second day was a makeshift farm appreciation day. Everything, from the hay bales used to construct mazes of varying difficulty, to the horse-drawn carts and mini petting zoo, to the apples used for the children's apple-bobbing contest, was sourced by the town council from our local farms. I remember one year in particular when Rochester Farm supplied only corn husks and twine. Arthur bravely attempted to lead an arts and crafts workshop teaching us how to build our own scarecrows. Unfortunately, the session was cut short when a chorus of children began clamouring for actual corn instead of just husks. Poor Arthur. He didn't stand a chance against an army of crying, hungry kids.

Day three was a low-stakes, simple, movie-in-the-park. Everyone gathered on the field overlooking the fog-ridden lake to watch whatever movie won the most votes during the poll on day one. My favourite Halloween movie of all time, Coraline, was only ever played once before the other children's horrified reactions prompted the town council to prohibit it from ever being shown again.

Day four was really just a day of preparations for the actual day. Anyone deemed skillful enough to wield a brush was encouraged to help run a face painting booth in townsquare for the children. It still remains a mystery to me how the paint remained intact and undisturbed the following day.

With everything that's been going on the past few days, I've somehow missed most of this year's festivities. Maybe, if time permits, I can make a quick stop at the store to buy some candy and piece together a costume. If nothing's changed since the last time I took part, children will be encouraged to go trick-or-treating from the hours of 6 to 8 pm, so that everyone can gather in the park and participate in a good old-fashioned costume contest.

It's become quite easy to navigate my way through Cedar Creek after all my recent visits. After turning onto Maplewood Boulevard, I take my foot off the gas pedal to let my car drop down to a slow roll. Little by little, the car inches forward, as I squint and try to read the numbers of the houses on either side of the road. Before long, I'm just a few houses away from lucky number 1360. Given how empty the streets are, there isn't much I can do about hiding my car–it's the only one parked on the curb, a sure magnet for curious eyes and nosey neighbours as they peer out their windows while sipping on their morning coffees.

At first glance, the house doesn't look too shabby or run down–a far cry from the exteriors of the old Rochester Farm main house. By my guess, the white shiplap walls are a recent addition. Though beautiful and deserving of the front cover of Better Homes and Gardens magazine, the house undeniably sticks out against its traditional brick-exterior neighbours. There aren't any cars in the driveway, but I can just barely make out the sounds of a television broadcasting this morning's weather report from inside.

Not wanting to waste any more time, I take a deep breath and ring the doorbell. The sound of feet shuffling towards the door grows louder and louder, and before long, the door opens ever so slightly.

"Why on earth are you comin' round and ringin' my doorbell at 7 in the morning on a Sunday? I have half a mind to shoot you just for interrupting my breakfast. Now, get outta here!" The low, gravelly voice admonishes me.

Just as they make a move to slam it shut, I stick my foot in the tiny gap between the door and the frame. "Mr. Rochester, wait! It's me, Emery Pierce. You know, Peter's friend?"

"I don't know how you got a hold of this address, lady, and there sure isn't any Mr. Rochester living here. Don't make me ask you again–leave!" The faceless voice booms with anger.

"Fine, if you want to play it like that, Mr. Rochester, so be it. Harold? Harold Stewart? I know it's you."

Suddenly, my foot is kicked out of the way and the door shuts abruptly. The sound of a chain sliding off its lock mechanism settles my worries of squandering my lead. A moment later, the door is opened and I am pulled by my arm into the house.

"How do you know that name?" My eyes reflexively close shut as I feel myself being pushed against the wall by the shoulders. "Huh?! Tell me now!"

I take a second to reorient myself before slowly opening them. I never believed in ghosts before, and maybe it's the Halloween spirit playing a trick on my eyes, but there's no denying who I see standing in front of me. Peter. "Peter?" My voice is laden with vulnerability and uncertainty.

No. No. It isn't possible. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling utterly betrayed by my own eyes. It's impossible. "I'm going to count to five and open my eyes. Peter will be gone, because Peter was never here. It's just a trick of light. I'm tired and clearly need more sleep." I think aloud.

One. I take in a deep breath. Two. I exhale until my body curls forward. Three.

Wrenching my eyes open, I'm taken aback by the person in front of me. It's no wonder I thought I saw a ghost. Peter's eyes stare back at me in consternation, awaiting my next move. The rest of him is unfamiliar.

"Who are you?" My question barely comes out as a whisper.

The man squints his eyes, and in doing so, reveals his age as the lines across his forehead intensify.

"I'm five seconds away from calling the police. So, I'll ask one more time. Who are you?"

"Harold," he replies, "Harold Stewart."

"No. It can't be. Harold Stewart is Arthur Rochester. Believe me, I know what Arthur looks like."

"Say all you want, lady, but I ain't lying. My name is Harold Stewart, and once upon a time, it used to be Jack Rochester. Now tell me, how do you know my son, Peter?"