Hallow

(1) Day of the Freaks

DAY OF THE FREAKS

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BETHANIE COUSINS WATCHED FROM THE WINDOW as the sleek silver convertible pulled up outside her house and idled like a bullet waiting to be fired. On a sunny day, the car would glitter, blinding passers-by, but the overcast sky muted the glamour, turning the bright silver into a cool steel-grey.

"Get down here, B – we're out front." The voice bled into her ear through the phone. She could see the owner of the voice seated behind the wheel, platinum and arrow-straight hair cropped just below the chin. Amelia McKinnon.

As she watched, her neighbour's black cat darted across the concrete and into someone's yard. On an ordinary day, she would think nothing of it. But today it was an omen.

"I'm not at all ready," Bethanie replied. "I mean, I still have to pick out an outfit, do my hair..."

"Bethanie! It's Halloween. Feast of the dead. Day of the freaks. Am I ringing any bells?"

Bethanie winced and turned to the mirror. She knew full-well what day it. Her mouth tasted of metal, of knives and bullets, as it always did when she lied.

[Poem Idea #87: The Girl with a Voice of Knives]

Bethanie's image stared back in the mirror. Her blue-eyed double was wearing fashionably-ripped black stockings under a short black skirt. She'd matched the skirt with an un-zipped black leather jacket, revealing a low-cut shirt in – you guessed it – black. She was dressing festive, you could say.

Bethanie turned back to the window and sighed. "I know, I know. Just – meet me there, okay? I'll get a lift from my mom."

Even from up here, she could see the expression Amelia so often wore – a mixture of annoyance and disappointment that rounded out her cheeks and crafted a ridge between her eyebrows. Bethanie held her breath as she waited for the response.

"It starts in half an hour. Don't be late, B."

Bethanie fought to keep in the sigh of relief begging to escape her lips. "I won't."

Amelia hung up. Bethanie could see Chance Gillian sitting in the passenger seat, twirling her already curled brunette hair around a slender finger. She lifted one perfectly manicured eyebrow as Amelia put the car into gear.

Amelia pressed on the accelerator and the bullet flew.

It wasn't that Bethanie didn't like hanging out with her friends – in all actuality, a day spent in Amelia's light was exactly what she need after yesterday evening's gloominess – but today was calling for something different. Something out-of-the-ordinary. After all, next year she'd be moving to the city for the university and everything would change.

Her days of living in Hains were numbered.

She didn't like admitting that she loved her home – the dead-end town surrounded on all sides by forest. Most people who lived there spent all their lives trying to get out. But there it was, the stone-cold fact of it staring at her like the splintered image of the moon she saw most nights from her window: Bethanie cousins didn't want to leave.

The clock read 9:30. Bethanie looked out her window once more. And, right on time, the boy next door stepped out of his house, dressed in plain jeans and a dark grey shirt. Drawing back from the window, she snapped a last-minute notebook and pen up off her desk and stuffed them into the front pocket of her messenger bag (it was the only bag she had in black). Swinging it over one shoulder, she hurried downstairs, her long hair swishing along behind her like a curtain caught in a breeze.

"Have a good day, sweetheart," her mother called from the dining room without looking up, her eyes on a magazine as Bethanie flew past.

"I will," she replied, yanking open the door. "Bye!"

And down the path, out the gate, up the street. The black cat sat across the road, watching with mild interest.

Up ahead, the boy was just stepping onto the footpath. She blew straight up to him. "Dylan," she said, out of breath. Dylan Corvall – dark hair, eyes with focus like the lens of his very expensive camera, albeit with the aid of his black-rimmed glasses – was stunned, one hand still on the rusted metal of the gate to his house.

"Bethanie? What are you–"

"You're free, right? No plans?"

He felt flustered. The last time Bethanie had spoken to him, it had been to borrow a pen. Three years ago. And she still hadn't given it back. "Well, actually I was going to–"

"Great. You're gonna love what I have planned. Can I come in?"

She breezed past him up a path lined with carved pumpkins, stopping at his front door to look back at where he stood, rooted to the spot. He looked down at his camera (Leica M6 Silver). Then he peered back up at Bethanie, her gold hair bright as a morning star. He seemed to be weighing up his options.

"Sure..." he said at last, and with a feeling of pre-regret, followed her in.