Hudson House [Now available for the Kindle]

Chapter 13

When the sun’s descent painted the sky in deep reds and oranges, Eric gathered his supplies (cross around his neck beneath his shirt, knife in his jacket pocket, Maglite in one hand, baseball bat in the other), and assured himself that he wasn’t being stupid; he was doing exactly what had to be done. “If you’re here, mom,” he said to his room, “I’m sorry. Please watch out for me. I’m only doing what I have to. I know you understand.” He stopped short of saying, I love you; it didn’t feel right to say it aloud to an empty room, almost like a violation. Besides, his mother knew he loved her. Mothers always knew things like that.

Tommy was already waiting at the corner of Jackson Drive and Mangle Lane in the same Michael Myers mask and jumpsuit he had worn the last three years. He did not have the comically large carving knife that went with the costume, but he was holding a pillowcase: the preferred method of treat collection for the serious trick-or-treater. Things inside the case pushed it out at odd, sharp angles.

“Hey,” Eric said.

“Hay is for horses,” Tommy said from behind the mask. “What’s your costume, nighttime baseball player?”

Eric didn’t laugh and felt suddenly very stupid. He had been so prepared, so confident, and one remark from Tommy had dashed that certainty. Good old reliable Tommy.

“For protection.” Eric swung the bat in a small arc.

Tommy snorted. Eric wasn’t going to show him the pocket knife. Once he saw what was in Tommy’s pillowcase, however, his pocket knife no longer held the threatening power it once had.

“Check it out,” Tommy said and opened his pillowcase.

Eric peered in, saw nothing but shadows, turned on his Maglite and shined it inside the bag. The light reflected off of an impossibly long metal blade that must be meant for cutting people’s heads off. Eric gasped and Tommy laughed.

“It’s my father’s,” he said. “He’ll never notice I took it out of the kitchen.”

“What is it for?”

“It’s a carving knife, stupid. You know, cooking?”

“Why did you bring it?”

“Protection. What good is a bat going to do, anyway?”

Other items surrounded the knife. Thick rope bundled in an “8” snuggled next to a hammer that partially covered a mirror, on which rested an envelope and the giant knife—eight inches long, at least. “He won’t suspect any of it,” Tommy said about his father. “My dad was counting the eggs and hiding his shaving cream.”

Tommy’s amusement did nothing to calm Eric. “What are we supposed to do with that stuff?”

“You’ll see,” Tommy said. “And I have this, too.” He pulled a plastic flashlight out of a pocket in his overalls. It seemed his outfit had many pockets. At least Eric had him beat with the flashlight. That plastic one might break if he dropped it while Eric’s would endure extensive abuse.

“You think he’ll show?” Eric asked.

“He better.”

A group of kids in torn and bloodied bed sheets shrieked past them down Mangle Lane like a chorus of ghosts. They moved so quickly they could have been flying. Somewhere else a kid screamed and a cackle of laughs followed. The sun had almost disappeared and flashlight beams shook across the roads and houses as dark figures marched up strangers’ front porches to demand something sweet.

A burst of wind plastered Eric’s jacket to his body like a wet-suit. With it came a chill that seeped through his clothes, onto his skin, and into his body. The cold dug deep, burrowed into caverns of ice, buried hooks that would not shake loose. Halloween was always best when the weather tilted below fifty degrees but this weather stung with an extra bitterness that made Eric shift his weight nervously from one foot to the other. This Halloween didn’t feel like the others; this one was nastier.