Inside, on the floor, The Shape notices a red gasoline storage container next to a propane tank and hedge trimmers. On a cluttered work bench, several padlocks, a bunch of loose nails, a paintbrush, and—
—a wood-handled claw hammer.
A powerful hand closes over the handle, hefts the hammer, testing its weight.
Leaving the light on and the door ajar, The Shape crosses from the shed to the back of the house, taking the same path as the woman, slipping quietly through the rear door.
Inside the house, The Shape notices the glow of a television, the volume turned low and the sounds of activity in the kitchen…
Mentally kicking herself for getting such a late start, Gina Panchella placed the frozen chicken in a plastic container in her kitchen sink, turning on the faucet to defrost it with a cold-water bath. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have taken it from the freezer and placed it in the refrigerator the day before, soon as she got home. But she’d been a bit scatterbrained lately. She’d write herself lists and place sticky notes on the counter or fridge, but half the time she’d forget to read her own notes. Now she worried she wouldn’t have time to thaw and cook the chicken before Ralph got home from his swing shift.
The combination of watching Kate’s baby girl and dealing with trick-or-treaters until she’d finally run out of candy and turned off her porch light to signal to kids the candy well had run dry, meant she hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch. She couldn’t wait for the chicken to thaw to grab a bite with Ralph, so she decided to make herself a sandwich. Placing a baked ham on the cutting board next to a plate with two slices of white bread, she went to the fridge for a jar of pickles and mayonnaise. After setting them on the counter, she sliced several pieces of ham with a large black-handled chef’s knife, placing them one at a time on the bread. Normally, she’d use two slices, but her stomach was rumbling, so she sliced a third. Then she realized she’d left the Swiss cheese in the crisper drawer. Couldn’t eat her ham sandwich without a slice of Swiss on top.
Leaving the knife on the counter, Gina returned to the fridge, opened the door and flipped through the bagged cold cuts until she located the Swiss cheese. Back at the counter, she peeled off a slice of cheese and added it to the sandwich. After adding a pickle and some mayo, she carried the plate to the kitchen table and set it on the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. A simple meal for one.
In the sink, the cold water overflowed the plastic container and made a gurgling sound as it splashed down the drain. After she turned off the faucet, Gina made a mental note to refresh the water in thirty minutes. Then reminded herself a mental note wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. Of course, the paper notes hadn’t helped much either, so she had to trust herself to remember. With her stomach continuing to growl, she sat at the table to take a bite of her sandwich—and remembered she’d left out the condiments and cheese.
Forget it, she told herself. I’ll clean up later. Then she had a sudden craving for some chips to pair with her sandwich. Raiding the pantry would only take a few seconds. So, she slid back her chair and tried to stand. Something pushed back against the chair and she lost her balance. As she caught the edge of the table with her hand, she saw a man in dark coveralls standing over her, face hidden by a pale mask.
She opened her mouth to scream—
—as he swung a hammer down and smashed it against the crown of her head, shattering her plastic curlers, which cushioned the blow slightly but lacerated her scalp.
Terrified, she screamed, but the sound came out more as a raw gasp.
And a second blow crunched against her skull.
Her legs buckled, and she fell back against her chair. Blood poured down her forehead, spilling over the bridge of her nose.
She tried to raise her hands to ward off the blows, but her limbs felt as if they were encased in cement. Even as the light dimmed around the edges of her vision, she saw him turn the handle in his hand, twisting the clawed end of the hammer around to face her. His arm rose again. Then the biting edge of the metal claws came at her in a blur of motion. The last thing she felt was a jarring impact, followed by tremendous pressure and the sensation of her skull bursting open, the bones of her face twisting, fracturing and—
The Shape watches the woman collapse into her chair, her open eyes vacant as her head falls forward to strike the tablecloth.
Dropping the bloody hammer to the tiled floor, The Shape walks to the counter, reaches past the cutting board and picks up the black-handled knife.
The Shape turns the sturdy knife back and forth to catch the gleam of light on the sharp blade. Satisfying.
Without glancing at the dead woman again, The Shape crosses the kitchen and the dining room beyond, into the living room. A baby’s crib sits by the front window, bathed in the glow of the television. Inside the crib, swaddled in blankets, the baby cries.
Unaffected by the infant’s distress, The Shape walks out the front door, down the porch stairs and continues to the sidewalk.
A few trick-or-treaters pass, veering around The Shape without comment or reaction. Ahead, The Shape sees a man and a woman hurrying to their car, a doctor and a nurse—costumes not professional attire based upon how much of the woman’s skin is exposed. They open the car doors, get inside, husband in the driver’s seat.
“Oh, hell,” the man—husband—says, “I can’t find my keys.”
“We’re going to be late,” the woman—wife—tells him.
The husband hurries back into the house.
The Shape stops, watches the wife—alone in the car—sitting impatiently in the passenger seat. Vulnerable. The Shape’s fingers flex around the handle of the blade, pressed against The Shape’s side. Hidden, for now.
In the silence, crickets chirp.
The Shape considers.
“Hello?” the woman says, staring at The Shape.
The Shape’s hand tightens around the handle.
“Come on, baby,” the husband says as he crosses in front of The Shape to return to the driver’s seat with his car keys. “Let’s go.”
The Shape steps away from the curb as the car pulls away.
Once the car is gone, The Shape looks up to the next house.
Through the front window, The Shape sees a woman moving around inside…
For possibly the hundredth time that evening, the doorbell rang.
Andrea Wagner veered toward the door, scooping up the wooden serving bowl of Halloween candy she’d placed on the small table by the front door. A few hours ago the bowl had been overflowing with miniature chocolate bars and bags of hard candy. Now… not so much. Only a few lonely items remained. She’d checked the cupboard earlier to confirm she’d emptied every bag she’d stockpiled in the last month or so. This was her last candy hurrah of the evening.
She opened the door with a wide smile on her face.
A chorus of young voices greeted her with, “Trick or treat!”
Three children stood on her stoop, a number that, fortunately, matched the number of items left in her candy bowl. Two girls and a boy, ages ranging from about eight to twelve. Of course, she thought, the McClaren kids. Shane, Payton, and…