"For your friend," he said.
"Thanks, Mister!" the kid shouted, turning away to consult with his compatriot. Peter looked out to see the street filled with children in groups, cars and vans moving slowly up one side of the Street and down the other, ferrying other costumed congregations.
He went back to retrieve whatever candy they had, and spent the next hour stationed at the door, pushing candy into the open mouths of trick or treat bags.
He noticed one car parked in front of his house that didn't move with the others.
A curl of cigarette smoke rose from the open window on the driver's side, and he noticed the man sitting there looking his way now and then.
It looked like Grant, but he couldn't be sure.
The night grew colder, more blustery; leaves began to dance around the few remaining children, until the groups trickled to a few older uncostumed kids, out for fun with shaving cream cans or rolls of toilet paper.
Then, abruptly, it was quiet. The vans, engorged with little riders, drove off, leaving only the single car in front of Kerlan's house, and the curl of smoke.
Some of the lights went out; pumpkin flames were snuffed by the wind, leaving the block quieter, more eerie.
He closed the front door; locked it; closed the remaining windows, found a sweater in his bedroom and went back down to his office. It was cold inside—and was filled with the sound of buzzing.
When he stepped into the room, his foot crushed something alive and wriggling on the carpet.
A hornet.
Others were moving over the rug, crawling slowly up the walls from behind the couch; one made a feeble try at flying up toward the light but fell back, exhausted, to land on the coffee table which held manuscripts in front of the sofa.
"What in God's name—!"
He ran to his desk, jabbed at the phone, rifled through the stacks of papers on his desk, looking for the phone number of Willims, the beekeeper.
A hornet was crawling tiredly across the front edge of the desk, and he swatted it angrily to the floor.
There were more yellow jackets, scores of them, moving toward the desk from the far end of the office, more climbing up the walls—
He found the number, punched keys, waiting impatiently.
Be there, dammit!
A sleepy voice answered the phone, yawned "Hello?"
Peter identified himself, and almost shouted into the receiver: "They're back, dammit! All over the place! What the hell is going on?"
The bee-keeper yawned again. "Fell asleep in front of the TV," he explained. "Watching 'Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman.' Good flick." He laughed. "Don't get many trick or treaters. Kids are afraid of bees." Another, more drawn-out yawn. "You say they came back? Impossible. We killed that nest dead."
"Then what the hell is happening?"
A pause. "Only thing I can think of is that there was a second nest, like I mentioned to you. Real unusual, but it does happen. Two females, probably from the same brood originally, established nests near each other. This ain't the original nest we're talking about, but a whole new one. Wow. Haven't seen this in a long time."
"Can you get rid of it?"
"Sure. What's probably happening now is the cold is killing off the drones. You must have missed a spot in the baseboard, and they're being driven from the nest to the light and heat in your office. Why don't you look for the opening in the baseboard while I get over there—plug that up with tape and that'll take care of your office. Then we'll find the new nest and knock 'em out in no time. They're on the way out anyway." He laughed shortly, giving a half-yawn... "Wow. Two nests. That's somethin' ..."
"Just get over here!"
Peter slammed down the phone and stalked to the sofa. He moved the coffee table in front of it, then angled the couch out, away from the wall.
A mass of sluggish hornets were clustered on the rug in front of a gap in the baseboard.
More in anger than in fright, he grabbed a wad of papers from the coffee table, rolled them into a makeshift tube and cleared the front of the opening of hornets. They moved willingly. He ran back to his desk, retrieved a length of cellophane tape, and, with a practiced motion, wadded it as he went back to the baseboard.
Already another hornet, followed by yet another sluggish insect, was crawling through the space.
Peter thrust the wadded cellophane at the opening, pushing the two new intruders backwards as the hole was plugged.
The sound of buzzing was very loud behind the wall.
And now, being this close to the wall, he noticed another sound.
A rustling movement, a thin sound as if someone was scratching weakly against the other side of the wall.
And then a pained, tepid whisper:
"Peter..."
"What—"
He stood up, brushing a few slow-crawling hornets from the wall and put his ear flush against it.
It came again, the thinnest of rustling breaths heard behind a thick chorus of buzzing: "Peter, help me..."
"Ginny!" he shouted.
"Yes..."
"My God—"
"Peter..."
He drew back from the wall, balling his fists as if he would smash through it—then he turned, throwing open the office door and dashing through and up the stairs. He ran for the back sliding door, nearly tripping over Ginny's things in the hallway, his mind feverish.
"My God, Ginny..."
He pushed himself out into now-cold night, a full October chill hitting his face as he shouted, "Ginny!"
The backyard was lit by the sharp circle of the moon, by a few orange and white lights still lit in houses behind his, visible through denuded oaks. A pumpkin on a back deck railing, now carved, was still lit, the candle within it flickering wildly in the chill breeze, making the features wild.
"Ginny, where are you!"
He heard a rustle to his right, against the house, in darkness.
He stumbled down the back deck steps.
"Ginny!"
"Here, Peter, help me..."
Breathing heavily, he found himself standing before the garden shed, its bulk looming in front of him. The sound of buzzing was furious, caught in the cold wind.
"Peter..."
He screamed, an inarticulate sound, and pulled at the shed's door, which wouldn't budge.
My God, she must have been caught inside the shed. The door must have closed on her and trapped her inside!
His mind filled with roiling thoughts. He pulled and clawed and banged at the door, trying to open it.
"Help me please, Peter. .
"Jesus!" The door wouldn't move. He looked wildly around for a tool, something to pry it open with—and then spied the short handle of a spade lying close by on the grass.
He picked it up, noting faint scratches on the spade's face—this must have been how Ginny had gotten the door open originally...
"Peter..."
"I'm coming!"
Mad with purpose, he pried the spade into the thin opening between wooden door and jamb, began to work it back.
There was a creaking sound, but the door held firm.
"Dammit!"
"Peter, please..."
He hammered on the handle of the spade, driving it deeper into the opening. He angled it sideways and suddenly the wooden handle broke away, leaving him with the metal arm which had been imbedded in it, attached to the blade. He pushed at the blade, getting faint purchase but shouting with the effort.
"Dammit!" The handle slipped, slicing into his hand, but he ignored the pain, the quick line of blood, and kept pushing and banging.