The show must go on, he told himself. And it had, up until the passing strange moment at the opening prayer huddle. Some of the kids stared at him oddly as he went through the obligatory pep talk. It was easier if he didn’t look right at them. Lice, earwigs and worms infested their scabbed and flaming features, and the fecal stench of unborn and aborted sin washed off them like the outgassing from rat carcasses.
It took Gary’s breath away. Babies fresh from Sunday school, innocent kids, thoroughly screened, disqualified by the slightest sign of risky behavior, but not one among them was untouched by the vile parasites of sin in thought and wish, the ravages of a million petty transgressions.
And these were, Gary had to admit, the cream of the local crop, the kids who never really had the chance to sin, because they were fat, acne-scarred, spastic losers, or they never would’ve come to the haunt. Even in a town where possession of a single joint by a minor triggered asset forfeiture laws designed to knock down drug cartels, so many homeless families living under bridges because Junior snuck one of dad’s PBR’s when the deputies came about a noise complaint… Even here, there were plenty of parties, make-out spots and cool things to do that none of these kids ever had the opportunity to turn down.
When he looked them over, he saw only one face unblemished by the mark of sin… the stolid, back-of-a-shovel profile of his right hand, Burt Coughlin—who, everybody was pretty sure, was deeply mentally impaired—absently scrubbing his few remaining teeth with the toothbrush he always carried in his hip pocket.
He heard Wenda and some others buzzing about the news back east. In Fort Lauderdale, five kids were dead and nineteen hospitalized for strychnine poisoning. Police were conducting an extensive neighborhood search, and the mayor was ordering every household outside the suspect neighborhood to throw away its trick-or-treat candy.
A retired Sunday school teacher in Muncie was under arrest after a child bit into a candy apple with a razorblade in it, and similar foreign objects turned up in all the treats sold at a local elementary school Halloween fundraiser. Before lawyers retained by an anonymous donor took her away from the cameras, she claimed that the forces of darkness possessed little children at Halloween, and she couldn’t abide it any longer. She cited the same passages from scripture that Gary had invoked again and again in the last year. She said she was just an envelope. Her Master had written the message for all with eyes to read it…
Just the envelope—
There were others, too many to keep track of. Rumors and instant urban legends ran amok, but this Halloween came after a hot, dry summer and two weeks before the ugliest, most divisive election in modern history. People were looking for any side in any argument as an excuse to fight, and the War on Halloween had come at a perfect time.
People all over America were throwing out their candy and keeping their children at home, trashing their slutty cheerleader costumes and Donald Trump masks and praying for God’s forgiveness, if they knew what was good for them.
Two crying boys hugged and blessed him before he hit the stage. One of them wept into his ear, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t believe you… but sweet Lord Jesus, I can see them…”
“You’re spreading His message,” a teen girl said before she kissed him full on the mouth, smearing his makeup. Another one he didn’t recognize hugged him against her bosom until his manhood stirred, then pressed a box cutter into his hand. “Be safe,” she said. “Be ready.”
The prayer meeting with the cast had been an ugly revelation. Stepping out onto the stage and looking at the crowd was like cracking open a long-sealed casket. Expecting it didn’t begin to prepare you for the overwhelming, septic stench of their sin.
Gary pinched the bridge of his nose, his earlobes, until his head stopped spinning. They’d spit on the message and cause trouble, but he saw news cameras out there too, so he rallied.
The opening was rocky, but he stayed calm, oddly disconnected from the nerves that seemed to extend out past his body like antennae, conducting bad luck and entropy into everything he touched when he was least able to cope. It was just another massive crowd, if he didn’t look too closely, idly curious shading to openly hostile, frustrated young locals grudgingly checking out the hell house because it was the only show in town.
But he couldn’t stop seeing, even as he whipped out his bullhorn and played the role. Looking out over the crowd, he pointed here and there and called out what he saw. He couldn’t seem to stop egging them on. It was the reason his hell house was a national sensation, and angry money spent the same as the cold kind.
“I see a secret drunk,” he witnessed, “and another who steals from his church to gamble every night. I see a righteous man who sponsors starving children around the world to assuage his guilt over the children here at home he’s molested, and I see a beloved teacher who delights in sex tourism with little children overseas. I see faithless women and two-faced men, liars and shiftless idolators, drinkers and druggers and masturbators. I thought this was a god-fearing town, but just about all of you are bound for Hell without any help from me!”
The crowd was angry, churning and growling. Catcalls came thick and fast. Gary turned up the bullhorn. “What the hell did you rubes expect, I’m the Devil! You want to taste the fruit you’re going to reap, then come ahead and buy a ticket. Maybe this Halloween, you’ll be saved from ending up on my plate!”
Someone threw a pumpkin. Their aim was lousy, but the smallish jack o’ lantern burst at Gary’s cloven-hoof feet. A wave of nauseous rot splashed him. People laughed. Lit cigarettes and a few beercans followed. Gary tried to reclaim his self-control. He knew how to deal with hecklers.
“I hope you didn’t sell your soul for that throwing arm!” A few laughed and he felt like he’d won them back. He reminded them not to touch the performers inside, or there’d be real hell to pay. He waved for Burt to start taking the tickets.
Someone threw a bottle.
It hit him in the back of the head. The glass and foamy backwash caromed off his skull in a thorny corona. The impact sent him down on one knee, like he was going to sing or propose marriage.
“Close the doors!” he shouted, but he restrained himself from diving for cover. Give them enough rope, let them show the world what they’re really like. If the martyrs could walk into lions’ dens and brave arrows and torture and the stake, he could stand for a little rough heckling.
More bottles, cans and pumpkins, candy and trash and rocks. “We’re not going to sell a single ticket until you people move back,” he said, and then he heard the sirens.
All over town, they howled like hollow dogs, but they seemed to come together at the far end of Main and fade to the east, where the fat orange harvest moon was obscured by a column of black smoke.
Gary ran off the stage to the doors. Without a word, Burt turned and ran away, the stinking coward. Leah had closed the ticket window, but the monsters in the crowd were burning trash and pushing it through the bars.
“Someone set fire to the corn maze,” Wenda told him.
“Dear Lord,” Gary said, but he felt only that insidious, seeping cold under his ribs.
“There were at least a couple hundred in that field, Gary,” she said. “All of them dark-sided.”
“I know, it’s terrible,” he said, but he didn’t know anything. A couple hundred people in this town, it was like lopping off a limb. But a rotten, sick limb could only be amputated. “Did you know anyone who was there…? Do they know who… who did it?”