Devon’s mouth made a comical O as that F-word was a word no one in their small family was allowed to say.
Andy gritted his teeth, pushed the thin plastic mask down over his brother’s (half-brother) face and hissed out, “Shut up and just go.” And then for added emphasis he barked out, “Run!”
The mini-Avenger turned without saying a word and ran like he was told for the lit door and the flickering pumpkin.
Andy straightened up, jammed both his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and wished he smoked. He had never tried, but right now he felt would be an appropriate time to start. He took his eyes off his fleeing brother to examine some of the other Happy Hallow-wieners about him. There weren’t that many. There was one kid in the lamest of all costumes: normal street clothes but with a cheap, blank white hockey mask. Knockoff Jason. Way to put in the effort, kid. There was a band of four, all of them as tall or taller than Andy, dressed as Spider-Man, a kind of cute chick as Little Red Riding Hood, a guy as Wonder Woman (hairy legs and all, nice), and president Donald Trump, complete with an exaggerated orange face and bad blond toupee. Oh come on, you all are way too old for this. There was a young couple, maybe in their early twenties, not dressed up in any way, but they were pushing a baby carriage with a little…something (boy or girl, Andy couldn’t tell) in it dressed as a tiny yellow and black bumble bee with an orange plastic pumpkin pail sitting in its lap. Oh come on, that kid is way too young for this. Lastly, about midway down the block that they had just come up, was a tall man in a bright yellow sheet and nothing else. Like an old fashioned sheet-ghost-costume. What a yellow ghost? You piss-ghost or something?
“Hey, that old lady was nice,” Devon said as he came charging back, “she gave me a full-sized candy!”
Andy looked at his brother, then at the already bulging pillow case he was using to hold his haul. “Give me something out of there.”
“Nu-uh, this is mine.” Devon said, comically clutching his bag to his chest.
Andy cuffed his brother upside the head, not hard but hard enough to show he wasn’t fooling, and said, “Come on, give it.”
Devon sighed, stuck a pudgy hand into the pastel blue sack, fished around, and then handed his older brother a mini Three Musketeers bar.
Andy smiled, “Good kid, now come on.” And walked him across Freedmont Street to the next block.
The next block was even worse than the last. Over half the houses were lit up and had grinning and candle-lit Jack-o’-lanterns out front. This made Devon squee with happiness, and Andy to mutter, “Shit,” under his breath again. The Ford deadline was still four blocks away. “Shit, shit,” Andy repeated. He resisted the urge to check the time on his phone again, that would not help speed this along, and instead pointed Devon at the first lit up house and said, “Go on, and hurry!”
For the next god-only-knows how long, Andy shambled down the sidewalk that ran parallel with the street as Devon ran back and forth from the sidewalk, along driveways and walkways to the houses, and then back. Andy’s latest ruminations to keep him from going crazy with boredom were once again about Ashley Donner’s party. Specifically the fact that he knew Tommy Jenkins, who had no kid brother or sister to make him late, was going to the party, too. Tommy and Andy were best friends, but Andy knew that wouldn’t matter when it came to Ashley Donner. Both of them had a major hard-on for the girl, and how could they not? She was fine as hell. In Andy’s mind’s eye he could see Tommy, one hand leaning against a wall, red Solo cup in the other hand, talking with Ashley, and sneaking closer and closer to the girl in the most nonobvious way the dickhead could pull off. Until the two were very close. Too damn close. Then Tommy would drop his oh-so tired arm right around Ashley’s shoulders. She would give him a cute, awkward smile, he would return it with a shit-eating one of his own. Then he would lean in, licking his thin lizard-like lips, and –
“Fuck it!” Andy said, his hand going darting in his pocket for the phone again. It was only with Herculean effort that he was able to pull his hand back out of his pocket sans phone. Man I wish I smoked or something.
He turned back to studying the people around him to take his mind off such things as Devon was at the new house, screaming, “Trick or treat!” One girl dashed past him dressed as one of the princesses from Frozen, the icy one, but Andy didn’t know her name. An Optimus Prime came running from the other side of the street, toward the door where Devon still was. And then there was…what the hell?
It was another old timey sheet ghost, this one white with the two eye holes cut out. A cartoon classic. But it was all just…wrong. First it was short, like under three feet. Okay, small kid, no big deal, Andy rationalized. But the little “tyke” was nearly as wide as it was tall, like there were three little kids clustered together under that sheet instead of one. Then there was the sheet itself, it was greasy, filthy, like the kid (kids?) had been dumpster diving in it or wallowing around in pig shit. Who the hell would wear that? And as the dirty sheet spook waddled past him, the stench of it was pure backed up sewer line, and the little freak wheezed and slurped as it walked.
Get the fuck back! Andy’s mind screamed and he leapt off the sidewalk, stepping up onto the lawn to get out of the nasty thing’s way. He turned his head over his left shoulder and saw Devon still at the house, now talking to some other costumed kids that looked about his age. He turned his head back, and that’s when he saw the yellow piss-ghost again. It was just about five houses down, in the middle of the street, and it was staring at him. Now that it was closer (you’ve called him ‘it’ three times now, he’s just some guy in a yellow sheet) Andy could see it wasn’t a yellow sheet he wore, but a yellow robe. One with a hood that the stranger had up. But the guy was faceless, for under that hood was nothing. Only blackness and nothing more. That’s how Andy could tell that the weirdo was staring at him, that empty black hole of nothing was pointed right at him.
Come on, he’s just got his face blacked out with make up to make it look like an empty hood. That’s all it is. Andy said to himself, but it did nothing to stop the shiver that ran down his spine. Damn I wish I had my knife.
The knife in question was one of Andy’s prized possessions. Or at least it had been. He had bought it from Tommy Jenkins three years ago, who had stolen it from his older brother, Jensin, once he went into the army. Andy loved that badass knife right up until the time his mom found it under his bed and confiscated it about two years back. He still missed it at times. Like right now. It was so damn sweet, with a curved blade that had a jagged, serrated edge along its back. The best thing about it was that it had a nasty-ass trick. In its handle was a little button that if you pressed it, it caused the blade to fold in, but not all the way. Once it folded in ninety degrees it would lock in place making a T with the handle and the blade. Then it became a push dagger, and man, that could do some damage. Locked in that position you wouldn’t slice or even stab with it, but punch with it, and that would mess anyone up.
Yeah but you don’t have that knife anymore, so just quit it, he scolded himself. Then he jumped and yipped like a sissy when he heard someone shout his name from right behind him.