A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre: Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous (22 page)

When I’m sure Suzette and Duane are gone, I take the penknife from my pocket. The blade is not very long, but it is sharper than a box cutter.

Gingerly, I push the door all the way open, and I glance down at the carpet. There are spots of blood no larger than pinpricks. Anyone who isn’t looking would miss them.

I touch a red dot, and my finger comes away smudged with crimson.

Fresh.

I follow the miniscule trail until I realize that it leads to the kitchen. Here, the drops are more plentiful. Just before I reach the threshold, I see long slashes of blood, as if something had been dragged through here.

I stoop down and peer into the kitchen at knee-height. It is probably an unnecessary precaution, but it always pays to be prepared.

“Brother Sid! Careful as ever, I see! What’s up, man?”

I stand and step over the blood. The man in my kitchen is almost a reflection of me. We are identical in all ways except two: he is more muscular than me, and he sports a mustache. My twin brother, Stan, believes this makes him look macho. I believe it makes him look like Groucho Marx, and judging from the rest of our family, my opinion is the more popular one.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He waves a dismissive hand at me. It is covered with blood and is missing its pinkie finger. A childhood accident. He shouldn’t have been playing with Dad’s favorite hunting knife.

“You could have called,” I say.

“Sorry. This ain’t the kind of thing you talk about over the phone.”

“Are you in trouble?”

He shrugs. “In a way. Not with the law, though. Check it out.”

Stan steps aside and gestures with his hand, a game-show host revealing a prize, at the kitchen table, where the corpse of a young woman rests, eviscerated.

“Why have you brought her here?” I ask.

“I need your help.”

The answer is immediate, without consideration. “No.”

“Come on, man! I need you back in the game!”

“You’re on your own,” I say. “Take this body out of here before my wife and son get home.”

Stan’s lower lip quivers. “I can’t do this without you, bro. You were always the brains of the operation. I’m screwing everything up without you. This broad’s the mayor’s daughter, and I didn’t figure that out until it was too late.”

I sigh. “Why do you think I stopped working with you? You took too many chances. I can’t bail you out of everything.”

Stan grins, and the mustache slithers beneath his nose. “Bro, get real. The thrill comes from taking chances, not from being careful all the time. That’s why I need you, Sid. You’re the yin to my yang. Together, we’re like…like the dynamic duo, or something.”

“I think
you
need to get real. Weren’t you listening to anything Dad taught us? We have urges, Brother Stan, just like Dad and Grandpa. They always told us to be careful. Look what your thrills have gotten you.” I point to the mayor’s daughter.

Stan sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. I don’t know if he is aware of doing this, but it is something he has always done when he wasn’t getting his way.

“Dad always liked you best,” he says.

“That’s because I always listened to him when he was trying to teach us something,” I say.

“I’m willing to learn now.” He shows me his palms, both blood-red, as if he expects a hug. “Whatever you say, we’ll do, Brother Sid. Deal?”

I shake my head. “I’m a family man now. I have to think of Suzette and Duane.”

He smiles, but his teeth don’t show. His head starts bobbing up and down, a nervous tick that Dad used to have when he was frustrated. “I knew you’d say that. How about this? If you don’t partner up with me like in the old days, I’ll kill your precious family.” He produces a large hunting knife from behind the corpse. It is red, and it is Dad’s. It’s the same blade that took Stan’s finger when we were kids.

“Come on, Brother Stan. You don’t mean that.”

“I do, Brother Sidney. I was at least paying attention to
one
of Dad’s sermons. ‘Always stick with your brother. No one else is going to understand what you need to do.’ Remember?”

I do, but something tells me Dad never saw this moment coming. Anger burns the chilly night air from my skin, and I say, “What if
I
just kill
you
?”

Stan laughs. “You couldn’t do that. You like me too much.”

Which is true. The anger dissipates, and I look away from my twin brother’s eyes.

I open my mouth to apologize when I hear a feminine voice say, “I would. I don’t like you at all.”

I look up from my feet, and there is Suzette, holding her own knife, which she has just drawn across Stan’s throat. I had not heard her come in, and judging from Stan’s wide eyes and open windpipe, he had not either.

I’d taught her well.

Stan flails around for a while, but all he can breathe at this point is his own blood, so it doesn’t take long for him to drop to the floor. Suzette steps around him and hugs me.

“I thought I told you to stop hanging out with your loser brother.” She talks into my flannelled chest, so her words are muffled. But I’ve heard this before.

“I didn’t invite him,” I say. “He just stopped over, looking for help.”

“I heard what he’d said about me and Duane.”

I look at Stan’s dribbling throat. “I kind of figured.”

She pulls away, then stands on tip-toes to kiss me. “I’m sorry I killed your brother, Sid, but he was too dangerous.”

I kiss her back. “I know.”

“Mom! Dad! Look at me!”

We turn toward our son. Duane has cut his uncle’s nose and mustache off, and he’s taped them to his glasses as if it is a phony Groucho get-up. He waves his grandpa’s knife around as he laughs. “I’m Uncle Stan!”

Suzette exchanges a glance with me, and I raise an eyebrow. The hint of a smile dances on her lips. We’ve taught Duane a lot, but he still has a long way to go.

“All right, kiddo,” she says. “You’ve had enough fun for one night. It’s bedtime. Take your uncle’s face off.”

“But Mom!”

She forces him upstairs, and I open his trick-or-treat bag next to the mayor’s daughter on the kitchen table. A clump of body parts comes out, and I start counting the fingers, ears, eyeballs, and noses. When I’m done, Suzette walks in.

“Not a bad haul,” I say.

Suzette ignores me. She looks at the two bodies and grimaces, her hands on her hips. “What are we going to do about this?”

I hug her from behind and kiss her on the neck. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the brains of the operation.”

WE RUN RACES WITH GOBLIN TROOPERS

by Lee Thompson

November 9
^th

I
n the War he took the intestines of your enemies and made dolls for the village children. They weren’t much more than sock puppets, but he was good with his hands and he told stories that made children smile.

Until recently he worked as an auto mechanic.

In the War he held and shushed children, and they trusted him because he had the saddest eyes they’d ever seen. The kids felt sorry for him, even though you’d just murdered their parents and left behind broken homes, while he told them, “It was all a horrible accident, understand? But you can build a fire and eat the dolls in a day or two.”

Jim was always spinning twisted metaphors from flesh and blood.

He taught the children how to be cannibals so they didn’t starve once your platoon moved on to their next objective.

YOU OPEN THE FRIDGE.

He smirks.

He whispers,
Two days it’s going to be Veteran’s Day, boy. Two days and the skies will blaze with fire and smoke like they used to.

You set the rifle, the shotgun, and the .45 on a drab green mattress. The room is bare the way people are when they’re isolated and have nothing to accompany them but reflection and hindsight. Your parents were proud of you throughout school, fought like hell to keep you from becoming a soldier because soldiers die in faraway places and leave behind nothing more than thin sheets of metal, worn boots, and fading memories.

You’ve seen death and tasted its hot kiss when the heart lights with fire and smoke fills the sky behind you. When your tour was complete, you sat at their kitchen table again nursing a cup of coffee. They hovered close by, nearly ghosts, and asked you if you were okay. You never answered. You were still running races with goblin troopers. And you hear them in the trees late at night, and behind the walls as you drift to sleep. Their eyes are pure white, their tongues black, and they whisper gunfire into the caverns of your mind.

The apartment is on the third floor. From the bedroom window you see the city sprawled like some fallen and pummeled giant, buildings like bones ripped from concrete flesh.

Everything is gray
, you tell yourself.

It helps you remember the night Jim taught you about pain.

JIM HELD A GIRL face down on a green mattress. He chopped her arms off and babbled about how the war was over, but there was another one building. He sent you into the other room to give her children cookies. But you stayed by the door for a moment and listened to her cry against her gag, watched her face spasm in pain, maybe expecting him to ram himself into her any moment while she bled to death, but Jim wasn’t like that. He didn’t give a shit about violating anyone. He needed them to create art so children might see that the world was cruel and indifferent. People didn’t care, and they wouldn’t stop you, and he smiled at you sometimes when you gave the kids milk and Oreos, like he wanted you to remember that the lesson was for everyone.

From the doorway you watched the light flee her remaining eye. She offered one final shiver before Jim gutted her and took a hacksaw to her legs. You shivered too but not in terror, nor in excitement, but simply because Jim had shown you something important at the expense of someone else.
Not everyone can be this happy and sad at the same time
, you thought. Jim glared over his shoulder while the kids in the living room watched Sponge Bob pursue an adventure in Rock Bottom. You thought,
I’ve always been trapped there, but Jim’s trying to show me the way back to the surface
. You helped him because you wanted to know what it was like to stare into dead eyes again, thinking maybe then you’d learn to appreciate your own life.

But Jim had another lesson planned to teach you that.

November 10
^th

YOUR BACK HURTS FROM sleeping on the floor. The guns on the green mattress are well-oiled and they shine so brightly they hurt your eyes. You’re not some twisted asshole who’s out to wreak havoc on the world for being evil, or even for hurting you first. You don’t know what you are. You think,
I’m not like everyone else. I’m alone
. That’s it. Truth. You’re isolated again in this little third story apartment and your stomach knots because you haven’t eaten in three days and before you had a job but it’s gone and once had a family but they’re
somewhere else
now, and you’re so hungry for someone else’s touch the way a bum is. You know they don’t beg change just to get a bottle of wine. They need someone’s fingers to brush theirs, if only for a moment, because it proves they still exist.

There’s a knife on the dresser. It’s black and sharp.

Someone moves in the hall.

Goblins move like shadows across the wall.

You’re at the door and looking through the peep hole.

A woman stands on the other side. She’s a hooker, you think, but you don’t remember calling one.

How the hell am I supposed to pay her?

You have no money left.

Your stomach rumbles.

Goblins skitter across the roof.

The girl outside scratches on the door until the sound of it starts driving you a little crazy and that’s the last thing you want because to go crazy will ruin the little celebrations life throws your way when you open the fridge and stare into Jim’s eyes.

You open the door, open your mouth and the hooker looks you up and down, appraising you. She can tell you’re broke, exhausted, heartbroken. She says softly, “You’re just one of them who needs someone to talk to, aren’t you?” You nod, but think of the knife on the dresser, think of intestines and dimming lights. “I understand,” she says. “It’s a fucked up world we live in.” You agree. She doesn’t touch you but almost seems like she wants to. You think of the guns on the bed. Jim in the fridge. Your wife and kids.

You ask the whore her name and she lies to you.

It’s okay
, you tell yourself,
she doesn’t know me. Of course she’d lie
.

But it still bothers you.

Jim lied.

He promised and took a lot.

The girl is barely out of her teens. She looks so much older. There’s a bit of dirt caked beneath her nails and you wonder how it got there. You imagine her in a graveyard with the wind rattling dark branches, tears in her eyes, as she buries her dreams.

You say, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

You make a move to hug her but she back peddles into the hall and whips her head left and right, looking for a way out. If you tell her there’s not an exit anymore she’ll cry so you let her search the halls for a door until she returns.

SHE’S THE FIRST PERSON who has really seen you, and in doing so she sees herself, her life as it really is, every bloody and lonely juncture, and she cries. You invite her in because it’s better to be lonely together than it is apart. She sees the guns on the bed you’ve pulled into the living room. She says nothing. You ask if she wants something to eat as she rubs her arms and tells you about her life, how it has always been like this, how she did what she had to do, but wasn’t proud of any of it, or herself. You open the fridge and move Jim’s head aside so you can get at his fingers. You tell her, “You can spend the night if you want. I won’t hurt you.”

She stares at the guns and doesn’t answer.