Ghouljaw and Other Stories (26 page)

Brian watched the screen on his cell phone fade back to black. Clenching his teeth, he slipped the phone in his pocket.

There was a large laundry basket in the backseat of Brian’s car, which he now withdrew and hefted up to his chest. The basket was stacked high with Halloween paraphernalia—posters, wall-hangings, plastic pumpkins, rubber bats, a life-sized skull along with a jumble of disassembled bones.

As Brian walked toward the front door of the school—the school where he’d been called Mr. Cline by his fourth-grade students for the past ten years—he listened to the anemic hiss of the wind in the trees, the autumn-dry rustling of leaves chattering across the asphalt.

Walking down the hall to his classroom, Brian saw another teacher. The teacher, a cheery old woman who taught second grade, was smiling and appeared ready to greet Brian when she caught sight of the laundry basket brimming with morbid decorations.

“Good morning,” Brian said, his voice echoing down the hallway.

The woman’s smile re-emerged. “Good morning, Mr. Cline.”

Brian slowed as he neared his classroom door, trying to balance the basket while fishing his keys out of his pocket. Although he heard her footfalls continue down the hall, Brian sensed the woman faltering. “Let me help you this,” she said, rushing over to pull open the door.

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you,” said Brian, giving the older woman a warm grin. She was eyeing the basket again.

“Don’t worry,” Brian said with an air of mock conspiracy. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Unsure, the woman’s smile flickered and faded. Something in Brian’s eyes, perhaps. Something in his face. She appeared ready to comment, but Brian had already set the basket down on his desk. “Happy Halloween,” said Brian, and allowed the door to close.

As they neared the neighborhood, Brian began to see the children in the street, rushing from house to house, parents lingering on the sidewalks. The neighborhood contained curvy lanes, which created tree-lined tunnels connecting one portion of the addition with the other. Things like small side-creeks and footbridges made all this feel like a village rather than a middle-class subdivision.

Brian’s mother slowed the car to a stop near a curb, under a pale orange streetlight, and shifted the car into park. Drew unbuckled his seatbelt and grabbed the door handle.

“Now you boys just hold on just a second,” said Kathy, and proceeded to remind the boys about what they’d discussed during the drive. “I’m only going to be gone an hour or so.”

Brian gave a distracted glance at his watch and nodded.

“No problem,” he said.

“And I want you to meet me right here.”

From the backseat Drew said, “You should come with us, Mom.”

Their mother smiled. “But I don’t have a costume.” She tousled Drew’s hair. He was clutching the werewolf mask in one hand. “Besides, you boys will have more fun without me.”

“Come on,” Brian said to Drew, trying to sound like a doting big brother rather than an equally eager kid. “If we wait any longer all the candy will be gone.”

Mrs. Cline craned her neck toward Drew. “You listen to Brian, okay?” The little boy nodded.

The interior light came on as the boys bailed out of the car.

Mrs. Cline stretched across the front seat and rolled down the passenger window. “Come here, Brian.” Brian tilted his hockey mask up on his forehead. “I’m being very serious about this. I want you to keep an eye on Drew.”

Brian bobbed his head. “I know, I know.” He glanced around. Drew was awkwardly tugging on the large wolfman mask. He shifted back to his mom. She said, “I’m really proud of you.”

Brian had the urge to lean in and give his mom a parting kiss on the cheek, but he had the mortifying split-instant image of someone from school seeing him. “Thanks, Mom,” he said, and slipped his mask over his face.

She looked past Brian and shouted at Drew. “Mind your brother and stay out of the street, all right?”

His voice muffled slightly by the rubber wolfman mask, Drew said, “I will.” He waved. “I love you, Mommy.”

Their mother’s response was partially drowned when a car roared past, its windows rolled down, rock music blasting. The car was loaded with what looked like teenagers. The guy on the passenger side leaned out and screamed, “Fags!” Seconds later, Brian saw a cigarette sail into the street, the orange speck exploding in a dandelion burst of embers. The music and chortling spilling from the vehicle’s open windows echoed into the neighborhood before receding.

Brian looked at his mom; her expression suddenly seemed reluctant. “Don’t worry, Mom,” said Brian, placing his hand on the lip of the passenger door. “We’ll stay on the sidewalk.”

After a moment, she gave the boys a weak smile. Again she reminded them of the meeting time here at the corner, under the light, and then once more fixed her eyes on Brian. “You take care of him, Brian.” The older boy did his best to assure her. “This could be a really good way of showing how grown-up you are.” He nodded at that too, wondering if it were true.

“I love you both very much.”

Drew was inching away, but called over his shoulder, “Love you too, Mommy.”

Brian put a hand in the air as his mother pulled away from the curb. He watched the car’s taillights shrink until those glowing red dots had disappeared completely. Drew, already making his way down the leaf-littered sidewalk, called out, “Come on!”

Brian jogged up behind his little brother. “Hey,” he said, unzipping his navy blue jumpsuit. With a flourish, Brian presented the hatchet. “Check this out.”

“Whoa!” said the little boy, slowing to a stop and lifting up his werewolf mask. “Where’d you get it?”

“Dad’s shed.”

After a moment Drew said, “Won’t he be mad?”

Brian snorted a laugh, allowing the moonlight to glint off the blade. “What the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

Drew was quiet for a few seconds. “Can I see it?”

Brian was already shaking his head. “No way.” He let the hatchet swing casually at his side. “It’s too dangerous.” Drew began to protest, but Brian said, “Let’s go,” and quickened his pace.

As they sauntered up to the first house, Drew said, “Brian?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s fags?”

Brian thought about the car of taunting teenagers, shook his head, and smirked. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

The two brothers—a hockey-masked slasher and a pint-size werewolf—bounded up the front porch of a house, and simultaneously cried,
“Trick or treat!”

The morning bell rang and Brian took attendance. He rose from his desk, appraising the wondering faces of his students as they gazed at the decorations. “Good morning, everyone.” The kids responded. Some of them were smiling. Some looked a little unsure.

One of the girls in the front row raised her hand. “Mr. Cline?”

“Yes?”

“My mom said we weren’t supposed to have Halloween parties this year.”

Brian smiled. Though he never intended this to be a party, he knew what she meant. Honoring a “spirit of equity,” the school’s administration had strictly prohibited any sort of Halloween activities in the classroom this year. “You’re correct—or rather, your mom is correct.” He paused for a moment before turning and approaching the dry-erase board. The black marker made squeaky strokes as he slowly wrote the word
Samhain
.

Understanding that he had already taken this too far, he gently placed the marker on the sill, turned, and surveyed his students. “Does anyone recognize this word?” The kids’ expressions ranged from rapt concentration to sleepy boredom. Brian tilted his chin. “This is pronounced
sow-win,
and it was a Celtic festival.” A pause. “It was a harvest celebration, a time marking transition, when ancient people believed that the curtain between our world”—he made a gesture around the classroom—“and the world of . . . spirits was particularly thin.”

A few kids nodded.

From the pocket of his khakis, Brian withdrew a slip of paper. “I want to read something to you,” he said, the paper crinkling as he unfolded it. “This was written by a man named Robert W. Chambers.” He cleared his throat. “‘As the fallen leaves career before us—crumbling ruins of summer’s beautiful halls—we cannot help thinking of those who have perished—who have gone before us, blown forward to the grave by the icy blasts of death.’”

Brian looked at his students. The classroom was silent. He took a deep breath and said, “The Halloween
we
know has become a distortion.” Quiet. “We’ve”—despite himself, he couldn’t help lumping the kids into his generalization—“become repressed.”

Another frowning student raised their hand. “What’s repressed?”

“It means that we have difficulty dealing with the reality of death.” He tried taking a casual tone but failed.

After a silent moment, one of his boys said, “I just like getting free candy.”

There was a titter of cautious chuckling. Brian nodded patiently, giving his students a sporting smile. “Halloween has become a consumption ritual for
us
. It’s been trivialized by”—he struggled for an appropriate word and lunged at the first one that came to mind—“consumers so that we can better mask our own mortality.” He unintentionally raised his voice. “
We’ve
forgotten,” he said. “
Your
parents have forgotten.” He went on like this for a while.

Brian happened to glance over toward the classroom door. The principal, a guy named Wilkes, was standing on the other side of the narrow window.

Brian hadn’t realized it, but they’d wandered onto the street of the Hoffman House. The orange streetlights were spaced farther apart here, and some appeared not to be working at all. The lack of light paired with the large trees hanging over the sidewalk gave the lane a night-woods effect—beyond the screen of hedges and shrubs, amber light glowed from houses as a silent invitation to trick-or-treaters.

But up beyond its wrought-iron fence, the Hoffman House was so dark it nearly blended with the night. Disoriented, Brian slowed down.

Drew slowed too and said, “What’s the matter?”

Brian frowned. “It’s just . . .” He looked up and down the street. “I thought we were in a different place.”

He turned around and peered at the house. Brian nearly suggested that they keep moving, but had another thought—the notion of showing up to school Monday morning and the only Halloween story he’d have to share was that he’d babysat his little brother. Brian scanned the front of the Hoffman House.

Pulling up his mask to get some fresh air, Drew said, “Come on.”

“Wait a sec,” Brian said. “Do you know what this place is?” He gestured toward the house.

Drew shifted his plastic pumpkin pail from one hand to the other, giving the house a wary glance as he shuffled closer to Brian. “No.”

No one knew for sure, but the prevailing tale was that someone named Hoffman had died in there decades ago. Brian was prepared to say,
The kids at school say it’s a haunted house . . . it’s been haunted since the day they screwed in the hinges on the front door . . . and whatever is in there eats little kids
. But then he saw the way Drew was looking at the house, and knew he wouldn’t have a chance of getting up to the door if he spooked the kid too much.

Brian jerked his head toward the house. “Come on,” he said, hefting his grocery bag full of candy. “Let’s give it a try.”

“But it’s all dark,” said Drew. “There’s no lights, they don’t want trick-or-treaters.”

Brian pulled a face. “Jeez, Drew, it’s no big deal.” His little brother was shaking his head; the little boy’s expression looked like a reaction to a bad odor rather than genuine dread. With a wide smile Brian said, “Don’t be such a baby.”

Drew looked up at his brother, held his gaze for a moment, and then returned his attention to the house. “I don’t . . . like it,” said Drew, moving away from the wrought-iron fence.

Brian lifted the hatchet. “I’ll let you carry this.” The rectangular blade shone in the weak light.

Drew tilted his chin and smiled. “Seriously?”

Brian shrugged. “Only if you go up there and knock on the door a few times.”

Drew’s smile faded. “Are you going with me?”

“Of course.”

The little boy was quiet for a few moments before his grin resurfaced and he extended his hand. Brian quickly pulled the axe out of reach. “Will you knock on the door?” Drew hesitated, but ended up nodding. Satisfied, Brian smirked and handed over the hatchet.

Drew held the hatchet in front of him. “Cool.”

Brian returned the hockey mask to his face. “You better turn back into a werewolf,” he said, indicating that Drew should pull his mask back on.

With his free hand, Drew shifted the mask back on and followed Brian.

Instead of walking up the driveway, Brian cut through the front yard, where several large trees created a low, bare-limbed canopy.

Passing through the shadows of the front yard, things became quiet. Brian had the sense—or the not-right sense—that he was moving past layers of unseen curtains. The wind had died down, and he could no longer hear the voices of other trick-or-treaters in the neighborhood.

He stopped a few feet from the front porch.

Under his hockey mask, Brian licked his lips. “Okay”—he canted his head toward the front door—“give it shot.”

The snarling werewolf mask trained itself on Brian. “Aren’t you coming with me?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Brian flitted his hand. “Come on, I’m not leaving you. And besides,” he gestured, “
you’re
the one with the hatchet.”

Taking a deep breath, Drew walked up on the porch.

Brian was only a few feet from the door himself as he watched Drew reach out and press the unlit doorbell. No sound issued from within the house.

Drew spun around. “See?”

“Try knocking,” Brian said.