The Last Night of October

1

Every Halloween, Gerald Forsyth’s worst fear would come a-knocking.

His existence was one of silent dread: a slow, steady tick of days until that last night of October. It was his every thought, every beat of his tired, old heart.

Gerald sat in his wheelchair, inside the living room of his modest home, slumped and breathless, oxygen mask clamped over his mouth, and stared at his front door. It would come soon: the very moment the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. It came without fail and, without fail Gerald would cower in the corner of his living room and pray for the sun to return.

He took several deep breaths, trying to subdue the anxiety swelling inside his chest. Ironically, the oxygen became too much for his wasted lungs and he was forced to pull the mask from his face. He began to cough, his old body bucking with each exertion. Gerald Forsyth was drowning on his own lungs. A moment later and the coughing fit passed. He sucked in more air and the action quickly equalized him—at least temporarily. He wiped the sweat from his leathery face and refocused on the front door.

It will be here any minute, he thought to himself. You have to be ready. You’ve handled it many times before and you can do it again. Gerald checked his watch—5:31pm. Through the lace curtains over the front windows Gerald could see children, dressed as ghosts, princesses and zombies, parading around the street. Pumpkins, mutilated, yet smiling, sat on porches, gatekeepers to the underworld. People were laughing and frolicking, filling the children’s baskets and bags with sugary junk, while others waited gleefully for the chance to open their doors to complete strangers.

If only they knew, Gerald thought. If only they knew like I do what Halloween is really all about.

The machine connected to Gerry’s wheelchair beeped and it dragged his gaze away from the door.

“Damn it!” he said, his voice hoarse from the bout of coughing. The syringe driver needed to be refilled and if it wasn’t refilled then things would get a whole lot worse for Gerald. Pain would set in like a thousand glass shards in his chest; pain so debilitating he might just relent and let it through the door.

He checked his watch again—5.44pm.

“Where the hell is she?” he said to the empty room. He scanned the door again and hoped she showed—before it did.

Doreen was his visiting nurse. Every second day she came to check his morphine driver, change his oxygen canister, take his blood pressure, listen to his chest, without fail. Doreen was the only other constant he could rely upon turning up at his front door. So where was she? Tonight, of all nights, she was late.

With some effort, Gerald wheeled himself over to the television table and retrieved the cordless phone. He had to find out where Doreen was. She had to get here so she could do all her stupid checks before it came. He’d dialled two numbers when there was a knock at the front door. He jumped in fright and the phone fell to the floor. His old heart beat out a staccato rhythm.

“No—not now,” he whispered.

The shape of the figure on the other side of the front door was blurred by the frosted glass. Gerry wheeled himself behind the lounge chair and examined the silhouette. It was too tall to be it.

“Hello—Mr. Forsyth?” the visitor said.

Gerald didn’t recognize the voice. “Who is it?” he said. “If you’re trick-or-treating, I ain’t interested.”

There was a laugh; a woman’s giggle. “No, no—I’m from Pastoral Care. Doreen sent me.”

The old man frowned, concerned. “Doreen—where is she?”

“Could you let me in? It’s getting quite chilly out here,” she said.

The idea of opening the door terrified Gerald, but there was no sign of it, so if he moved quickly, opened the door and got it shut again, he would still be safe. Gerald wheeled up to the door, pulled the bolt back and opened the door until the chain latch caught. Through the gap he saw a fresh-faced brunette of about forty years of age smiling back at him.

“Hello,” she said. “My name’s Kelli. Kelli Pritchard.”

Gerald saw the costumed children in the street behind her and shivered.

“Doreen sent you, you said?”

“That’s right; she went home sick, so the manager asked me to check on you. So, can I come in?”

Gerald looked her up and down; she was attractive, he admitted, but he couldn’t help but feel she was far too young to be a nurse. A gaggle of squealing laughter floated in from the street and the instinct to close the door reared over Gerald with the force of a tsunami.

“Come in! Come in!” he said, unlatching the chain in a flurry of hands and wheeling back to clear a path for her.

“Thanks so much,” Kelli said. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Forsyth.” She held out her hand and after a moment, Gerald shook it.

“So, you’re with Pastoral Care?” Gerald asked as he closed the door, resecured the chain and slipped the bolt firmly in place.

“I’ve been working there about a year now, actually,” the nurse said, laying her handbag down on the lounge.

Gerald wheeled past her, back to his position directly in line with the front door, but far enough away so he couldn’t be seen.

“Right,” he said. “So, you should know how to change a syringe driver then?”

Kelli’s face went blank and her jaw dropped; she stared at the machine and, right on cue, it beeped in alarm.

“Oh no,” she said, putting her hand to her mouth. “I’ve never had to do that before.”

Gerald’s expression suddenly matched hers. “I beg your pardon?”

Instantly Kelli’s face lit up with the widest smile. “Oh, Mr. Forsyth, of course I know how to change a driver—I’ve done it about a hundred times now!”

The old man’s shock turned to scorn; he didn’t like being made a fool of. “That’s not funny,” he said. “I should report you to your manager for a prank like that.”

Kelli knelt down and started to open the lid of the driver. “You could do that if you like, but I’d wager Marci would tell you that you should just let me do my job.”

Gerald’s eyebrows rose, which only served to twist his mouth further. “Oh, you think so?”

Kelli flashed him that smile. “Come on Mr. Forsyth—I was just trying to have a little fun. That’s what Halloween’s all about.”

He scoffed and stiffened in his wheelchair. The nurse frowned.

“Now what did I say wrong?” she said.

“Just hurry up and change the damn driver!”

Gerry glared at her; Kelli was appalled and she stood up, hands on her hips.

“Now Mr. Forsyth, there’s no need to talk to me like that—I’m only trying to help you…”

“Well, if you want to help me, why don’t you just do your damn job already and get going?”

“Mr. Forsyth, I don’t appreciate your tone…”

“Stop patronizing me goddamn it and refill the driver!”

There was a heavy silence and Kelli looked away from him, instead kneeling again to work on the driver. Gerald knew he’d offended her, but he couldn’t afford to get caught up in idle chit-chat and of course, she just had to be one of these new age kids who adored Halloween, didn’t she? Naive, every one of them.

In a few minutes Kelli had changed the driver. Gerald noticed she’d done it a lot faster than Doreen would have, but then again, she was probably keen to get the job done and leave.

Good, he thought; the sooner the better.

“I have to take your blood pressure now,” Kelli said. Her demeanor was flat now, clinical. Gerald lifted his arm and she wrapped the cuff around it, giving it a few vigorous pumps. “You’re a little on the high side,” she told him.

“Hmm,” Gerald replied, his eyes back on the front door, thumb­nail between his teeth.

Kelli removed the blood pressure cuff and put it away, then retrieved a stethoscope.

“Could you lift your shirt please?” He did so and she listened to his chest. “How’s the coughing?” she asked.

“Not too bad.”

“Any blood in the phlegm?”

Gerald shook his head and checked his watch—6.02pm, minutes from sundown. Kelli put the stethoscope away and then studied him. For a second their eyes locked, but they quickly turned their faces. In that moment he witnessed a determination in the nurse’s expression.

“You know, just because you have emphysema doesn’t mean you can boss people around,” Kelli said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” Gerald said, taken aback.

Kelli packed her medical bag. “I’m here to help you, just like Doreen would if she were here. Sure, I’m a lot younger than her—and a lot younger than you—but that doesn’t mean I can’t do her job just as well.”

“Really?” Gerald said, flustered; the girl had nous, he admitted.

“Yeah, and as a matter of fact I know everything Doreen does—because she trained me.”

She folded her arms then, doubly proud of herself. The old man could see she had tons of that. He felt a smirk cross his lips, but he quickly concealed it with his hand.

“Did she?” he said.

“Yeah, she did. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure.”

“Good.”

Kelli gathered up the rest of her instruments into the bag and gave Gerald one last look. He knew she would have been thinking he was a son of a bitch, but he didn’t care—he’d stopped making friends a very long time ago.

“Your oxygen is only half full so when I get back to the office, I’ll arrange for a fresh one to be delivered tomorrow. Hopefully Doreen will be back and she’ll be able to take care of you. Try not to exert yourself too much and you should have enough oxygen until then.”

Gerald sighed. “I know what to do with the cylinder.”

Kelli nodded decisively. “Good,” she said. “Well, if that’s that then I’ll be on my way.”

Gerald could see she was just as stubborn as he could be; so be it, he wasn’t about to apologize. “Goodbye,” he said.

As Kelli turned and walked to the front door, a rumble of noise—a clamor of feet—rolled up Gerald’s front porch.

“Oh look,” Kelli cried. “Aren’t they adorable?”

Gerald froze in his chair, unaware of how tightly he was gripping the arm rests.

“Oh no—what is it?”

Kelli’s smile had returned. “Trick-or-treaters!”

“Don’t open that door!” Gerald said. He saw confusion overwhelm the nurse’s face.

“Sorry?”

“Get away from the door!”

Now Kelli wore a mask of disgust. “They’re just kids—after some candy.”

“I don’t have any damn candy!”

Kelli waved him away. “Oh, I’ve got plenty in my bag—you always have to be prepared for Halloween I say…”

Gerald slammed his fist down on one of the arm rests. “There’s no damn Halloween in my house!”

He saw disdain cross Kelli’s features now, but he didn’t care; this was his house—his rules.

“Well, it may be your house Mr. Forsyth, but I’m leaving and it’s my candy.” She put her hand on the door handle.

“No, don’t—please!” Gerald said, his voice desperate. He gasped, but his breath was cut short; his saturated lungs suddenly refusing to work. His heart retaliated, initiating a beat that slammed it against his rib cage. Spots flashed before his eyes and a heavy darkness loomed.

“Mr. Forsyth?” he heard Kelli say.

“Tell them…tell them to run…” he murmured. “Tell…them to stay away from Washington…and Blake!”

The last thing Gerald saw before the blackness swarmed inside his head was Kelli slamming the door on the trick-or-treaters and rushing toward him.

2

Old Gerald Forsyth’s lungs sounded like a percolator in overload to Kelli, but it was his heart she was most concerned about.

Kelli surveyed the old man’s face as she listened to his heart pound out 120 beats per minute. His skin was the color of a bedsheet and slick with a film of sweat. She hoped he would come out of unconsciousness soon; the last thing she needed was for a patient to deteriorate in her care. She couldn’t afford to lose her job.

She shook her head, silently chastising herself. Focus, god damn it—this man needs your help! She retrieved her sphygnamometer and took another blood pressure reading. Still high, but not dangerous. She saw Gerald’s telephone on the TV table and was about to reach for it and call 9-1-1 when her patient suddenly came to.

“Run!” he said, his eyes wild and jittery.

“Mr. Forsyth—can you hear me? It’s Kelli.”

“What?” his eyes locked on the nurse and widened further.

“You fainted,” she said. “Do you remember?”

Kelli watched Gerald press the palm of his hand against his chest.

“Are you having chest pain?” she said, but the old man shook his head lazily.

“No…just…hard to breathe.”

Kelli grabbed the oxygen mask and placed it over his face. “Okay, just take some slow, deep breaths for me—that’s it. That’s good.”

She watched Gerald suck in air for several minutes and his blood pressure began to improve. His complexion, however, was still the characteristic paleness of someone with emphysema. Kelli breathed her own sigh of relief when Gerald’s pulse dropped to ninety.

“Good—you’re getting much better now,” she said. “Now, are you sure you’re not having chest pain?”

Gerry nodded. “Yes…” his voice was lost within the oxygen mask.

“I should call a paramedic, just to be sure.”

The old man squeezed her arm. “No—I said I’m fine.”

Kelli frowned; Gerald’s attack was so sudden, but she knew emphysema could be unpredictable, immobilizing a patient’s breathing without warning. Yet she remembered how anxious he appeared just before his breathing failed him. There were trick-or-treaters at the door.

“So, what brought all that on?” she said.

He shrugged. “I…uh…don’t know.”

“You know those kids are gone now—you told them to run away.”

She watched him crane his neck past her shoulder. “Good.” He huffed.

“You don’t like kids?”

The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose and then knotted together. He sighed and a great plume of moisture obscured the down­ward turn of his mouth.

“Did they rock your roof or something, Mr. Forsyth? You were pretty adamant about chasing them away.”

When Gerald didn’t answer, Kelli was annoyed, but equally intrigued. While he sat there, steadying his breathing, she studied the contents of the living room. There was a worn leather recliner, cracked at the corners and a small, unsophisticated, turn-dial television set. On the wall behind it was a painting of a sailboat on a calm sea, possibly painted by Gerald himself. To the left of that wall was a broad teak display cabinet, filled with faded china plates, crystal drink glasses and tarnished silverware. The top of the cabinet was bare—not a single photograph or heirloom; nothing to indicate there had ever been anyone else in the house but Gerald Forsyth.

“How long have you lived alone, Mr. Forsyth?” Kelli said.

Gerald turned his gaze to her, startled. “This is my parents’ house.”

“So where are they?”

The bushy eyebrows rose. “They’re dead—they died nearly thirty years ago.”

“Hence my question: you live alone then?” She watched his eyes dart towards the front door.

“So what if I live alone?”

Kelli bit her lip. “No lady friend; no wife to cook you your meals, do your washing?”

Gerald plucked the oxygen mask from his face to reveal a grimace of aggravation. “No!” He wheeled away from her. “I think it’s time for you to leave. I appreciate you attending to me, but I’m fine now—I don’t need you here any longer.”

Kelli sat down in one of the recliners and interlaced her fingers in her lap. “I can’t leave; you just experienced difficulties with your breathing and unless you want me to call a paramedic, then I need to stay and make sure you don’t have another attack.”

“Why don’t you just leave me alone!?” Gerry said, spittle falling to his chin.

Kelli leaned forward in the chair and held out her hands in mock surrender. “Mr. Forsyth, I’m only trying to work out what got you all so worked up—worked up enough to faint.”

The old man shook with rage; Kelli had to be careful not to incite another attack. She knew she had no business meddling in this man’s life, but she could see something painful kept him trapped, even more than the disease invading his body—something was eating away at his soul.

“I mean, one minute you’re telling me to chase those kids away and the next thing you’re suffocating,” she continued. “What was so bad about those kids?”

Gerald’s mouth became a thin line, but it did little to dampen his rage. “Get out.”

Kelli shook her head. “Sorry, no can do. I’m a nurse and you’re my patient; besides we’re just having a chat.”

“I don’t want to talk—not to you—not to anyone!”

She watched his eyes return to the door. He was studying it with a passion and Kelli imagined he probably knew every grain of wood, every speck of corrosion on the brass handle.

“So given you don’t like having kids around I take it you don’t have any of your own?”

Gerald’s sideways glance could have turned her to stone. “No wife—remember?”

“Hey, that doesn’t stop some people!” she said with a snigger. “Look at me—I’m a single mom with a 17-year-old son who spends more time talking to his Facebook friends than me.”

“Hmpf,” Gerald said with a slight chuckle of his own; Kelli was starting to chip away at his resolve. Yet, she still couldn’t pull his gaze away from that door.

“You’re waiting for something, aren’t you?”

Gerald flinched this time and he looked to her, lips parted in surprise; he looked like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“What?” he muttered.

“Is someone coming to visit today—for Halloween, I mean; a relative or friend?”

“No.”

“Then why do you keep staring at that damn front door?”

Gerald gripped the hand rims of the wheelchair and spun himself away from her towards the kitchen with a grunt of exertion.

“It’s none of your damn business, okay!” he said.

Kelli’s curiosity burned. She knew it often got the better of her, but it was one of the reasons she’d become a nurse. She thought talking to a patient could be just as effective, if not more effective, as administering medicine. She got up and followed him into the kitchen.

“Okay, look, I’m sorry,” she said. “I know I can be a bit bull-headed and you’re right, it is none of my business.”

“You got that right,” Gerald growled.

Kelli held out her hand for the old man to shake. “So, no hard feelings then?”

She watched Gerry look at her hand as if it were diseased. A moment passed before he sighed and quickly reached out to shake it and let it go.

“Great,” Kelli said and went back into the living room to retrieve her bag. “If it’s okay with you Mr. Forsyth, I’ll get one of the night nurses to give you a call later on in the evening, just to make sure you’re all right.”

“Fine, whatever,” he said, waving her away.

Kelli gathered her nurse’s bag, willing herself to go out the front door; to shut up and leave the poor old man alone. She asked herself whether she should take his blood pressure one last time, listen to his lungs, but she knew she’d already overstayed her welcome.

“Okay then—I’ll just say that the pleasure’s been all mine then?”

Gerald didn’t reply, only pulled the oxygen mask back over his face and concentrated on his breathing. Kelli went to the door and began to turn the door handle when an epiphany slapped her in the face. Smirking, she walked back into the living room to face him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be leaving?” he snarled.

“You know, for someone who apparently hates kids, you’re paying a lot of attention to all those trick-or-treaters walking about out there.”

Gerry pulled his mask down in exasperation. He moved to speak, but hesitation crept in and he simply replaced his mask. Kelli was the one to wave her hand dismissively at him then. She turned for the door again.

“No, you’re right—none of my business. Goodbye Mr. Forsyth.”

As she reached for the handle, she heard Gerry take in a sharp breath. She turned to see his face was stark white, his eyes bulging and locked on the door behind her.

Oh, no, not again.

“What’s wrong?” Kelli said.

A voice in her head told her to get away from the door; that it presented an immediate danger. Instinct simultaneously told her to run and stay still, yet her heart had already broken into a sprint. Beneath that desire to live however, was the even more powerful need to know.

There was a rap-rap-rap at the door.

Kelli jumped at the noise and whirled back to face the door. Through the dirty glass view-panel, she could make out the silhouette of a child standing on the other side.

“Oh, gosh—you scared me!” she said.

The child, a boy, from what she could tell, stood bolt upright, like a statue. Kelli could make out the faint outline of the costume he was wearing; some sort of enlarged headpiece or mask and a tattered suit jacket and trousers.

“It’s just another trick-or-treater,” Kelli said, smiling with relief.

She turned to Gerald and the smile was wiped from her face. The old man was trembling in his chair, his head shaking from side to side in denial. He gazed, unblinking at the boy and those eyes exuded fear.

“Mr. Forsyth?” Was he having another attack? No, this was something far worse; his entire body was infected with terror.

“Don’t!” he said, and sucked in a new breath.

“Don’t what—it’s only a boy.” She moved to open the door.

“No!”

Kelli rifled inside her handbag. “I’m just going to give him some candy, okay, and send him on his way.”

“NO!”

Gerald tried to stand, as if to stop her, but her hand was already turning the doorknob and pulling the door wide open. The little boy—about ten years of age, she surmised—never shifted or acknowledged her. He simply looked straight ahead—at Gerald Forsyth.

“Hi there,” Kelli said, but still the boy played statues.

The boy was short for his age, Kelli thought, but with the door open she could now get a better look at his costume. He wore a large Frankenstein headpiece—complete with rusty-looking rubber bolts at the temples—which made him appear a foot taller. Kelli gazed in wonder at his makeup, a rough mixture of putrescent greens and purples to capture an accurate depiction of a creature composed entirely of reanimated flesh. The suit he wore was charcoal grey, with some brown-colored stains on the lapel, elbows and knees.

“Oh my—I love your costume!” she said.

The boy’s large black boots were neatly side by side, jutting against the threshold. Kelli crouched down to smile at him; the boy’s pale grey eyes looked dead ahead. She followed his eyeline and found Gerald at the end of it, still trembling and paralyzed with fear.

Why on earth would a grown man be afraid of a little boy?

“Aren’t you going to say hello Mr. Forsyth?”

“Get…get away!” he said, through gritted teeth.

Kelli stood and thrust her hands on her hips. “Oh, this is getting ridiculous! What is it with you and Halloween? It’s just harm­less fun!”

Gerald shook his head and she sighed and held out a packet of pumpkinhead caramels to the boy.

“Here’s your candy,” Kelli said. “Why don’t you come in so we can get a better look at your amazing costume?”

“Stop—no!” Gerald wailed, holding out his trembling right hand.

Kelli was truly annoyed with the old man’s attitude now. She’d tried in vain to get him to open up about it and he refused; he was just a grumpy old man griping at the younger generation. Ironically, Gerald Forsyth was behaving just like the thing he so despised.

“I’m sorry Mr. Forsyth, but this is my candy and I’m going to give it to him.”

Kelli heard the door close and the double clip-clop sound of shoes on the floorboards.

“Good boy,” Kelli said, returning her attention to the boy. “Here you go.” She frowned when he didn’t take the candy. “You don’t want them?”

The little Frankenstein kept up his staring contest with Gerry.

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you? Well, here you go then.” She tucked the packet into the breast pocket of the boy’s jacket. She smoothed down the shoulders of the jacket and picked off a piece of dirt. “This your first trick or treat then?” She chuckled. “I remember my first time too. I was so nervous, but I had a group of friends to go with. She glanced at the front porch. “No one came with you though, huh?”

Franken-boy and Gerald’s gazes were locked on and Kelli wondered if either of them had blinked. She reached out and gently took hold of his chin and turned his face to her.

“Hey, what’s your name, sweetie?”

Strangely, the boy’s eyes remained facing the old man and his skin felt ice cold.

“You’re freezing!” she said, retracting her hand away.

Gerald suddenly wheeled forward, his finger outstretched. “Get out of my house!” he shrieked.

Kelli tutted. “Come on—we’d better leave Mr. Forsyth in peace.” She gripped the boy’s shoulder to lead him out, but he wouldn’t budge. When she tried to open the door, the knob wouldn’t move either. “Oh, I must have turned the lock when I closed it—silly me.”

Gerald began to sob. He sank his face into his hands.

“No, no, no, no, no…”

“The lock’s stuck,” Kelli said, flabbergasted. A twinge of panic began to creep into her chest. She looked at the boy looking at Gerald. He hadn’t moved in so long; hadn’t even blinked. She glanced at his nostrils and chest.

Is he even breathing?

She yanked on the door, but it didn’t even rattle. “Mr. Forsyth, the door won’t open.”

The old man began to scream, his voice hoarse and ragged, like he was choking on a hundred marbles. The boy seemed unperturbed by the fact the old man suddenly seemed to be suffocating.

“Did you lock the door?” she asked the boy.

Then the child Frankenstein turned to look at her, as if noticing her for the first time. Kelli glimpsed something dark and hungry in his eyes, something that wanted to drink in her fear. As she tried to fathom what was happening, a trickle of blood suddenly erupted from the boy’s left nostril, all over his jacket.

“Oh, my God—your nose!”

The trickle became a flood, as a torrent of dark blood escaped both nostrils, spilling violently all down the front of his costume, spattering his shoes and pooling on the floor. Kelli jumped out of the spray and instantly reached for the tissues in her bag.

“Oh, my Lord!”

She reached out with the tissues to pinch the boy’s nose, but before she could he opened his mouth impossibly wide and released a great regurgitation of blood all over her arm. The geyser of blood that hit the floor was far too much for a ten-year-old boy to sustain. When the Frankenstein child smiled widely at her through oozing red lips and looked down at the floor to admire the mess he’d made, Kelli screamed.

3

The blood poured from the boy’s nose as if it were a leaky faucet.

Kelli sat on the floor near Gerald gawking in horror at the steady drip-drip-drip. The bleeding had a hypnotic effect and she found her eyes tracking each drop’s descent from nose to floor. A great pool of blood was spreading out from where the boy stood, the rug on the floor sucking the foul liquid up like a sponge.

The boy was watching both her and Gerald now. His eyes were devoid of color and were so, so cold. Perhaps it was from the blood loss, Kelli wondered. But it didn’t make sense; with all that bleeding the boy should have been dead—certainly not conscious. For the first time, the nurse didn’t know what to think, or what to say. There was only the boy’s blood and his eyes and she believed she might quite possibly drown in both of them. She would have too if Gerald’s croaked voice didn’t suddenly drag her out of the trance.

“We have move away from him.”

Kelli reluctantly turned her gaze from the boy to the old man. Her throat was dry and when she swallowed it made a clicking sound.

“He’s…he’s bleeding,” she said.

“I know—now stay back from him!” Gerald replied and he seemed to have suddenly become concerned for her wellbeing rather than his own.

Kelli felt the crawl of confusion begin to mingle with the fear which had already seeded in her mind. The nurse in her demanded she go to the boy’s aid, but common sense screamed at her to do as Gerald commanded. She looked at him; there was still terror in his creased features, but she could tell this was a terror all too familiar.

“Who is he?” she asked him.

Gerald shook his head. Kelli turned from him and faced the boy.

“Who are you?”

The boy’s dull eyes shifted to her almost instantly.

“Don’t talk to him!” Gerald cried, gripping her by the shoulder.

Kelli ignored the old man and watched a long string of sticky blood ooze from his nose and down his chin.

“Do you… realize you’re bleeding?”

The Franken-child stared at her and smiled once more, blood turned his tiny yellow teeth pink. The boy stuck out his tongue and lapped at it. It was the only part of him that moved; no blinking, no turn of the head. He was a bleeding statue that was anything but miraculous.

“Do you live around here?” Kelli said, lifting herself into a crouch. “Do your parents know you’re here?”

“For god’s sake stop it woman!” Gerald implored.

Kelli watched his smile vanish and his eyes flick to the old man. There was a definite glint of ferocity in those vacant eyes. More blood flowed out too, as if in response to the old man’s voice. Kelli turned to the old man.

“You know who this boy is, don’t you?”

“Don’t!” Tears pooled in his eyes.

“I need to know who he is—I have to help him.”

“There’s nothing you can do for him!”

A noise emanated from behind her and Kelli turned back to see the boy’s mouth was wide open. The guttural echo re­sounded from deep within the boy’s throat; a prolonged moan that resembled a child in a choir chanting—chanting from inside a cave. As she tried to comprehend the sound, the boy took a step towards them and hissed, a spray of bloody saliva pluming in the air.

“Get up!” Gerald ordered, pulling Kelli away.

“What is he doing?”

“Move back!”

The boy took another step and Kelli noticed that it was more a shamble, as if he was in fact a miniature version of Mary Shelley’s famous monstrosity. Kelli wondered if the boy was simply putting on an act; that somewhere under his costume there were bags of fake blood with tubes connected to his nose. Could this boy conceive of such a cruel prank?

Kelli felt a significant amount of strength in Gerald’s grip as he twisted her around and thrust her towards the kitchen. She staggered forward, but looked back over her shoulder to see her would-be rescuer rising out of his chair to his feet. He blocked the boy’s path with outstretched hands.

“Stop!” he told the boy.

The child stopped and cocked his head at the old man like a dog trying to compute a master’s command. Kelli saw Gerald shudder, as he struggled to stay upright. A combination of muscle weakness and fear, she imagined. She was paralyzed as well, both in mind and body. What was occurring in Gerald Forsyth’s home should have been a joke, a child’s idea of giving an old man a scare on Halloween, but the blood looked so real and the boy looked as if he was—

“Is he—?”

Gerald’s hands became fists. “Shut up! Shut up you stupid woman or you’ll attract his attention!”

Kelli swallowed and watched the two of them. There was history between the old man and the boy; something dark and terrible. For a moment she wondered if Gerald had done some­thing to this boy, that maybe the old man’s gruff exterior covered a past, unthinkable sin.

“You tell me who he is!” Kelli said.

This time Gerald whirled on her. “Listen to me! Just shut up and listen!”

Kelli flinched, but the boy simply watched and listened.

“You have to get out of here!” the old man said.

“How?”

“The back door, it’s off the kitchen! Go now goddamn it!”

Kelli looked to her right and she saw, past the kitchen bench, was the back door. She looked back to Gerry, uncertainty fest­ering in the pit of her stomach. She looked into Gerald’s eyes and saw the sadness and guilt residing there and she realized he was trying to save her. For the first time she felt truly sorry for him, but her sympathy was short-lived when the bleeding boy suddenly reached out to grab Gerald’s wrists.

She shrieked as the two of them struggled. Despite the constant flow of blood, and his deathly appearance, the boy was impossibly strong. Gerald dropped to his knees and the boy shifted his hands to grip his throat. The boy smiled in delight as his captive began to suffocate. It was at this moment something inside Kelli snapped.

It happened so quickly that she couldn’t remember herself moving. She simply found herself standing beside the boy and with one hand, shoving him off her patient. As the boy toppled into the TV table, Kelli reached down and lifted the gasping Gerry to his feet, placed him in the wheelchair and wheeled him out of the kitchen. The rubber tread left black marks on the floorboards.

“Is the back door unlocked?” she cried at Gerald, but the old man was hunched over.

Kelli steered past the kitchen bench, past the 1980s Formica cup­boards and small sink towards the door. Panting with exertion she glanced over her shoulder—no sign of the boy. She reached down and tried to turn the handle as fear burned in her throat.

“It’s locked!”

She scanned the wall beside the door for a key hook, but there was none.

Even if there was a key, Kelli, was it Gerald who locked the door or had it been the boy? How could he lock the entire house if he hadn’t been in the house before, stupid!

She gently shook Gerald’s shoulder and pressed her fingers to his throat to feel the steady thrum of his pulse.

“Mr. Forsyth—wake up!”

Gerald stirred and coughed, gasping for air; Kelli quickly put the oxygen mask over his face.

“Gerald—is there a key for the back door?”

Fear filled the old man with alertness and he began to fish around frantically in his pockets. Kelli watched him stare at the edge of the wall separating the kitchen from the living room as he searched; she looked to the same spot, dreading what might emerge there. The old man almost jumped up from his wheelchair when he finally found the key. He pushed it into Kelli’s palm and she tried it in the keyhole.

“It won’t turn!” she said.

“No, that’s impossible.” Gerald turned in his chair to reach back and turn the key with his gnarled hands. He grunted and strained to unlock the door, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Goddamn it!” he said.

Kelli wrapped her own hands around his and twisted, but not even their combined strength could unlock the door.

“It’s no good,” she said.

They looked at each other, tears in each other’s eyes; an equal sense of hopelessness. The moment was lost, however, when they both realized neither of them had been watching the wall. A shuffling noise wrenched their gazes back to that awful spot.

The boy staggered into the kitchen area from the other side of the wall. His nose still trickled blood and his entire front was now covered in a thick red tar. Droplets fell to the floor like deformed rubies, exploding on the linoleum floor to be smeared beneath the child’s lethargic footsteps.

Kelli screamed; there was simply no reason for what she was seeing. The boy was coming for them and intended to kill them both. The reason why hardly mattered anymore. She just needed to escape.

“What are we going to do?” her voice broke in fear.

Gerald had again been left paralyzed by the boy’s horrifying march, so she reached down and shook his shoulders.

“Mr. Forsyth!”

He shuddered and blinked, his eyes locked on hers. A moment passed, until his eyes widened in recognition. He reached past her and pointed to the hallway just off the kitchen.

“The bathroom!” he said. “Go!”

Kelli followed his pointing finger and nodded in acknowled­gement. Quickly, she pushed him through it just as the bleeding boy came within a few feet of them. The child hissed as they made their escape. Despite Kelli’s speed, the boy was relentless and immediately gave chase, one shambling footstep at a time.

“Hurry!” Gerald cried, and his pleas pushed Kelli into a panic. In her haste to get them across the hall into the bathroom, the wheels of the old man’s chair twisted and almost toppled the chair over. Kelli summoned one last ounce of strength and managed to keep the chair upright and pushed it through the door.

“Close the door!” Gerald said. Kelli left the safety of the chair and hurried to the door. As she pulled it closed, she saw the terrifying child advancing. She slammed the door closed in the boy’s bleeding face.

“Now put something against it—we need to keep him out,” he told her.

Kelli grabbed the fortunately overflowing cane laundry basket and thrust it in front of the door. A moment later the door shook under the weight of a great pounding.

“Don’t let it in!”

Kelli leant her back into the door. Her body jerked and rocked under the impossible power of the boy’s urgent thrusting. How the boy had so much strength, yet little movement, Kelli had no inkling. From the terror in Gerald’s eyes, she knew there was a little a door could do against such a horror. She watched the old man run his hands through the few strands of hair left on his pate.

“Oh, God, please—make it go away!” he sobbed.

The door boomed again and almost came open. Kelli shrieked and slammed her shoulder into it. The boy’s cold, alabaster fingers crept through the gap and clawed at the air, as if tasting the fear in the room.

“No—get out!” Kelli said.

“Move out of the way!” When the nurse looked to Gerald, she saw him frenetically wheel his chair backwards in the direction of the door. She moved out of the way as the chair crashed into the door and forced it closed.

“Lock the wheels!” he said.

Kelli bent and clicked the wheel locks firmly into place. The boy, now unable to exert any pressure on the door, went into a frenzy of kicking and hissing, his fists like hammers on the wood. The door rattled with the resonance of a jackhammer on the back of Gerald’s wheelchair, rocking the old man forward and back. Kelli saw tears roll down his weathered cheeks. He covered his ears to block out the child’s wailing and it was several minutes before the tirade ceased. Eventually, a grave silence overwhelmed everything.

“He’s stopped…gone!” Kelli said, smiling; she couldn’t hide the relief on her face, but Gerald hadn’t lost his somber expression.

“No, he’s still there…” he muttered.

He gazed up at her then and Kelli could tell by his gaunt face and sorrowful eyes, that he was speaking the truth.

“…and he’ll never leave without me.”

4

Gerald wanted it all to disappear: the boy, Kelli, his emphy­sema, the whole goddamned world. But he knew that wish, his one hope, would never be fulfilled. Not without one significant sacrifice.

He wasn’t certain how long he’d been crying, sitting in a miserable heap in his wheelchair. He didn’t know how long Kelli had been trying to talk to him. He only focused on the silence coming from the other side of the bathroom door; from the ever-patient demon he knew all too well.

Yet, this time was different; the boy was, for the very first time, inside his house. Gerald had never allowed that to happen before. It was the damned nurse’s fault, he told himself. If only she’d never opened the door; if only his regular nurse Doreen, who was much better, quieter—and efficient—at her job, hadn’t been sick, then none of this would ever have happened.

If only…if only he’d never decided to go trick-or-treating in a blizzard all those years ago.

Kelli’s voice, taut with desperation, brought him out of his reverie.

“Mr. Forsyth—can you hear me? What are we going to do now?”

Gerald lifted his head to look at Kelli. Her eyes were wide and white, pupils dilated with terror and a glaze of sweat on her brow. The old man knew this experience would age her ten years.

“What is going on?” Kelli said, her voice quivering. “You know something about that boy—don’t deny it.”

He wiped the sweat from his top lip with the back of his hand. “We need…” he began, “…to be very quiet.”

“Who is he?” Kelli cried, pointing an accusing finger at the door.

Gerald took a deep calming breath, but instead of providing life-giving oxygen, his chest pressed in on him like a giant vice. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to ignore the fact that soon his need for oxygen would overwhelm everything.

“Just…just a kid.”

“‘Just a kid’—what sort of kid walks through your house, bleeds…pint after pint…of blood all over your floor and tries to choke you to death?”

The old man scowled. “You let it in.”

Kelli recoiled and looked away from him. He watched her swallow down the guilt. Yet she didn’t avert her gaze from him for long, her inquisitive green eyes burrowing into his.

“Why do you refer to the boy as ‘it’ or ‘a kid’ when you know very well who he is?”

“Please…be quiet.”

She grabbed him by his shoulders and shook him. “No—you need to tell me who that boy is and what he wants with you!”

The old man slapped his hand down on the arm of his wheelchair. “Shut up! Just shut up!” Your stupidity allowed him to get into my house and now I have no idea how to get him out!”

Kelli winced, feeling the sting of the stupid comment again, yet in his rage, Gerald had also begun to open up about his knowledge of the boy.

“You said ‘him’.”

“For god’s sake, will you be quiet?”

Kelli sighed and reached into her coat to retrieve her cell phone.

“Wait—what are you doing?” Gerald said.

“I’m calling the police!” She began to dial 9-1-1.

“No! You can’t!” He reached for her, but Kelli turned her back and put the phone to her ear.

“Please, don’t call the police!” he said behind her, his voice cracking.

Kelli turned back to face him and pulled the phone away from her ear. “Then tell me why! We need to get the police here to help us.”

The bathroom door shuddered with a terrifying jolt and the pair froze. The thing—the boy—on the other side was still there. Gerald knew it was listening in, biding its time; savoring the fear escalating between him and the nurse. This was what it wanted —to induce terror in their hearts.

The old man looked at Kelli holding the phone in her hand; she was shaking. From where he sat, he could hear the 9-1-1 dispatcher calling out for someone to respond.

“9-1-1—what’s your emergency?”

“Hang up the phone Kelli,” Gerald told her as gently as possible.

Kelli looked at the phone in her palm and suddenly realized what she’d been doing. She raised the phone to her ear.

“Don’t!” he begged.

Kelli’s eyes flared at him with disdain as she spoke to the dispatcher.

“Hello? This is Kelli Pritchard. I need help.”

“Hang up the damn phone!”

BOOM. The door rocked against the old man’s chair.

“I’m a nurse…from St Stephen’s Hospice Care,” Kelli said. “I’m at a patient’s house …at Gerald Forsyth’s house…and someone is trying to hurt us.”

“What’s your address, ma’am?” the dispatcher’s voice came back.

“116 Bla—”

Gerald strained his arm to grab the phone from Kelli’s hand, but he didn’t hold onto it for long. Before the nurse could object—and finish telling the dispatcher his address—he threw the phone hard into the bathtub where it smashed into half a dozen pieces, the back cover, battery and plastic screen sliding around the inside of the tub to settle near the plughole.

“Why the hell did you do that!?” Kelli said.

Gerald watched her try to salvage the phone from the tub and wondered the same thing. Had all these years of terror finally sent him mad? Even if he were, he couldn’t risk having the police come to his aid. Who knows what it might do if it were cornered. Its…capabilities were essentially limitless. If he could just keep it at bay until dawn then it would be gone…at least for one more year. He checked his watch. It was almost 8pm.

“What is wrong with you?” Kelli said, and when she looked at him her eyes were reddened with hot tears.

“You need to listen to me now,” Gerald said, trying not to look her directly in the eyes.

“Listen to you! What are you going to say that will be of any use to me? Unless you’re willing to tell me who that boy is and what the hell he wants, then I don’t want to hear a single word from you. You got that, old man?!”

Silence filled the room for several moments as Gerald battled with guilt and fear. Kelli chose to sit on the floor and lean against the bathtub, exhausted no doubt from the adrenaline rushing around her blood. Gerald studied her and found himself admiring her courage and determination—perhaps not so much her disrespect for her elders, but her “take-no-crap” attitude was, he admitted, endearing. He wanted to trust her with his secret, but he didn’t know where to begin.

“My son is going to be wondering where I am,” Kelli said suddenly.

“I thought you said your son hardly spoke to you.”

“What I meant was he’ll be wondering where I am when he comes home and finds there’s no dinner,” Kelli chuckled.

“Oh, I see.” Gerald felt a release of the tension in the room. “What’s your boy’s name?”

“Adam.”

“That’s a good name.”

“Thanks,” Kelli said, but Gerald saw that uncomfortableness surfacing on her face again.

“So, no one else at home—no father, boyfriend?” Gerald asked.

Kelli chuckled derisively. “No, I kicked his ass out years ago, unfaithful S-O-B.”

“Ah—but forgive me, I didn’t mean to pry.”

Kelli waved a hand to dismiss him. “No, no it’s fine—looks like we’ll be spending the night together, so we might as well get cozy, right?”

Kelli smiled and Gerald smiled back; it would take time, but the old man felt that the two of them could get along if they put their minds to it. The nurse looked to the bathroom door again, a worried expression returning to her face.

“So, what about this boy then, Gerald—what’s his name?”

The old man felt his shoulders sag and a heavy, grating sigh pass his lips. He closed his eyes, so tired, so eager for rest. Tears rolled down his cheeks, dragging him down into the abyss of despair that kept him breathless, kept him in his chair.

“It’s…a very long story,” he replied.

Kelli got to her knees to crawl over to him. Gingerly she rested her hand on his.

“I’m willing to hear it, if you’re willing to tell it,” she said.

Gerald saw sincerity—and trust—in the nurse’s eyes. She smiled and he found himself smirking.

“It’s from when I was…a boy.”

Kelli looked from him to the door; no doubt she was thinking of the boy on the other side. She would be putting two and two together; he certainly hoped so, because it would make the telling much easier.

“So, a long time ago then?” she said.

Gerald nodded and exhaled a long, wavering, tremulous release. He tried to think of the words to choose. He hated talking, preferring the confines of his own head, but there was no turning back now. He’d already given birth to the secret and now he had to nurture it. Perhaps, by letting it free, he would finally free himself. When he looked up, he found Kelli staring at him, waiting desperately.

“Would you mind—I mean, just to help me out a little—tell me a little about your childhood?” he asked.

Kelli’s eyes widened. “I thought you were going to tell me your story?”

“I will, I will—I’m just trying to…talk.”

“I thought we needed to stay quiet?”

“Just…keep your voice low and I think we’ll be fine.”

Kelli’s brow softened. “Okay…if it helps.” She rubbed her palms on her knees and Gerry understood she felt anxious, given all she’d witnessed so far this evening.

“I don’t know where to start,” she said with a nervous laugh.

The irony wasn’t lost on Gerald, but if she could just show him courage then he might be able to use it. He reached out and patted her hand.

“Tell me where you grew up,” he said.

“Iowa—Des Moines.”

“You were born there?”

“Yeah—I was the youngest of three. I’ve got two older brothers.”

Gerald raised an eyebrow. “That must have made for an interesting household—all that testosterone flying around.”

Kelli nodded, the memories making her smile. “Oh, yeah, but my mom raised us pretty sternly—single-handedly, too, after my dad injured his back in a work accident. He’d just gotten back from Vietnam when it happened. Turned out he had a piece of shrapnel in his back he didn’t even know was there. One day he just bent over and it severed a nerve or something. He could barely move his legs after that; spent most of his time in bed. Lucky for us the Veterans’ pay checks came through fairly regular so Mom could keep paying the bills and putting food in our bellies.”

Gerald rubbed his chin. “That must have been hard for your mother?”

“It was, but she had resolve. She made sure we went to school every day. After a while Mom managed to get a job at the town library and Dad wasn’t completely useless. If anything, he had plenty of time to talk to us, teach us with words rather than actions. It helped take the focus away from his back pain.”

“Sounds like you all worked well together,” Gerald said.

“We did, but Mom was the glue, you know, a real organizer.”

“A fine woman—is she still alive?”

Kelli shook her head. “No, she died about five years ago now. Dad died in 1982; heart attack.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Gerald hesitated, talk of death softening the conversation, but he knew he had to keep going. “How about school—did you like school?”

“Oh, yeah—I was pretty good at everything—except algebra.” A wry smirk wrinkled her nose. “Why does this sound like a counselling session?”

Gerald smiled. “Well, if it is, it’s doing me a world of good. Let’s just say that by you telling me your story, it might go some way to helping you understand mine when I tell it to you.”

Kelli nodded. “So, you want me to keep going?”

“Please. Tell me about your friends. Did you have a bunch of friends to play with?”

She laughed and Gerald could tell she was invoking a very fond memory. She was calming down, which in turn was keeping his anxiety at bay.

“Just one—Marcia Hoffman,” Kelli said, staring off into the past. “She was such a tiny thing, all dark hair and freckles. She was always so bright and joyful, that girl.”

“You spent a lot of time together?”

“We were inseparable; both our families were. We went everywhere together: fishing trips in the summer, ski trips in the winter. It was almost as if we were an extended family. Marcia’s parents were real close to mine and Marcia’s dad used to help out with odd jobs around the house since Dad couldn’t do them. Marci’s Dad owned a corn farm and we used to spend hours running through the stalks playing hide and seek.”

Gerald chuckled, but the visualization of the two girls running and playing only served to evoke memories of his own childhood. A childhood plagued with guilt and fear.

“The holidays were always so much fun; Halloween especially,” Kelli continued, on a roll now. “It was a given in both households.”

The old man picked at a hole in one of the arms of his wheelchair. “So you and Marcia would have done the whole trick-or-treating thing, then?”

“Oh, definitely—we always tried to out-dress each other. Marcia was into fairies and princesses, but it was witches and Vampirella for me.” She frowned. “I thought you hated the very mention of Halloween.”

Gerald nodded, still staring at the hole. “I used to be just like you,” he said. “Halloween was always something to look forward to.”

“So, what happened?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to keep the pain of recollection at bay. He had to try and make the words come. He lifted his gaze to the nurse and tried to look into her, to find strength in the goodness of her soul.

“I had a friend once, just like your Marcia,” he said.

“What was his name?”

“Donnie—Donald Psalter. We used to do everything together too, especially Halloween, but it was Halloween that tore us apart.”

“How?”

Suddenly a low moan crept in beneath the bathroom door, like the sound of something dying. Kelli sat bolt upright.

“Oh, God—was that the boy?”

“Yes—he’s crying,” Gerald said.

“Crying—why would he be crying?”

Gerald looked right into Kelli’s eyes. “Because he knows how the story ends.”

5

Kelli was torn between the desire to have Gerald speak the truth and the trepidation of just what that “truth” might entail.

She studied the old man and tried to compose herself; she didn’t want to trust him, but she had little choice. He’d destroyed her phone and now she was trapped with him. Worse still, a seemingly homicidal kid was lurking outside the bathroom door—and only Gerald knew why. She had her own notions about the connection between the old man and the boy and she feared that Gerald was about to prove her right. She forced a reassuring smile.

“Go ahead—you can tell me,” she said.

Gerald scratched at his balding head and flashed his own, albeit nervous, smile back.

“Okay,” he said, but then he held up a palm to placate her. “Now, whatever I tell you, no matter how crazy it might sound, you just need to listen. Okay?”

Kelli took a deep breath, trying not to point out all the different kinds of “crazy” she’d witnessed in the past few hours.

“Sure, I understand.”

Gerald nodded and took a long deep breath.

“You okay?” Kelli said, continuing to play the part of caring nurse.

“Yes—I just wish I had a bit of Dutch courage,” he said.

“You just take your time—start at the beginning.”

Gerald licked his cracked lips. “Well, here goes, then. As I said before, I grew up right here in this house; born in ’44, right smack bang in the middle of the war. My dad worked at the Tribune—in the printing press. Fortunately, the war meant there was plenty of despair to write about. My mother, God rest her soul, stayed at home with me. She was a wonderful woman, kind and forthright. My Pa was a very tall, strong man, but he had a soft side too. He liked to joke around and when he wasn’t working, he always had time for me.”

Kelli wanted to urge him on, but only to bring a quick closure to the madness and her fear.

“You said you were an only child?”

“Yes, my mother ended up getting a severe infection, which left her barren.”

“Must have been hard for your family?”

Gerald nodded. “Sometimes, but my parents doted on me a lot so I was never really alone. And once I got to school, finding friends became a bit of a…well…no-brainer. There were a lot of kids like me back then—only children, I mean. Times were pretty tough and having too many mouths to feed during the war was fraught with danger. So, our schoolmates became like the brothers and sisters I couldn’t have.”

Kelli looked to the door. “He’s…gone quiet.”

She watched Gerald turn to stare at the door; she imagined he could see straight through the wood at the boy standing on the other side.

“He’s listening,” he said.

“Who is he?”

Gerald turned back to face her. “I’m getting to that.” He inter­laced his leathery fingers then and his knuckles turned the color of the first snow. To Kelli, it was as if he’d captured a memory in his palms and she wondered, if he opened them, whether the memory would fly away.

“Donald Psalter was his name,” Gerald said, with a smirk. “I remember the day at school when he just came up to me and introduced himself. ‘My name’s Donnie—what’s yours?’ he said. He was so happy to see me, regardless of the fact that we were strangers. He must have been lonely too, I suppose. He had this cheeky grin, really mischievous—probably had something to do with the fact he had two or three teeth growing through crooked.” Gerald chuckled to himself. “He had this tattered Minnesota Twins cap on his head, which was one size too small for him, so all his curly hair stuck out at the sides.”

“I can picture him,” Kelli said, and thought of what the Frank­enstein child would have looked like—alive and well.

“He grabbed my right hand and just shook the blazes out of it,” Gerald continued. “My arm felt like jelly for the rest of the day.”

“What happened then?”

Gerald looked at her as if for the first time. “Oh, well, of course, I told him who I was and that was it—it was like ‘Okay, now we’re best friends.’”

Kelli laughed. “Just like that, huh?”

“From that day on, we did everything together; played ball in the park, rode our bicycles around the city, threw rocks at old houses—all the things little boys shouldn’t be doing, you know?”

The old man began to tear up. “I remember this one time when we went to the county fair and Donnie, oh, he was a scamp—he stole this great big jar of toffees. We took them back to his house. We ate so many we were almost sick.”

“Really?” Kelli said, smiling.

“Yeah—he was a lot of fun, that kid.”

Kelli saw a wave of sorrow wipe the smile from the old man’s face; she now knew how strong the bond between Gerald and Donnie had been. Still was.

“Inseparable,” she said.

“In every way.”

From the corner of her eye Kelli could see through the gap in the bottom of the door the boy’s shadow move.

“So, is that who this is—Donnie?”

Gerald raised his eyes to her; he looked pale and lost. “Do you really want to know why I live alone, Miss Pritchard?

“I…I don’t know.”

“Have you ever been alone—I mean so alone that your only companion is the thoughts in your head?”

“We’ve all felt alone at some point—”

“No,” Gerald interrupted. “No, you don’t understand. Lone­liness isn’t about not having anyone else around—it’s about…being alone…inside; being trapped inside your bad memories.

Kelli saw that Gerald’s legs were shaking and when he spoke next his words almost failed him.

“Every Halloween…every goddamned Halloween…it comes…haunts me.”

“The boy?”

Gerald nodded and his trembling made it look like he was gripped by a tremor. “It started so long ago. One day he…it…just showed up…on my doorstep; after so many years. I’d forgotten…then, there he was. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked and slammed the door in its face and hid like a cowardly dog.”

“When did this happen?” Kelli asked, swallowing hard.

“Not long after…after I was diagnosed with emphysema; was almost as if it knew. And for so long I’ve been able to keep it out and now it’s here. It’s waited years for this moment. It knows…it knows that I’m going to die!”

Kelli reached out and squeezed his dry hand. “You’re not going to die—”

“I am, goddamn it! Oh, can’t you see that!?”

Kelli released his hand, eager not to inherit his despair. She saw his eyes pleading to her, desperate for understanding. Deep down she knew what he was saying, but the notion was still unbelievable.

“But…he’s just a boy,” she said, but it was more to convince herself than anything else.

“He’s not just a boy! It’s Donnie for god’s sake! You know that! And he’s here—here for me!”

Kelli felt his panic threatening to overwhelm her. She retreated from the old man, sliding along the floor until her back slammed into the bathtub. She’d heard the truth and now she wanted to flee from it.

“But it’s just a kid—it can’t be Donnie!” she cried.

“Believe me—it is!”

“What happened to him?”

Gerald clawed at his face in frustration, drew blood from the bridge of his nose. He was mad—with grief.

“He died! He died…because of me!”

Gerald’s grief flowed out in his tears, like his secret had left his soul raw and bleeding.

Kelli watched the old man shake with sorrow, listened to it catch in his useless lungs. Anguish in all its hideous beauty, bringing a man down to the same level as a child. There was a child at the door—a dead child; a ghost child. Returned from the grave on Halloween to wreak what—vengeance—a message? Whatever it sought to do, Kelli knew Gerald didn’t want it, she could see that as plain as day.

As she looked at him a question she didn’t want to ask parted her lips.

“Did…did you kill him?” she said.

Gerald lifted his head from his hands, a grimace expanding his moist cheeks.

“He died…because of me.”

“What happened to Donnie?” Kelli whispered, and her eyes moved to the door; the boy’s shadow was gone.

Gerald wiped the tears from his face with his palms, sniffed back the sadness and swallowed it down.

“I’ve kept it a secret…for so long.”

“Maybe it’s time you let that secret out,” Kelli said, and she wasn’t making a suggestion.

The old man motioned to reply, but a knock at the bathroom door froze them. The skin of Kelli’s arm erupted with gooseflesh and rode the wave up her spine to the fear center of her brain.

“It’s the boy!” she gasped.

Gerald looked over his shoulder, his face contorting with terror. “I don’t know if I can face him!”

Kelli went to him and touched his arm. “I think…I think this is what he wants; for you to tell his story.”

“I can’t!” Gerald cried.

“Tell me, Gerald—tell me his story.”

Kelli clasped her hands around his and smiled reassuringly. Through the door they heard Donnie knocking and Gerald knew it was time to open the door to his past and set it free.

6

Duluth, Minnesota, October 31, 1952

The roar of the wind rattled the windows, rousing Gerald Forsyth from his sleep. Exhilaration surged through his little body, like a switch had been turned on inside him. He threw the blankets off himself, seemingly ignorant to the biting cold, bounded over to his dresser and opened the top drawer. His hands rummaged through the piles of comic books and baseball cards within until he found what he was looking for. He switched on the walkie talkie and put it to his lips; it only barely covered the smile on his face.

“Donnie? Donnie?” he said and released the talk button. A hiss of static, heightened by the brewing storm outside, was the only reply. “Donnie? It’s Gerry! Pick up—over!”

The static was abruptly cut by a soft rustling.

“Yeah?” came a weary voice.

Gerald bounced on the spot. “It’s here!” he said. “Today’s the day—over.”

“What?” Donnie replied and Gerald sighed at his friend’s inability to rouse in the morning.

“Halloween—it’s Halloween you doofus!”

Another moment’s pause, then: “It is?”

“Check your calendar—it’s October 31! Yesterday was October 30, remember?”

Gerald listened as he heard Donnie stumble about inside his bedroom; he must have left the button on his walkie talkie on. Gerald shook his head at his friend’s forgetfulness. He opened his mouth to chide Donnie about it when he realized he wouldn’t hear him anyway. He tossed his walkie talkie on the bed and ran to his window, pulling it open. A wall of freezing air slapped Gerald in the face. The world was painted in grey, but Gerald ignored the oncoming storm and instead stretched his head outside to peer at the top floor window of the house next door, the window of Donnie Psalter’s bedroom.

“Hey doofus!” Gerald yelled above the wind. “You’ve still got your button down!”

A pale-faced boy with a scruffy bowl haircut appeared at his own window. Donnie opened the window and instantly regretted it, wrapping his arms around himself in a wasted bid to protect himself from the cold.

“What?” Donnie cried back, the gale catching his voice and blasting it miles into town.

“You’ve left your button—oh forget it! We can hear each other now anyways.” Gerald said, but then he reconsidered the sky. “Pretty much…”

Suddenly the window on the bottom floor of Donnie’s house slid open fiercely and the disgruntled visage of Margaret Psalter—Donnie’s mother—appeared. She cast both boys a look significantly icier than the blizzard about to bear down on Duluth.

“I can hear both of you!” she said.

“Sorry, Mom!” Donnie replied, shrinking back from the window.

“Sorry Mrs. Psalter,” Gerald added.

“Get inside the pair of you, before you freeze to death.”

Gerald’s mother Bethany wouldn’t let her son go outside with the blizzard, but she knew by his jittery excitement that she was going to have a lot of trouble just getting him to keep still.

“Is it okay if I go over to Donnie’s after breakfast?” Gerald said, as he shoveled a forkful of pancakes into his mouth.

“You make sure you put on your winter coat and gloves,” she told him.

He looked up from his plate, frowning. “But Mom, I only have to walk from here to Donnie’s house—”

“You do as you’re told: coat and gloves, mister. In case you hadn’t noticed there’s a blizzard coming. And you stay indoors, young man.”

Gerald sighed. “Yes, Mom.” He wiped his mouth and stood to take his plate to the sink and charged out of the kitchen, eager for the day’s play, when he suddenly collided with his father.

“Whoa there, Gerry!” Lucas Forsyth said, taking his son gently by the shoulders. “There a fire or something in here?”

Gerald smiled and gripped his father about the waist, breathing in the smell of newsprint.

“Dad—you’re home!”

Lucas smiled down at his son and Gerald mentally counted the number of ink smudges on his father’s face.

“I hope you haven’t been giving your mother a hard time?” Lucas said, offering his wife a wink.

“No, Dad, I was just about to get ready to go over to Donnie’s so we can plan for the big day.”

Lucas frowned. “What big day?”

“Halloween, Dad! You know: trick-or-treating. How could you forget?”

Lucas ruffled his boy’s fine sandy hair. “I didn’t forget, Gerry. I know that it’s Halloween.” He paused. “But I’m not sure we’ll be able to go trick-or-treating this year.”

Gerald’s jaw dropped. “But we do it every year! Every year you take me and Donnie out trick-or-treating. Donnie says he has our costumes ready and everything!”

Lucas cupped Gerald’s face in his huge hands. “I know that Gerry, but I just heard on the radio that there’s a big snowstorm coming in. Biggest one in nearly fifty years, they’re saying.”

Bethany suddenly chimed in, her hands deep in dishwater. “There’s no way you are going out in that blizzard, Gerald Forsyth. I don’t care if it is Halloween.”

“But Mom!” Gerald protested, but his father turned his face back so he could look him squarely in the eye.

“Hey, you listen now. Your mother’s right, Gerry, it’s not safe to go out there. Maybe the blizzard will blow right by us, but if it doesn’t, well, it’s not the end of the world if we miss Halloween. We can always go next year.”

Gerald’s bottom lip bulged. “But it’s our family tradition, Dad. We go every year—you, me, Donnie and Donnie’s dad.”

Lucas crouched down to his son’s level. “I know Gerry, I know. Let’s just wait and see what happens with the storm, okay? Now, you go upstairs and your Mom and I will talk about whether you can go see Donnie, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.” Gerald said. The boy walked mournfully out of the kitchen, his eyes on the floor all the way as he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He got dressed slowly and sighed heavily, like life had suddenly become a chore. He looked through his bedroom window and cursed the snow, which was being “totally unfair” by ruining a perfectly good Halloween.

While Donnie waited, frost had begun to creep across the glass of Gerald’s bedroom window. The street outside was coated in white, and the more Gerald watched the thicker the snow became, swirling and falling with determination. The prospect of simply going next door to visit his friend—let alone trick-or-treating—became more and more remote.

Gerald sighed, defeated. He turned back to look at his unmade bed, the desire to just fall into it and give up on his favorite holiday tugging at his mind. He was about to do just that when a loud thump suddenly resounded behind him. He whirled on his feet to see a large splodge of snow sliding down the window pane. The ridiculous notion that the snowflakes were getting bigger made him shake his head, but the abrupt squeal of white noise from his walkie talkie made him jump.

“Ger…ry!” a voice said.

He stepped to his dresser drawer to retrieve the walkie talkie and pressed the receiver.

“Donnie—is that you?”

“Co…m to…wind—!” the voice crackled.

Gerald turned the squelch dial down on his walkie talkie, but the crackling only became more incessant, the storm dominating everything.

“Say again, Donnie?”

“I said…to the…dow!”

Gerald stepped to the window and peered down through the gaps in the frost to the front lawn. He saw his friend standing ankle deep in the snow, wrapped in a heavy winter coat, scarf, mittens and woolen cap. Donnie seemed to fade in and out in the falling snow, like a light bulb on its last legs. Gerald slid open the window and the snow swarmed in his room.

“What are you doing?” Gerald cried through the wind.

Donnie cupped his gloved hands around his mouth. “You gotta come down here and play—it’s awesome!”

“But…the blizzard?”

“Chicken!” Donnie fired back.

“Mom and Dad won’t let me go outside. They say there’s a really bad storm coming and we might not be able to go trick-or-treating tonight!”

“Yeah, that’s what my Dad said, but what do they know, right? Come on, get your sled and we’ll hit the snow!”

Gerald hesitated; he wanted to chase Donnie away, slam the window shut and accept defeat, but Donnie was already outside and the snowstorm didn’t look so bad. In fact, the snow looked like it would be a hell of a lot of fun.

When Gerald was certain his mother was busy in the linen cup­board looking for more blankets, and his father was down for a nap, he snuck outside through the back door into a world of white.

He found Donnie sitting on the curb, his coat powdered with snow. Gerald pulled up the hood of his own coat, secured the earmuffs of his bomber hat and ran stealthily across the lawn to meet him. He noticed immediately that Donnie didn’t have his own sled with him.

“Where’s your sled?” Gerald said.

Donnie smiled and shook his head. “Don’t worry about that—we’re not going sledding.”

“What?”

“We’re going trick-or-treating.”

Gerald’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to seek more of an explanation when Donnie promptly turned and ran across the street—Blake Street—towards an oak tree on the other side. Through the snowfall, Gerald could just make out Donnie rummaging inside a bag of some kind. Gerald, reminding himself that Donnie could be frustratingly unpredictable, had little choice but to trot after him. The freezing air burned inside his nostrils.

“Donnie, what’s going on? We can’t go trick-or-treating in this weather.”

Donnie peered deep inside his bag. “You want to celebrate Halloween, don’t you? You want candy, right?”

Gerald tried to rub more warmth into the arms of his coat and looked at the snow slowly erasing every detail of Blake Street.

“Yes, but I don’t know, Donnie—I think it might be too cold. I think we should go back home.”

Donnie stopped searching in his bag and lifted his face to shake his head condescendingly at his friend. His green eyes narrowed and curls of his hair waved in the wind.

“Have you forgotten our promise?”

Gerald sighed. “No.”

“We said that we’d never miss a Halloween, no matter what. That’s what we said.”

“I know that, but this storm is crazy, Donnie.”

Donnie pulled a bundle of clothing out of his bag and shoved it into Gerald’s hands. “It’s not that bad—now put this on!”

Gerald looked at the bundle in his hands and a sneering face stared back at him: a pale white face, with red lips and blood-streaked fangs. Gerald was looking at the rubbery depiction of the great Count Dracula. The mask swam within a large black polyester cape. Gerald had to stifle a look of glee.

“We’re really going to do this?” he said. “Donnie, no one will open their front door in this cold.”

“Just put it on!” Donnie told him as he retrieved his own mask and jacket ensemble from the bag.

Gerald watched as his friend pulled on a putrescent green face. Its forehead was elongated and bore garishly painted scars. Two silver-painted rubber bolts protruded from the neck. The unmistakable face of the Frankenstein monster, modelled after the great Boris Karloff. When Donnie gave the mask a downward pull Gerald recalled a painting he’d once seen in a school book of a person on a bridge screaming. To complete his costume, Donnie put on an over-sized navy blue suit jacket, covered in old mud and ropy gobs of red poster paint. Donnie struggled to get it over his winter coat, but the doubling up of clothes certainly gave him that muscled look. Gerald couldn’t help but laugh.

“You look fat,” Gerald teased.

“Do not!” Donnie said out of the corner of his mouth. He sniffed hard and rubbed his nose, then he pulled a small tube of green poster paint from the suit pocket, squeezed it into his palm and rubbed it all over the mask and his neck for good measure.

“Aww gross!” Gerald said, grimacing at how authentically undead his friend now appeared.

“Didn’t you see the movie poster for Frankenstein? He’s green—so I have to be green too. There’s some of my mom’s make up in the bag and some fake blood. Put some on your face and let’s go.”

Gerald shook his head. “Donnie I really think we should just go home.”

His friend wiped his paint-smeared hands on his jacket and Gerald, assuming the jacket was Donnie’s father’s, didn’t think that was a good idea.

“We do this every year—we can’t stop now. If we start door knocking now, we should get most of the street done before the storm gets any worse. So, are you coming or not?”

Gerald looked down at his mask and cape; he’d been so excited about Halloween and he couldn’t believe a blizzard was going to ruin it. He watched Donnie zip up his bag; it looked as if he was going trick-or-treating—with or without his friend.

“Donnie, we really shouldn’t—” he began.

“Oh, shouldn’t what?” Donnie said, his impatience making his Frankenstein face look even more menacing.

“Nothing.” Gerald slipped the cape over his shoulders and it billowed in the wind. He pulled on the mask and through the narrow eye slits he saw Donnie smiling wildly.

“Awesome! You look so cool, Gerry! Come on—let’s go!”

Dracula and Frankenstein ran away from the tree then towards number three Blake Street, leaving a trail of ghostly snowflakes in their wake.

Mrs. Doris Farley barely opened her door a crack when Donnie and Gerald knocked on it. She gawked at them in disbelief over her half-moon glasses.

“What in the name of all that’s good and holy are you boys doing outside? Don’t you know there’s a storm coming?”

Donnie held out his bag and bared his teeth, trying to look as a monster should.

“It’s Halloween, Mrs. Farley,” he said.

“You boys need to get on back home. It’s too cold to be trick-or-treating.”

“Please, Mrs. Farley,” Donnie whined. “We just want to get some candy. Do you have any?”

A gust of wind burst onto Mrs. Farley’s porch, sending a swarm of snowflakes right into her face. Her subsequent squeal would have given a banshee a run for its money. She slammed the door, but not before she said: “Go home, before you freeze to death!”

The pair were left standing on the porch, shoulder to shoulder for warmth; Dracula and Frankenstein, the reanimated dead.

“What are we going to do now, Donnie?” Gerald said. “No one is going to answer their door to give us candy!”

Donnie turned and walked down the stairs, scanning Blake Street. Gerald wondered what he was looking at because all he could see was white; the storm hung over Duluth like a death shroud.

“We can’t just give up after one house,” Donnie told him. “What about Mr. Colton’s over on Washington Street? Mrs. Colton’s always nice—she gave us home-made peanut brittle last year—remember?”

Gerald nodded at the recollection of how good Mrs. Colton’s peanut brittle was. “Maybe she’ll invite us in for a cup of cocoa?”

“Yeah,” Donnie said before sniffing and rubbing his nose again.

Gerald pushed his friend’s shoulder playfully. “Have you been picking your nose again? It’ll make it bleed, doofus!”

“Shut up—at least it’d make my costume look more real.”

The two of them laughed in agreement and broke into a sprint towards Washington Street. They playfully jostled for front position, laughing, forgetting about the blizzard and remembering that Halloween was all about having fun.

Gerald laughed as they ran through the snow towards the intersection of Blake and Washington. Behind him, he could hear Donnie giving chase, his boots crunching the snow, which must have been at least two feet thick on the ground now.

“Last one’s a rotten egg!” Gerald teased over his shoulder at Donnie. “Or is that…a rotten corpse!”

Gerald saw Washington Street before him: the houses nestled together, inviting yellow light glowing from the windows. But it was just as Gerald came to the point where Washington merged with Blake Street that he suddenly felt…strange. He came to a stop and stared at his boots. A moment later Donnie appeared at his side, puffing and panting.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Gerald looked at the road surface beneath his feet, squeezed his eyes shut and then re-opened them.

“The road,” he said.

Donnie looked at the road. “Yeah, it’s a road—so what?”

Gerald pointed at it as if his friend couldn’t see it for looking. “There’s no snow on it.”

Gerald watched as the realization slowly emerged on his friend’s face; a slight dip in his eyebrows, a quizzical upwards curve at the corner of his mouth.

“What—how?” Donnie said.

Gerald held out his gloved hands to the air; not a single snow­flake fell on the intersection. Curiosity getting the better of him, he turned on his heels a full 180 degrees to look behind him, back up Blake Street. His gloves slowly filled up with snowflakes. Donnie copied Gerald and gasped.

“Man, that is so cool!” he said.

“It’s weird,” Gerald replied, turning back to stand in the center of the intersection. “Don’t you think it’s weird that the snow isn’t falling here on this spot?

Donnie sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Yeah, it’s a little weird, but who cares—come on, let’s go to the Colton’s already.”

“I don’t know, Donnie.” Gerald couldn’t take his eyes off the unblemished, grey asphalt.

Donnie shoved his friend with one hand, while he rubbed his nose again with the other. “Don’t be such a baby. It’s probably just the wind or something blowing up the street.” He took a step onto Washington. “Dammit!”

“What—what’s wrong?” Gerald asked, suddenly afraid to move.

Donnie stared down at his own gloved hands. “My nose!”

Gerald saw the droplets of blood on Donnie’s gloves, watched them soak into the wool. He drew his eyes up and saw a steady drip of blood falling from his friend’s left nostril, almost like a running tap.

“Oh, no!” Gerald said, stepping off the curb onto the road towards Donnie.

The blood dripped onto the sleeve of Donnie’s jacket, down and down to spatter across his boots. Donnie quickly clamped his hands over his nose and squeezed to stem the flow. His brown gloves became red.

“It won’t stop!” Donnie cried through his hands. His eyes were wide with panic.

Gerald knew Donnie occasionally had nosebleeds, but never one this bad. “Move your hand!” he told Donnie, reaching up to pry his hands away. “Let me have a look!”

Donnie complied, dropping his hands. The blood was running down over his lips.

“Aw gross!” Donnie said, before turning to spit a great job of blood onto the road. It hit the asphalt with an audible slap.

Abruptly the wind stopped howling. There was only the road, yet it was more dirt than asphalt. All the houses had disappeared; there was only the crossroads, and the two boys. Gerald and Donnie looked around them. The sky was blue and cloudless. The air was warm, so warm they felt the urge to take off their winter coats.

“Where are we?” Gerald said.

Donnie let go of his nose and realized it had stopped bleeding.

“What’s happening?” he said to Gerald.

The landscape was lush and green, apart from the dirt crossroads beneath their feet. There were no structures of any kind, only a large oak tree, which cast a looming shadow over the pair. Gerald’s heart hammered against his ribs.

“Donnie—I don’t understand…”

The sound of a branch snapping made them turn. The oak tree was thick, its bark rippled and veined with age. The leaves were turning gold, heralding the rapid approach of Fall.

“What was that?” Donnie said.

“I…don’t know.”

There was more rustling, too loud to simply be the wind. Then again, there was no wind, only the harshness of the sun and the tree’s shadow.

“Hello? Who’s there?” Gerald said in the direction of the tree.

The rustling ceased at the sound of Gerald’s direct question and a shape emerged from behind the tree’s broad trunk: a person. The boys saw the silhouette and wanted to run, but something even more powerful than their fear fixed them to the spot.

The stooped, thin figure shuffled towards them, bleeding out of the tree’s grey shadow to reveal itself as a woman. Her hair was knotted and black, her skirts torn, corset coming apart at the seams. These aspects, however, paled in comparison to her face, which was the color of ancient death.

There was no mistaking she was dead; the way her head rested on an angle, the way the bones of her neck bulged beneath her parchment skin. Her neck had clearly been broken—and viciously. In her gnarled right hand she held the noose that had performed the deed.

“Hello, little ones,” the woman said, her voice echoing behind them, beside them and above them.

The boys instinctively came closer to each other, out of fear.

“Is she…dead?” Donnie said, keeping his voice low.

“I…don’t know,” Gerald said.

“But look at her neck.”

The woman’s grey eyes moved from Donnie to Gerald and back again, yet her eyelids never blinked; she simply stared at them from that awful askew angle. She stepped towards them, her left foot dragging in the dirt. The boys took a step backwards in response.

“It’s been an age since anyone has visited me,” the woman said through leathery lips. “So very long.”

“We’d like to go home now, please,” Gerald said, very slowly, carefully.

The woman turned her head to look at Gerald and her skull lolled forward, grinding shattered vertebrae together.

“Already?” The lips curled downward. “You have only just arrived; please stay and talk with me.”

“How did we get here?” Donnie asked, glancing furtively at the tree.

She reached up with her right hand and, very precisely, touched the tip of her crooked nose.

“Your blood, child—your blood summoned me to you.”

Donnie stared at the dried blood on his gloves and suddenly felt disgust. He tore the gloves from his hands and threw them on the ground.

“I don’t want to be here anymore!” he said to the woman. “I want to go home!”

Gerald looked at Donnie’s gloves on the ground, in the dirt; the great dusty crossroad which seemed to stretch off into the horizon for all eternity. He suddenly understood.

“We’re still on Washington Avenue!” he said, half-smiling at his epiphany. When he looked up from the road he saw Donnie and the woman scrutinizing him curiously.

“Such a clever child,” the woman said.

Donnie turned to his friend. “But how? This doesn’t look anything like home. It’s not even snowing here!”

The woman shuffled closer, her lips cracking with a smile, revealing jaundiced teeth nestled between oil-black gums.

“You are still there, yet you are also here at the same time—and in between.”

“What does that mean?” Donnie shouted, his whole body shaking with confused rage. Gerald reached out and gripped his arm in a bid to calm him.

“It’s okay, Donnie—we’ll figure this out and get back home, all right?”

Donnie swallowed and fought back the tears welling in his terrified green eyes. Gerald offered him a reassuring smile, but inside he wanted to scream. Once he knew his friend had calmed down he turned to address the woman.

“What do you want…with us?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I want freedom.”

“Freedom?”

“I have been imprisoned here for a very long time and I want to leave.”

Gerald thought he saw sadness in her eyes, but how could some­one who was clearly dead feel sorrow?

“So, you want us to help you?”

“Yes.”

“Then how?” Donnie chimed in, impatient.

She turned, or rather staggered, to the center of the crossroads. “This has been my cage for three centuries—ever since they hanged me as a witch.”

“A witch?” Gerald said.

“They claimed I cavorted with devils; let him put his cold prick inside me. They even said I gave birth to his spawn. My neigh­bors dragged me here to this tree and hanged me like a chandelier for all to see!”

Gerald swallowed hard, easily imagining the noose in her hand being coiled around her neck, the bones snapping.

“Ever since that day,” the woman continued, “I have been waiting for someone to come—to take my place. I believed that eventually some poor soul in the land of the living would lose their lives on this spot—be it by accident, or more sinister means—but I never dreamed a few drops of virgin blood could bring me my salvation.”

She stepped to them again, her arms reaching, gnarled fingers bending like spider’s legs.

“One of you must take my place!” she hissed.

“No!” Donnie cried, recoiling from her approach.

Strangely, and suddenly, neither boy could move. The woman circled them and despite the midday sun beating down on the landscape, a foul chill emanated from her body. The skin of Gerald and Donnie’s arms bristled with goose pimples beneath their coats.

“Oh, and yet you will choose, my young pups—or both of you will die!”

“How can we choose?” Donnie said, sobbing, his body rigid through magic—or fear.

She moved behind them and placed her dry, icy fingers on the backs of their heads, like a mother ruffling her child’s hair.

“Perhaps it will not be such a challenge for two friends who trust each other?” she said, before circling again to face them. “You came here through blood—it is only fitting that blood should be part of the trial.” She traced both of their faces with a clawed finger. “You are close friends, yes?”

“Yes,” they replied, and their voices wavered with terror.

“Perhaps even as close as…brothers?” she asked further.

Donnie and Gerald turned their eyes to each other, then answered yes once more. The woman clapped her hands and revealed a slimy grin.

“Splendid! Now, have you heard of the term ‘sworn blood brothers’?”

“No,” Gerald said, but Donnie interjected:

“Yes—I know it!” he said. “My father told me about it once. He said it’s like a…a promise you make. A ‘blood oath’, I think he called it. He even showed me. He took a knife and cut his palm and then he cut me and we shook hands.”

“That’s it!” The woman smiled wider and a string of drool slid from her lips.

Gerald didn’t like the concept of the “blood oath”; the mingling of blood. Seeing Donnie’s nose bleeding was bad enough, so what exactly was this woman proposing?

She leaned into them and took their hands and it was like they’d both been forced inside a meat locker.

“Please let us go,” Donnie said, but the woman pressed a finger to his lips.

“Hush now, child. It’s too late for that; begging won’t help you. You must listen to Martha now. One of you must stay here so I can leave, but I cannot make that choice—it has to be decided between the two of you.”

Gerald felt tear on his cheeks, tasted snot on his lips. He wanted to scream for his mother, but she was impossibly far away. Martha smiled at him before turning her gaze to his friend.

“You boy—what be your name?”

“Donnie, ma’am,” he said quickly.

“Donnie, I want to thank you—for opening the door and finding me. Your blood was the key that unlocked me from my cage of woe. A pity, I need you to shed much more.”

“What?” Donnie’s eyes widened.

Martha waited, savoring the boys’ reactions. Gerald knew she was asking them to perform some sort of ritual; asking them to hurt themselves—or each other.

“I’m not going to hurt Gerry,” Donnie said, and Gerald could tell he was putting to put a lot of bravery into his voice.

“Then you will die here right now,” Martha replied.

Donnie shook his head, a pendulum run on fear. “I can’t—please don’t make me!”

Gerald felt his pulse in his throat. A wave of nausea clenched around his stomach and he struggled to fight the urge not to vomit.

“This is not a request,” Martha told Donnie. Donnie was sobbing now, spittle bubbling between his downturned lips.

“No—I won’t hurt him!”

“I demand blood!” Martha howled, and the entire landscape seemed to flicker under the power of her voice, like a light bulb at death’s door.

Gerald watched as Martha moved behind Donnie. She placed her hands on his shoulders and eyed Gerald coyly. Miraculously, Donnie could once more move his body, but Martha still gripped him tight. She leaned down to speak into Donnie’s ear, all the while never taking her eyes off Gerald.

“Kill your friend,” she said, and Gerald heard her every word.

Donnie’s arms rose up from his side. He looked so much like Frankenstein, a shambling horror reaching out for the nearest throat, and Gerald feared it would be his if he didn’t act. He saw Donnie’s face, his eyeballs so white, his lips mouthing at Gerald to “run”, his nose dripping mucous-stringed blood.

Blood.

Self-preservation overtook Gerald’s will and somehow, he managed to slip Martha’s psychic grasp. He lunged at Donnie and punched him as hard as he could in the face. Donnie toppled backwards, falling to the ground. Gerald straddled him, raining down a barrage of blows until Donnie’s face burst with fresh blood.

Between the pounding blows and the cascading waves of agony through his little fingers, Gerald thought of home. Of his mother and father, worried sick about where he was, of the freezing white snow falling upon Blake Street. If he was to escape and survive this nightmare, then Donnie Psalter would have to die. So, he wrapped his now slick red hands around Frankenstein’s throat and squeezed.

He’s not Donnie—he’s Frankenstein—and Frankenstein is a monster, so he has to die.

And only Dracula could kill him.

When Frankenstein’s eyes finally rolled back in his skull, the whites glinting in the perpetual noonday sun, Gerald released his grip. He stood and looked down at Frankenstein’s body for many moments, in awe of how still the monster was.

“He’s dead,” Gerald said to himself.

“Yes,” Martha said, almost sighing with pleasure. She went to Gerald and embraced him, cold thin arm bones creaking loudly. “I always knew it would be you,” she said. Then she smiled at him and faded into the air like a dust mote.

The sunlit vista evaporated with her, plunging Gerald back into his wintry world, back to Blake Street. He found himself standing on the same crossroad, but without Frankenstein. Frankenstein had been left behind—to take Martha’s place for all eternity.

Eventually, the snow began to fall onto the intersection; the barrier that held it at bay removed. Gerald watched the snowflakes drift around him and after a long while, his mind felt clearer, calmer. He took off his Dracula cape and mask and stepped off the intersection onto Blake Street—towards home.

He found his parents standing at the front door, talking to Donnie’s parents and a pair of police officers. They were frantic, accosting him with tear-streaked eyes and never-ending questions. They all wanted to know where he’d been, but it wasn’t until they asked about Donnie that Gerald truly realized what he’d done.

As he sobbed over and over into his mother’s arms, Gerald told them that his friend was gone, but he didn’t know why or where.

That knowledge would only ever come to him when he slept, in the form of nightmares.

7

No matter how many times Kelli wiped the tears away, they kept on coming.

She stared at Gerald through those same tears, as if she were looking at the world through his sorrow; as if she’d become infected by it.

“I…I just don’t believe it,” she said.

The old man frowned. “It’s true,” he said, and he was adamant.

“No—no, I mean I believe you—it’s hard not to when the evidence is right outside that door. It’s just that the story sounds so…impossible.”

Gerald rubbed his hands together, feeling their roughness, their age. “I’ve lived with that story all my life. He sighed and sagged in his chair. “You’re the first person I’ve told the truth.”

“What—you never even told your parents—or Donnie’s parents?”

“What could I tell them—that Donnie exchanged his soul so a witch could go free?”

Kelli cringed, her sympathy waning once more. “So, you just lied?”

“I had to!”

“You had to?” Kelli couldn’t believe his arrogance. “He was your friend!”

“Donnie was dead! Don’t you understand? He was gone; lost to that god-awful place. Telling the truth was never going to bring him back.”

Kelli turned her eyes to the door. “Yet, here he is.”

Gerald looked at the door then and she could see that her words cut him deep, his eyes lost in despondency.

“He’s here to torment me—to make me suffer, just as he does. He comes to visit me every anniversary—every Halloween. All I can do is lock the door and wait for him to go away.”

“I don’t blame him for wanting you to suffer,” Kelli said.

Now Gerald was the one to look appalled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I only feel sorry for Donnie,” she told him. “Maybe if you’d told the truth—maybe if you hadn’t killed him in the first place then none of this would even be happening!”

Gerald almost rose from his wheelchair. “You think I don’t know that?! Don’t you think I haven’t thought about that every day since he was taken? It wasn’t my fault—it was hers! That witch! She gave me no choice!”

Kelli almost spat: “There’s always a choice!”

“Really—then what would you have done? Tell me Miss High-and-Mighty, what would you have done?!”

She avoided his furious eyes. “I…I don’t know. But I wouldn’t have left my friend there to rot.”

Gerald pointed an arthritic finger at her. “Don’t you judge me—you have no idea of the sacrifices I had to make. I had to tell his family that he was abducted, for God’s sake! I sat in the back of a police car for hours—days—while they looked for Donnie, all the while knowing that everything I’d told them was a lie. In the years after that day my childhood was hell. My parents took me to counselling every week until I was thirteen. I became a laughing stock at school. I even flunked out of college, forced to come back here and live with my parents. I think they must have been happy when they died, knowing they didn’t have to burden themselves with me any longer.”

Kelli stood and touched the door; she knew every inch of its flecked paint, every grain of wood beneath, but only because of what stood on the other side of it.

“You talk about suffering and sacrifices, but what about the sacrifice Donnie made—hmm? He’s dead—and you’re still here.”

The old man lifted himself up out of his chair, arms trembling with weakness, his face crimson with rage.

“I wish I was dead!”

The timbre of his voice almost knocked Kelli off her feet and it left Gerald hollow, his frame dropping like a stone back into the chair.

“I wish I’d been the one to die that day!” Gerald admitted. “Not Donnie. But I was just a boy—a little boy scared of never seeing his mother or father again. I wanted to live and I’m sorry—I’m so sorry that I have to say this, but it was either him…or me.”

Kelli’s lips curled in disgust. “And so, you chose you?”

“Yes—and I’ve regretted that choice ever since. I’ll only ever be free of Donnie when I die—I know that.”

Kelli remained quiet, overwhelmed by the silence, her distaste for Gerald’s every word. She wondered if Donnie’s ghost could hear them, hear Gerald’s self-pity.

“Why don’t you just tell him you’re sorry?” she said.

“Oh, I’ve tried that! I’ve told him I was sorry a thousand times. I went to his grave so many times. I told my parents and his parents I was sorry so many times, but it was never enough. It tore both families apart and I’m certain it sent my mother and father to an early grave. I’ve apologized to Donnie every Halloween, but he still comes!”

“Did you mean it?”

“Screw you!”

“Oh, that’s nice, Gerald! You know something—you’re so-called suffering has left you an empty man, cold-hearted and weak. But out there is a boy who can never grow old, can never know love or see his family again because of you. And he’ll certainly never rest in peace unless you let him!”

Gerald threw his hands in the air. “Then what would you have me do?!”

Kelli crouched down beside him and looked him in the face. She had to choose her words carefully if she was going to convince him to do the right thing.

“You have to accept what you did was wrong. You have to ask his forgiveness.”

Gerald’s brow wavered with self-doubt. “I can’t.”

“Put yourself in his shoes—you said yourself that could quite easily be you standing outside that door. Would you expect Donnie to say he was sorry?”

Gerald put his head in his hands and released a prolonged cry of grief, a cry that had been pent up for more than fifty years. Kelli thought the old man had snapped, the weight of anguish finally shattering his will. Her heart quickened when his keening suddenly became gasps for air.

“Are you alright?” Kelli said.

Gerald lifted his head to reveal eyes wide with fear, a mouth wide in desperation, beckoning breath.

“Can’t—”

Kelli rummaged in the back of his wheelchair for the oxygen mask and put it over his face. She turned the dial on the oxygen canister, but there was no hiss of air being released. She sensed the oxygen was all gone and the only other canisters could be found outside in her car.

“Oh, God!” she cried. “Gerald—listen to me. You have to try and take some deep breaths, okay? In through your nose and out through your mouth.”

The old man clawed at the mask, as if it was useless. “Help—me!” he wheezed.

Kelli leant down behind the chair again and turned up the dial to full. Still nothing came. She gazed up at him, her face a mask of defeat. Her expression melted to shock when she saw Gerald—straight-faced and breathing freely—raise his arm towards her face. He brought his elbow down hard across her face, plunging her into the black pool of unconsciousness.

Gerald checked Kelli’s pulse and breathing, all the while telling her repeatedly how sorry he was. When he was certain she was fine, he took a towel from the rack near the shower, rolled it up and placed it beneath her head.

Grunting, he pulled himself back up into the wheelchair and wheeled around to face the door. It must have been the early hours of the morning now and the razor-sharp cold was starting to creep into his home. He should have been in bed, but he’d stopped sleeping on Halloween a long time ago and now that his past had finally found a way into his home, he couldn’t afford not to keep his eyes open.

He reached for the door handle, only to hesitate. He glanced back over his shoulder to look down at Kelli lying in a state of unawareness on the floor. He liked Kelli; she meant well, but she was wrong to think that Donnie was ever going to forgive him for what he did. There was only one thing Donnie’s ghost would ever accept.

An exchange of souls.

The bathroom door creaked open onto a shadow-soaked hallway. As quickly as he could, Gerald wheeled himself out of the bathroom and closed the door behind him, sealing Kelli safely inside.

Gerald scanned the sleeping world of his home, his old eyes struggling to adjust to the absence of light. He wheeled up the hallway towards the kitchen, often checking over his shoulder for the unmistakable silhouette of his eternal tormentor.

The wheelchair suddenly jerked forward, gathering pace. Gerald turned in his seat and saw the specter of his childhood friend had control of his chair and was wheeling him through the house up the hall and back to the living room.

“Donnie—stop!” Gerald cried as the hallway rushed past him.

The wheelchair barreled onwards, knocking into a display cabinet. The momentum caused the chair to tilt and Gerald tumbled out, landing hard on the living room floor. The old man rolled onto his back to look up at Donnie. The ghost child tossed the wheelchair aside and staggered towards Gerald, his cold, grey hands outstretched in search in vengeance.

“Don’t!” Gerald screamed. “Wait!”

Donnie stopped and slowly lowered his hands to his sides, his lurid, Frankenstein head cocked to one side in curiosity. Gerald was amazed the boy seemed to understand him; seemed interested in having a conversation.

So, what to say to a friend you damned to hell?

“Donnie I…” Gerald began, and the ghost looked eager to hear more, taking a step closer. “I know I’ve said sorry to you many times before…and I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

Donnie straightened and his eyes were like hooks, reeling Gerald in. The old man swallowed before continuing.

“So…I’ll say what you do want to hear.” He took a deep breath and his chest retaliated with a wheeze. “I deserve to die. I deserve whatever it is you want to dish out to me. I know that. I should be punished for what I did and all these years I’ve just been delaying the inevitable. I think…deep down…that I did really die that day, but it just took my body a hell of a long time to catch up. And I’m still a coward in the face of death.

“So if you want to kill me and drag my miserable excuse for a soul away with you, then be my guest. I’m not gonna stop you.”

Donnie’s ghost remained silent, but not still. Gerald watched as he turned and walked to the front door, reaching out with a frosted hand to unlock it. Then he turned back to face the old man, still with that same blank expression.

“You want me to go outside with you?” Gerald said.

Donnie’s eyes spoke for him, pools of beckoning. Gerald nodded in acknowledgement and rose up to his knees, his weary bones protesting; his lungs sacks of broken glass.

“Okay,” he said. “Just give me a sec.” He pulled himself to his feet and felt a wave of dizziness. He thought he would fall again, almost as if his body was getting ready to finally give up his ghost. He shuffled to the front door, eventually coming to a halt at Donnie’s side. His end was in sight.

He looked down at Donnie. The boy’s nose had stopped bleeding some time ago and there was a thin layer of glittering frost coating his body. The boy’s time in the cold and the dark was hopefully about to end too.

“I’m ready, Donnie,” he said.

Donnie reached out and turned the doorknob to open the door. Blake Street was bathed in a dull purple fog. To the east, Gerald could see the first blood red sliver of the new dawn. Halloween was drawing its curtains for another year. Donnie took Gerald’s hand and walked him down the front steps to stand on the front lawn. Blake Street was quiet, all the trick-or-treaters curled up tight in their beds, deep in the grip of sugar-induced dreams of fancy.

Sleep: Gerald so wanted to sleep.

When he turned his head to say something to Donnie, the boy had somehow gone back inside and retrieved his wheelchair. The old man gratefully took his seat, wondering why Donnie was suddenly treating him with kindness.

As soon as he sat, there was a flash and when it faded a moment later Gerald discovered they were travelling along the sidewalk, Donnie wheeling him away from his house; in the direction of Blake and Washington.

“Oh,” Gerald said, simultaneously fascinated and anxious. “We’re going back here then? It’s been a long time.”

In the pre-dawn blackness, the only sound to be heard was the creaking of the wheels on the sidewalk, the tremor of his heart and the wheeze in his chest. The very air seemed to crackle with energy as they approached the intersection. Donnie brought their procession to a halt in the middle of the street and the boy walked around to face his long-lost friend.

“What do you want me to do now?” Gerald asked him.

Donnie’s mute ghost waited patiently.

“What—what are we supposed to do?” Gerald said.

His chest rattled and Gerald felt a blockage in his chest. He began to cough harshly, the effort becoming involuntary and incessant. He covered his mouth with his hand as a great gob of blood burst from his lips into his palm. He gaped at the stark redness of it as it dribbled between his fingers, down to the asphalt beneath their feet.

Light struck them then as the world split in two. Through the veil of reality, Gerald could see the wide green mirage he’d first witnessed with his friend so many years before. When he looked at Donnie, the boy appeared brand new; clean and fresh, almost alive. Yet there was no life in his face.

Gerald smiled in wonder at the sight of him, at the world on the other side. If his punishment meant he had to spend eternity with his friend here, then maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

“You know the real reason I’ve hated Halloween for all these years, Donnie?” Gerald said. The boy turned to look at him forlornly and shook his head.

Gerald said: “Because I never got to spend all those Halloweens with you.”

Gerald smiled anew and they were moving again, Donnie silently wheeling him through the crack to the other side. In the distance, Gerald saw the great oak tree, its top leaves glistening emeralds in the ever-midday sun. Beneath the tree was shadow, a lush cool place to spend the rest of—

Gerald saw one of the shadows beneath the tree move: a thin, wiry silhouette, gangly and broken, hair swaying as she walked. Gerald gasped as realization gripped his chest, but his lungs failed him and as his soul left his body Martha smiled and claimed it for her own.

Kelli could see herself from the outside in. She was lying on the bathroom floor, cold in unconsciousness. Her point of view swelled, rose so she could take in the entire room from above. She saw herself on the floor and Gerald Forsyth curled up in the corner, riddled with guilt.

The bathroom door crashed open in a swarm of splinters and white mist. The shape of Donnie slinked into the room, his silhouette like a knife. His grubby, frozen fingers reached out for Gerald, clasping around the old man’s throat. In seconds Gerald froze over, encased in a tomb of ice, sheer terror forever etched in his face.

As the boy turned his attention to Kelli’s unconscious form, she came to, as if roused from a nightmare. Her scream was muffled as Donnie plunged his burning cold fingers into her mouth, filling her up with icy death from the inside out.

Kelli woke on the bathroom floor, screaming. Her heart tramp­olined in her chest and only slowed when the miasma of shock cleared. Realizing it was only a dream she sucked in deep, calming breaths and scanned the room.

The last thing she remembered was Gerald striking her in the head. Oh, boy, would she give him a piece of her mind when she found him.

It was at that moment she realized Gerald Forsyth wasn’t in the room—and the door was wide open.

Oh, God!

Kelli scrambled to her feet and stepped out into the hallway. Furtively, she looked over the house from where she stood. Dawn was slowly painting the world in vermillion. She could barely think for the sound of her terrified heart.

She saw no sign Gerald—or the boy. Had Donnie finally gotten hold of the old man? She sincerely hoped not. She so wanted a happy ending to this nightmare; anything but Gerald’s death. She did like him, despite his faults; he was still a fellow human being, who didn’t deserve to die at the hands of some supernatural evil.

Slowly, she walked up the hallway to the living room. The house was empty and a frosty breeze from the open front door told Kelli the boy and the old man must have gone outside. Kelli ran out onto the porch, desperately hoping she’d find them standing on the front lawn, but to no avail.

Seeing the street was devoid of anyone, Kelli instinctively ran to the next house and banged on the front door. After a few moments a man in his mid-40s, unshaven and half-awake answered the door with a look that could have even rivalled Donnie Psalter’s.

“Call the police!” Kelli told him.

“Say what?”

“Call the police—your neighbor, Gerald Forsyth, has been abducted!”

Kelli’s final word seemed to get the man’s attention and instantly he went back into his house to pick up the phone. Kelli left him to his task and ran into the street, past so many sleeping houses, everyone completely oblivious to what had happened on Halloween night—what was still happening. She felt like she should knock on every door and warn them, but her only priority was Gerald—her patient.

As she approached the intersection of Blake and Washington, she glimpsed a figure standing in the middle of the street.

“Gerald!” Kelli cried.

The figure turned towards her voice. It wasn’t Gerald, but rather a woman, tall, slender, to the point of being anorexic. She wore a nightgown, fastened with a thin cord, of all things. Yet it was her face that made Kelli flinch; like thin leather stretched over a bulbous skull. Her eyes were the color of oil and her hair like snakes. The woman’s head was awkwardly cocked to one side.

“Alas, poor Gerald’s gone now,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry?” Kelli replied.

The strange woman smiled, revealing yellow teeth. “He’s with me now,” she said. “Through the veil; you shan’t be seeing him again.”

“What are you talking about?” Kelli tried to mentally get her heart to slow down, but something about this woman kept her fear center firing.

“I had Donnie collect him—they deserve to be together, those two.”

“How do you know about Donnie—” Kelli stopped mid-sentence and clamped a hand over her mouth. This made the woman smile even wider.

“Gerald Forsyth’s childhood tale was mostly true,” Martha said. “All except the part where I told him and Donnie that I weren’t a witch.”

“Oh, my God!” Kelli said, sobbing.

The witch took a step backward and the space behind her split like a torn seam. Through the gap in reality Kelli made out a wide expanse of hills, but they were grey, not green; dead and gone. And a fierce storm was brewing.

“No one ever escapes from my crossroads,” Martha said. “They all come home to me eventually—you’d do well to remember that.”

With those final words, she was gone, swallowed into hell; her, Donald Psalter and Gerald Forsyth with her—forever.

It wasn’t until she felt a hand on her shoulder that Kelli remembered to breathe. She turned and found Gerald’s neighbor with his wife and children, gawking at her.

“Miss—did you find him? Did you find Gerald?” the man said.

Kelli stared at the children—two little boys. After a moment she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “He’s gone.”

Kelli looked from the boys to their parents. “You keep those boys away from that corner—you hear me? You keep all the children away!”

The man frowned. “Excuse me?”

Kelli ignored him, running past them to the police car that was turning into Blake Street. She had to find a way to warn them about the corner of Blake and Washington; about the witch that lived there. But most of all she had to warn them about Halloween.