Halloween has been my favorite night of the year for the past six years running.
The first year I decided to dress up and join the fun, I went as the Headless Horseman. I bought my costume at one of those stores that pops up mid-September, and then disappears two days after Halloween. It was cheap and flimsy. The cloak was vinyl, as were the overlays for my shoes that were supposed to make them look like boots. The “coat” that came with the costume was made of felt and durable for one night only. The buckles that were supposed to look like brass were made out of cheap plastic. There was also a plastic sword that even a child would have been embarrassed to have.
The worst by far, was the black cardboard apparatus that was supposed to create the illusion that I was headless. It was simply a box that went over my head, with small squares cut into it for my eyes. The holes were covered by black, mesh fabric. Driving to the festivities, I thought that the costume was perfectly fine—albeit a little cheesy—but I had paid $100 for it, so it had to be good, right? Once I arrived in town and saw the costumes of the other Main Street business owners, I came this close to getting back in my truck and driving home.
Sally and Emmett Irving, who own the flower shop two doors down from Groundworks, went as Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein. It wasn’t an entirely original idea for a couple, but they had gone all out. She had the wig with the high hair and white stripe running through it. She also had the pale make-up with the puckered lips, and wore a white dress that draped from her body. She looked like she had stepped right off of the screen. Emmett was unreal. He had traveled all the way to Boston that morning to have his make-up done by a special effects company. Everything from his square forehead to the bolts in his neck were amazing. Even up close, it was fantastic.
Maggie Vaughn, owner of the Elmwood Hotel, was dressed as a witch, but it wasn’t some generic witch, like the one Reverend Williams had displayed in his sermon with a pointy hat and black smock. Nope. She had a stringy wig, hunched back, and wore rotted-looking clothes. She wore sallow-toned make-up, and had applied warts everywhere on her face. The final touch was yellow contact lenses. I didn’t even realize who she was until she broke character. I had been speaking to her for ten minutes, wondering, “Who the hell is this crazy woman?” when she stood up straight and said, “For Christ’s sake, Jacob. It’s me, Maggie.”
There were vampires, zombies, a Freddy Krueger, and every single time I saw a new costume, it put mine to shame.
The final blow was the arrival of Andrew Paulini, the owner and operator of the Iron & Ivy gastropub.
A small knot of us Main Street business owners were gathered on the sidewalk, admiring the costumes and waiting for the parade. Behind me, I suddenly heard the sound of boots, accompanied by the jingle of spurs.
Doug Leontes, a banker at Citizen’s Bank who was dressed as a pirate, looked over my shoulder and gasped, “Oh, wow …”
We all turned and … just … damn.
He was the Headless Horseman, and I mean he was the Headless Horseman. His heavy, leather boots thudded on the sidewalk, and the spurred heels clicked against the concrete. An actual sword and sheath hung from his hip. He wore black gauntlet gloves, and in his left hand, he held a real jack-o’-lantern. Inside was a flickering LED light that perfectly mimicked the light of a fire. The real brass buckles on his doublet coat glittered in the light of the gas lamps. His black cloak billowed as he walked. The collar of the cloak was turned up, and this is where his costume was genius. Over his head, he wore a black stocking, but he, or someone with some artistic skill, had painted the stocking to match the red lining of the turned-up collar, with a black hole painted at the base. From any slight distance, in that light, the effect was flawless. It looked like the man had no head.
He won the costume contest that year. He also won it the year after that, when he went as the Terminator, with amazing latex pieces that made it look like there were rips in his skin with machinery underneath.
After that night, I vowed that I was never going to half-ass my Halloween costume again. I went as V from V for Vendetta one year, and a demon the year after that. The demon was frustrating, because I had to order the kit and apply the latex pieces myself. It required hours of watching tutorial videos on YouTube, but it paid off. I won my first title that year, breaking Andrew Paulini’s reign. Since then, we’ve had a little bit of a good-natured rivalry.
After church this morning, I’m thinking of not going, but I know I have to. If I don’t, and the shop is closed, people are going to know something is wrong. If I want to keep my standing in town, I need to go, but I don’t know how long I can keep this façade going.
I arrive home from church, and let Murphy outside to do his business. I throw his tennis ball a couple of times, and then head back inside. I go to the hall closet and take out the box that has been sitting on the shelf for over a month. I ordered it from a special effects company in Los Angeles that does make-up for a lot of television shows and movies. The kit cost almost $300, due to the pieces being specially made, and came with a how-to manual that was over ten pages long. There was even a personal note included from one of the make-up artists who had assembled the kit.
Dear Mr Reese,
Don’t know who you are, but I admire your balls in trying this one on your own. The how-to manual isn’t going to cut it. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but a rival company makes a similar kit, and instead of a manual, they have an online video. I suggest you use that. The link is at the bottom of the page. When you’re done, send us a pic of the finished product, and we’ll post it on the wall in our shop.
Happy Haunting!
I had been looking forward to this night since 12:01 a.m. of November 1st of last year. Normally, this is my Christmas, New Year’s, and Super Bowl Sunday, all rolled into one, but I’ve just watched potentially millions of dollars go up in smoke in addition to the fact that I have no idea who’s doing this. However, if I’m going to keep the shop open, I need to keep a presence in The Hollows. It’s the only thing I can do.
I check my phone. It’s three o’clock. Time to start suiting up.
I take the box into the bathroom, along with my iPad. Murphy attempts to follow, but I close the door. He waits outside, sniffing near the bottom of the door. A few moments later, I hear him give up and go to his bed.
I unpack the box on the counter, and double-check the inventory. I lay out all the pieces of plastic and latex, along with the brushes, make-up, a full wig, and a bag of braided crepe hair. I pull up the browser on my iPad and type in the link for the tutorial video listed in the letter.
The video starts with a guy sitting at a make-up counter—the kind you see in the movies, with the mirrors, bordered in light bulbs. Lined up on the counter are items almost identical to what’s in front of me.
“Hi, I’m Jesse Whitaker, and today, we’re going to show you how to apply your werewolf prosthetics and make-up.”
In a moment of serendipity, “Little Red Riding Hood” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs begins playing on the online radio station.
I look in the bathroom mirror, take a breath, and say, “Let’s do it.”
*
It takes over two and a half hours to apply the make-up. At first, it’s hard to take my mind off the cockroaches and the shop, but eventually I’m able to focus on the video. My mind is desperate to think of anything else and latches on to the instructions. I follow them to the letter, pausing and rewinding to make sure I’m doing it correctly. I scrub my face, apply the base coat, and move to the finer details, like heightening and sharpening my cheeks and jawbone. Then come the pieces of foam latex. I apply the spirit gum to anchor them to my skin. I know from experience that it’s going to hurt like hell to rip them off later. I blend the edges of the pieces to my skin with liquid latex. Then, I use the base coat make-up to blend the colors.
The effect is flawless. Gradually, my image in the mirror goes from a confusing image of some guy with white bits of plastic and latex all over his face, to something vaguely wolf-like, to full-on werewolf. Next comes the snout. I fasten the nose and upper lip piece over my own nose, so that it looks like I’m permanently snarling. I put on the wig over my slicked-down hair, and fasten it with hairpins. I use more liquid latex to blend the edge of the wig with my forehead. I pull strands of hair from the braided crepe hair to create a hairline all around my jaw, leading to my neck. Now, for the latex ear pieces that turn my dull, human ears into pointy canine ears. Surprisingly, these are the hardest part of the whole affair.
The sun is going down outside the window when I finally complete the last two steps.
I take the false teeth, and pop them out of their packaging. These aren’t some cheap knock-off teeth you get from a Rite Aid or Walgreens an hour before you want to be at the party. These are the latest in false canine tooth technology that go over your teeth. The tops are firm, but the bases are water soluble and your saliva will cause them to shrink and mold to your teeth. The result is natural-looking fangs.
The last step is the red and yellow contacts.
I’ve never worn contacts, so it takes a moment for me to ready myself and put them in. Instantly, there’s the instinctual horror of touching your own eyeball. I’m filled with an urge to rip them out. I brace myself against the counter, and wait for my tear ducts to calm down. I worry that it might smear my make-up but it holds. Finally, my eyes adjust.
I slowly look up into the mirror.
“… wow …” I breathe.
The costume contest is over.
“Eat shit, Andrew Paulini.” I chuckle. I remember the werewolf from Reverend Williams’ sermon and growl, “I am Wrath.”
I wash my hands, and open the bathroom door. Murphy’s there, waiting for me.
As soon as he sees my face, he bolts.
“Oh, Murphy! I’m sorry, buddy! It’s me!”
He runs out of the room, and I hear him haul ass down the stairs. Of course, I feel bad, but it’s kinda funny. I go to the bed, and put on the ripped jeans and flannel shirt I’ve trashed, just for the occasion. I also pull on the elbow-length gloves, which are designed to look like werewolf hands with claws and hair.
I go downstairs and find Murphy cowering in his usual hiding spot behind the couch.
“You okay, buddy?”
Between the voice he knows so well, and my appearance, he’s really confused. It’s not like this is something new. He wasn’t too high on the demon costume, either. I tried taking him to the festival last year, but he was so freaked out by the costumes, I had to leave a little early. I don’t want to put him through that again.
“I’ll be back later, Murphy.”
I put some treats in his bowl, which still isn’t enough to get him out from behind the couch. I grab some bags of candy from the pantry, and head out the door.
The ragged flannel shirt isn’t very effective against the dropping temperature, but werewolves don’t wear coats.
I hop into the truck and glance at the cottage in the rearview mirror. I haven’t thought about Laura or the shop in hours … and I don’t want to.
*
The drive into town on Halloween is the closest thing The Hollows has to a traffic jam. Once I reach town, the local police and volunteers direct everyone to the high school, where it’s a half a mile walk to Main Street.
Even before I park the truck, I’m getting thumbs-up from other drivers, and wide-eyed stares from kids who press their noses against the car windows for a better look. I wave to them, and their faces light up.
After parking at the high school, I get out of the truck, carrying the bags of candy I’ll hand out at the shop after the parade. Even though we’re closed, it’s still tradition. The walk towards downtown brings more compliments. Everyone is going in the same direction, towards Main Street. Marissa McCormack, an English teacher at the high school who is dressed like a cowgirl, breaks away from her husband and kids, and crosses the street to walk beside me.
“That is unbelievable.” She smiles, peering closely at my face.
“Thank you.”
“My kids wouldn’t come over because they were too freaked out. Who is that under there?”
“It’s Jacob Reese.”
She rolls her eyes. “Of course, it is. For God’s sake, are you and Andrew ever going to let someone else win this thing?”
“Nope.”
She lightly punches me in the arm. “You look great. Have fun.”
“You, too.”
She hurries off to rejoin her family.
There’s a thickening of the crowd, one last turn, and Main Street bursts into view in all its Halloween glory. Kids and parents are swarming the green, playing the games and enjoying the food stands. Most of the lights in the shops are off, leaving the gas lamps to illuminate the festivities. There are jack-o’-lanterns everywhere. In one corner of the green, there’s a concentration of them, waiting to be judged for a contest. The smell of kettle corn and caramel apples hangs over everything. Everyone is in costume, children and adults, alike.
For this one night, The Hollows is a fairy tale.
My stroll down Main Street adds to my ego as people stop and ask for photos. Parents point me out to their kids, who wave apprehensively until I wave back, letting them know that I’m not a Big Bad Wolf. I’m a Big Good Wolf.
The Old Stone Church is a scene-stealer by virtue of the fact that it carries no decorations or lights, as if to say, “I’m the real deal.” The soft glow of the gas lamps causes the shadows of the graveyard to crawl across the ground, with the Hanging Tree looming over the headstones.
I spot the collection of business owners on the green. They’re easy to identify because it’s a grouping of the best costumes around. Maggie Vaughn is dressed as Cleopatra—simple, elegant, and she looks good. She’s standing next to Marcus Stanton, owner of the hardware store, who’s dressed as Dracula. He’s not as impressive. It’s the stereotypical Dracula, so even if he went all-out, which he has, it’s not entirely original. Sally and Emmett Irving have done another “couple’s costume”—The Mad Hatter and Alice from Alice in Wonderland. If I have any competition this year, they’re it. Thomas Martinez, who owns The Hollows Diner, is dressed as some sort of steampunk guy. There’s one other person who’s part of the group. They’ve got their back to me, so I don’t know who it is, but they’ve got green hair.
Maggie glances at me, and her eyes light up as I approach.
“Oh my God! That is amazing!” she cries.
The man with green hair turns to look. It’s Andrew Paulini, dressed as the Joker from The Dark Knight. Lame. I think I’ve already seen a dozen Jokers on my walk to downtown.
“Since Andrew is right here,” Maggie continues, “that can only be Jacob!”
I bow. I can’t help the feeling of satisfaction as Andrew rolls his eyes. The trophy for Best Costume will be on display at Groundworks for at least another year. The others all chime in with their approval.
“Great costumes, everybody,” I say. “Except you, Andrew. Why didn’t you dress up this year?”
“Oh, ha ha ha,” he says with a sneer. He points to the darkened, blind-drawn windows of Groundworks. “What’s up with the shop?”
“Burst pipe,” I reply.
“Burst pipe?” Maggie asks. “Didn’t you have a burst pipe in your cottage?”
Shit.
“Yeah,” I say. “What are the odds?”
“I saw a van parked in the back of your place, yesterday,” Andrew continues. “Didn’t look like plumbers. They looked more like exterminators. Got a little vermin problem?”
For a brief second, I think that Andrew may have been behind the cockroaches, but quickly realize that’s a stupid conclusion. How could he have Laura’s music box? No. He’s just trying to get my goat.
“We’ll be back up by Wednesday.”
I try to sound confident, but I see a flash of doubt in Maggie’s eyes, like she’s suddenly worried about rat droppings in the free coffee I give her.
The mention of the shop also causes me to do an involuntary quick scan of the crowd for anyone with red hair, but there’s no one.
We exchange a few more pleasantries and talk about the costumes, decorations, and the parade. Every year, this town gets better. We wish each other good luck in the costume contest, the winner of which will be announced after the parade.
As we slowly scatter, I tap Andrew on the shoulder. “Hey, I can’t wait to see the Iron & Ivy’s float in the parade.”
He smiles. “You won’t be disappointed.”
I stroll around the green, checking out the kids carving pumpkins next to the display of elaborate jack-o’-lanterns that have been entered into the carving contest, while other kids decorate caramel apples. The dipped apples look like bronzed orbs perched on the end of sticks. The compliments I receive for my costume are constant, and every few moments, someone stops me and asks for a photo. I’m loving it so much, I start passing out the candy I’ve brought for the trick-or-treating. I’m not supposed to officially start until after the parade, but I don’t care. I run out of candy and decide that when the trick-or-treating starts, I’ll run into the shop, grab all the cookies we’ve got, and hand those out. We moved the cookies to one of the coolers and they’re individually wrapped, so they’ll be free of any pesticide. Sandy will flip because it will mess with the inventory.
At eight o’clock, some of the volunteers who are running the festivities, begin clearing Main Street, and string twine between the gas lamps. There’s a slow exodus from the green, and everyone begins lining up to watch the parade. I take up a spot outside the window of Groundworks. That way, when the parade is over, I can go inside and grab the cookies. The sidewalks become crowded. The smaller kids are sitting on the curb to get a good view. Main Street is a gallery of families, kids, and adults, all enjoying the spirit of the occasion. There are even smatterings of high school kids, who would normally be too cool for such things, but they are just as enthusiastic as the youngest kids.
The walkie-talkies mounted to the hips of the volunteers begin to chatter. A hush falls over the crowd, and everyone turns their heads towards the shadows at the south end of Main Street. Through the walkie-talkies, there’s a call of “go”. The volunteer closest to me raises her walkie-talkie and replies, “Go.” It passes down the street to other volunteers.
Everything falls under an expectant silence.
From the shadows at the south end of Main Street, there are three sharp chirps from a whistle. It’s followed by the tapping of a snare drum to establish a cadence. Then a bass drum picks it up and continues the beat. It grows louder, and out of the shadows, into the soft glow of the gas lamps, appears a drum major, accompanied by a color guard, carrying a banner that reads, “The Hollows High School Devils Marching Band”. The marching band begins to play “Werewolves of London”. I shake my head and smile. More than a few people turn to me and point or give me a thumbs-up. It’s a fluke, but I bask in it.
It’s a high school band, so the horns are a little soft, and the note precision is far from perfect, but it only makes the hometown prouder. The marching band comes into view, sporting their red and black colors. The crowd erupts in cheers. The kids sitting on the curb strain their necks to watch as the band approaches. The music grows louder, and gives way to “The Monster Mash”. That gets a big round of applause. Next is the theme to “Beetlejuice”, followed by “People are Strange” by The Doors. It’s odd to hear these songs played by a marching band, but in the present setting, it absolutely works. Parents are snapping photos. You can tell when it’s their kid walking by, because the light from the camera on their phone becomes a strobe.
The marching band is followed by Mayor Ballard and her husband, riding in a convertible. She’s got a sash over her shoulder, identifying her as the Mayor, as if there was some chance that we wouldn’t know. Next up are the Homecoming King and Queen. They, too, are sitting in the back of a convertible, and waving. He’s the star of the football team, which, admittedly, has won one game and lost five, but hey, Hollows Pride! I don’t know anything about the Homecoming Queen, except her name because of the festival program that was dropped off at the shop two weeks ago.
After that come the floats built by the various high school clubs and teams, each being pulled by a pickup truck. First is the homecoming committee’s float, which is a giant jack-o’-lantern, constructed out of wood and papier-mâché. Its crude construction gives it a sense of charm. The football team is next. Just like every year, it’s kind of half-assed. It’s mostly players in rubber devil masks, dancing around a “fire” that’s made of strips of red and orange tissue paper attached to a fan. There’s a Devil mascot dancing on a raised platform.
There’s a float for the show choir, and one for the science team, which is a mock-up of a Doctor Frankenstein’s lab. There’s a student dressed as Frankenstein’s monster lying on a table. Other students in bloodstained lab coats run around on the float, mixing different-colored concoctions that occasionally lead to a burst of smoke. They must have spent a fortune on dry ice, because the mist drapes off the base of the float down to the asphalt like a curtain. There’s also one of those machines that makes sparks between two wires. For the life of me, I can’t remember what it’s called.
The student playing Frankenstein’s monster raises his hand, and the main mad scientist shouts, “It’s alive! It’s alive!” The monster sits up, waves at the crowd, and throws out candy, which is quickly scooped up by the kids. After the lame effort by the football team, the science team’s effort is much appreciated.
Next are the floats from the Main Street businesses. They ask me to do one every year, but with my limited staff, it would be too much work. I’d rather just win the costume contest and enjoy the parade.
The float for the Elmwood Hotel is next to roll down the street. It’s a replica of the pumpkin patch from It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! Pumpkins litter the float. There are two high school kids dressed as Linus and Sally, waiting among the pumpkins. The kid dressed as Linus holds a sign that reads “Welcome, Great Pumpkin!” in one hand, and a blanket in the other as he sucks his thumb. Sally is playfully annoyed. Every few moments, a girl dressed in all white sweat pants and shirt, with a black-painted nose rises from the vines, and Linus screams, “There he is! There he is!” It’s really cute.
There’s a collective gasp from down Main Street, and the float for the Iron & Ivy comes into view.
“You have got to be kidding me …” I whisper under my breath.
The float depicts the hanging of the three witches in the Old Stone Church cemetery. There’s a mock-up of the Old Stone Church and the Hanging Tree. The witches are played by three of Andrew’s staff, one of whom I recognize as my server from a few nights ago, and they are dressed as sexy witches. Around each of their necks is a noose that is draped over a branch of the Hanging Tree and leads to the hangman, who stands off to the side. He’s played by one of the Iron & Ivy’s barbacks. They are surrounded by short vertical planks of wood that have been painted to look like the slate headstones of the cemetery.
The “witches” plead with the hangman and the crowd in sultry voices and suggestive puns. “I’ll be good. I proooomise,” one says while leaning forward to bare her cleavage. “I don’t want to be hung,” another witch says, and turns to the hangman. “But I bet you’re hung,” she says with a wink. The hangman pretends to be embarrassed.
I’m going to win the costume contest, but Andrew Paulini has just won the night. I take in the reactions around me. The more aged citizens of The Hollows look a little stunned. The kids don’t seem to get it. Everyone else loves it. As the float moves down the street, it steadily gains applause and cheers. I scan the crowd, and easily spot Andrew across the street, thanks to his bright green hair. He’s holding a cup of cider, and receiving pats on the back. We lock eyes, and I humbly bow my head. He smiles and toasts his cup in my direction.
I scan the other side of the street in an attempt to note every smile, every laugh, every wide-eyed stare from every kid, every pers—
Laura Aisling.
She’s right there, across the street, staring at me with those unearthly blue eyes. The scar is there, just above her brow. She looks older, as if she didn’t die on the floor of that warehouse. Her red hair flows out from under the hood of her red cloak. There’s a picnic basket in her hands.
Little Red Riding Hood.
Her expression is neutral, but as we stare at one another, the corners of her mouth curl into a devious, sinister smile—a smile made all the more unnerving due to the fact that she’s not blinking.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. The shock is so great, my eyes begin to water under my contact lenses.
She bows her head, turns, and steps behind the row of spectators who are focused on the parade. She’s tall enough that I can see her hood, moving down the sidewalk, behind the gallery of monsters. It all feels like it’s happening in slow motion, in a dream, with the sound of the parade and crowds far away.
I mirror her movement from my side of the street, desperately trying to keep her in view. I rudely bump into people, who voice their displeasure, but I take no notice.
This can’t be real. It can’t be, but every time she disappears behind someone and I think that the hallucination is over, she reappears.
We come even with the Old Stone Church. She turns, and goes up the stairs into the cemetery, her cloak flowing behind her.
I shoot forward through the crowd. I’m dimly aware of the people around me.
“Hey! What’s your problem?” someone asks.
I duck under the twine and dart into the street.
“Sir! Excuse me, sir!” a volunteer patrolling the street protests, but I keep going. I race in front of a float. The pickup truck pulling the float hits the brakes. Even though it’s only going a few miles an hour, the people on the float lurch forward, and drop to their knees. I continue running, trying to keep the red cloak in view as Laura enters the shadows of the graveyard, and moves off in the direction of the Hanging Tree.
I reach the other side of the street. The people who have been watching me approach lean out of the way as I duck under their section of twine and hop onto the curb. I can’t see her anymore. The graveyard is too dark. I jostle my way through the crowd to the steps to the church. I take them in one leap and race into the rows of headstones.
I whip my head left and right, searching for any signs of her. I trip over one of the shorter headstones, bashing my toe, and smacking my knee on another as I stumble. The pain is excruciating, but I’m right back up. I go further into the shadows and graves. There’s no sign of her.
I arrive at the Hanging Tree.
She could be anywhere. She could be hiding behind one of these graves. She could have doubled back, and be long gone.
I spin in place, searching the shadows.
I stop.
There, at the base of the Hanging Tree.
The picnic basket.
I approach slowly and crouch beside it. I gently slide my hand under the handle and lift. By the weight, I can tell there’s something in it. I glance around, but she’s gone. I slowly open the lid. It’s too dark to see inside. Shaking, I reach into the basket and feel around. There’s something round and fuzzy. I carefully pull it out.
It’s a chewed, worn, red tennis ball.
Murphy’s tennis ball.
*
The roads are empty as I keep my foot on the accelerator. Everyone is at the Halloween celebration.
Checking my rearview mirror, I see the reflection of the werewolf staring back at me. I begin ripping the pieces of latex from my face. My phone starts lighting up with phone calls and texts, asking where I am, and informing me that I’ve won the costume contest. The picnic basket and tennis ball sit on the passenger seat next to me. I try to stop myself from constantly glancing at it. I keep praying that it will simply disappear—that this is all a bad dream.
I glance again, and it’s still there. I focus on it for too long, and suddenly hear the gravel under the wheels of the truck. I look up. I’m drifting off the road. I yank on the wheel to correct myself, but it’s too late, and the truck plows into a mailbox. It flips up into the windshield, sending a small cobweb of cracks in the corner where it strikes, before flipping over the top of the truck. The truck fishtails, and for one agonizing second, I think I’m heading for the ditch. I grip the wheel and try to hold it steady. The tires scream across the pavement, and the truck corrects itself. Adrenaline courses through me. I can taste the bitterness in my mouth. My heart has been pounding since I saw Laura in the crowd. I scream in frustration and punch the steering wheel.
One last turn onto Normandy Lane, and it’s a straight half-mile shot home. I keep my foot on the gas, topping eighty miles an hour as the house comes into view. I crest the last small hill, and the truck’s tires briefly rise off the road before crashing down again.
The lights in the house are still on from when I left them on for Murphy. I whip the truck into the driveway, and past the pond, spraying gravel behind me. I bring the truck to a sliding stop in front of the porch.
The front door of the house is open.
I leap out of the truck and hurtle up the steps. Tears are starting to fall from my eyes.
“Murphy!” I yell as I enter the front hall. “Murphy! Here, boy!”
There’s no answer. No familiar sound of paws across the floor. I check behind the couch.
“Murphy!”
I know the horrible truth, but I can’t accept it. He’s not here.
I run to the study.
“Murph—?”
Murphy’s bed has been dragged to the middle of the room. Sitting in the bed is a cheap cell phone and a Polaroid. I walk over and pick them up.
Murphy stares at me from the photo. There is a hand, reaching in from out of frame, holding his collar. He looks scared. His head is down, but his eyes are looking at the camera, like he doesn’t understand. Every human who has ever come in contact with him has shown him nothing but love.
There’s a message written in the margin below the picture.
You can save him, but you can’t save yourself. You left me in that room to rot. Before you sleep, you have to know everything you took from me
I turn on the phone. There are no contact numbers or any extra features. It’s a burner phone, just like the one I carried around those years when I worked for Reggie. I assume that this is how she, whoever she is, will communicate with me.
I walk back to the front hall in a daze, staring at the phone, and stop at the door.
I tuck the phone and Polaroid into my pocket, and crouch down to inspect the lock.
It hasn’t been forced.
I look out into the night, past the light that spills from the open door, to the tree line.
How? How did she get in without—?
My eyes drift to the cottage.
I begin walking. I use the back of my hand to wipe away the tears of frustration and anger. I can’t believe I’ve been this stupid. I can’t believe I didn’t realize the danger I was in from the moment I found the guestbook that morning. Now, she has Murphy.
I twist the key in the lock, and nearly kick open the cottage door. It’s freezing in here, due to the fact that no one has used it for days. I snap on the light, which allows me to see my breath, as I move through the living room to the hall. I open the closet door and pull the chain overhead. The single bulb bursts to life. The vacuum cleaner stands at the ready, and the stacks of towels are on the shelf, right where I left them. I go up on my tiptoes and feel around the back of the top shelf. I find the ceramic dish, hidden behind the towels, and bring it down. I know the answer, but I take the lid off, anyway.
The keys are gone.
This is how she did it. This is how she got into the shop. This is how she got into my house tonight.
“Fuck!” I scream, and hurl the dish at the wall. It cracks the drywall and shatters into dozens of sharp, jagged pieces.
*
The raging fire chews through the dozens of stick dolls.
The pile is so high, it overflows the circular fire pit. I can feel the heat from the flames on my cheeks as I keep my eyes on the woods. The light from the flickering flames gives the illusion of movement to the trees. I know the glowing ashes drifting upwards are dangerous if they settle onto the roof of the cottage, but I don’t care.
The last thing I pull from the bag that contained the stick dolls is Laura’s music box.
I open it. There is still a little tension left in its gears from when I closed it before in the woods. The song begins to play at a slow, tortured pace. The ballerina barely turns.
I toss it on the fire.
I watch as the flames reach around the open lid. The notes continue to chime, but they come further and further apart. The ballerina blackens as the intense flames close in. The notes stop, and the box begins to pop and hiss.
I look out into the woods.
“You’re there, aren’t you?” I quietly say, then yell, “You’re there, aren’t you?!”
My voice echoes through the trees. I wait for an answer that I know isn’t coming.
“You’re not her. You’re not Laura!”
The flames continue to eat into the ballerina. I keep my eyes on the dancing shadows of the trees.
“I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you need to know this—if you hurt that dog, you had better just kill me … because I will sure as hell kill you.”
I stand there at the fire for hours until it has almost completely burnt itself out, never looking away from the trees.
I don’t go back to the house. Instead, I go into the bedroom of the cottage.
There’s something about being in this room—the room where she’s been, whoever she was. The woman I saw tonight was not Rebecca Lowden. It wasn’t Laura, either, no matter how much she looked like her. It can’t be, but she did look older, like she was the right age. I glance over to the mirror in the corner of the room. The wasted remains of my make-up are more hideous and grotesque than any professional make-up artist could ever achieve.
I pull myself onto the bed, not giving a damn about getting make-up on the sheets. I don’t care about anything in this cottage anymore. No one is going to stay here, ever again.
I lose track of time. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, staring at this phone she left me. I don’t think I fell asleep but the pitch black outside the window is transitioning to the deepest shade of blue, signaling that the sun is on its way.
I’m trying to formulate a plan. I can’t wait for her to call me. I’ll go mad, and I don’t want to play her game by the rules she’s trying to set. I need some sort of counter-play. I can’t go to the police. I can’t explain this to them, but I want help. I want people to be on the lookout for Murphy. In addition to possibly getting him back, it will lead me to her. I’ll tell people he ran away, and was last spotted with a woman who has red hair and a scar. I’ll post flyers around town. It’s all I can come up with at four in the morning after one of the most insane days of my life, and I want to start fighting back, now.
I need a photo for a flyer.
When I went to the shelter to pick out Murphy, there was a wall full of flyers for missing pets. While they were filling out Murphy’s paperwork, I stared at the wall. The photos broke my heart.
“Have you seen any of them?” the woman behind the desk asked.
“No. It’s so sad.”
“I know. Hopefully, you’ll never have to use this advice, but just in case your dog ever goes missing, use the best photo you have of them on the flyers. You want people to remember him.”
“Got it.”
So, I needed to find the best picture of Murphy I have.
I know that there’s a ton of them on my computer at the house, but there’s also always a bunch on my phone. I take out my phone and begin thumbing through my gallery.
It’s painful to flip through the photos. Each one is a reminder that I may never see him again. I clench my eyes shut and drive the thought from my mind. I can’t go down that road.
The next-to-last photo is the one I took on the porch, the afternoon Rebecca Lowden arrived. It’s the one where Murphy is lying on his back and the cottage is in the background between his open legs. Murphy’s face is upside down. His jowls droop, and his tongue almost touches the floorboards. I laugh and choke up at the same time. It’s a great photo. The only thing out of place is the car in the background, which had just pulled up when I took—
I sit up.
I move the photo so that the car is center frame.
I use my fingers to carefully zoom in.
It’s blurry, but readable, just to the side of Murphy’s right hind leg.
My feelings of helplessness vanish.
A fire ignites in my stomach.
I have a license plate, and I’m done playing defense.