“It’s so great to see you drawing again!” the perky voice greets me.
I glance up at Uncle Thatch’s adorably goofy grin. He’s slim and a good five inches taller than me, and while I’m seated and he’s standing, he looks exactly the way I used to see him when I was a little girl: larger than life … a hero … my mother’s younger brother who became my and Lark’s guardian a couple of months after we turned three, when our parents died in a car crash along Highway 101—on Halloween night.
I’m so surprised by his appearance, it takes me a second to realize he’s carrying two Styrofoam cups in a cardboard holder and napkins from my favorite bistro.
“Hey,” I mumble, hiding the sketch pad against my chest in hopes he didn’t see the violence of my freshly drawn scene. I scoot myself and the duffel closer to the window to make room for him before the trolley lurches forward. “How did you know—?”
“Where to find you?” He sits down, offering one cup to me. His large, dark eyes bulge with emotion, magnified by the black glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. “I know how much this date and place mean to you, kiddo.”
I take the proffered coffee with my free hand and hold it close to my face. Brown-sugar-and-cinnamon-scented steam curls around my cheeks, lips, and nostrils like a caress. “Mmmm. Cinnamon Dolce. Nectar of the godssss.” I practically purr as I take a sip and let the cozy flavor roll over my tongue and down my throat.
“Since it’s been a few weeks, figured you might be needing a fix,” Uncle teases, spurring a genuine smile out of me.
“You’re the best.” I take another swig and give his elbow an affectionate nudge.
October is the month I avoid all my favorite haunts, no pun intended. Lark and I were too young when Uncle came into our lives to remember or understand the incident that brought him to us. And over the span of a decade Uncle managed to convince me and my sister that the date was normal, ensuring we took part in traditional fun activities and encouraging us to trick-or-treat even into the beginning of our teen years—so we wouldn’t “grow up too fast.” All that effort fell to rot once we lost Lark, too. There’s no denying that Halloween is out to get you once it’s slaughtered almost everyone in your family.
Now, during this season, things once familiar become strange and sinister beneath the black light of Lark’s glaring absence. The gory costumes and ghoulish decor—images that are benign to most—rise as nightmarish relics that chase me inside, force me to avoid the streets at all costs every October thirty-first … to stay holed up like a mole, burrowed and blind beneath my own safe traditions.
Even in this moment, as the trolley picks up speed, the rail’s click-clack-clickety-clack, the falling rain, and my jacket’s jingling chains merge together in a harmony that should be nostalgic and relaxing. Instead, it feels off-key—rusty chimes strummed by a ghostly fingertip—melancholic and hollow, just like my sketches.
I lick a dribble of coffee from my lip ring. Uncle Thatch gives me a napkin. I take it, then nod at his bakery T-shirt and gray khakis. “I thought you were at work. Isn’t there a shipment today?”
He slurps from his cup. “Not until six thirty. Which gives you plenty of time to get there and do the recycling.” He winks at me. “For now, I’m going to keep you company.”
“So … Clarey texted you.” I hike my pierced eyebrow, feeling the hardwire stitch as it pulls tight.
Uncle shrugs. “Let’s just say neither of us wanted you doing this alone.” His long striking nose wriggles as he pastes on a worried smile I’ve grown far too accustomed to seeing.
I breathe in more fragrant steam. “I wasn’t asking for a babysitting service. Just someone to hold Lark’s seat. And … well. Infestation.” I motion to the girls having their own quiet conversation on the other side of the aisle.
Uncle Thatch glances at them before turning back to me. He gulps some coffee when he notices Lark’s wings sprouting from my shoulders. It’s obvious he’s battling whether or not to fish for details. Instead, he motions to the sketch pad still pressed against my midriff.
“You were drawing like mad when I got on. Should we toast to your writer’s block being over?”
Writer’s block. I take a long draw from my cup, letting the hot liquid scald me, punishment for the latest lie I’ve told him to downplay my lack of interest in drawing. I also haven’t been honest about why I dropped art class this year. Better to let him think I want to pursue a mechanics elective in honor of Lark, just like I’m riding on the trolley today as some kind of “tribute” to her—not a last-ditch attempt at rebooting my retinas.
If I come clean, he’ll want to send me back to the psychiatrist. But there’s no need. I’ve already googled my condition: retinal sensitivity affected by depression … changing the way the world looks—washing out all the vibrancy. I know the root of my despondency, and am pretty sure they don’t make meds that can cure guilt. Most importantly, I can’t have Uncle worrying more about me than he already does.
“Sure.” I tap my cup to his, the deception souring on my tongue. “Just needed some inspiration, I guess.”
Uncle grins as the girls on the other side of the aisle giggle over something on their phones. “Good. And I see you even found a couple of new characters to put in the story.”
“Oh yeah. Kind of.” So he did see the sketch. Since there’s no longer any need to hide, I lower the pad to my lap.
Uncle finishes his coffee, then places the empty cup between his feet so he can study the drawing closer. He looks at the wings on my back again, as though making a connection. “Aha. Inspiration. And … is that you or a hobblegob?”
“Me, becoming one.” I force a smile from behind my cup.
He keeps his attention on the drawing, and something passes over his face … a disturbance that drains his olive complexion. He rakes fingers through his thick black hair. The silvery strands that developed after we buried Lark make a temporary appearance before blending into the rest again.
“Those are just rain puddles,” I say, feeling my own face grow pale as I try to decipher what caused his discomfort.
He nods, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “Oh sure. Didn’t really notice those.”
Then I understand. Even though I smeared away most of her face, there’s no missing Lark in the fairy costume. A blatant reminder of her final Halloween night with us. I want to reach out and hug him, but instead I say, “I—I was erasing her because it didn’t feel right … putting her alongside monsters and masks.”
Uncle releases a sound, something between a cough and a groan. “Sure. I mean, whatever you think. It’s a great start to a new panel, either way. You should show it to your art teach—um, to Miss Sparks.”
“Nah. It’s only a doodle.” The trolley arrives at Fourteenth Street, and the hissing brakes muffle my quiet response. Still, Uncle heard me. He’s wearing the same determined expression he dons when he’s concentrating on an intricate icing design or nailing down a new macaron flavor.
I drink the rest of my coffee in silence while at the front half of the car, plastic shopping bags rustle and all the other commuters—besides the two tourists, Uncle, and me—stroll down the aisle to take the exit. No one’s waiting to board at the stop, so the door swooshes closed and the trolley dings, announcing its surge toward Eleventh. Patty must be eager to wrap up her conducting shift.
Uncle clears his throat, flicking off some errant eraser dust from my sketch pad. “Don’t you think it’s time you stop treating your art like a hobby? You have a gift, yet you’ve never shown your teachers or classmates what you can really do. It’s like you’re ashamed.”
Although I’m touched by his faith in my talent, I can’t admit why I’ve only ever allowed him, Clarey, and Clarey’s aunt to read my graphic novels. Why I won’t let Mystiquiel seep outside that inner circle and into school or friends or the world I once shared with my sister.
The point is moot anyway, since I’ve stopped drawing my stories altogether.
I stuff the napkins into our stacked empty cups and drop them along with the sketch pad and pencil into my duffel. “I just … am busy expanding Lark’s horizons, you know?”
Uncle tweaks the fairy wing closest to him, causing the wire to waggle against my shoulder. “I get that. And she’d appreciate what you’ve done with her inventions. But don’t you think what she’d really want is for you to be you?”
As per usual, he avoids her name, as if it physically hurts him to speak it aloud. He’s always battled the same guilt as me for not knowing she was in danger that night, and I’m just shameless enough to capitalize on that vulnerability.
I roll my left arm to work out a kink, reminded of the tattoo under my T-shirt and jacket—a two-inch lark soaring beneath the outer edge of my collarbone, its twin tail feathers grazing the front of my shoulder. I got it in ninth grade, while going out with a guy named Ebon, a sophomore who worked evenings at the local auto body shop detailing cars and tuning engines. It wasn’t his soulful eyes or his muscled arms spotted with oil and grease that attracted me; it was his knowledge of combustion, gearshifts, drive belts, suspension systems, and transmissions. And him being an unlicensed tattoo artist was just frosting on the cupcake.
After we broke up, Uncle Thatch found out about the tattoo, but I escaped being grounded by sharing that Lark and I had always planned to get one together. Hers would’ve been a phoenix. Uncle dropped the subject immediately, like I knew he would.
“Maybe,” I say, answering my uncle’s question still dangling in the air between us about what Lark would want for me. “But shouldn’t her goals take priority? Since she’s not here to make them happen? I’ve got my whole life to achieve mine.”
Uncle clamps his mouth shut, validation that I’ve won this round.
It’s a special kind of twisted, to manipulate someone with a heartbreak you share. Yet I can’t seem to stop when it comes to Lark’s memory; even the tension created between me and my last living family member is just another way to pay penance.
The bell announces our arrival at Eleventh, and I shrug off Lark’s wings. After zipping them and her jacket into my duffel, I secure the straps over my left shoulder and stand behind Uncle Thatch. Together, we clutch the cold metal handle on the seat’s edge to brace against the stop.
He nods at the tourists, giving them the go-ahead. They gather their things but freeze a few feet from the rear exit.
“Would you look at that,” Uncle Thatch says in reference to the lone figure outside, dressed in black and huddled at the empty stop next to the railroad-crossing sign. A hoodie hides its face; gnarled fingernails, brittle and dingy, dip out from the frayed sleeve cuffs. Something scaly and lizard-like stirs at the level of the silhouette’s knees—its two heads bobbing and its four legs dancing.
Normally, I’m not a fan of the monsters that frequent this time of year, but these are something vastly different—something born of my own sketches. Overhead, clouds swirl in a deep gray sky, adding to the aura of gloom and doom. I couldn’t have staged a better scene using my own markers.
The blonde points when the hunched silhouette begins to shuffle toward the trolley’s opened door with the mutant quadruped loping behind. “Wh-what is that thing?” Her voice trembles.
“Bug repellent,” I mumble, biting my inner cheek to tamp down a smirk as the gruesome duo gets closer. The humanoid drags its left leg and groans, leaving a dark smear on the wet concrete behind each footstep. I know that trademark streak of blood enough to imagine the crimson standing bright against the asphalt. A mechanical click echoes through the air with the loping movement of the two-headed beast bringing up the rear.
I glance toward the front of the trolley where Patty remains inside the control box with her back turned, playing some game on her phone that emits electronic music louder than the street sounds around us. Satisfied, I scooch from behind Uncle and sidle into the spot in front of him. “Hey-a, Flannie,” I holler.
The four-legged monster darts ahead of its biped companion and clears the steps, nearly bowling over the two girls as it boards. They yelp and leap back into their seats. The redhead drops her purse, which Uncle manages to catch, but the blonde’s bag falls open when it hits the floor. Lip gloss, a brush, and other personal things roll out under the surrounding benches.
Wedged in the aisle, I crouch as low as I can, the metallic gears and screws laced through the front of my jacket tinkling as I gather up the spilled contents.
Trotting over to me, the monster reveals herself as a border collie draped in a hide of scales made from painted, repurposed aluminum cans. A life-size prosthetic troll’s head bounces next to her muzzle as she noses my hand to explore the girl’s fallen items.
“Sorry about that,” I apologize to the blonde, stopping short of admitting it was fair dues for them stealing Lark’s seat. I know the grudge is illogical, but a little harmless payback felt good.
I gather a tin of mints and a cylinder of lip gloss as Uncle scratches Flannie’s head. She looks up and yips a greeting. Her tufted tail wags, causing the aluminum costume to clank and reveal her dancing paws. A mechanical leg, formed of black-oxide-coated steel and carbon fiber rods, is attached to the stump where her left hind never grew. The hinge on the black device bends with a motorized whir, mimicking a dog’s real leg and foot joints—albeit a bit jerkier.
The blonde takes the items from my hand and wrinkles her nose. “What kind of costume is that dog wearing?”
“An automaton troll.” The raspy answer drifts from the steps as the dog’s accomplice boards the trolley, still dragging that left foot for full effect. “A goblin’s best friend,” the voice continues, vacillating between a hiss and a snarl. Dirty corkscrew fingernails yank down the hood to uncover a glowing, delicate mane of white fiber-optic floss. Underneath the hair, ghastly gray goblin features lurk: beakish nose, pointed ears, and slimy lips. Tiny jagged teeth open on a creepy sneer, and the veins along the cheeks and neck appear to bulge.
The girls’ chins drop.
Uncle whistles in admiration. “Best costume you’ve made yet,” he says to Clarey, releasing Flannie so she can greet her owner.
“Thanks.” Clarey’s gaze flits over to me from beneath the mask, seeking approval.
“Pretty impressive.” I stand and cross my arms, smiling big enough that the ring at the edge of my lower lip tugs.
“What, so you’re some kind of SFX wannabe?” the blonde tourist asks as she studies the fake blood smudging the floor.
The redhead peers over her friend’s shoulder at Flannie. “And how’d you make the robot leg look so real?”
“Well, I can’t take credit for that masterpiece,” Clarey says with a whispering snarl, staying in character to the bitter end. “This one’s responsible.” The goblin’s gnarled fingers gesture my way.
Before the girls can respond, Patty steps out of the conductor box and glares at the activity in the back of her trolley. “Hey, the rules say no animals on board. And look at that mess!” She points to muddy paw prints alongside the streaks trailing from Clarey’s left shoe, her plump cheeks flushed. “Either you pay a fine or I call animal control. You choose.” She holds her phone at the ready.
“Wait!” Clarey spits out fake silver pin-teeth, then peels off the latex mask along with the skin cap and attached wig. From beneath leftover splotches of latex, the same sickly gray as the mask, appears his deep brown complexion and wide-set eyes—one iris an almost neon hue, like a blue-raspberry Icee, the other an amber hazel. Although I can’t make out their brilliance today, the variance between the gray shades tells me he didn’t wear his cosmetic contact lenses. I’m guessing it was mainly to up the shock factor of his costume, but still, it’s my favorite way for him to be: au naturel and embracing who he is.
“She’s not just some animal.” He attempts to charm Patty with a baritone as smooth and rich as Uncle’s maple star-anise frosting. “She’s my emotional support troll.”
“And he”—I pat Clarey’s chest—“is my emotional support geek.”
Clarey snorts and rubs adhesive off his forehead, furrowing the tracery of a scar that dips from his hairline to intersect his left eyebrow, while I peel off a stray piece of latex swinging from the cleft in his chin.
The conductor steadies her gaze at Flannie’s costume. “I don’t see an official vest, unless it’s hidden under those scales.”
Clarey shakes his head.
“Okay. Then do you have your documentation?”
“I didn’t think I’d need it for this short walk.” He punctuates the answer with a sheepish grin.
“You thought wrong.” Scowling, Patty begins to punch numbers into her phone.
Uncle gives me and Clarey a meaningful look, then nudges past us into Patty’s path. “I can vouch for the dog being an ESA.”
Patty sneers. “And why should your word matter?”
“I’m a local businessman. Thatch Griffin … I own a bakery.” From his pocket he pulls out one of the bite-size-sampler bags he always carries. If I didn’t see the name Blueberry-Cheesecake Roonie printed on the tiny bag, I couldn’t be sure which flavor it is. The vivid turquoise macaron with its deep purplish–cream center may as well be black mud sandwiched between gray stones. “The place is straight down Eleventh—little ways past the winery. Just before the intersection, there’s an alley that leads to a roundabout street called Eveningside.”
Reluctantly, Patty puts her phone in her vest pocket and takes the bag. She opens it and places the quarter-size macaron in her mouth and chews. Within seconds, her frown softens to a beatific smile. I would say it’s Uncle’s effect on people. That his friendly manner and uniquely handsome features make him a top-notch salesman—but it’s more than that. It’s the ingredients he uses in his pastries. Simply by letting the conductor try one, he’s roped in another loyal customer.
All it takes is one taste and you’re hooked for life …
As Patty swallows, Uncle slips her a coupon for a free sampler platter at Eveningside Enchanted Delights. “Once you hit Eveningside, head left then go four buildings down on the right. The roundabout is easy to miss, so be sure to pay attention to the map on the back.”
“Thanks,” Patty answers, her bucktoothed grin spreading. “I’ve heard about this place. Been meaning to try it.” She tucks the coupon away and dabs some cream from her lower lip before licking it off her finger. Her eyes dance with an inner glow—almost gleeful. Turning back to the conductor box, she fishes out a canister of wet wipes and hands them off to Clarey. “I’ll give you a few extra minutes to deboard. Just make sure the dog doesn’t leave any messes behind. And clean up that fake blood.”
“No problem,” Clarey assures her. “This evaporates to dust when it’s dry. Easy-peasy, see?” With his boot’s tip, he blots some dark powder from the floor, leaving no residue behind.
Patty returns to the box, humming a happy tune the entire time. The two tourists wait at the steps, preparing to exit, but seem transfixed by Clarey now that he’s demasked.
Their reaction isn’t anything new. With his shoulder-length, tousled black curls and two dimples bridging high cheekbones to a squared chin—he’s a striking contradiction to the monster that boarded. Yet in his childhood he was treated like a monster by other kids and even some insensitive adults … called everything from “skunk-head” to “elf-boy.” Partly because of the four-inch-wide white streak through his bangs that also pigments his skin, seeping past his hairline and into his forehead in a triangular shape like dribbles of milk, but mostly due to his large, wide-set eyes. His long, thick eyelashes combined with the dual-color irises add to their striking appearance.
He’s beautiful in an unusual, ethereal way, and sometimes people react awkwardly, like he’s “a thing” that should be stared at or turned away from, as opposed to a person like anyone else. It made him uncomfortable enough that he escaped inside makeup and masks at the tender age of twelve. But in the five years since, he’s had modeling gigs and won awards for his SFX creations, all of which helped boost his confidence. He now recognizes it’s the people treating him differently who are awkward, not him or the way he looks.
As though making my point, Clarey laughs off the girls’ dumbfounded expressions, yet today his reaction seems a little strained.
He bows his lithe six-foot frame. “Sorry we spooked you, ladies. I’ll be sure to keep a better handle on my genius from now on.” He pushes the mask, wig, and teeth into his hoodie’s front pocket, then opens the canister of wipes with long-nailed gloves to start on the floor.
“A robot troll,” the blonde marvels. “What is it with this place? Invisible fairies holding seats and dogs wearing costumes. Is every day Halloween here?”
Halloween, every day. That would be the definition of horror. Blood drains from my face, leaving my skin clammy.
Clarey touches my fingertips with a cool wipe—an effort to ground me, just as Uncle comes up from behind and holds out a couple of coupons to the girls while patting my back.
“Sorry for any trouble.” He smiles at them, then tips his chin to me. “See you at the bakery in a few? Remember, I want you done with the recycling before our delivery gets there.”
“Got it,” I answer, taking the wipe Clarey still holds—my phobia overshadowed by thoughts of our deliveryman. If anything can out-weird this time of year, it’s Jaspar. “Be there as soon as we clean this mess.”
Uncle wends around the girls and starts down the steps. “You two, be sure to stop by before you leave town,” he says over his shoulder where the tourists wait to descend behind him. “You haven’t really experienced our little slice of heaven until you’ve tasted the ambrosia.”
“But beware.” Clarey revives his hissing creature voice while scrubbing at a muddy paw print. “Once you eat the faerie food, you can never leave.” He grins at the girls, flashing straight white teeth.
The tourists smile tentatively and descend the steps, following my uncle into the petrichor-tinged wind.