On Gwendon Street, at the end of a stone walkway splitting the leaf-covered yard of a once-beautiful Victorian house, sat Dennis’s hearse. With its spacious rear storage section, the customized funeral car doubled as The Chalk Outlines’ official band vehicle.
A battered hatchback belonging to one Pedro “F.U.” Fuentes, bassist and bona fide badass, was parked in front, a primered Indian motorcycle piloted by Outlines drummer “Thrill Kill” Jill Hawkins, in the back. Behind that was a BMW with a flamboyant sparkle-blue paint job, belonging to band manager Kerwin Stuyvesant, of giant teeth and tiny glasses fame.
Stuyvesant had recently inherited the house. Rather than have it brought up to code for sale, he volunteered it as rehearsal space.
Farm trucks and teen partiers traversing Gwendon en route to US 70 could often catch snippets of spirited spookabilly music coming from the drafty edifice. Some folks honked either friendly approval or vehement distaste. And some, regardless of their musical tastes, slowed to get an earful of the Outlines rehearsing, just so they might have a “brush with greatness” story, in case the band ever hit it big, as a growing number of Ember Hollow residents thought they might.
The high-ceilinged living room also served as storage space for instruments, equipment, and deliriously campy Halloween/horror stage décor.
Stuyvesant watched approvingly while the Outlines pounded out their club hit “Rumble in Frankenstein’s Castle,” in full performance mode.
“A man with eyes just like mine
Nephew of ol’ Doc Frankenstein
Needs a lab rat, that’ll be me
Bring back the ol’ doc’s legacy
When he does, gonna be a fight
Side by side, slabs and straps,
GO!”
Pedro, classic horror punker with devilock haircut, spiked sleeveless leather jacket, and naked devil chicks tattooed on his massive arms, strangled and banged his bass like it was one of the countless bullies he had humbled during his travels through the juvenile justice system.
Jill battered her drums with equal aplomb. With shocking white hair sporting black electric bolts on either side, skintight leopard-print pants hugging hips that had turned many a driver’s head during her travels on the Indian, and a crimson baby-doll shirt with two pentacles that hugged her like a dying lover, Jill was no wallflower-background drummer.
Dennis, his shave-sided pompadour holding steady, issued his growly, wailing vocals and lead notes with absolute sincerity.
“Give my curse the hearse, Doc Frank
Or I swear to God you will die
And your pet monster will fry
It won’t be a swell sight.”
Kerwin applauded as they finished. “Solid, solid shit, cat daddies. Aaand cat mama, of course.”
His rhetoric and attire, red-orange suit and gleaming black-and-white patent leather shoes, screamed fifties-era band manager, as seen on television. “Pedro, I’d love to see some more scowl. Maybe stick your tongue out now and then, like, you know, like you’re showing the ladies your technique, if you catch my drift.”
Pedro flipped him off with a black-nailed finger, as he pulled the pyramid-studded guitar strap over his head.
“Nice, that’s real nice,” Kerwin said. “What if your sweet Catholic grandmother saw that?”
“Good question! What if she saw me wiggling my tongue around like some square-ass Gene Simmons geezer?” he countered.
Kerwin turned to Dennis for support as the band leader toweled his sweaty hair. “Back me up here, Den Den. We need some more showmanship, am I right?”
As Jill came to Dennis’s side for a black-lipped kiss, Kerwin addressed her as well. “No offense there, Jill, but some booty shorts and a spiked bra would do wonders. Don’t be shy about”—he leaned in to almost whisper—“stuffing the puppies, you dig?”
She blew a huge bubble that concealed her face, and then sucked it in to reveal a bored expression.
“Or do that,” Kerwin said.
“Trust me, Ker,” Dennis said. “We bring the sting when it comes to showmanship.” He turned to Pedro and Jill. “You ask me, we could be a knife edge tighter late in the set. We need to finish strong.”
Kerwin snapped his fingers and pointed at Dennis. “Exactly my next point, baby. Leave ’em exhausted. Empty. Drainsville. Tomorrow, we’ll do it ag—”
“Take ten, guys,” Dennis interrupted. “Then let’s hit it.”
Jill sighed. “Denny. Give yourself a break, babe.”
“Yeah, maybe she’s right, Denny-o.” Kerwin said. “I need you guys fresh on the day. Besides”—Kerwin pointed at his watch—“I got a thing.”
“We’ll be all right without you for a coupla tracks.” Dennis plucked at his D string.
“Yeah, man. Go get your shoes polished,” suggested Pedro.
Jill and Dennis chuckled when Kerwin took on a terrified expression, shooting a look down at his shoes.
“Wouldn’t hurt you to show a little gratitude, Petey,” Kerwin said.
Pedro got very close to Kerwin, a half-sneer forming on his face. “Tell you what. We get signed, I’ll give you a great big soul kiss. Tongue and everything.” He clapped Kerwin’s shoulder, nearly knocking him down. “How’s that?”
“How ’bout just a fruit basket and a God damned thank-you note?”
“All right, all right,” Dennis refereed. “Comedy hour’s over. Water up and let’s go again.”
Kerwin went to the door, giving the house a last-minute, worrisome scan. “Be sure and lock the joint. Right?”
Dennis gestured around at the ancient, battered, yet irreplaceable equipment, then back at Kerwin. “Really?”
“Right. And remember, the basement is strictly off-limits. Could be dangerous.”
When Kerwin closed the door, Pedro did not allow even the time it would take for him to tromp down the porch stairs before exclaiming, “Damn but he is radio friendly.”
“Top forty,” agreed Jill. “Till doomsday.”
“I’d say top five.” Pedro turned to Dennis. “Dude, do we really need his slick ass?”
“He got us this rehearsal space.” Dennis closed his eyes to listen as he plucked the D string again. “And the meeting with the suit. So, yeah, I’d say we need him.”
A soft creaking noise chirred beneath their feet.
Jill raised a perfect black eyebrow. “You guys heard that, right?”
“Yeah. Spooky.” Dennis turned from one to the other with a comically terrified expression. “Hey, Pedro, go check it out.”
“Oh. Why sure, chief!” Pedro answered with faux earnestness. “Right after you go dig a grave.”
The trio shared a chuckle.
* * * *
On Stella’s first day of practice in the drafty sanctuary, with its high ancient arches, granite walls, and stained glasswork depicting the famous faithful as perhaps too mournful to be truly confident of paradise, a D note had played far from her fingers.
She furrowed her brow at the key, then plinked it twice to see if it was sticky. She opened the top and inspected the wires, finding nothing out of order.
She continued practice, and by the time she shut off the lights and left, she had forgotten the funny little incident.
In the days following, there were other portents. Shadows, inexplicable fogs, the ever-popular cold spots.
One day late in July, lit only by the overhead from the foyer, Stella was skimming through her notes when she heard a voice. In a whisper fed through the sanctuary speakers, someone commanded her to “Run!”
Stella inspected toward the pulpit area, sure that the good-natured McGlazer was playing some prank. No one was there, and the PA’s power light was dead dark. Turned off.
Then her papers exploded in her face like rabid white bats, and the ethereal voice roared again, much louder. “Run!”
The reverberations pulsing in her ears, Stella abandoned her notes and bolted out the sanctuary door, never happier to find herself alone in a graveyard. She wished she could call her aunt Miriam.
She needed almost an hour and a half to compose herself well enough to go back into the church, and then it was through the gymnasium entrance, at the opposite side of the church compound. She briskly made her way to McGlazer’s office off the hallway leading to the sanctuary, where she found Ruth complaining to the minister, as she often did. But this time it was about her.
“Well there you are,” said the girl, raising the jumbled sheaf of Stella’s notes. “You left a nice mess for me, didn’t you? And the doors wide open too.”
Stella just stared at her, at a loss as to how she could explain herself. Ruth had already been volunteering at the church for a few months when Stella accepted the pianist position, and Stella did not know her well. Her personality was, at best, off-putting. But Stella figured that if she, Stella, was having weird experiences, then surely Ruth must be as well.
“Are you all right, Stella?” McGlazer asked.
She was among spiritual believers. Surely her experience would not be outlandish to them, she thought, and told them about her odd experience.
How wrong she had been. “Are you suggesting our church, this holy place, has an evil spirit?” Ruth had scoffed.
“Evil?” Stella hadn’t used that word.
“The Holy Spirit? Be serious, Stella,” Ruth had rebuked. “The Holy Spirit most certainly would not show itself to only you. He lives in all of us who are saved.”
“Just a second, Ruth,” McGlazer interjected. “You feel you may have encountered some kind of presence?” McGlazer asked.
Stella was sure this was the end of her stint as Saint Saturn Unitarian’s organist. However, McGlazer turned out to be remarkably open-minded, even fascinated by the topic.
He smiled, not mockingly but with a sense of wonder, as she related what she had seen and felt. “I envy you, my lady,” he said, to Ruth’s clear chagrin. “Please don’t hesitate to tell me next time something happens!”
After this, he would occasionally creep into the sanctuary and sit listening during her practices. But the stray notes, the wisps of man-shaped fog and the frigid breezes became more pervasive with every practice. Could the spirit be “practicing” as well?
At home, she had twice broached the subject with Bernard. He was a sensible and articulate engineer, though she still remembered flights of fancy from early in their courtship: planned inventions and innovations. Having outgrown such impracticality, Bernard was not exactly the ideal confidant.
The first time she mentioned the strange incidents at the church was over dinner, framed as a throwaway half-joke. “I do believe we have ourselves a ghost in the church.”
She passed him the turkey gravy as she said it. It was his favorite and he already had plenty, but it served as a prop to make her statement seem nonchalant.
“Mm-hm,” Bernard had mumbled, mulling over a schematic beside his plate.
“Something sure is hitting some stray keys and whatnot,” she continued, bolder. “Making it cold sometimes.”
Bernard stopped chewing and raised his face. “Piano, playing by itself? Cold spots? You serious?”
Stella was pleased to see his earnest expression.
Then he said, “Cold spots, in a centuries-old stone structure. Yeah…” He took a bite, smiling. “You’re pretty much self-taught on the piano, right, Stella?”
“My aunt gave me lessons when I stayed with her, Bernard.”
“For a month.” Bernard half-smiled.
“She said I was…”
“Possibly a prodigy,” Bernard finished. “I remember. You told me maybe a thousand times.”
Her face burning, she returned to her meal. Aunt Miriam’s encouragement had been a sort of talisman to which she had clung against the threat of the night terrors, after the summer visit. Even now, she often replayed that gold nugget of encouragement when tackling any difficult task.
After a minute of silence Bernard had called to her. A rare apology?
He had his hand inside a napkin, forming a little puppet with finger-arms flapping at her, making it float toward her, while he issued a high pitched, “WOoooOOOOOoOOoo! Woo woo!”
At Robichaud Reads, the bookstore where she often purchased her paranormal romance books—something else she learned was best kept to herself—Stella found a book called Communing with the Dead, authored by one Onyx Darkwolf. Though she had doubts about such “new age” esoterica, she studied it and tried several methods to contact the church ghost, without success.
Then July came, bringing another spate of activity.
Even before entering the sanctuary, Stella heard the D key plinking, plinking, then sustaining with such boldness she thought Ruth or McGlazer must be doing it.
When she entered, there was no one. Yet the note continued.
And when she turned to leave the sanctuary, the door swung closed nearly on her face. The lock clicked.
Stella tugged at the knob, sure that the presence, whatever it was, was all around her, smothering. She cried for McGlazer, for Ruth, for anyone to come.
She had never been so happy to see Ruth. The girl, wearing her rubber cleaning gloves, opened the door from the other side and stood staring at Stella, annoyed. “What is all this hullabaloo?”
Stella gathered herself, feeling weak under those icy judging eyes. “Where is Reverend McGlazer?”
“He’s in his study, working on Sunday’s message.” Ruth stepped in, eyes narrowed like a suspicious parent detecting marijuana. “What are you doing in here? All this screaming and banging on the door.”
Stella had no answer. But her glance toward the piano was all Ruth needed.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Are you going on about your little evil spirit again?”
Ruth strode to the piano, taking the gold cross from around her neck and holding it out like a tiny sword. “Evil spirit of weakness and fear, I rebuke ye in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ! Ye are cast out from this holy place and shall not return!”
Ruth’s delivery was bold and purposeful, more like that of a manic televangelist than the even-toned, rational McGlazer. She held her cross out to the piano, up toward the rafters, then thrust it at Stella herself. “Get thee away from this place and from Stella, that her walk may be pure!”
Ruth put the necklace back around her neck and returned to wherever she had been working—but not before a parting shot: “Maybe you could think on the words of those hymns you play. You might learn to live them.”
Ruth never said whether she believed Stella about her ghost encounters or thought they were just silly fantasies, but it was clear that, to her, either problem had the same solution.
The rest of July, then August, September, and now October, Stella had not experienced a single errant note, slamming door, or even a fist-sized cold patch.
Whatever the reason, Ruth’s impromptu exorcism had worked.
* * * *
After the clamor of the bell, a single perfect second passed before hundreds of costumed children erupted into the late-afternoon sun like water from a bursting dam. Stuart and DeShaun, way too cool for the spastic jailbreak bit, just walked. Stuart did scan the crowd though, craning his neck.
“I see you looking for Candace, Captain Obvious,” DeShaun teased.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Man, you’re crushing on her like a steamroller. Do I need to make other plans for Devil’s Night or what?”
“No, dude.” Stuart continued to scan. “No way I would bail on that. It’s a tradition. Our tradition.”
Stuart and DeShaun found themselves surrounded on all sides by nerdy thugs.
Albert Betzler and his crew, a small army with thick glasses, assembled with the clumsy discipline of a Mensa alumnus flash mob, all the more absurd in Halloween costumes depicting various historic brainiacs.
“Well, well, well,” Albert sang, his cotton-ball Darwin beard bobbing, his rubber bald cap wrinkled and sliding high on his forehead. “If it isn’t Ember Hollow’s two finest examples of paraplaneta brunea.”
Albert’s circle of nerds guffawed, while DeShaun and Stuart exchanged a look that was both perplexed and annoyed.
“Cockroaches, diphthong,” contributed Albert’s right-hand Del, dressed either as Albert Schweitzer or Kurt Vonnegut, possibly even Mark Twain.
“What are you two household pests doing?” Albert asked. “Celebrating your latest D minus in resource English?”
More sycophantic chuckling.
“What do you want, Albert?” Stuart huffed.
Albert pushed up his glasses. “I want you to stay away from my woman.”
Stuart was too confounded to speak, prompting DeShaun to ask the first of two obvious questions. “Your woman?”
“Candace, if it’s any of your business, George Washington Carver.”
Stuart asked the second. “If Candace is your ‘woman,’ why do I never see you two together?”
“Because she doesn’t know it yet.” Albert wagged his head as he answered. “I have a grand plan, see. And you’re a misplaced circuit breaker in my schematic.”
“Look, Albert, if you’re going steady with Candace, cool. But I’m not seeing it. So until I do…”
“Not so fast, Stupidert.” Albert’s chums chuckled like bespectacled hyenas at Albert’s wordplay. He accepted their congratulatory pats. “Tell you what. I can be a sport. You let me complete my Venn diagram, if you can comprehend my analogy, and I’ll relay her to you when I’m all finished.”
Stuart bristled, and might have started swinging then and there if not for the sheer absurdity of it all. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everybody knows mentally unstable pubescent females are quite spectacular, carnally speaking. I happened to read in Abnormal Psychology Digest that they have a copulatory need like post-juvenile leporidae. And this particular future MIT laureate”—Albert yanked a thumb at his skinny chest—“is going to lose his virginity the right way. To a wild, chaotic, frankly crazy little vixen. Specifically, Candace.”
Stuart had heard enough, absurd or not. He grabbed Albert’s collar and lifted him off his heels. “Better watch your pie hole, Betzler.”
“No, no, no, c’mon, man.” DeShaun went to restrain him, peeling at Stuart’s fingers.
But Albert was far from intimidated. “Like you, I think not, tough guy.” He raised a sharpened metal protractor to Stuart’s neck.
He and DeShaun glanced around and spotted similar weapons in the hands of the other nerds: ball bearing compasses, giant pencils sharpened to deadly points, an asthma inhaler poised like a can of mace. Albert gave an arrogant chuckle as Stuart released him.
“If that’s not sufficient motivation for you…” Albert jerked a smirking glance to the concrete steps at the school’s main entryway. Ember Hollow High’s star jocks leaned against the wall there.
Bull-like Maynard, four-time MVP offensive lineman, whose sleeveless letter jacket exposed tree-trunk arms larger even than Pedro’s. To his right, Tyrell, six-foot-eight power forward, terror of the school basketball team, suitably nicknamed Tyrellosaurus Rex. The monstrous athletes smirked at Stuart and DeShaun.
Maynard held out a football to show the boys the childish Magic-Markered cartoon of Stuart’s face on it, captioned with the legend “Stewert.”
Maynard punched it, deflating it with a loud pop and a gust of wind that blew his brown locks away from his Neolithic forehead.
Tyrell’s turn. The giant, his grin framed by a Van Dyke that would have made Anton LaVey proud, held out his basketball in an overhand grip. A similar unflattering caricature of DeShaun was rendered on it. Tyrell squeezed his monstrous fingers together, forcing air out of the valve like it was a mere balloon. He scowled at Stuart and DeShaun, as Maynard handed him a water bottle.
He bit into it, ripping and chewing the clear, noisy plastic as water exploded from the bottle.
DeShaun and Stuart gaped in astonished terror.
“In case those chunks of gravel you roaches call brains haven’t fired the appropriate synapses, I’ll give you two guesses whose homework I’ll be doing while I’m on the commode this evening.”
The other nerds puffed out their bird chests and gathered closer, like a pride of spoiled housecats stalking a pair of escaped parakeets.
“DeShaun?” They all turned to see DeShaun’s mom, Leticia, standing outside her car. “Is everything okay, boys?”
Albert stood on his toes between Stuart and DeShaun, putting his arms around them, smiling. “Yes, ma’am! These fine lads were just thanking me for tutoring them after class!”
“Okay…” Leticia gave a perplexed smile. “You boys ready to go?”
DeShaun and Stuart walked out from under Albert’s scrawny arms.
“Nice chatting with you, gentlemen!” Albert called.
Stuart and DeShaun got into the car without a word.
* * * *
Candace sat alone on the noisy bus, hunched forward, holding her books on her lap. The books had been snatched away and tossed about the bus more times than she could count, and her tormentors had learned how to hide their actions from the bus driver, stunning Ember Hollow High senior Helga.
Candace would not run or cry out to Helga. She had long ago been taught not to call attention to herself or her family.
Still, her father always blamed her when he had to pay for the books.
She had to remain vigilant during the daily ordeal; there were always projectiles flying about, many targeted at her, such as the spitball that now just missed her left cheek.
She pulled the hood of her alien costume up and forward as far as possible. No matter how many times one of the wet little missiles struck her, it was never any less disgusting.
But for once Candace did not stew in the misery of the daily onslaught. She was joyfully distracted. Today, she carried a tingly anticipation.
Stuart, the sweet rocker kid, super cute with his longish hair—yet also both kind and endearingly self-conscious—had not only spoken to her—her, perpetual new (weird) kid Candace Geelens—he had asked her on a date of sorts. She had been pranked before by “admirers,” but something about Stuart’s lively hazel eyes promised sincerity.
The swirling thoughts of meeting his brother, Kenny Killmore, aka Dennis, and the other Chalk Outlines, of maybe even sharing some easy laughter and normalcy, made it hard to stay on guard.
Even two seats up, her distraction was like the scent of easy prey to Anthony Hoke, a puffy twelve-year-old in a plastic gladiator chest piece, and his sidekick/seatmate Ronnie Crupes.
Sneering, Anthony swiveled to regard her just after Eddie Zarzicki, wearing a black vinyl biker’s vest bearing a flame-lettered The Vultures! back patch, whispered something in Anthony’s grimy ear.
Anthony, his plastic helmet creeping to one side, gawked at her, his gaze sliding from her bobbing antennae to her developing breasts.
Candace drew her books against her chest.
“What are you supposed to be?” asked Anthony with a derisive chuckle. “A big green dildo?”
Other bus brats guffawed. Ronnie made an obscene gesture for his and Anthony’s captive audience. Candace resisted the need to lower her head, knowing all too well the price of showing weakness to emotional predators.
Helga looked back at the uproar, wondering if this would be one of those days when she had to pull the bus over and tear new ones into the rude little shits who regularly tormented the odd little girl named Candace.
Before she could see what was happening, a robust horn sounded, snatching her attention. Outside her window a red 1982 Trans Am revved like an angry bull.
On it sat Ryan, handsome and chunky like Marlon Brando, bad boy enough to keep things interesting, yet never in any real trouble beyond mischief typical of a bored small-town boy.
Riding shotgun was his pal Angus, somehow both alarmingly scrawny and irresistibly cute with his frost-tipped hair and tasteful gold necklaces, courtesy of his father’s jewelry store on Main Street.
Ryan leaned way over Angus. “Hey, hey, Helga!”
“Ryan!” she called back. “You’re on the wrong side!”
“Long as I’m on your good side, baby!”
Helga slowed the bus, scared-exhilarated by her boyfriend’s reckless driving.
“We going to the lake for Devil’s Night?”
“If you’ll get over to your side of the road… yes!”
She verged on giddy panic as a sharp curve grew nearer. With a hearty “WHOOOOOOOOO!” Ryan hit the gas and passed the bus like it was parked, thrusting his left arm up to wave goodbye.
Helga remembered the uproar from the guts of the bus.
Candace’s tormentors, made bold by Helga’s distraction, were taking turns pelting her with erasers and wads of paper, like dastardly cattle rustlers gunning down the righteous marshal in a spaghetti western. They called mean names that coalesced into a chant. “Cra-zy Can-dace! Cra-zy Can-dace!”
It grew louder with each repetition, as Candace shrank into her seat, disappearing from Helga’s view.
As the chant died down, Anthony started another, until the chorus grew louder than before. “Freaky dildo girl! Freaky dildo girl!”
Helga’s cheeks warmed like hot plates. In her distraction, she had failed Candace, who of all her young passengers, was the one who needed her most. Helga was angry with herself—but it was a certain handful of obnoxious brats who would pay.
She hit the brakes hard and fast enough to make them crush atop one another. Then she pulled off onto a tractor road, yanked the E brake for the emphasis of its angry grind, and tromped back to them, fury burning in her blue eyes. “Knock it off, you little rats! I told you what would happen if you didn’t stop picking on Candace!”
She singled out Anthony with her stare, satisfied to see a shamed expression and a bead of sweat forming at his hairline. “Don’t you even try to step foot on my bus tomorrow morning, you hear me?”
The scorned mockers gave sheepish acknowledgements.
“I’ll see every one of you creepos in the principal’s office first thing in the morning. With your parents!”
Of all the shame in all the little faces, none was deeper or more abiding than Candace’s.
“Candace, honey, come sit up behind me.”
Candace was reluctant.
“Come on,” Helga insisted. “I want to talk to you.”
In solemn silence, Candace rose. Helga shot another beam of ice-blue condemnation at the transgressors, then led Candace to the seat behind and to the right of the hers.
The students remained corpse-still as the bus moved again. “Candace, sweetie, I want you to know something.” Helga’s inner voice was as angry as her outer voice was kind, screaming to never again drop her vigilance for the little girl. “All of this, it seems so important now,” she told Candace. “But it’s not. Okay?”
Sensitive as she was, Candace still bore a dignity and an inner strength that Helga recognized as that of a seasoned survivor.
“Three years ago, I was riding this same bus, on this same crappy route.” She turned to show Candace her grimace. “And you know what? The brothers and sisters of these same little buttheads picked on me every day. Because of my red hair.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Helga said. “You think anybody makes fun of me now?”
“No! Every boy at school says you’re the most beautiful girl in town! Maybe the whole state!”
“Well, you know what? I think that’s nice. But I remember when they made fun of me. The only difference is a couple of years. And I put it all in perspective. I think your costume is great. And I’ll bet there’s somebody out there who likes you. ’Cause you’re already way prettier than I was!”
Candace was paralyzed in disbelief. Helga only smiled. “Go to the school library and check me out in some yearbooks.”
Candace began to relax.
The bus remained church-somber until Helga pulled to a stop at Candace’s driveway. “Bye-bye, sweetie. Remember, okay”
Candace stood and headed up the aisle. “Thank you, Miss Helga.”
“Anytime.”