Albert Betzler, resplendent in top hat with matching wool cloak and a pasted-on goatee, led the line of costumed Krelboynes to the rear corner of the old Victorian. He cocked his ear toward the house, listened for a minute, then removed his plastic vampire teeth to speak. “Excellent. They don’t appear to have arrived yet, so we can execute Plan A.”
Two of his gang of four—papier-mâché hunchback Del, still wearing his glasses, and Norman in a plush, full-body teddy bear costume—lifted their masks to take in the delicious autumn air. The house’s pervasive mustiness was strong, even outside.
Behind them stood two much larger figures:, Tyrell— a rather chintzy bigfoot—spinning a basketball on one fuzzy finger; and Maynard, dressed as a hulking, hooded executioner, sporting a massive broadax to complete the ensemble.
Hunchback Del raised a chain and capered about, clinking it. “How’s this?”
“Absolutely eldritch!” lauded Albert. “Norman?”
They turned to Norman. He took his time donning the fuzzy full-head bear mask that was doomed to be whimsical and cheery in even the half-light of an old house. He tried, though, mustering a muffled growl as he raised round paws and paddled at the air like a sleepy kitten.
Albert stroked his false goatee. “Maynard, may I?”
Maynard tossed the massive ax to Albert, who nearly fell trying to ride out the weight. Once he’d regained his balance, he handed it to Norman. “There.”
“Wait! This is real!” Norman protested.
“Go to the head of class, Louis Pasteur!” Albert adjusted Norman’s grip on the ax to make it seem more threatening, then shoved the bear head back on. “All you have to do is wave it around.”
Norman practiced, caught off guard when Albert sprayed fake blood all over both the bear costume and the ax. “Hey!”
“Maintain composure, Norman. The package says it washes out.”
Albert tossed the bottle over his shoulder and turned to Maynard and Tyrell. “You guys will serve as our big finale.”
Tyrell flashed a fuzzy thumbs-up. Maynard, munching on a protein bar, turned to connect knuckles with the hirsute basketballer.
Albert led them around the corner to the weathered back deck and climbed the short set of stairs. Albert stopped at the back door, causing the others to crowd behind him. “Del, do you have the lock-picking set?
“Um…”
“What? Does that mean no?”
“My dad took it away,” Del grumbled. “After I got into his trunk and found his sex books.”
Albert took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. “Del, you could have—”
Maynard shouldered past them and punched the door, sending it flying off the hinges and to the floor, raising a rectangular cloud of dust.
“Breathtaking!” Norman exclaimed. The boys entered, stopping just inside the dim hallway to take in the peeling wallpaper and old paintings on the wall.
Del pointed to an old portrait of a mustachioed gentleman who might have been constipated at the time of posing. “Hey! I wonder if the eyes follow you around the room.”
Tyrell took it down and poked two long, fur-gloved fingers through the canvas at the eyes, then handed it to Del, like he was delivering a package.
“Um…thanks?” Del held the portrait to his face and peered through both his glasses and the fresh finger holes, glancing back and forth to imitate a scary stalker.
First to enter the living room, Norman was impressed to find The Chalk Outlines’ gear packed against the wall. He took off the bear head to exclaim, “Sweet mother of Sagan!”
Albert entered, shushing him.
“Check out all this rock-and-roll stuff!” Norman stage whispered.
Albert beheld the equipment, his default devious expression accentuated by the goatee.
“It’s so neat!” Norman gushed. “Like a real rock band setup!”
“Duh. Stupidert’s brother is leader of that grotesque musical travesty The Chalk Outlines,” noted Albert, his eyes narrowing. “These are their instruments.”
Tyrell entered and exclaimed, “Gonzo!” as he opened the coffin-shaped case that held Pedro’s bass.
“Wow!” Norman said, forgetting to whisper.
Maynard took a seat behind the drums, barely fitting his bulk in the space fitted for Jill. He picked up the drum sticks and tried to spin them in his fingers. “That hot-ass drummer chick plays with these sticks. Bet she’d like to play with my stick.”
“That’s rather unambiguous, don’t you think?” Albert asked.
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Let’s find some hiding spots, shall we? Stupidert and DeShaun will be coming along soon.”
A paper bag, barely discernible in the house’s thickening shadows, sat on an end table beside the band’s gear—the tainted treats from Angelo’s lab in the basement.
Marvin, searching for a hiding place, spotted the paper bag. He poked his paw inside and was delighted to withdraw several pieces of orange-and-black-wrapped candy. Hiding the bag under his armpit, he crept to the hall closet.