Full dark fell like an anvil in a Looney Tunes episode.
Hiding behind the line of shrubs against the house, Tyrell, unmasked, spun his basketball on each finger in succession, then back, then every other, like a mirthless, hair-covered Harlem Globetrotter.
Nearby, Maynard lay curled up on the ground, snoring. Tyrell nudged him. “Hey! Wake up, dude!”
Maynard sat up. “What?”
“Get up. I need to stretch my legs.”
“Your legs are plenty stretched already, Storko.”
“Hee-hee, ho-ho. Come on.”
Maynard stood. “Wait a minute. What do you need me for?”
Tyrell appeared sheepish even in the dark.
“Well?”
“This place is a little spooky, all right?”
“Aw, jeez,” griped Maynard. “I told you, don’t go to that Screecher Feature.”
They shoved their way out of the bushes.
* * * *
Norman trembled at the sounds of a growling, scrabbling thing lurking just beyond the closet, surely sniffing for fresh meat.
Keeping one hand cupped over his mouth, he held his heavy ax close with the other, ignoring the wet stain darkening the crotch of his bear suit.
The bag of candy lay spilled and forgotten on the floor, along with a single wrapper.
“Not real…Not real…Oh, God…” he whispered to himself as a tear crawled down his cheek.
* * * *
Albert sighed as he sat slumped on the dusty old commode lid, flicking his flashlight off and on.
He peeked through the crack between door and frame, saw only still shadows, then turned and went to the grimy mirror, underlighting himself with the flashlight. “It’s alive!” he intoned in quite a reasonable imitation of Colin Clive.
He turned and studied the torn shower curtain. He yanked it open, wielding the flashlight like a butcher knife as he mimicked a screeching violin.
He sat again, checking his calculator watch, cursing Stuart and DeShaun for no-showing. He stepped out of the bathroom. “Okay, guys. Everybody come out. Norman, go get Maynard and Tyrell.”
He went to the instruments, and his devious smile reappeared, partially ungluing the goatee. “You think you can outsmart me, Stupidert?” he mumbled. “Think again.”
He kicked over the drum kit, pleased by the noisy, hollow echo. “Hate to defecate on your parade, Chalk Outlines, but…” He mimicked the sounds of violent diarrhea.
The exhilaration he felt was perhaps comparable to his first science fair win, after which he had smirked at that stupid kid who had composed the silly theory about atomic fission and refusion. Ha! What a joke.
He raised the bass guitar from its case and plucked at the strings. “Come on, you guys! Let’s Tipper Gore these ghoulish blasphemies against the musical arts!”
He raised the bass high, hefting it like a sledgehammer as he eyed the drum kit. “Norman! Guys! Come on. You’re going to miss all the recreation!”
Hearing no response, Albert took a breath and swung the bass into the drums, shattering and scattering them and their stands about the room.
He howled as he bashed the bass into the hardwood floor. Its neck splintered with a screechy twang. He admired the destruction he had wrought, then impatiently dropped the bass, went to the front door, and opened it. “Tyrell! Maynard! Don’t you guys want to help me trash these atrocious noise pollution machines?”
Wind blew leaves from the big maple in the front yard that stood silhouetted by the full moon.
“Del?”
No sign of anyone.
“Jeez, where are all you guys?”
He was ready for a jump scare, setting himself to give a stony no-sell. But it never came. “You dimwits can forget about trying to scare me.”
Leaving the door open, he went back to the instruments and strummed the neck of the wrecked bass with the toe of his shoe. “Norman? You still in the closet?” He didn’t sound quite as self-assured as usual.
Albert walked to the closet and reached for the knob, but stopped on hearing a scream from outside. “What the…?”
Norman burst from the closet, bellowing, candy-colored drool running down his chin—and the ax raised.