Reverend McGlazer trudged to his office and sat with a heavy plop. Before realizing it, he opened the bottom drawer for the bottle he once kept there. This was an artifact from his seminary days, then his first tenure, at an Episcopal church in Buncombe County, near the Tennessee border. Catching himself, he closed the drawer without looking in it, a minor victory.
In those days, a bottle (or sometimes, ahem, a Mason jar, filled up in the hills from the still of a congregant) could often be found awaiting his attention. When these bottles began to have shorter shelf lives and more frequent trips outside the drawer, McGlazer was ousted from the position. He realized he had only gravitated toward Anglicanism for the relaxed attitudes its adherents held toward spirits.
Clicking on his desk lamp, McGlazer rubbed his eyes, recalling the incident of the flying candy. He dialed the sheriff’s department to ask for Hudson and was told he was at the hospital. The desk officer explained about Albert and Norman. “Maybe I should go there, see if I can help.” McGlazer felt stress scratching at his throat, making him thirsty for something amber and strong and smooth. He and the officer said their goodbyes, and McGlazer considered, as he did every October, having just a shot or so. Just as he did every October, he cleared his throat and shook his head, sending a physical signal to his brain that it was out of the question.
A muffled piano note sounded out in the sanctuary.
The old building was rarely silent, especially as autumn’s temperature changes worked at its joints and foundations and corners. But music?
His flesh rose and tingled. The helpless terror of his close call with the flying candy rushed back, almost making him cough. He crept to the office door and eased his head out to see nothing out of the ordinary in the hall.
The note sounded again, a D on the piano—once and then sustained, then silent.
“Hello?” He asked himself what would a ghost encounter mean to his faith? To his sobriety?
The D note dinged, again and again, with increasing frequency.
If he checked the sanctuary, would he find a Halloween prankster, or the key playing itself?
Before he could stop himself, he went to the door and grabbed the handle. The notes repeated as McGlazer entered the corridor, and then the adjacent keys joined in as well. It became a banging, an attack on the instrument.
He opened the door trying to see into the darkened sanctuary. The sustain pedal remained active, vibrating dissonance throughout the rafters and walls, tinging like sleet off the stained-glass windows.
Then the pedal and the keys released, and McGlazer thought he had missed his opportunity to see an otherworldly presence. He almost ran to the piano in hopes he would see the keys move, feel something cold, see a wispy fog.
It was there—a black figure at the piano.
McGlazer’s terror grew.
“Whoa!” called the pianist as he rose to a defensive posture. “Preach!”
McGlazer recognized the voice. “Dennis?”
Dennis relaxed. “Everything okay, Rev?”
“Maybe.” McGlazer seemed disoriented. “How long have you been here?”
“Five, six minutes.”
“You trying to spook the old preacher man?”
Dennis gave him a dark stare.
“You…had a relapse?”
“I just knocked back half a fifth of Diamante’s.” Dennis said.
McGlazer detected the slur in his words.“Well,” McGlazer said, licking his lips, “at least you’re here now.”
“Yeah.”
“So,” McGlazer intoned, “where’s that bottle?”
They assessed each other for a small eternity. Finally, Dennis raised a carton of cigarettes and a bag of candy corn. “How ’bout a coupla crutches?”
McGlazer held up a hand. “What about your bandmates?”
“Coming soon. We hit a speed bump.”
“The boys at the old house on Gwendon?”
“It’s under control, man.” Dennis slugged McGlazer’s shoulder. “Right now’s smokin’ time.”
McGlazer followed Dennis back to the office.
* * * *
Dennis sat in a haze of cigarette smoke, staring at the candy spilled across the desk.
McGlazer brought him a cup of coffee. “Very hot.”
Dennis raised a toast. “Coffee buzz, meet whiskey buzz.” Dennis sipped, grimacing.
“What made you do it?” McGlazer asked.
Dennis used the cup to form an arc across himself that indicated everything. “I don’t think I can handle this, Rev.”
“It’s been a difficult Devil’s Night,” McGlazer acknowledged.
“That? I can deal with that, man.” Dennis’s intense gaze was only more so under the influence. “If anything, it’s helped keep my mind off shit.”
He took another steamy sip and unwrapped a fresh sweet. “But this, this little lull, while we wait…” Dennis hung his head. “It got me, man. I tried. And I blew it.”
McGlazer waited.
“What if I blow it tomorrow?” Dennis asked. “Hell. What if I don’t blow it?”
“What would be wrong with that?”
Dennis leaned on the desk. “It would mean I’m just gonna blow it later. Only a lot bigger.”
“You believe it’s inevitable?”
Dennis slapped his own chest. “Look at me, man! I’m a God damned drunk. You beat it.” A tear slipped from Dennis’s angry eyes. “I can’t.”
Stronger than even just minutes before, McGlazer felt the pressure too, the need for refuge.
“They’re gonna see now,” Dennis said. “Ma. Stuart. Petey and Jill. They’ll see they can’t count on me.”
“And you’ll be free of your responsibility to them,” countered McGlazer.
“What?”
“You’ll be free and clear then? To drink whenever you want? To stay drunk, if you’re so inclined?”
Dennis glowered at McGlazer. Then he sighed and slumped his shoulders.
“You know, Dennis, that’s quite a good deed,” McGlazer said. “Taking care of those boys, right after you found your equipment destroyed. Likely by them.”
“Yeah, well. Toss one on the scales for good karma, huh?”
“You probably saved at least one life tonight,” McGlazer said. “So maybe you can give yourself a little bit of a break on the relapse, huh?”
* * * *
Ruth walked along the side of the road, hugging herself against the plunging evening temperature, checking and rechecking the multiplying tentacles of her scheme.
An owl called from woods nearby. “Oh, shut up, you devil bird!”
Vehicle lights shone from behind her.
“Oh!” She unbuttoned her blouse by two. “Oh, Lord, please let it be a man.”
As the lights drew closer, she waved, adding a scared-little-girl pout when the vehicle slowed.
It was two farmers, Lowell and Shep, to whom Everett had earlier waved before murdering Trudy. “Ho, Missy!” called Lowell. “You okay?”
“My car broke down. I could really use a lift,” Ruth answered in a breathy voice.
“Car broke down? I don’t ’member no car off the road back yonder.” Lowell turned to Shep. “You?”
“I sure didn’t see it.”
“Well…Oh, no!” She breathed a damsel-in-distress breath of defeat. The driver lunged at the bait. “Whut?”
“I saw some hood types driving that way.” She bit her lip like she was on the verge of helpless surrender. “I bet they stole it.”
“Yeah, we seen some crazy kids out here too!” said the passenger. “Devil’s Night and all. I believe one of ’em didn’t have no clothes on.”
Ruth put the back of her hand to her head and teared up. “Oh, I don’t know what I’ll do. It’s just so scary out here.”
“Well, don’t worry now. We’ll take you to the sheriff’s. He’ll look after you.”
“Oh, I wish some man would!”
Lowell turned to passenger Shep with a fierce grimace. “Get out and let her in the middle.”
“I can just scoot—”
“Let her in the God damned middle, Shep!”
Shep grumbled as he opened the door and stepped out. Ruth climbed in. “I sure hope there’s room. You fellows have such broad shoulders.”
“We’ll get along just fine,” reassured the driver. And they were off.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” Ruth told them. “I mean, I just feel so vulnerable out here, especially with this being Devil’s Night and those hoodlums I saw. Leather jackets and, and…sideburns.” She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. “I hope we don’t run into them again.”
“Well, don’t you worry.” Lowell gave her a smile. “We’ll take fine care of you. Pretty girl like you, you shouldn’t never have to be scared like that.”
“I feel better already,” Ruth cooed. “Except…well, never mind.”
“Never mind what?” For a change, Shep looked her in the eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Well… Must’ve been at least four, maybe five boys in that car I saw.” She shrank her shoulders, squeezing her breasts together. “If we were to run into them, I don’t know if you could protect me.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. We got an equalizer, you might say,” boasted Lowell.
“Really? Like what? A board with a nail through it?”
The men gave a confident chuckle, and the driver elaborated. “Oh, no. Much better than that. Shep, show her my little peacemaker.”
“Well, it’s really mine,” said Shep. “We traded for that Conway Twitty record, remember? Original pressing. Worth a shitlo—”
“Shep, now, watch your mouth. The young lady don’t wanna hear your potty talk.”
Shep dug under the seat and produced a holstered long-barrel .38.
Ruth’s eyes grew wide with wonder. “Oh, my word! That looks like something Charles Bronson might have!”
“It’s seen some action, all right,” bragged the driver, prompting from the befuddled Shep, “It has?”
“Well, we don’t need to get into—”
“Do you think I could hold it?” Ruth asked with a bright grin. “Just for a second?”
Lowell and Shep were quiet.
“I won’t point it or anything,” she promised. “I just want to feel its, its might in my hands. Stroke it a little bit, you know?”
Lowell and Shep could not refuse now. “Why sure!” the driver said. “Shep, check the safety.”
Shep did so, clicking it off, then back on, with a macho expression. “Yep. She’s locked up tight, all right.”
He handed it to Ruth, who accepted it, like she’d never held such power before. She unsnapped the holster. “Can I…”
Shep nodded. Ruth eased the holster off the weapon, eyes widening as she revealed its full length. “It’s…it’s just so big!”
“Well, I got a bigger one, at home. That’s just for hairy situations like maybe tonight.”
“I don’t know why anybody would be fool enough to mess with you boys. …” exclaimed Ruth. “You men.”
“I hope your car turns up and all,” Lowell began. “But maybe we could call the sheriff from, well, my place. It’s just a mile or so past…”
“Ooh!” Ruth sang. “A fun little stop-off!” She gave a childish giggle, prompting the men to do the same.
Ruth put the barrel to the side of Shep’s head and fired, blowing out his brains and the passenger window.
Lowell screamed, losing control of the wheel, running off the road.
Ruth jammed the pistol’s smoking barrel into Lowell’s crotch. “Do what I say or your little head ends up like his big head. You hear me, you God-forsaken pervert?”
“Yeah! Yes!” said the driver.
Lowell glanced over at Shep’s head. The lower half lying against the dashboard, the rest…“What have you done? Oh, my Lord Jesus…”
“Don’t you dare take His precious name in vain.” She jammed the barrel farther into his groin.
The driver gave a yelp. “Ow! Please! That thing’s still hot.”
“So is hell, you fornicator,” Ruth informed him. “You take the truck road into the next field.”
“That’s Hoke Natson’s property. No…trespassing.”
“You have already trespassed, sir. Now do what I tell you.”