“Candy buckets times four?”
“Check.”
“Gorilla Mask?”
“Check.”
“Can we speed this up, Trevor?” Eighteen-year old Demarco Hansen checked his watch as he examined the assortment of Halloween costumes and other holiday gear spread out across the garage floor.
“ . . . and we’ve got the whoopee cushion and mobile shower costume, a green stretch suit, foil-covered robot boxes and the hockey mask, all ready to go,” Trevor continued. “Kurt, you gonna rock Frankenstein on round one?”
Kurt slipped the foot-tall green latex mask over his head and gave two thumbs-up, one for each bolt protruding from his neck.
“Cool. We’re all set. ‘Operation: Halloween Shakedown’ is ready to commence. Now where the fuck is Austin?”
As if waiting for his cue, Austin Taylor jumped around the corner into the open garage door. He was a tall, lanky boy. His entire face and head were coated in thick bright red greasepaint, hair included. He cocked his head to one side like a human-rooster hybrid.
“Oh yeah!” he shouted, waving his arms back and forth wildly, a crazy smile plastered on his face.
Trevor and Demarco stared at him in bewilderment. Kurtis took off the Frankenstein mask to get a better look.
“What the fuck is that supposed to be?” Demarco was not in the mood for silliness that didn’t involve filling a dozen buckets to the brim with free candy.
“Aw, c’mon, guys—you know what I am! Guess!” Austin demanded.
The boys circled him. “Hellboy’s retarded nephew?” Demarco asked.
“Ha. The sad part is, you think you’re funny.”
“I know! I know what you are,” Kurtis shouted. “A used tampon!”
Demarco and Trevor erupted with laughter.
Austin frowned. “Oh yeah!” he shouted again, waving his arms emphatically.
“Oh yeah,” repeated Trevor, mocking him. “You’re a used tampon all the way. Nice costume. It suits you.”
“It’s obvious what I’m dressed up as, so you can all drop the act,” said Austin. “The Kool-Aid Man. You know—he screams ‘Oh yeah!’ when he breaks through walls. Tonight when people open their door, instead of saying ‘trick or treat’ I’m going to shout ‘Oh yeah!’”
Skeptical looks were tossed in his direction.
“Based on that statement, I’d like to revise my previous guess,” Demarco said. “You’re a retarded used tampon, and that’s my final offer.”
“Well fuck you, Demarco, who cares what you think? You’re just a jealous douche who didn’t come up with it first. Admit it, my Kool-Aid Man rocks.”
“Fine, Austin—you’re the Kool-Aid Man for the first neighborhood run-through, but after that you’re going to have to wear a mask,” Trevor said. “The plan is to shake down every house several times, and having an unforgettable costume kind of misses the point.”
Demarco couldn’t resist one final jab. “Yeah, I don’t think anyone will ever forget that time a giant bloody tampon rang their doorbell and asked for candy. That’s the kind of thing a person can never forget, no matter how hard they try or how much counseling they get.”
Kurtis chuckled as he put the Frankenstein mask back on.
“You guys ready? If we’re going to make the big score, we’ve got to get moving. Suit up!” Demarco ordered.
So the boys got to it and within minutes were ringing doorbells up and down both sides of the street, plastic buckets in hand. For the first of many planned trips through the neighborhood, Demarco wore the robot costume, Trevor carried the shower rod encircled by a plastic curtain, Kurtis had the Frankenstein’s monster mask and Austin was the bloody red Kool-Aid Man tampon head.
They were well beyond even the borderline age for trick-or-treating, not simply too old for Halloween, but way too old. Regardless, they’d gone trick-or-treating together every year for as long as they could remember, since elementary school.
This was going to be their last ever trick-or-treating experience. They’d graduate from high school in a few months and likely go their separate ways after that. They were determined to make the most out of their final Halloween together.
The plan worked perfectly. Quickly changing costumes between rounds, they’d made at least three visits to every house in the neighborhood by the time porch lights started going dark.
Every house that was, except the one that belonged to Mr. Copeland, a grumpy old codger who thought Halloween was the work of the devil and didn’t hesitate to preach about it to anyone who’d listen. Rather than hand out candy, each year he erected a giant cross in the middle of his front yard wound with white lights, completely indifferent to the complaints of racist symbolism associated with his alternative Christian decoration for the holiday.
As ten o’clock approached, the boys found themselves in a desperate race against time. Unwilling to end the night while there were still houses willing to give a final dump of the bucket, they decided to split up and spread out to cover more ground.
Demarco swapped costumes one last time, changing into the green stretch suit, covering his face and body. He headed deep into the neighborhood as houses with porch lights rapidly became few and far between.
It quickly became evident that his endeavor was futile and decided it was time to head back. On his way home he was surprised to find a house several doors down from his own with the porch light still burning bright. He’d already stopped there several times that evening and couldn’t remember what costume he’d been wearing on the last visit.
Screw it, it’s worth a shot. He ran up the steps and rang the bell.
The man who opened the door wore an expression that said he’d had just about enough of Halloween.
“Goddammit, Demarco. You again?” Maurice Harris shook his head in disbelief at the teen standing before him dressed head to toe in a stretchy green suit. “I can see your face through that thing, you know. How many times have you already been here this evening? You’re taller than me now—get a job and buy your own goddamned candy. Halloween is for kids.”
“Aw, c’mon, Mr. Harris. I’m looking out for your health. Don’t want you to get diabetes from eating all that leftover candy. Tell you what, give me whatever you’ve got left, and I’ll forget to tell Mrs. Harris about how you go for a smoke behind the shed every time she leaves for work? What do you say? Deal?”
Maurice frowned, but gave the half-full bowl of fun-sized snickers on the table by the door a glance anyway.
“Who’s at the door, Maurice?” Mrs. Harris called from inside.
“Hi, Mrs. Harris! It’s me, Demarco,” the boy shouted enthusiastically over the man’s shoulder. He held out his candy bucket and shook it, giving the man an “or else” look.
“Don’t worry, honey. Demarco stopped by to take the leftover Halloween candy off our hands so we don’t get diabetes,” Maurice said sarcastically while reluctantly dumping the remaining candy into the boy’s bucket. “Wasn’t that thoughtful of him?”
“Gee, thanks, Mr. Harris,” Demarco said with mocking gratitude.
“Come back here next year, boy, and I’ll have a whole box of treats waiting on your ass,” Mr. Harris growled, whispering so his wife wouldn’t hear. “Twelve gauge buckshot treats.”
Demarco mimicked smoking a cigarette. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, old man.”
With that, Mr. Harris slammed the door in his face and flipped off the light, leaving the boy standing on a dark porch. Laughing, Demarco ran home to join the others, eager to count the evening’s spoils.
The others had already gathered in the garage and shed their costumes. After chucking their gear back into the Halloween storage box, they chased each other up the stairs to the rec room, their favorite hangout for playing video games and watching movies.
With the precision of accountants, they separated the candy into piles laid out on the floor all around the room, one each for the Runts, Nerds, Tootsie Pops, Fun Dip, Laffy Taffy, Pixie Sticks, Fun Size candy bars, Whoppers, M&Ms, and the rest of their favorites. In the center of it all, they tossed the candies they’d never dream of eating: Tootsie Rolls (both regular and assorted flavors), Squirrel Nut Zippers, Mary Janes, Chick-O-Sticks, candy corn and circus peanuts. On top of the discard pile perched a shiny red apple, the solitary piece of fruit they’d received that evening.
They took turns choosing what they wanted until the candy was fairly divided between them. Satisfied with how things had gone, the four nearly-adult boys lay scattered around the room eating candy, exactly as they’d done when they were still in elementary school.
Demarco’s mom called to them from the kitchen downstairs. “Demarco, are you and your friends hungry? Since they’re spending the night, I can make sandwiches if you want.” She paused. “Demarco, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, Mom, I’ll ask them.” he shouted back. “You guys want anything to eat?”
“Nah,” Kurtis said. “I feel sick already.”
“Me too,” said Austin.
Trevor shook his head.
“All right, I’ll tell her.”
“Wait!” Trevor said, eyes suddenly brimming with mischief. He picked up the apple from the discard pile as a dastardly smile spread across his face.
“Do you still have those fake blood capsules?”
“Yeah, they’re in my room,” Demarco said. “Why?”
“Tell your mom we do want sandwiches. I’ve got a great idea.”
***
Several minutes later the quartet was lined up at the bar in the kitchen, behaving like perfect gentleman as Demarco’s mom prepared a generous stack of ham and cheese sandwiches. Kurtis fiddled with his phone as they waited, but the other boys talked and laughed about their evening. Mrs. Hansen was happy to see them present in the moment instead of snapchatting or taking selfies or whatever it was they were always doing online.
Trevor placed a candy bucket in front of him on the counter, smiling like a little kid.
“So . . . did you boys get a lot of candy?”
“Oh wow, you wouldn’t believe how much, Mrs. Hansen,” Austin said. “Probably the most ever.”
“I don’t want to lecture, but you boys make sure to check the wrapper before you eat anything, and throw away anything that looks like it’s been tampered with,” she said, setting a sandwich in front of Kurtis and Austin. “Better get off that phone and eat, Kurtis,” she urged, turning back to the counter by the stove to make a sandwich for Demarco and Trevor.
“Yes ma’am, Mrs. Hansen. Just finishing up something real quick.”
Once her back was turned, Trevor nodded. Kurtis pressed the ‘record’ button on his phone’s camera and Trevor picked up the bucket of candy and walked over to where Mrs. Hansen was preparing to make more sandwiches.
“Look, Mrs. Hansen!” The instant she turned Trevor thrust the bucket into her hands. “Look how much candy I got! Can you believe it?”
The bucket was halfway full of assorted sweets. Perched atop it all, right in the middle, was the shiny red apple.
“Oh, my goodness,” Mrs. Hansen laughed nervously, taken aback by the boy’s sudden display of youthful exuberance. “That is a lot of candy. Better keep your toothbrush handy or else you’ll be paying for your dentist’s new boat next summer.”
“You know how I can tell I’m growing up, Mrs. Hansen?” Trevor said, still smiling wide. He snatched the apple from the bucket holding it up in wide-eyed admiration.
“We got so much candy, but for some reason the only thing I want is this apple. It was a little weird that some guys were handing out apples from the back of a van, but they looked so friggin’ delish, I couldn’t say no.”
He brought the apple to his lips, opening wide for a bite.
A horrified expression spread across Mrs. Hansen’s face. “Wait, you need to check—”
Before Mrs. Hansen finished the sentence, Trevor chomped down hard, ripping off half the apple in a single mighty bite. As he began to chew his face twisted into a painful grimace. He dropped the apple, clutching his mouth with both hands.
Mrs. Hansen shrieked and dropped the bucket of candy, scattering sweets across the kitchen floor. “Trevor, what’s wrong?” she cried, grabbing the boy by the shoulders, trying to examine him. “Look at me, open your mouth!”
The boy trembled as his eyes rolled back in their sockets, as white as Mrs. Hansen’s face.
The rest of the crew leaned forward, watching with keen interest. Even as Trevor began to gurgle, Kurtis’ eyes remained fixed on the screen of his phone. Bright crimson streams spurted out from between Trevor’s fingers.
“What’s wrong with you, Kurtis? Stop playing on your phone and call 9-1-1!” Mrs. Hansen screamed as Trevor pulled his hands away to reveal a mouth absolutely brimming with blood, jaw quivering.
The boys stifled their laughter as long as they could bear, but Trevor’s Oscar-worthy performance got the better of them. Austin was the first to snicker, and that triggered Demarco to erupt with full-blown laughter.
“Why are you laughing? Can’t you see he’s hurt? Help him!” Mrs. Hansen shrieked, dismayed to discover what cold-hearted monsters the next generation had become.
Trevor shook and gurgled as though in the throes of a seizure. He stumbled towards his friends, clutching the edge of the counter until his knuckles shone pearly white. “Help me!” he wailed, spewing blood onto his friends as he spoke. The boys ewwwed and awwwed as they wiped the red goo from their faces, smearing it on their clothes.
Mrs. Hansen staggered back from the hideous scene until she bumped up against the stove, aghast.
Kurtis looked up from his phone for the first time since the show began. “And . . . cut!” he commanded, like a director on set. “Got it. That’s a wrap. Good job!”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Sorry, Mom—but it was too perfect an opportunity to pass up,” Demarco smirked. “We couldn’t help ourselves.”
Mrs. Hansen’s fearfulness flipped into burning anger in the blink of an eye. “Shame on you, shame on all of you! Almost gave me a heart attack, and for what? Look at this mess!” The woman was clearly bewildered by the spattered blood all over her kitchen.
She kicked indignantly at the heaps of candy scattered across the floor. “I’m not cleaning any of this up, not one thing. This kitchen had better be sparkling by the next time I come in here. You’ll be washing your own clothes, too. If I find even a single speck of fake blood that’s not cleaned up, I’m calling everyone’s parents and you can all go home. I don’t care how late it is.”
Kurtis, Austin and Trevor exchanged sheepish grins as she stomped off in a huff.
“But Mom . . . ” Demarco called to her.
She stopped dead in her tracks. “What?” she snapped, not even bothering to turn around.
“What about my sandwich?”
She did not dignify his insolence with a response and resumed her march down the hall, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
An awkward silence was left in her wake.
“Did you see the look on her face?” Austin whispered. “I thought you were a goner, Demarco. You know she was wishing she’d had an abortion just then—probably close to coming back in here and performing one herself, very late term.”
“Yeah, whatever. She’ll get over it. Kurtis, let’s see that video.”
Kurtis shook his head and slipped the phone into his pocket.
“No way, man, not until we clean up this mess. If I’m spending the night here I don’t want to wake up dead, you know what I mean?”
After fifteen minutes of scrubbing and sweeping, rinsing and stacking and putting stuff away, they had the kitchen clean and their fake-blood splattered shirts churning in the washing machine. Satisfied that everything was put sufficiently back into place, they headed upstairs to Demarco’s room, eager to check out their prank video.
Kurtis hooked his phone up to the computer as the boys huddled around. A few button clicks later, they were laughing like drunken monkeys all over again.
“Look at your mom’s face!” Austin said. “No wonder she rushed off to her room, probably had to clean crap out of her britches.”
“I bet this one gets ten-thousand hits before the weekend’s over. We might actually make a little green, if you know what I mean,” Kurtis said, rubbing his fingers together.
As soon as the video reached the end, they restarted it, playing it over and over, pausing at exquisitely perfect moments to better appreciate the hilarious expressions on Mrs. Hansen’s face.
“Right there—stop—look at that! Her face looks like a dog bit ‘er right in the crotch,” Trevor laughed. “Classic!”
“You really nailed that performance, Trevor. For a second there I wondered if that apple had a razor blade in it, for real,” said Demarco.
“Why spank you very much!”
“Definitely need to add a slo-mo replay at the end of this video before we post it online,” Austin said. “Let me see that first reaction again. That was the absolute best.”
Kurtis clicked the progress bar back to where Trevor took the first bite and Mrs. Hansen dropped the candy bucket.
“Wait, go back. Stop. Did you see that?” Trevor yelled.
Kurtis clicked pause, freeze-framing the video.
“What? Yeah, that’s the money shot, the best reaction in the whole thing. Late to the party much?”
“No, not that. Before. I thought I saw something,” Trevor said, his face intently examining the computer monitor. “Scroll it back, one frame at a time.”
Kurtis clicked the single-frame rewind button until Trevor motioned for him to stop.
“Holy shit! No fuckin’ way.”
The screen was frozen during a momentary pan of the camera across the floor. Spilled candy filled the frame.
“Right there. See it? Zoom in on the upper right corner,” Trevor ordered.
With several clicks of the mouse, Kurtis did as asked, zooming in on the candy spilled across the floor.
“See it now?”
“No way!” the other three boys said, almost in unison.
Kurtis let out a low whistle. “Forget ten-thousand. We’re gonna get a million hits with this one.”
Clear as day, a single word was spelled out by scattered candies on the floor, each individual letter perfectly formed, as though carefully arranged:
“Why didn’t we see it before?” Austin asked.
They let the video roll once again. The camera panned up to show Trevor’s face and the blood spurting through his fingers. As he spewed all over his friends, the camera dipped towards the floor. The word appeared onscreen again briefly, clear as day, before it was completely destroyed by Mrs. Hansen’s retreating feet.
“How in hell did that happen?” said Trevor.
“Woooooooo . . . ” Austin mocked, making a ghostly sound.
“Fuck it,” Demarco said. “Let’s see if we can do it again. Give me that bucket.”
Trevor handed him the bucket, the same one that had spilled in the video.
“Want to get your camera ready, Kurt? Just in case?”
“Let’s just see if anything cool happens first.”
Demarco mimicked his mother’s gestures from the video, dropping the bucket onto the floor in the exact same manner. It bounced once and tipped over, scattering candies haphazardly across the floor.
The boys examined the mess from every angle, but no word was to be found. Demarco quickly scooped the candy back into the bucket and tried again.
Still nothing other than a mess appeared on the floor.
Trevor gave it a try, then Austin.
Nothing.
“Oh, well, it was worth a shot,” said Kurtis. “We got us one hell of a killer video, though—there’s no way anyone’s going to think we used special effects. Everything happened way too naturally. Let’s get it uploaded. We’re going viral, boys. We’re breaking the internet tonight!”
Fifteen minutes of editing later, the video was ready for prime time and uploaded to YouTube with the clever title: MAD MOM GETS HALLOWEEN “TREAT”—FOR REAL!
“Ready for liftoff, gentlemen,” Demarco declared as the video went live. “Let’s sit back and watch the view count soar!”
They gathered around the computer, giddy with excitement, refreshing the web page over and over to see how many people were watching the video, hoping to read a never-ending comment scroll full of amazement and praise.
Thirty minutes and exactly three registered views later, the excitement of the evening was officially pronounced dead—time of departure, 11:47 P.M.
Bored of staring at the screen, Austin was the first to bail, flopping down on Demarco’s bed to turn on the TV, settling in with SpongeBob. Kurtis and Trevor watched random videos on the computer, glazed looks on their faces.
Demarco was disgusted. “What the hell happened to us? It’s not even midnight and we’re sitting here watching cartoons like we’re eight years old,” he said. “It’s still Halloween. We got all the treats—maybe it’s time we served up some tricks? What do you guys say?”
Kurtis and Trevor perked up.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Kurtis held up his phone, tapping the camera.
“Video pranks!”
“I know the perfect victim,” Demarco said, full of excitement once again. “Maurice fuckin’ Harris. He leaves the house at five A.M. every morning for work, even on the weekends, so you know he’ll be asleep. I bet he’ll lose his shit and make one hella funny video.”
“One million hits, baby!” Kurtis cried, fist-bumping Trevor.
“One million hits.”
“So what should we use? The Frankenstein mask?” Demarco asked. “It’s the only sorta-scary thing we’ve got—unless Austin wants to transform back into bloody tampon-head.”
“Ugh. No,” said Kurtis. “Frankenstein is good. Austin, you coming?”
“Nah, man, I’m all good. Just gonna chill.”
“Oh, okay. That’s cool . . . you fuckin’ pussy,” Demarco said, “but I’m going to need to take this with me.” He walked over to the outlet and unplugged the television, holding the cord up in his hand.
“Hey! Why’d you do that?” Austin whined. “That was a lost episode.”
“Because, Austin, you’re going to get your lazy ass out of bed and help us with this prank. Either that or you can start walking home, because my mom for sure isn’t going to give you a ride.”
“She already gave me a ride. Last night.” Austin muttered, tying his shoes. “Juicy.”
Trevor dropped the Frankenstein mask into Austin’s lap.
“I already gave a performance tonight. Your turn.”
They crept down the stairs, out the front door and into the chilly October night, moving silently past darkened driveways. They stopped on the sidewalk in front of Maurice Harris’s house, the evening’s excitement fully resurrected from the dead.
Austin slipped the Frankenstein mask over his head.
“God damn, it’s dark. I can’t see shit.”
“No worries,” said Demarco. “We’ll lead you around.”
Kurtis reassumed his director duties. “All right Austin, don’t forget the plan. We’re going to position you outside Maurice’s bedroom window and I’ll get the camera ready. When you see my flashlight’s beam hit the window, do your thing.”
“What’s my thing?”
“Scratch on the window and growl, I guess. Get him to look outside and then scare the shit out of him. Trust your instincts, you’ll be great. C’mon, one million hits, baby!”
With that final pep talk, Austin’s friends led him around the side of the house and into the darkness of Maurice’s backyard, positioning him beside the bedroom window.
The lights were off, as they’d expected. They held their breath, listening. All was quiet.
Trevor, Demarco and Kurtis shuffled off to the side of the yard so Maurice wouldn’t see them when he looked out. A flashlight in the face would kill his night vision, but they weren’t in costume and didn’t want to end the evening dealing with police. Demarco figured it was better to be safe than sorry, and Kurtis insisted that shooting the scene from the side would be more cinematic anyway.
Once safely out of view, Kurtis held up his phone, adjusted the camera’s zoom and started recording. He nodded at Demarco.
It was showtime.
Demarco flicked on the flashlight. A blinding beam of light created a bright circle directly in the center of Maurice’s bedroom window, casting an eerie shadow over Austin and his Frankenstein mask as it reflected off the glass.
“Oh man, that looks so awesome,” Trevor whispered.
“Shhh!” Kurtis commanded, pointing at the camera’s red blinking light.
Austin commenced his performance, moaning loudly while tapping on the glass in a menacing rhythm. The boys waited, expectant. The stillness of the plantation blinds inside silently taunted them.
Austin growled like a bear, slowly pounding his fists against the glass, steadily increasing his rhythm until a manic cadence resonated between the houses.
“Your time is up . . . You can’t escape . . . ” Austin’s voice was deep, unearthly. Demarco was delighted.
The blinds separated, a single pair of white eyes appearing in the rift for a moment before they dropped back into place. The sudden appearance of Maurice’s peering peepers gave Austin the very scare he was trying his hardest to give. Startled, he ran from the window into the yard, but quickly regained his composure.
The plantation blinds jumped upwards once more, all the way open this time, making the window look like the opening eye of a giant awakened from slumber. The flashlight’s beam streamed through the glass to reveal Maurice’s boxer-clad, pot-bellied figure standing inside.
Kurtis adjusted the camera to perfectly capture Maurice’s reaction.
Time for the money shot, thought Demarco.
Arms outstretched, Austin took off on a stiff-legged charge towards the bedroom window. The October night shattered with a deafening roar, taking the bedroom window along with it. An angry orange flash sliced through the gloom, then another, before the world plunged back into darkness. An image was seared onto Demarco’s retinas: his friend hovering above the ground, feet kicked forward, Frankenstein mask tumbling away from his bewildered face.
Austin’s body hit the ground with a meaty squish and a gurgle. The other boys stood dumbfounded as the camera continued recording the scene from its perch at the end of Kurtis’ arm. Trevor swung the flashlight towards where Austin lay and immediately regretted it.
Their friend was on his back, head unnaturally twisted to one side. His mouth opened and closed like a newborn searching for its mother’s nipple while his hands pawed at the bloody mess that had recently been his torso.
Trevor flipped off the flashlight, hiding the grisly scene. The instant his light went out it was replaced by another, from the bedroom inside. A terrified duet rang out.
“Oh my God! Maurice! What did you do?” a high-pitched feminine voice wailed.
“He had a gun, Mary, was trying to break in. What was I supposed to do?”
“Call the police, Maurice, call the police. We have to.”
“Goddammit, Mary, shut up and let me think! You know I’ve got priors, you know what that means if they find me with a gun. We’ll go bankrupt trying to plead my case in court. We’d be ruined, you know that. There’s got to be another way.”
The arguing continued as the boys gradually recovered from their momentary paralysis. Kurtis stopped recording, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Demarco clutched his head, bending forward as though about to hurl.
“Let’s run,” said Trevor. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. It’s too late for Austin. The three of us didn’t hurt anybody.”
“We can’t just leave Austin,” Kurtis protested. “We put him up to it, he didn’t even want to come. We can call an ambulance, maybe there’s still time.”
Trevor grabbed Kurtis by the shoulders.
“Dude, Austin’s dead. If we don’t get the fuck out of here we’ll end up wishing we were, too.”
“No, Kurtis is right,” Demarco stated firmly, drawing himself upright, trying to regain his composure. “We shouldn’t leave him, but we can’t stay here. We’ve got futures, we’re about to go to college. We can say we were cutting through the yard on our way home from trick or treating and Maurice shot him and we freaked out. You heard him talking, he’s got priors. We can say the rest of us took off before he shot us, too.”
Demarco knelt down beside Austin in the wet grass. The boy’s motionless eyes were glossy orbs in the wan light from the bedroom window.
“Is he alive?” Kurtis whispered.
Demarco touched his friend’s forearm. It was already cool, much cooler than it should have been, even considering the chilly October night.
“C’mon, let’s get him out of here.”
Demarco lifted Austin under his armpits, while the other boys each grabbed a thigh. The stench of blood and shit filled the air as they hoisted him. As they hustled away with their friend, a debate was breaking out inside the house between Maurice and his wife.
“Get dressed, Mary. We’re leaving.”
“Maurice, you fired twice. Somebody had to call the police.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe everybody thinks someone else called and nobody does. Maybe people thought it was only kids shooting off fireworks. It is Halloween.”
“What if you killed somebody? What then? Maurice, please. We have to call . . . ”
The angst-filled voices faded away as the three boys fled with their dead friend into the night, stumbling through a sparse patch of woods behind the house. Brambles pulled at their legs as they heaved towards a grassy area that lay not far beyond.
The boys placed their friend’s body down onto the manicured strip of soft rye grass that ran behind the houses. Hearts racing, they collapsed beside him, out of breath and trembling from adrenaline and exertion.
They waited, panting, listening for approaching sirens, watching for flashing blue-and-red lights to come racing down their street, for Maurice’s house to be surrounded by policemen with guns drawn, for barking dogs to track them down.
Minutes passed by one after the other yet the night remained silent. A solitary flashlight made a quick sweep through Maurice’s back yard, followed by the screech of tires on pavement and red tail lights departing his driveway. Clearly he’d decided against calling the police himself.
As minutes threatened to become an hour, the boys realized no one was coming. As far as anyone knew, Demarco’s mom included, they were all upstairs watching a movie.
Demarco wished that was the case. “There’s no reason any of us have to get nailed for this if we play our cards right. Maurice doesn’t know who was in his backyard or what happened—if this whole thing gets pinned on somebody else, you think he’s going to squeal? I don’t.”
“What are you thinking?” Kurtis asked.
Demarco pulled the boys in close and whispered the plan.
***
Mr. Copeland’s Halloween cross was the real deal, over six feet tall and constructed of wooden beams five inches thick, long strands of white LED lights wrapped neatly from top to bottom. Since Mr. Copeland used it to decorate his yard every Christmas, Easter and Halloween, he’d installed a permanent concrete mount which held the cross firmly in place.
Kurtis followed the electrical cord from the cross’s base to an outlet beside the front porch. He unplugged the lights and the yard fell dark.
Trevor and Demarco set to work, hastily unwinding the lights from around the cross, laying the strands out neatly beside it.
Once the cross was stripped bare, Demarco took charge.
“Grab him under the arms,” he whispered, sternly. “Like that, that’s good . . . a little higher. Pin his shoulders against the crossbeam.”
“Fuck. He’s fucking heavy as shit. I can’t hold him very long,” Trevor said, gasping in effort.
“Me either.” Kurtis strained.
Demarco didn’t waste time with a response. He wrapped the cords around Austin’s thighs and waist, several times around to hold him tight. Congealed blood and viscera squished out as the strand of lights dug into lacerated flesh.
Having relieved some of the load for Trevor and Kurtis, Demarco carefully wound the other strand of lights down the crossbeam, starting at Austin’s left wrist. He wrapped the cord all the way down one arm, several times around the neck at the upright, and then continued down the other arm, tying it off at the other wrist.
Kurtis and Trevor slowly released their hold, afraid that the cords might break under the weight. As the lights slipped snugly into place they removed their hands completely. Austin stayed put, hung up like Christ on a crucifix, head bowed forward.
With the single leftover strand of lights, Demarco tied Austin’s forehead to the upright, the jutting bulbs resembling a crown of thorns.
“It is finished,” Kurtis whispered.
“People might think it’s a fake body, a prank on Mr. Copeland,” Trevor offered.
“He’s a total whackjob anyway,” Demarco said. “Hopefully they’ll lock the old nut away, and that will be the end of it. One thing is certain, though: we gotta get outta here. Trevor, plug the lights back in to make it look like Copeland went completely batshit.”
Once the lights on the cross were back on, the boys dashed across the street. Demarco carefully opened the still-unlocked front door and stuck his head inside, fearing his mother may have detected their absence and be waiting for them, even more furious than before.
He saw no sign of her. The house remained dark and still. The boys removed their shoes so they wouldn’t track mud into the house. Carrying their sneakers, they slipped inside and tiptoed up the stairs to the bedroom, closing the door behind them.
Unable to deny his curiosity, Demarco headed straight for the window and pulled the blinds apart to see the cross in Mr. Copeland’s yard. Austin’s corpse still hung there, crucified by his friends.
He knew it was real, but it did look like a Halloween decoration. Maybe nobody would notice, at least for a while. Maybe they’d have time to come up with a more convincing story to fool everyone into believing they’d had nothing to do with it, that they’d been here sleeping the whole time with no idea anything had happened to Austin.
As he gazed out the window plotting their alibi, Trevor flipped on the bedroom light, blinding them momentarily. Demarco quickly dropped the blind back into place, hoping no one had seen him.
“Holy shit,” he blurted as he turned around.
The room was as they had left it earlier, strewn with assorted costumes, the floor littered with buckets full of candy. Trevor and Kurtis, however, appeared considerably different from the last time he’d seen them in a brightly lit room. Smeared with dried blood and shit from their knees to armpits, they looked as though they’d been mud wrestling on a slaughterhouse floor.
Demarco looked down at himself to find the same.
The boys spent the next hour getting cleaned up, showering first, then scrubbing their clothes until a red ring circled the tub. Realizing that they’d never get the clothes fully clean, they settled on wringing them out and wrapping them up in a garbage bag, which Demarco hid in the attic beneath a loose strip of fiberglass insulation. Kurtis scrubbed the bloody tub until it sparkled white once again, using up an entire roll of paper towels in the process.
The first light of dawn was peeking through the blinds by the time they were done. Exhausted from stress and a night without sleeping, the boys flopped across the bed, knowing full well that they should be working on their plan, but too delirious to discuss anything coherently.
Blessed sleep was about to overtake Demarco when a loud metallic clang snatched him from the edge of slumber. Something large rumbled outside in front of the house. A series of loud beeping noises followed by the heavy thump of plastic on asphalt reminded him that it was garbage day.
Suddenly wide awake, the boys tumbled towards the window. Lifting the blind ever so slightly, they huddled in horror as the garbage truck moved relentlessly towards Mr. Copeland’s house, the mechanical arm swinging down to grab and dump one trashcan after another. It stopped in front of Demarco’s house and took care of business.
Then pulled up in front of the house next door.
It advanced to the next house after that, the one directly across the street from Mr. Copeland’s. The mechanical arm began to descend but stopped, frozen midair.
A large man in a jumpsuit and ball cap appeared in the street, walking towards Mr. Copeland’s house, away from his garbage truck towards the cross. He stopped on the sidewalk and examined it, shaking his head in apparent disapproval. The boys held their breath in nervous anticipation, the man’s every move commanding their rapt attention.
The garbage man fished a phone from his pocket and appeared to take photographs of the dead boy on the cross. Evidently satisfied, he returned the phone to his pocket and headed back to the truck.
“He thinks it’s a decoration!” Demarco said.
“I think I’d rather he went ahead and reported Mr. Copeland,” Trevor said. “I’m ready to get this over with one way or the other.”
No sooner had he spoken the words, the garbage man halted in his tracks, scratching his chin as if mulling something over. The boys watched in dread as the man turned and strode straight into Mr. Copeland’s yard, headed directly towards the cross.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Trevor’s words sounded like a stabbing knife to the heart, over and over.
The man stopped at the foot of the cross, staring up at the dead boy before he reaching up to gingerly touch a dangling hand. He jumped back, clearly startled, whipping his phone out once again, dialing, the alarm on his face a flaming beacon even from a hundred yards away. The man brought the phone up to his ear.
On the dresser behind the boys, a shrill tone rang out. They spun about. On the dresser, a glowing cell phone screen announced an incoming call.
“What the fuck?” they said in unison, exchanging confounded looks.
“How did he know who to call?” Kurtis asked.
Demarco snatched the phone from the dresser. Beneath the flashing “incoming call” was the word “Dad”.
“Oh shit—this is Austin’s phone.”
“Should we answer it?”
“Fuck no.”
“What’s the garbage man doing?”
“Talking to somebody on the phone, he looks freaked the fuck out.”
“This is not good.”
Austin’s phone abruptly fell silent in Demarco’s hand. A few seconds later a text message notification popped onto the screen: “On my way. Be ready to go.”
Demarco showed it to the others.
In the distance rose the wail of sirens.
“Remember, we don’t know anything,” Demarco instructed. “Austin was here when we went to bed last night. We’ll pretend to be asleep if anyone shows up asking questions. They wake us up and we’ll act shocked and confused. Got it?”
Within minutes, several police cars descended upon Mr. Copeland’s house, setting up a perimeter as one pulled into the driveway to block the garage, lights flashing, sirens screaming. The garbage man gestured wildly as an officer pulled him away from the scene. Two policemen closed in on the house, guns drawn, while two others assumed a defensive position behind the vehicle.
The policemen knocked on the front door, and the boys watched in stunned silence as old man Copeland casually swung it open. He wore a white bathrobe with a matching tuft of chest hair poking out over the top. He exhibited the demeanor of someone awoken by the sudden commotion, groggy and confused.
The officers didn’t hesitate, grabbing the old man by his terrycloth lapels, yanking him onto the porch as though he was as light as papier-mâché. They dragged him down the stairs, Copeland losing both slippers before being planted face-down in the yard at the foot of the cross. Guns at the ready, the other officers stepped out from behind the car as the old man was cuffed.
The boys remained hushed as the whole affair unfolded on the other side of the window. Kurtis absently grabbed a bucket of candy and started eating one piece after the other as he looked out upon the scene. The officers snatched Mr. Copeland back up to his feet as a black Dodge Charger pulled up in front of Demarco’s house.
Mr. Taylor, Austin’s dad, was a tall man, lanky like his son. He stepped out of the car, watching with fascination as policemen shoved an old man towards what appeared to be a crucified zombie decoration. The officers gestured towards it, their faces red and shouting, as if attempting to extract a confession of murder there on the spot. The entire spectacle was absurd, unreal. Demarco’s gaze shifted back and forth from Mr. Copeland’s front lawn to their dead friend’s dad, who appeared to be momentarily mesmerized.
Whatever spell Mr. Taylor was under broke the moment he recognized his son. The man burst into action, dashing across the street, charging up the sidewalk, straight into Mr. Copeland’s yard. Fists clenched, he lunged at the bedraggled hand-cuffed man beside his son’s body. Thunderous screams of fury rattled the glass of the window, through which Demarco watched in astonishment of the drama unfolding below.
Two policemen quickly holstered their weapons and grabbed hold of Mr. Taylor’s arms before he tore the old man apart. They pulled the distraught father towards the street, attempting to calm him. Mr. Taylor argued for a few minutes before relenting. Dejected, he headed back to his car.
Remorse gnawed at Demarco’s insides as he looked at Mr. Taylor’s anguish, the man’s face a demonic amalgam of rage and sorrow. Stark tears streamed down the man’s face, each runnel perfectly visible from Demarco’s second-story perch. Mr. Taylor wiped the wetness away with the back of his hand as he sat back down in the driver’s seat of his car, vacantly staring into the distance.
The police had abandoned their attempts to elicit a confession at the scene and appeared to be reading Mr. Copeland his rights. The back door of the cruiser in the driveway stood open, ready to transport the prime suspect to the station.
Not knowing what else to do and having nothing at all to say, Kurtis handed a piece of candy to each of his friends. They unwrapped the candies in silence, popping them into their mouths as Mr. Copeland was thrust towards the cruiser.
A sudden blur of motion below drew Demarco’s attention. Mr. Taylor was out of his car, charging up the street towards the crime scene once again, wailing like a banshee as he ran. In his hand was a small black pistol.
The officers released Mr. Copeland, instinctively drawing their weapons, training them on the dead boy’s father as he approached. Mr. Taylor didn’t hesitate. The instant the police pointed their guns in his direction he planted his feet, locked his elbows and fired—once, twice, three times. The cracking gunshots rattled both the windows and the three boys hiding behind it.
His aim was true. Mr. Copeland danced a little jig, hands cuffed behind his back, as bullets burst into his chest, instantly turning the front of his bathrobe and chest hair from white to bright red. The old man took three feeble steps towards his house, as though he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and start this whole blasted day over again. He never made it, collapsing into a heap right there on the driveway instead.
“Oh shit!” The word was spoken in perfect harmony, as though Demarco and his friends had planned to say it at this exact moment all along.
A second barrage of gunfire convulsed through the neighborhood, as the barrels at the end of every policeman’s arm spit fire back at Mr. Taylor.
Austin’s dad didn’t dance as the bullets punctured his forehead and abdomen. Instead, he fell flat onto his back, sprawling motionless on the sidewalk. The cops stood tense, guns directed towards Mr. Taylor’s motionless body.
Yet another gunshot reverberated from down the street, its thunderclap deeper, louder than the ones before. A policeman’s head exploded. One moment it was there, the next it was not, replaced by a fine mist suspended in the air above the set of shoulders where it used to reside.
A stout middle-aged man with a bushy black beard appeared on the sidewalk further down the street, shotgun raised as he advanced towards the remaining policemen. Demarco recognized the man as Richard McNealy, Mr. Copeland’s next door neighbor and lifelong best friend.
Additional gunfire shattered the silence of the early November morning, one shot after the other in rapid succession. By the time the ringing echoes fell silent, Richard McNealy and a second policeman lay dead on the ground.
The three boys turned towards each other, each with their own unique look of unbelieving, of hoping that someone, anyone would say something, something that would change everything, that would take it all back, would make it all go away.
Kurtis was the first to step back from the window, ashen-faced and quivering. Lost in a daze, the bucket of candy he clutched for comfort slipped from his hand and tumbled across the floor, spilling candies as it bounced.
The boys gaped, incredulous, as they read the single word spelled out by scattered candies on the floor, each individual letter perfectly formed, as though carefully arranged:
