Halloween is a week away. I don’t like decorating too soon, then I’ll end up doing it at the same time as most of my neighbors. I prefer to do it at the last minute. Get it up, enjoy the day and take it down like a week-long pop-up shop that suddenly appears out of nowhere. I secure my skull archway at the end of the sidewalk and plug it into my green outdoor extension cord to make sure it lights up.
My eyes brighten at the sight of multiple skulls in different states of horror, screaming with a glowing backdrop of red lights. It’s perfect.
I turn my attention to the rows of marigolds that line the walkway leading to my porch. Water spills from my watering can, giving each one a drink before I kneel in the grass beside them. Cleaning the ground around them may seem pointless to some, but I like the black mulch surrounding them to be pitch-black and perfect. It really makes the blood-red flowers pop at night. I stand, brush off my grass-covered knees, and grab my sign to put at the end of the walkway, just beside the archway, so that everyone can see it.
The rubber mallet bounces in my hand, vibrating up my arm as I tap down the list of rules for Halloween night. I stand and back up into the street, making sure no cars are coming, and gaze at my simple, yet lovely Halloween display.
“Looks good,” a voice says from behind me.
I turn to see the old man across the street giving me a thumbs up from his porch, where he’s resting his freshly carved pumpkin. I’m not a big fan of real pumpkins; they attract critters to your doorstep. I nod to him and return my attention to my display.
The five-foot skeleton is a little crooked, so I walk over and adjust it until it points perfectly at the rule sign in the yard. I once again back up, and a broad smile stretches across my face.
It looks amazing. A sense of calm and relaxation washes over me. It’s been a fantastic couple of weeks. I sold my third human art piece, raking in over two thousand dollars. I could start listing them on auction sites to get the most out of my work, but I prefer to do all the work so I can keep all the profits.
Mr. Solarman’s skull, as it turns out, served a better purpose as a centerpiece for a dining room table. I carved a perfect hole in the top of his head and placed a Raven ZZ plant in its center. With leaves that start green and turn black as they mature, I knew buyers would love the color combination. Around the skull, deep purple dried pansies and green moss skirting the borders of the circular, black-painted wooden plank. It was light, gothic, and “stunning” according to the five-star review I received from the buyer, along with several beautiful images she took from every angle.
I feel optimistic about my future, and if the last few sales are any indication of what’s to come, I’ll be upgrading to a new car in no time.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Trick or Treat
Candy. The one thing in the world that I can live without. But tonight, just this one day a year, I keep an ample supply of it.
The kids flock to my house on Halloween. I amthe house, not because I have the best candy, even though I do. The children think that’s why their parents bring them to my doorstep, but the truth is, I’m a mystery. I’ve lived here for five years and have rarely interacted with anyone. I leave early and come home late.
Sure, a few random neighbors have caught a glimpse of me scurrying out after dark, but they are few and far between. I’m sure the men who parade the children from house to house also enjoy visiting my humble abode. I am single after all, with high cheekbones and a tall, fit frame, I could have been a model. I ignore and decline the numerous requests to meet this one and that one’s brother or friend. I have no use for relationships. My tastes are very singular. Yet, despite all my rejections, they keep trying.
I know what you’re thinking. Why not tell them you’re in a relationship so they leave you alone? Well, then I wouldn’t get so much attention.
And I love attention—crave it even.
It’s like a minuscule amount of foreplay before the real show begins. For once the porch lights flicker out, that’s when I prowl—prowl anywhere the unexpected, unknowing and gullible men thrive—bars, house parties, even sporting events. No place is off limits as long as the men are drunk and incapacitated. Sober men think more with their heads than their dicks, and I can’t have that.
Before I begin my hunt, I need to deal with the children.
I frantically arrange the candy neatly in my cauldron. Every year, I make up two hundred packets filled to the brim with all the best candy secured at the top with a single staple, and almost every year, I run out. I should bump it up to three hundred, but where’s the fun in that? I love the desperation in the children’s eyes as they line up along my cement walkway, beautifully accented with blood-red marigolds. I don’t overdecorate because, let’s face it, then I have to take all that shit down and prepare for the next holiday. No, I simply have my archway, my rules and my skeleton pointing to the list.
The weather tonight is fabulous, and I look forward to sitting outside. Last year, wind and rain kept many trick-or-treaters away. Instead, their parents drove them through the sheriff’s office, Boo with the Blue drive-thru event, leaving me with leftover candy packets.
I yank the long sleeves of my red devil dress down to my wrists, toss my amber hair over my shoulder and smile down at my filled cauldron. “Five minutes to spare. This must be a new record, Tessa,” I say aloud. I gulp down the last of my red wine, leaving red lipstick on the glass, pull the front of my dress up to hide my cleavage, and throw my massive, solid wooden door open, revealing a large line of costumed children and a few random parents waiting in formation.
They’ve clearly read the rules.Form a neat and orderly line, do not step on my porch until the clock strikes six, and DON’T KNOCK.
Check, check and check.
The same sign I posted out front when I moved in reads, ‘Don’t Knock.’It’s simple and easy to read, so you’d think a singular rule would be hard to break, right?
Wrong.
The very next day, the neighbor next door had friends over for a barbecue. Now, I’m not entirely sure, but I’m pretty certain the neighbor dared a couple of his guests to knock on the mysterious house next door to see what would happen. Alcohol makes people do the dumbest things. Needless to say, the two pranksters mysteriously vanished later that night, and I suddenly became the talk of the town. Whispers and gossip spread rapidly as theories and accusations swirled through the small community of Walhalla, South Carolina. After a year or so, the rumors finally calmed down, and the two men were forgotten. It doesn’t stop people from talking or trying to get little tidbits of information. They come to my house as often as it would make sense, no more, no less, trying to dig up breadcrumbs—carolers at Christmas, ‘misdelivered mail’, being lost and needing directions, even sending their children to my door to sell Girl Scout Cookies.
Halloween, on the other hand, is the only day of the year when everyone in town has a reason to be at my door.
Have there been other mysterious disappearances over the years? Of course, people go missing for various reasons all the time, especially in this town. This has been happening before I moved here, and it continues to occur. It’s one of the primary reasons I chose it.
Ever since the men who knocked on my door disappeared, everyone has been eager to speak to the girl who resides in the house with no front windows. I didn’t make the house what it is. It is all on one floor, which I love, but for some unknown reason, the previous owners covered the front windows facing the street when the house was sided with new white vinyl. It was a hardsell for most buyers, as they wanted to see who was outside their home. I took it as a unique opportunity. All they had to do was place cameras above the doorway facing the walkway as I did. I can see who’s on my porch, walkway and even the old man across the street when he sits in front of his television picking his fucking nose.
