A mother clears her throat, bringing me back to this very moment as my watch flicks to six. I sit in my black porch rocker, tug my red dress over my knees, and cuddle the cauldron on my lap before nodding to child number one. She eagerly scales the stairs and rams her fingers into the pile of sweet bundles, ripping one bag open. I seize her greedy little paw and shake my head without a word as my grip tightens enough to make her let go. I’m not allowing that kind of behavior, not from anyone, even if she is dressed up like an innocent little angel.
Her mother gasps at my audacity, clutching her fictitious pearls. The girl slams her hands to her sides. “I’m sorry,” she says before glancing back at her wide-eyed mother and twisting a lock of blonde hair nervously around her finger.
I adjust my devil horn headband higher on my head, before fixing the mess she made, making her wait, making them all wait for me to make the pile neat again, a lesson for those who come after. Once the cauldron is reset and orderly, I remove a bag from the pile and hold it over the angel’s pumpkin treat bag. She holds it open, waiting for me to let go, but I don’t. I haven’t heard the words she’s required to say; they are all required to say them. I hold the bag with all but one finger, circling my pointer finger around and around like a buffering television waiting for a signal.
Her mother murmurs a reminder to her and rocks back on her heels, a lack of comfort plaguing the air around her. The girl’s blue eyes land on my hazel ones before she spits out, “Trick or Treat,” louder than necessary.
“Trick or treat,” I reply, dropping her treat inside the bag and giving her a dismissive nod.
She whispers shyly, “Thank you,” and speeds down the steps to her mother. Other children and parents roll their eyes and shift their hips, irritated that the child wastes their precious time.
I shrug as one of my favorite single dads, David, wearing a fitted pair of faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt that reads, ‘This is my costume,’ ascends the steps. His six-year-old son is dressed like Batman, holding his hand. He first came to my home when his son could barely walk, a newly single parent after his wife left him for another man. At least that’s what the busybodies around town were saying.
He asked me out once, and I turned him down, saying I’d just gotten out of a relationship and the time wasn’t right. I had to lie for obvious reasons, but since I left the “I’m single” window open, he’s asked me to go out for coffee just as friends and invited me on a walk with him and Timothy, both times, turning him down with a flirtatious smile.
His eyes, an extremely dark brown that nearly blacken his orbs, are shadowed by long lashes that flicker repeatedly as the material of my dress rolls up my pale legs as I cross them, revealing a massive scar on the top of my thigh. I gingerly cover my legs, hiding them from him and the prying eyes of everyone standing behind him.
That ought to give everyone something to talk about. How’d she get that scar? Did someone do it to her, or did she do it to herself? Maybe aliens abducted her, and they put an implant there. I wonder what they will come up with next.
“Good evening, Tessa,” David’s voice staggers out as his eyes break free from my legs and land on mine.
I nod and flash him a small, sly smile as his son waits patiently just behind his thighs. Everyone in town knows my name, but Ibarely know any of theirs, except for this hot specimen standing before me. I made a point of remembering his. I hold a bundle of candy out to David’s son, Timothy, and he glances up at his father, waiting for permission to accept a treat from a stranger.
Timothy has a shy way about him that I appreciate and understand. It’s hard to trust someone who intimidates you. I, too, have someone who makes me feel like that, but in a different way. Mastyx makes me shy in the bedroom, and I cower beneath his commanding presence.
Two women whisper back and forth, their eyes locking in on David’s ass before they break out in hushed giggles. David runs his fingers through his brown hair, my porch light revealing hints of gray creeping through the strands, and sighs heavily. I get the sense he’s tired of being one of the topics of the town gossipers. “Happy Halloween.”
“You too, David,” I say, wishing I didn’t have such strict rules as my face heats up and my underwear moistens with desire.
Later, Tessa, I say internally to myself as David hesitates before turning and walking off the porch, his firm ass calling to me as he strolls away.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, pushing all inappropriate thoughts of David deep inside myself. I need to make it through this evening so that I can hunt for a suitable replacement.
After an hour of endless trick-or-treaters, my cauldron drops the last bundle into a teenager’s bowl. Several children and parents grumble that a teenager is getting the last piece, falsely believing they’re undeserving. However, if they have made the effort to dress up and stand before me, following the rules, I may add, they are just as deserving as the next person. Besides, they could be doing worse, like egging or toilet papering someone’s house.
I turn toward my door as the remaining trick-or-treaters bow their heads, sadness plaguing their faces, and grumbling their discontent. Perhaps if their parents had made my house a priority, their children wouldn’t be so glum. Then again, there was never going to be enough. Secretly, I’m hoping one day to see a brawl of children and parents battling it out in the middle of the street—a band of minions fighting to be one of the lucky two hundred.
My front door creaks open, and parents and children alike crane their necks, trying to get a quick glimpse inside. I block the open door with my body, and with a quick flick of my fingers over the light switch, the porch light darkens, dispersing the disappointed crowd. I close the door behind me and lean against it as my grandfather clock strikes seven, echoing through the house until it reaches its number of hours. I finished a whole hour early. How lovely. I kick off my black satin flats and stroll to the kitchen.
On the countertop rest three bags of candy corn. Every year, my mother mails me a few bags of the orange, yellow and white candies, thinking incorrectly that I love them. And every year, I say nothing, so she keeps buying them.
I have a new use for the waxy candies now.
The double boiler my brother bought me for Christmas a couple of years ago sits empty on the electric burner, waiting to be used. I fill the bottom pot halfway with water, rest the other pot on top, and dump in two bags of candy corn. I turn the burner on low and rest the lid on the pot, hiding the candy from sight.
My red-painted fingernails, filed into sharp points, tap the handle, drumming it like an introduction to a show, a drumroll of sorts—a prelude for what’s to come. Melting the candy down is something I’ve perfected through trial and error. Timing iskey. Once it reaches the perfect consistency, it will become something useful, something glorious, something sinister.
Chapter Twenty-Six
My Sacrificial Lamb
The candy corn swirls in the pot, smooth like butter. I rest the wooden spoon on the side of the stove on a small black floral plate and sigh.
It’s time.
I enter my room, strip off my conservative Halloween attire and paw through the box in my closet labeled ‘Costumes’. Hmm, I think I’ll go as a vampire this year. I lift the black-and-red low-cut dress from the box and shake it out. Dust particles float into the center of the room and settle on the hardwood floors. I feed my fingers through the bottom, pull it over my head, and shimmy the dress down and over my curvy hips, straightening it out as I go.
It’s a tight dress, landing just below my knees, showing off my soft, bare legs. The silky material glides beneath my fingers as I slide my palms across my covered breasts and adjust the black lace trimming, skirting my partially exposed cleavage. I lift my hooded double-sided cape, throw it around my neck, black side out, and secure it to my throat with a single snap. Some people prefer the red side facing out. Not me. I like how the red flutters behind me like a background from the front, and the black conceals everything in the dark from behind. When the hood is up, I could flatten my body against a black wall face-first, and theonly thing you could see if you were to drive by is the whites of my ankles.
