One | Ysabel
One
Ysabel
SOMETHING WICKED THIS way comes may be a thing outside the Shining City Upon a Hill, but here in Boston, it's the other way around, and as soon as the sun begins to set on the 30th of October, it's us who are eagerly and quickly heading down Comm Ave for the wickedest - and coolest - place to be.
For almost the entirety of the year, the Marchetti Mansion looms over our city like an untouchable and invincible deity in granite and limestone. It's the only property around here that's large enough to have its driveway and private grounds, and boisterous cheers erupt from the crowd as soon as its towering gates of steel slowly part open.
"Halloween, here we come, a-woo!" Julio's loud howl draws a series of laughs, and ever the limelight-loving extrovert, my cousin shamelessly relishes the attention and lets out another howl that has guys at the back howling in return.
The way everyone's acting, it's as if a new tailgating season has started, and it's the same level of excitement you'd expect when the Red Sox seems poised to win the World Series. But this time, instead of baseball caps and jerseys, most of us are wearing dark gray Boston Says Boo shirts and matching face masks (all we had to do was click 'yes' on an Eventbrite link, and we get both free of charge).
Halloween is that one time of the year when the Marchetti Mansion graciously opens its doors to the public, and even though where we're standing is at least a mile away, what I can see of the sprawling multi-storied home still makes a frighteningly impressive sight.
I've always imagined the place as Hogwarts that's been magically transported to the Conjuring universe; it even has gargoyle sentinels perched on its domed shoulders, and it's the kind that looks terrifyingly capable of snarling into life and flying down at any moment.
Then again, maybe that's just my subconscious thinking.
Growing up, I've always known that our city has famiglia secretly ruling over it for years and years, and the knowledge has made me feel I'm being monitored and protected all at the same time.
Toe the line if you know what's good for you—-or a gargoyle in a suit will snatch you out of bed, and no one's ever gonna hear from you again.
That's what famiglia occupying the seat of power mainly comes down to. It's like tough, old-school parenting on a grand scale, but you won't get any complaints from me, since it's also why our crime rate has been at its lowest in modern times.
Well-hidden speakers start playing Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear the Reaper, and Julio once again gets everyone going as he starts dancing and waving his arms in the air even when we're still in line. Destiny Child's Say My Name plays next, and a smile quirks over my lips.
Well, well, well.
Color me freaking impressed—-since only another horror buff would have come up with this kind of playlist. The first song was from the Halloween movie franchise. This second song is from Candyman, and... whoa.
I mentally bow down in worship when Joan Jett and the Blackhearts croon out Season of the Witch as the line finally starts moving.
Well freaking played, unseen DJ.
The only witch in our midst is obviously none other than our very own Khaleesi, albeit thrice her age but minus the madness, and instead of 'queen', we refer to her as La Strega with equal amounts of fear, fondness, and respect. The words translate to 'the witch' in Italian, and the Marchetti matriarch is indeed the baddest witch this city has seen and will ever see.
"PARTY TIME!"
The words, yelled out by a sunglass-wearing driver of a convertible, take me away from my thoughts, and I absently watch the guy's red-hot Camaro slow down to let security inspect his car with metal detectors and bomb-sniffing dogs.
Guests who aren't from around here may think this is overkill, but this is famiglia territory, after all, and so security here has always been White-House-levels tight.
'Evening, ma'am,' I overhear security address the other passenger. 'Mind if you open the glove compartment for inspection?'
'Oh, sure.'
My head jerks up at hearing the other passenger speak.
That voice!
I know that voice, and my incredulous gaze flies straight to the brunette seated next to the driver.
That can't be her, can it?
"Julio, look!" I elbow my cousin's side and ignore his grunt of pain as I tiptoe and crane my neck in an effort to get a better look at the other girl. "Isn't that Ynez?"
The car speeds away before Julio can take a peek, and I bite back a groan.
Argh!
"I really think that girl—-"
Julio cuts me off with a glare. "Stop it, cuginetta. Remember what we came here for?"
"But I really think—-"
My cousin cuts me off with a groan. "Smettila!" The words translate to 'stop it' in Italian, and I feel slightly guilty after hearing the genuine dismay in Julio's voice.
"Don't you remember your promise, Ysa? Or don't you care anymore about not making your Mama feel guilty for moving on?"
"Of course, I care—-"
"It's been four years since you last had fun," Julio stresses. "Four years!"
I bite back a sigh. Maybe he's right, and I'm worrying too much over Ynez again. "You win."
Julio shakes his head. "Not enough."
I make a face, but my cousin still isn't satisfied.
"I want to hear you promise, cuginetta . No more acting like you're Ynez's babysitter. Capisce? "
"Bene, bene." Fine, fine.
"Still not good enough," Julio retorts. "Give me your word, Ysabel Fiore—-"
"Yes, okay, you have my word."
"Good girl."
I slap his hand off when he tries patting my head, but Julio only laughs since we both know getting a rise out of me has always been one of his favorite hobbies.
The guy in front of us suddenly turns to Julio, asking him something about the lineup for tonight's live concert. You can practically see sparks flying between them, and by the time it's Julio and the other guy's turn to have their IDs scanned for entry, I've had the distinctly awkward pleasure of witnessing their first makeout sesh.
Ugh.
"Don't forget, we meet at midnight, va bene?" My cousin blows me a kiss before walking away with his arm already curled around his newest squeeze.
Security scans my ID next, and it takes only a moment before I have an admission band strapped around my wrist, and I'm also cleared for entry. Admission to the Marchettis' annual fright fest may be free, but pre-registration is non-negotiable for both residents and invited guests alike.
"Oh my gosh, is that..."
"No way, I can't believe that's..."
"Is that really..."
It's not just the Halloween decor, the refreshments, or the scare actors and the top-notch attractions that the Marchettis go all-out on. No expense is also spared to have A-listers drop by every year, and for good reason, too.
Clueless residents may think this party is Boston's most prominent family's way of practicing noblesse oblige, but in reality, it's just the Marchettis wanting to have intel on everyone living in their city.
La Strega isn't the all-seeing, all-reaching, and all-powerful weapon of destruction that she is by chance. Nothing happens in the Hub that the Marchetti matriarch doesn't know about, and it's because of her - and not our so-called 'awesome' local government that's the reason why no one these days ever gets mugged, raped, or murdered.
Just a matter of luck, I can't help thinking as I absently watch a zombie nurse offer complimentary drinks in blood bags. Some people are lucky to live in a city like this, where famiglia with a conscience are in charge. And then there are those who aren't so lucky, like my Papa who...
Non andare lì, Ysabel!
Tonight is all about restarting my life, but I can't do that if I keep going back to the past.
Excited shrieks and cries from other guests give me something new to focus on, and I realize the front act for tonight's concert (also for free, natch ) is about to start.
"It's really them! It's them!"
The stage setup is at the back of the fountain, and while I'm also a huge fan of the girl group from Korea that's just started singing and dancing in front of the crowd—-
I think I need to be alone for now, instead of being lost in a screaming sea of people.
I think I need to go to a place that's a lot more quiet and just think.
I think I need... that.
What seems like a massive garage shed has been repurposed and turned into an indoor horror maze...with a twist.
Answer right, and you get out alive.
Answer wrong, and you won't be breathing for long!
Apprehension skitters down my spine as I read the words that have been spelled out with incandescent light bulbs on a signboard right above its doorway. Since this is a famiglia- organized event that's held in a famiglia -owned property——should I be worried and take that warning literally?
But on the other hand, I did say I want to think, so...
Forza, Ysabel!
I march up determinedly to the entrance, and the clown manning the doors looks at me threateningly.
"You sure you're ready for this, little girl?"
"Bring it on, Pennywise with Black Lips."
He almost drops his act by grinning, but Mr. Fake Pennywise quickly recovers and rings the web-covered bells behind him. Its funereal chime seems to serve as a cue since all sorts of noise follow right after it.
Thunder rumbles, chains rattle, and ghosts moan as the shed doors slowly creak open all on their own, and my heart still races even though I know all of this is make-believe.
"See you on the other side, little girl."
The clown's whisper is the last thing I hear as I enter, and my heart jumps to my throat when the doors abruptly slam shut behind me.
Uh-oh.
I suddenly find myself wondering what I've gotten myself into. There's an exit sign just a few steps away from me, but since it's also labeled COWARD'S WAY OUT—-
Pride keeps me from being a wimp, and I force myself to move forward to the first room, which is completely dark and empty except for the light bulb glowing inside a fortune-telling machine, and a bald man stares at me with eerily realistic eyes from behind the glass walls of its prison.
"Hello, stranger." Its voice is low and heavy, and more demonic than robotic. "I will ask you a question, and if you answer right, I shall let you pass unharmed. But if you answer wrong, a monster shall come and devour you. Do you agree?"
The cover on the machine's control panel slides open to reveal a wireless keyboard underneath, and it even comes with customized Yes and No buttons that glow red in the dark.
I click 'Yes', and Creepy Mr. Bald peels his mouth open with a smile that highlights the viciously sharp edges of his blood-stained teeth.
"Do you know of a 1972 movie that revolves around a Victorian gentleman's obsession with understanding the supernatural phenomenon that only seems to appear in photos of people on death's door? Please type your answer in twenty seconds."
I know this!
"You typed 'The Asphyx.' That is correct. You may go...for now."
There's just a blackout curtain instead of a door that separates the next room from this, and I've only managed to slide it open a couple of inches when I see...something that immediately has my hands flying up to cover my face.
Oh.
Shit.
A part of me has always been incurably drawn to trouble, and it's that part that prevents me from simply squeezing my eyes shut...even when the spaces between my fingers just so happen to land on areas that allow me to see what I'm absolutely not supposed to see.
Is that Massimo Marchetti, fucking some girl against the wall?