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 am the 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 hard sell 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.
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 I barely 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 is key. Once it reaches the perfect consistency, it will become something useful, something glorious, something sinister.