Halloween Carnival, Volume 5 Read online

  Kerri laughed, and it was a hideous sound.

  “Keep your eyes on the goddamn road,” she said, poking me in the shoulder with the gun.

  I nodded. Kept my mouth shut.

  We rode in silence for several minutes. Except, of course, for the sniffling sounds coming from the backseat. I was actually thankful for the quiet. I used the time to think, to run everything through my head. The whole thing was beginning to make sense to me now. The pieces were slowly falling into place, and they were forming a very ugly picture.

  We turned left onto Longley Road.

  Then right onto Baker.

  A few blocks later, I broke the silence. “Why are you doing this, Kerri?”

  She looked over at me. Sneered. Her upper lip practically did a dance. “Why don’t you ask Loverboy back there? He’ll tell you all about it, won’t you, Loverboy?” She paused for effect, then said, “No? What’s the matter? Not in the mood to talk right now?”

  “How long has he been cheating on you?” I asked. I skipped a beat for my own effect, then added, “With Amanda, I mean.”

  She didn’t answer for a long time.

  “Ever since school started,” she said quietly. “Ever since the first week of classes.”

  “That’s not true,” Bobby said from the backseat.

  “SHUT UP!” she screamed. She whirled around and pointed the gun directly at him. Her hand was shaking wildly. “No more lies, Loverboy, no more of your fucking lies.”

  “Stop calling me Loverboy,” he wailed. “Please, please stop all of this.”

  And just like that, her hand stopped shaking. Her finger caressed the trigger. Her lips pulled back into a snarl. “You’re nothing but a lying, cheating bastard—”

  “Easy, Kerri,” I said, slowing the car and hoping she didn’t notice.

  “You shut the hell up, too. None of this is your goddamn business, anyway. You just poked your nose in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now you’re gonna pay for it.”

  “Kerri, listen to me—”

  “No, you listen to me! I said shut up and drive. Not one more word.” She stabbed the gun in my direction and cold steel kissed my cheek.

  I looked at her and shuddered. I couldn’t help it. There was madness burning in her eyes. She was afire with it.

  Once, back in college, I’d watched a film about predatory jungle cats. Nothing special, but there’d been several minutes of footage showing a pack of adult male cats in a blood-soaked feeding frenzy. At that moment, driving across the darkened streets of Sparta, that’s precisely what Kerri Johnson’s eyes reminded me of: pure bestial hunger and rage. Uncontrollable and without conscience. There was nothing human left inside those eyes. Nothing at all.

  I shut my mouth and followed her directions.

  A left, then two more rights.

  It was seventeen minutes before midnight when we pulled into the parking lot behind the old post office.

  Nine

  “Jesus, no wonder you found the body,” she said.

  The wind had died down considerably and the woods were ominously still and silent. Nothing seemed to move. Overhead, the cloud cover had mostly blown away and now thick shafts of moonlight fell from between the treetops. Amanda’s body lay in clear view.

  “Send a boy to do a man’s job and this is what you get,” Kerri said and snickered.

  Bobby gestured at me and said, “He already told you that he found her and uncovered her. I swear I did a better job than this. I buried her real good.”

  “Oh, shut up and stop whining,” she said. “I’m so sick of all your goddamn whining.”

  Kerri stood on one side of Amanda’s body. Bobby and I stood on the opposite side. She held the gun in front of her. I could tell she wasn’t sure what to do next.

  I didn’t look at the body. Not once. Instead, I searched for a way out. I considered making a run for it, just sprinting off into darkness, but quickly decided against it. I’ve never been the most coordinated man, and call me a coward if you wish, but it was pure and simple fear that stopped me. The fear that I would stumble and fall before I got even ten or twenty or thirty yards away; the fear that I would roll over onto my back and have to watch as she stood above me and smiled and slowly pulled the trigger…

  No, it would have to be something else…

  “Tell me, Bobby.” Her voice was sweet and mocking. “Exactly what was it about dear little Amanda that made you want to leave me? What…could…it…be? She do your homework for you? Rub your back after practice? Was she good in bed, Bobby?”

  “Shut up.”

  “No, tell me. I really want to know. She had everyone else fooled, but I bet she was a real slut in bed, wasn’t she? Was that it?” She was enjoying this. Getting louder. “Did she suck your cock the way I used to, Bobby? Did she fuck you the way I used to? Come on, don’t be shy. Tell us.”

  “Stop it. Just stop it. The only thing we ever did was kiss. And talk. It wasn’t the way you said it was. I swear it.”

  “You were going to leave me,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  “I loved her, Kerri. Damn it, I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I fell in love with her. Can’t you understand—”

  “Love!” she spat. “What the hell do you know about love? You fell in love with me after only a month. Remember that, Loverboy? Calling me day and night. Writing me all those letters. You remember that?”

  Bobby hung his head. Said nothing.

  “Hell, I should have killed you right along with her,” she hissed.

  There was a long stretch of silence then, maybe three or four minutes. Bobby stared at the ground; Kerri stared at Bobby; I stared at Kerri. No one spoke. No one moved. And then:

  “You know, it was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” she said. “Killing her, I mean.”

  “Stop it,” Bobby said.

  “No, really. It was a snap.”

  “Stop it!”

  “I mean, all I did was push her down and squeeze the trigger. Didn’t even aim. Just pointed and shot her right in the goddamn head.”

  “STOP IT!”

  “And the blood. Jesus, it was—”

  Bobby lost it then.

  He let out a scream that wasn’t quite human and dove over Amanda’s corpse. He crashed onto Kerri’s chest and then fell hard to the ground and rolled into the shadows. There was the unmistakable sound of flesh striking flesh, but I couldn’t tell who was hitting whom. Then I saw it—a glint of metal in the moonlight. The gun. Lying in the dirt. I dove toward it. And then we were all fighting for it. Rolling. Scratching. Kicking. Punching.

  A finger gouged my eye.

  Kerri screamed in my ear.

  Someone pulled my hair.

  I felt a hand grab me between the legs and squeeze.

  A wave of nausea hit and my vision went spotty…

  A gunshot roared in the night.

  Then another.

  Two sharp cracks.

  I rolled free, onto my back, and felt something hot and sticky running down my arm.

  High above us, a barn owl screeched and took flight from the treetops, and I watched as it flew across the face of the moon…

  Ten

  I was the only survivor. I suppose I should tell you that right up front. This story doesn’t have a happy ending. At least, not in the traditional sense.

  They took me to Parkton General Hospital with a bullet wound to the shoulder. A clean wound, the doctor called it. No muscle or nerve damage. He said I was very lucky. Nonetheless, Janice cried so hard I thought they were going to have to admit her into the next bed. That afternoon, her mother drove down to stay with the kids, and Janice and I spent Halloween night watching The Twilight Zone reruns on the hospital television. After three days, the doctors sent me home.

  In deference to the families, Sheriff Cain tried to keep the story out of the press, but he should have known better. It was the biggest news story in the history of Sparta, and it even made the newspapers as f
ar north as Boston. There was a rumor floating around town for a couple weeks that one of those tabloid television programs was coming down to do a story. But they never did show up, and I (and a whole bunch of other folks) was grateful for that.

  Predictably, the out-of-town newspapers and television people went hot and heavy on the love-triangle aspect. The headlines ranged from sex-crazed cheerleader goes on rampage to teenage lust leads to betrayal and murder. They used yearbook photos and maps of Sparta, and one channel even used videotapes that had turned up missing two weeks earlier from the high school.

  For a couple weeks—right up until around Thanksgiving—it was a real mess. Reporters all over the place, asking questions, badgering folks for comments. Curious strangers running loose around the town. People calling the house at all hours. Knocking on the front door. Taking pictures. They even had to block the entrance to the parking lot behind the old post office. And when that didn’t keep the reporters and the sightseers out, they had to string up a barbwire fence, for God’s sake. Seems like a waste of money to me, though. I heard they’re planning to start construction in a month or two on the brand-new shopping plaza. I also heard Walmart is moving in, so at least that’s something.

  Just for the record, in case you’ve been on the moon and haven’t heard, here’s the story exactly as they reported it (some were racier than others, but all the reports essentially said the same thing): A seventeen-year-old cheerleader from a small town in North Carolina kills her classmate in a jealous rage and convinces her unfaithful boyfriend to dispose of the body. Then, after overhearing the drunken and remorseful boyfriend confess to a teacher at a high school dance, the girl kidnaps them both at gunpoint and forces them to drive to the woods where the body is hidden. Once there, she shoots the boyfriend to death, wounds the teacher, and finally is killed herself in a struggle for the gun. The shaken English instructor is the only witness and he’s not talking to the press. His only statement, issued through the local Sheriff’s Department: “A tragedy. Plan and simple. A dark night for this town. A night best forgotten…”

  And that’s pretty much it, the story I told the police after they rushed me to the hospital—all summed up, nice and neat.

  They called it self-defense. A clear-cut case.

  The police and the lawyers agreed. Without question.

  Even Kerri Johnson’s mother and father took the time to send over a card to the house. They scribbled inside that they’d heard at the church that I was having problems coming to grips with what had happened. Reassured me that I was not to blame for their daughter’s death. That it had been “self-defense,” and that she had brought it upon herself through “unholy actions.” The bottom had been signed love, rich & terry. Like a Christmas card.

  You know, self-defense is a nifty little concept when you really stop and think about it. It can mean an awful lot of things to an awful lot of people.

  Truth is, if I do just that, if I stop and think about it long enough, I can almost bring myself to believe in it. Just like all the others.

  But then the dreams come.

  And I see only truth…

  —

  My shoulder is bleeding pretty badly, but strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt. Not even a twinge of discomfort. I’m standing in the shadows with the gun in my hand. I’m not sure how the gun got there, only that at some point during the struggle I’d rolled onto my back and there it was.

  Bobby is behind me, facedown in the brush, dead or dying from a point-blank shot to the back of his head. And there, lying at my feet, is Kerri. Smiling up at me.

  I stand there for a long time, staring down at her. At her smirk. At her eyes.

  And, once again, I think of Janice and my children. I think of this town I call my home. I think of my school and the kids I have taught there. Finally, I think of Amanda Hathaway and, from the corner of my eye, I glimpse her body.

  I look back to Kerri—in one night, this girl has taken away so much from me.

  And still she lies there smiling. Unhurt. Unremorseful.

  I take a step forward and raise the gun. Her smirk turns into a sneer.

  One step closer.

  And I pull the trigger.

  Kerri jerks once on the ground and immediately starts groaning.

  It’s an ugly sound and I want it to stop.

  I kneel down next to her and look into her eyes…and see nothing. Nothing worth saving.

  So I pull the trigger once more…

  —

  It’s summer now and Sparta is a magical place once again. The grass is thick and green. The hills are alive and sparkling with nature’s touch. Every day the sun seems to shine a little brighter.

  Just yesterday, the four of us went on a late-morning picnic down to Hanson’s Creek. There was no one else there and, for a time, it felt like we were the only ones living and breathing in the entire world. Josh caught three catfish and a sunnie before he got tired and took a nap on a stretched-out blanket in the shade. We took off the baby’s shoes and dipped her tiny feet in the cool, bubbling water and marveled at the smiles it brought about. After lunch, Janice picked a bouquet of fresh flowers, and they now decorate our dining room table.

  For the longest time, I sat in the sunshine and watched my family. And thanked God for blessing me with so much.

  Janice smiles more often now and she says I do the same. She thinks I’m finally leaving the bad memories behind, and I have to agree with her.

  Still, sometimes my sleep is troubled and I find myself dreaming of that terrible night back in October.

  And in these dreams, I see their faces.

  Amanda Hathaway, eyes closed forever.

  Bobby Wilcox, weeping and afraid.

  And Kerri Johnson…smiling at me with the eyes of a monster.

  I don’t dream as often now, and I’m thankful for that. One day I hope to stop completely. One day I hope to forget.

  But in the meantime, I’m still father and husband and teacher. I’ve also become a celebrity of sorts around here—albeit a reluctant one. And I still go out and drive some nights. Just not very often now: maybe once or twice a month. Janice still understands, but she worries about me.

  I worry about her, too.

  I worry about a lot of things.

  The Last Dare

  Lisa Tuttle

  “I’ll buy you a Halloween treat,” said the grandmother.

  The little girl backed away from the display of walking zombies and howling ghosts, rubber spiders and bloodshot eyeballs, shaking her head: She didn’t like scary things.

  “Let’s keep looking,” the woman coaxed, and, taking her granddaughter by the hand, walked farther down the aisle of the store.

  They came to a shelf of stuffed toys, featuring ghosts and grinning pumpkins, teddy-bear zombies, vampires, and witches. The little girl stared, then swooped on a sweet-looking black kitten with green eyes, a conical orange hat rakishly cocked over one ear.

  “You like that one?”

  Anxiously, the little girl nodded, even as she pulled away.

  “Sweetheart, of course you can have it. Or whatever you like. We’ll go buy it now. I love Halloween; it’s my favorite holiday. How about you, Madison? Do you love Halloween?”

  Madison shrugged her skinny shoulders and raised the stuffed cat to her face, rubbing it against her cheek. She whispered, “Love her.”

  “Has she got a name?”

  “Holly.”

  “Holly? That sounds more like Christmas to me.”

  “Holly—for Halloween.”

  They had reached the line for checkout, and at the grandmother’s characteristic short, sharp bark of a laugh, another woman turned, looking startled.

  The grandmother apologized. “I was just laughing at myself for being silly.”

  The other woman, a well-maintained platinum blonde of indeterminate age, widened her eyes. “I know you. Elaine Alverson? Is that you?”

  “Yes, but how—Bobbi? Bobbi Marshall?”
/>   With exclamations of surprise and delight, the two women embraced.

  “Gamma, who is it?”

  The girl who spoke was dressed like a tiny Goth in a black T-shirt and ripped leggings, her hair teased and gelled into spikes.

  “Ruby, my youngest granddaughter,” said Bobbi. “She doesn’t always look like this.”

  “Just for Halloween,” said Ruby. “Tonight, I get to wear eyeliner and black lipstick, too. I never met you before, did I?”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Bobbi. “This is Laney…Elaine…Ms. Alverson?”

  “Call me Lane.”

  “Lane and I were best friends when we were little, since second grade.”

  “I’m in second grade,” said Ruby.

  “Me, too.” Lane was startled by Madison’s voice, no longer a whisper but piping and clear, the way it had been before she left New York. Her daughter had told her that Madison was finding it hard to settle at her new school, having arrived late in a class where friendships and pecking order were already firmly established. Someone had made fun of her accent, and the child’s response had been to clam up. Lane was even more surprised to hear Madison address the other little girl: “Your hair looks so cool. How do you get it like that?”

  “Actually, my mom did it. With a ton of hair gel. She’s going to do my makeup, too. Black,” she added, with relish.

  “Mine won’t let me wear makeup.”

  “Not even for Halloween?”

  Madison cocked her head. “Well—maybe. I’ll ask.”

  “What are you going to be?”

  “A princess.”

  “A princess needs makeup!”

  As the girls chatted, Lane’s attention was claimed by her old friend. “This is so amazing! When did you move back?”

  “I didn’t.” She barely repressed a shudder. “I would never move back to Texas. But Kate—my daughter—came here for her husband’s new job. They wanted me for Thanksgiving, but I’d made my plans, so here I am—just for a week.”

  “You must miss them. Your only grandchild?”

  Lane nodded, glancing at the girls, who had progressed to exchanging secrets, hunched close together, whispering and giggling.