Johnny Halloween Page 3

  The town librarian smiled. “I just hope I haven’t missed all the trick-or-treaters. That damn school board meeting ran into overtime, as usual. Our friend Woodbury went on a regular filibuster.”

  Vicky sighed. “I would have been there, but old man Myers put me on the night shift this week. He’s been treating me like pond slime since I went to that city council meeting with you. In fact, I’m beginning to think that he’s a member of the reverend’s flock.”

  “Y’know, it’s getting so you can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys around here.”

  “That’s the truth. How’d the meeting go, anyway?”

  “Not good. The board agreed to pull The Wizard of Oz from the grammar school library.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Nope. They say they’re going to keep one copy behind the desk to circulate to kids whose parents sign a consent form, but you know how long that’ll last—I’ll bet my ACLU card that one of the reverend’s followers will have their little angel borrow the book and ‘lose’ it.”

  Money changed hands. “I guess they’ll be coming after your copies next.”

  “Yeah. They won’t get them so easily, though. Woodbury may have that sad excuse for a school librarian in his pocket, but he doesn’t have me.”

  Vicky bagged the groceries. “I wish I could have been there. I’ve got three kids in that school. They’ve all read the Oz books, and they haven’t sacrificed the family cat to the powers of darkness. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Who’s taking care of the little darlings tonight?”

  “First they’re going trick-or-treating on their own. That’s until nine. Then they’re going to report to the Johnsons next door.”

  Marge cradled the grocery bag. “Ah, the pleasures of single parenthood. Look, I’ll give the little angels lots of candy if they come my way. What costumes should I look for?”

  Vicky winked. “I’ve got one Tin Woodman, one Cowardly Lion, and one Dorothy.”

  “Oh, you devil you,” Marge said.

  ****

  “Reverend Woodbury, do you really believe that the flying monkeys and talking apple trees in The Wizard of Oz are agents of Satan?”

  “That kind of question trivializes our point of view. On the whole, this kind of fantasy ruins young minds. It takes our sons and daughters away from the Christian world, the real world. It endangers their innocent souls. Just like this Halloween holiday, just like that Dungeons & Dragons game, films of this kind cajole and tempt young people into accepting Satan.”

  “So, simply put, what you’re saying is that The Wizard of Oz leads to satanic worship?”

  “There you go again, putting words in my mouth. I’m saying that the Devil is strong in this country today, and getting stronger every second. Incidents of ritual abuse have been well documented. Sites of satanic worship are being discovered all the time—in public parks, in public buildings, right here in suburbia. But some people don’t want us to see the reality of the situation. They’d have us believe that incidents of graveyard vandalism are just youthful hi-jinks, not ceremonies that pay tribute to—”

  “We interrupt this interview with a report of a fire at the Florida Street Mall. It appears that the blaze began at Pandora’s Box, a video store that specializes in fantasy and horror films. The business closed early this evening after a demonstration by members of Reverend Woodbury’s Christcorps degenerated into a fistfight between customers and demonstrators, and the fire began shortly after local police—”

  “Dad, turn off that television and help me wash these apples.”

  “Glad to, Mother. Just the same old stuff, anyhow.”

  “I said wash ’em, don’t bruise ’em.”

  “Well, crikey, this water’s cold. Bound to lose my grip on one or two, with my arthritis.”

  “Lord, I hate fires. My favorite yarn shop is two doors down from that video place, and I sure hope it doesn’t burn.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mother. Maybe you’ll get to go to a fire sale.”

  “That’s not funny, Dad.”

  “S’pose you’re right. Y’know, this town used to be a pretty nice place to live.”

  “Maybe it will be again.”

  “Yep…Good apples this year. Big. Green…”

  ****

  “So, Miss Vicky Taylor, I imagine that your children are out doing the Devil’s business tonight.”

  “Look, Alice, I’m just here to total your groceries. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Not a chance! If you think I’m going to buy my family’s food from one of Lucifer’s harlots, you’ve got another thing coming. I just won’t, that’s all! You can spend the rest of your evening putting these things back on the shelves, and you can tell your boss that I’ll be shopping elsewhere until you’re fired! And one more thing: you keep your little imps away from my door, Miss Vicky Taylor, or I’ll swat them with my Bible and send them straight to hell!”

  The woman stalked off. Vicky stared at the full cart of groceries. Myers would be furious when he heard about the Christcorps’ latest form of protest, and the stock clerks wouldn’t be pleased about it, either. Especially if such dramatics got to be a regular event.

  Vicky pushed the cart aside. She imagined Alice Wentworth sitting in her car, telling her prayer pals how well her stunt had worked.

  Our little reverend’s just full of tricks, isn’t he? Vicky thought as she returned to the register.

  A man was waiting for her. Judging from the way he was carrying on, Vicky guessed that he’d seen the entire incident.

  She grinned. The man was wearing a Scarecrow costume complete with a burlap mask. He had one finger pointed at his forehead, and he said in a rough voice, “If I only had a brain. Am I right?”

  Vicky laughed and rang up the man’s purchases.

  Eight T-bone steaks. Twelve candles. A coil of rope. A pumpkin. A can of lighter fluid.

  The Scarecrow paid her. She bagged the items.

  “Keep the faith,” he said, and then he wobbled out the door, as crazy-legged as Ray Bolger ever was.

  “I never seen so many books.”

  “Here we are. 133.4. Bag ’em.”

  “Right away. Boy, who would have ever thought that people would write so much about this kind of stuff?”

  “It sure does make the head spin, doesn’t it? C’mon, get busy…Okay. That’s enough. I’ll carry these out to the car. You take the flashlight and go find that book the boss wanted.”

  “Sure. What’s the number on it?”

  “It’s fiction, not nonfiction.”

  “Yeah. Right. But what’s the number on it?”

  ****

  “Apples are all clean, Mother.”

  “Good job, Dad. Now comes the hard part.”

  “Gee whiz. Ain’t seen one of these since you gave me the safety razor last Christmas.”

  “That was two Christmases ago, Dad. Now, mind you don’t cut yourself.”

  ****

  Beautiful view from up here, the Scarecrow thought. Stars above and city below.

  His assistants had already planted the fence posts. The Scarecrow peeled plastic wrap and Styrofoam away from the T-bones. He circled the posts, squeezing blood from the meat. Then he crisscrossed the circle, blood dribbling between his gloved fingers as he formed the sign of the pentagram.

  The Scarecrow’s assistants pulled lengths of kindling from the bed of the rented pickup truck. While the masked man placed candles around the circle, they piled the wood around the posts.

  “Not too much just yet.” The Scarecrow’s words puffed the burlap mask away from his face. “Remember, we’ve got to tie ’em to the posts first, and you might get yourself a nasty splinter scrambling around knee-deep in tinder.”

  The men laughed. One moved to light a cigarette.

  “I didn’t say that you should quit working.” The Scarecrow pointed at the truck. “One of you can carve the pumpkin. And someone better make sure that cat hasn’t scratched its way
out of that burlap sack.”

  ****

  Marge caught the phone on the third ring. “Is this Marge King, the librarian?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Got your nose in a big thick book, bitch? Or do you got a big thick book jammed up your filthy cunt while you dream about Satan’s big black cock? Bet you like that, huh? Bet you get all juicy dreaming about—”

  The librarian slammed down the receiver. Stared at the phone. Waited for it to ring again.

  No. Not tonight. She’d heard more than enough for one night.

  The doorbell rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Hating the fear that made her fingers shake, Marge King unplugged the phone.

  She answered the door, a basket of candy cradled under one arm.

  No one was there.

  ****

  “Well, Henry, thanks for letting me use your phone.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Say, mind if I help myself to an apple?”

  “Well, not those apples.”

  “Oh yeah. Silly me.”

  “Here you go. Saved this one for you special.”

  “Thanks, Henry. My, but you grow the best…Big and green.”

  “Whoa, now. There’s that danged doorbell again…and here’s the little woman. Mother, take a look at your favorite Brother!”

  “Why, I’ll be. I just wouldn’t know you, Brother Bishop!”

  “Sally, tonight I wouldn’t even know myself.”

  ****

  The Tin Woodman, the Cowardly Lion, and Dorothy stood at the door.

  “What d’ya think we’ll get?”

  “Last year they had pears and oranges.”

  “Then why’d we save this house for last?”

  “Don’t be stupid, sis.”

  The door opened and the old man smiled down at them. “Well, hello kids! C’mon in, I’ve got someone here I want you to meet…a Munchkin, di -rect from Oz!”

  “Oh boy,” Dorothy whispered. “I don’t think I can stand the excitement.”

  The Tin Woodman and the Cowardly Lion giggled.

  A tall man wearing a Munchkin costume danced across the room.

  “You’re awfully big for a Munchkin,” Dorothy said.

  “Ho ho, little miss! If you think I’m big, just wait till you meet the Scarecrow!”

  ****

  “It’s Tiger!” Dorothy shouted as she ran up the hill. “My little kitty’s here!”

  “Of course he is,” the Scarecrow said, stroking the animal. “What’s Dorothy without her Toto?”

  The library burglars grabbed Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion. The big Munchkin grabbed the Tin Woodman’s Boy Scout ax, threw it into the bushes, and dragged the Tin Woodman up the hill. The boy’s costume rattled as if something had broken deep inside him.

  Kicking, screaming, the three children were wrestled into the circle and tied to the fence posts. Frightened by their protests, the cat sprang from the Scarecrow’s arms.

  Dorothy squirmed against her bonds. “Run, Tiger, run!”

  The men piled high the tinder.

  Squirted it with lighter fluid.

  Sweat stung the Scarecrow’s cheeks. He scratched at his burlap mask, but that only made the itch worse.

  “I know why you’re doing this,” Dorothy said.

  The Scarecrow asked the library burglars for the book with the Yellow Brick Road on its cover. He squirted the worn pages with lighter fluid and hefted the book with one gloved hand.

  “Light it up,” he said.

  ****

  “You mean they never showed up?”

  “Look, Vicky, kids will be kids. Maybe they’re still out running around the neighborhood. After all, it’s Halloween—”

  “And they didn’t call?”

  “Well, they didn’t call me. How about it, Mother? Did they phone you?”

  “No, Dad. They sure didn’t.”

  Vicky sighed. “Henry…Sally…I’m sorry to put you out. You’ve both been such good neighbors. When they show up, will you send them straight home?”

  “Sure thing. G’night, Vicky.”

  The door closed. Vicky turned away from the Johnson’s house, toward her empty, silent home.

  She stared at the sky. A green haze lingered over the hills beyond town, hanging just below the purple darkness. A trick of reflected city lights, she imagined.

  Vicky smiled. A green glow, like the lights of Oz.

  Suddenly, a patch of red erupted amid the green.

  Vicky watched, transfixed, And then realization and fear kicked in at the same instant, and she ran for the telephone.

  ****

  The bullet-proof limo rolled out of town.

  “Bishop, if everyone believes it, then can it be a lie?”

  “No, not a lie. A parable, spread by the media with photos and videotape and physical documentation. A creative truth, if you will.”

  “Guerilla theatre—that’s what the bleeding hearts call it.”

  “Call it what you like, Woody.”

  “But don’t call it murder?”

  “Sometimes these things are necessary. Sometimes, as with David and Goliath, it’s a simple matter of them or us.”

  “I know, Bishop. I know. But the way that Satan hides in the most innocent places, and the things we have to do to fight him…well, sometimes it disturbs me.”

  “Of course it does. You wouldn’t be one of God’s creatures if it didn’t. But look at it this way: we’ve destroyed the evil in this town. Maybe in the entire state. After tonight, it won’t rear its ugly head in these parts ever again. Good folks won’t allow that. Believe me, Woody, they won’t forget what happened here anytime soon. They’ll be on guard from this day forward, and without our little drama, that would never have happened.”

  “Still, the look in that little girl’s eyes…. The way she stared at me, without fear, as if she could see through my mask, as if she possessed some righteous power—”

  Brother Bishop gripped the reverend’s arm. “That was the Evil One, Woody. Don’t you see? That was Lucifer himself, tempting you.”

  The reverend nodded. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and massaged his cheeks, which were dotted with swollen red blotches.

  “Bishop,” he said, “I don’t want to smell or see or feel burlap…ever again.”

  THE MAN WHO KILLED HALLOWEEN

  For kids growing up in the sixties, Halloween was the best of holidays. Costumed boys and girls hit the streets in packs. As night fell entire neighborhoods were transformed into creepshow carnivals.

  Judging by today’s Spookshow Superstore standards, Halloween wasn’t anywhere near wild. In suburban America circa 1968, you’d be hard pressed to find a house with a full-on animatronic display in the front yard featuring giant wriggling arachnids, the way you can today. “Professional” haunted houses with chainsaw-wielding actors and soon-to-be bisected actresses were unknown as well, and you sure weren’t going to see any adult stepping out in full Rocky Horror regalia. Stuff like that just didn’t exist. In those days Halloween meant monsters, and America served up the old cinematic standards who’d been creeping around since the thirties: Frankenstein, Dracula, the Wolf Man and the Mummy.

  So ’68 wasn’t exactly the Halloween that dripped blood. It wasn’t plug-in, and it wasn’t sexy. What it was was a hand-carved pumpkin on the porch, a big bowl of candy behind the front door, and a TV tuned to an old Universal Studios chiller. Barring the occasional old lady who’d dress up as a witch to scare any kiddies who dared to ring her doorbell, few adults wore costumes, or had parties, or did much more than dole out candy.

  In those days, Halloween was for kids. Those who’d reached double digits age-wise mostly made their own costumes, while the under-ten population dressed in outfits purchased at the local five-and-dime. Kids transformed themselves into cut-rate fairy princesses and witches, hippies and soldiers, Tarzan of the Apes and George of the Jungle, and all four Beatles. They made the r
ounds of the neighborhood, collecting their booty in pillowcases or grocery bags, ringing as many doorbells as possible before the clock ticked its way toward the inexorable parental curfew.

  If you started early and moved fast, you could get enough candy to last a month. And if you planned ahead and hit the right houses early enough, you could score stuff that was better than candy—some folks actually gave out homemade treats like popcorn balls and candy apples, and recipients didn’t worry that they’d end up choking on razor blades secreted in same. I mean, you got this stuff from your neighbors. You knew where they lived.

  That’s the way it was in the town where I grew up. Vallejo, California, was home to Mare Island Naval Shipyard. The Yard brought lots of people to town during World War II, and many of them stayed once the war was over. By the time the sixties rolled around, Mare Island was turning out nuclear submarines and business was booming. Economically more blue collar than white, Vallejo was the kind of place where most of the dads worked at the shipyard and most of the moms stayed home to tend the kids.

  That last score was a little different in my family. Both my parents worked. Mom was a railroad clerk, and Dad was a truck driver. The old man, in particular, loved Halloween, and in ’68 he went all out. That year he pulled up in the driveway after work, his pickup loaded with big cardboard boxes. It didn’t take me long to figure out that they were cases of Cracker Jack. I’m not talking special treat-size Cracker Jack, either. These were the real deal. Each case was filled with full-size boxes of caramel corn, nuts, and (as the old advertisement promised), a prize in every pack.

  We stacked the cases in the entry hall. Arriving home from work, my mom took one look at all those boxes and nearly had a stroke—she was sure the old man had blown a week’s grocery money on trick-or-treat swag, but Dad had the only answer guaranteed to save his hide all ready to go. When Mom asked where he’d gotten all that Cracker Jack, he gave her his best Jimmy Hoffa Teamster smile and said: “Don’t worry, Ev. It fell off a truck.”