Bad Apples: Halloween Horror: The Complete Collection

BAD APPLES:

VOLUME ONE

THE RIGGLE TWINS

Gregor Xane

For the twins, the days between Halloweens passed like hours. The sun and moon circled their treehouse home like hungry wolves. There were shadows everywhere inside, in constant motion. Every object looked to be either bleeding darkness or drinking it up. Thanks to Sam, their benefactor, time worked differently for the Riggle twins. Unlike other children, they didn't have to trudge through a whole year played at the proper speed to arrive again at their favorite holiday. But still they were impatient. They were children, after all, and living through what felt like only fifteen days between Halloweens was still sometimes too much to bear. They didn't sleep through the periods of fleeting darkness, either, which only made things worse. Again, thanks to Sam, they had no need for sleep.

But they always found ways to occupy their hands and minds while they waited for the big night to arrive.

And now that big night was almost upon them, and the passage of time had slowed to a crawl.

Ben Riggle kept busy with his confectioner's machines, tinkering or cutting up ingredients, measuring out syrups or doling out the sprinkles. They required constant maintenance. To Ben, this was a pleasure, not a curse. Otherwise, boredom would have driven him mad. He loved keeping a watchful eye and reaching in with the right tool to make the necessary adjustments. He had a dozen machines, and he was always running back and forth between them and the cupboards and the cooling trays.

Bella Riggle sewed in her rocker, her finger bones working thread and needle through a stitch of beaded lace as she watched her brother operate one of his machines, which, like all the others, was made with metal and wood and pieces of once living creatures. Ben worked the pedals, expanding and contracting a clutch of giant crab legs that squeezed a bellows fashioned out of a blackened elephant's lung, pumping air through a caged specter to cool it. The snake-like head of the machine pivoted back and forth, spraying a tray of freshly pressed chocolates with an icy mist.

Bella found it endearing the way her brother Ben's brow furrowed with concentration. She found this especially so because the action of his brow furrowing was an entirely artificial mechanical action based on Ben's own design. There were no muscles under the skin of his face, only skull. Sam had peeled back Ben's face on the night of their resurrection and had cleaned and polished the skull beneath to a magnificent shine. He'd then taken the young boy's detached face and had sewn two ends of a string into either side and had turned it into a mask.

But since then, Ben had made several ingenious adjustments to his mask. He'd fashioned a series of pulleys and levers hooked into key points in the skin. With the turn of a knob, or the pull of a string, he could simulate dozens of expressions.

It's almost time to go. Bella set her sewing aside, stood, stretched and yawned.

I know. Ben pedaled faster. I just want to finish this batch, is all.

Bella moved to a west-facing window. She peered out at the sun stalled above the horizon. Since this was Halloween day, the hours took twice as long to pass for the Riggle twins as they did for normal children. They didn't mind this one bit, because the hours of darkness, too, took twice as long to pass. Bella looked down through the window shaped like a ship's porthole onto the cemetery below, at the weathered and cracked headstones, the neglected cement angels with their wings covered in dirt and the scars left behind by years of acid rain. A man walked between the graves. His slowed-down movements exaggerated the sense of mourning as he fell to his knees before a tilted cross to weep. Tears crept down his cheeks, the petals from the flowers clutched in his hands broke free and hovered solemnly in the air. Bella smiled as she thought of how these mourners appeared on the days between Halloweens, with their sped-up jerky movements, like swarming bees pollinating the graves with their gifts for the dead.

I hear Sam, Ben said. You better pack your things.

Bella turned from the window. Her brother tapped a wrench absently against his thigh, staring at the hatch in the floor. She could hear Sam, too, him humming a tune known only to him, and the heavy breathing, and his ringed fingers quietly clanking against the ladder's rungs.

She gathered up her sewing and shoved it into her overstuffed sack with the rest of the costumes and supplies she'd need for the night's work.

Ben scrambled around the room, gathering tools and treats and traps and filled his sack until the thing looked fit to burst with the jagged angles and pointy bits stretching it out of shape.

Once their supplies had been gathered, the Riggle twins pulled their bags to the center of the room and waited for the hatch to open.

Is it locked? Ben asked.

The hatch?

Of course, the hatch.

No, it never is. You ask that every time.

It doesn't hurt to make sure. He wouldn't be happy if he had to knock, you know.

No, he wouldn't. And he's never had to knock before.

I know.

Then why do you always ask if it's locked?

Just to be sure.

Bella shook her head, and her eyes rolled in their sockets.

The hatch's round door flipped open and slammed against the floorboards, and a cloud of dust billowed from the hole.

Up crawled Sam. He groaned and moaned with his efforts, and Bella could hear the creaking of his bones as he stretched into a standing position.

His boots were covered in mud. His pinstriped pants were torn in places, patched with animal pelts and vellum scraps scrawled over with arcane text. His snakeskin belt was fastened around a slender waist with a buckle shaped like the head of a screaming infant. His shirt was neatly pressed, white and crisp, with the faintest teardrop pattern woven in. He wore a great coat of quilted batwing leather.

A thousand bats had given their lives to make that coat, and Bella loved it. She hoped one day to be able to stitch together something half as grand.

Sam smiled down at his charges. So many dimples and wrinkles creased his face that he looked to be made of ratty paper mache. He was bald up top, and his ears stuck out in a goofy, disarming manner. His eyes were pure gold. He had no pupils or irises, just two orbs of sparkling gold bulging from beneath overgrown eyebrows. His teeth sparkled when he smiled, and his smile came off as friendly, even though his teeth were pointed and fit together like those found between a shark's jaws.

The Riggle twins rushed over to him once it was clear that he'd gotten his bearings and hugged him around the waist. They welcomed him back, told him that they missed him, and squeezed him tight, breathing in the goodness of him, the autumn smells: bonfires, candle wax, and burning things.

It hasn't been that long, little ones. Sam's deep voice was like a raspy stage whisper. A faint echo trailed each word, like an invisible child was always mocking him. If I didn't know better, I'd say you thought I wasn't coming back.

He's right, Bella thought, it hasn't been that long. Sam did come to visit them between Halloweens. He'd sit by the fire and tell them stories. He'd even answer their questions sometimes. But this was a rare thing. Bella held these memories close, like treasures, like the precious things they were.

She remembered his gentle laughter from years ago, when she'd finally managed to work up the courage to ask him the big question. He'd laughed and then he’d said—

I thought you'd never ask.

I'm so sorry.

No need to apologize. I don't mind telling.

Well, then?

Am I really a god of the dead?

Are you?

I don't rightly know, child. The Christians insist that I am. But they can't even get the name right.

But we call you Sam, too.

I know, I know.

Would you rather we use the pagan pronunciation?

No. Those pagans say I don't even exist.

But you're right here.

I wasn't always. Things like me are born, just like everything else.

When were you born?

Oh, a long, long time ago.

When?

When enough blood was spilled in my name. That's how things like me come to be. That's how things like me grow stronger, too.

I thought the kisses made you stronger?

They do.

How'd you learn to kiss like that?

Nobody taught me. I just knew. Once enough blood was spilled, I knew.

—Bella listened to this conversation in the past with her head cocked to one side, staring up at Sam in the present. He stared down at her with an amused expression on his face, his head cocked to mirror hers. Are you with us, Bella?

Bella blinked. Ben nudged her with an elbow.

What? she said.

Are you ready to go? Sam asked.

Yes, of course.

Then stop daydreaming, Ben said. And let's get to it.

Sam laughed, turned back to the hole in the floor, and frowned. My, these passageways are hell on the old back. He leaned over, groaned, stepped onto the ladder and started making his way down.

Bella followed him and pulled her bag in after her. Then Ben hopped down onto the ladder and yanked his bag through the opening, blocking out the light from above.

They descended in silent darkness, then Sam said, One day we'll have to examine the contents of your sack, Ben. You can't possibly need everything you've got crammed in there.

I like to be prepared. And these cages take up a lot of room.

I can teach you a way that wouldn't require the cages, you know.

So you've said. Ben struggled with his bag. But I like working with my own devices.

Sam sighed. Here we are. Back to the light.

They stepped down into a winding tunnel lit by thousands of bioluminescent slugs. The ceiling was low, and Sam had to stoop as they moved along. The end of the tunnel was round and lined with a hundred severed human hands forming an interlocking pattern. This was the seal that made the passage invisible and impassable to anyone but Sam and his charges.

More tunnels wound left and right, but Sam and the twins were concerned with one that led upward. A natural ladder made of roots and rock led up into darkness.

Bella and Ben knew the routine. They retrieved ropes from their sacks. Tied one end around their waists and the other around the mouths of their bags. They'd haul them up once they reached the top. The climbing here was too treacherous. They needed both hands and all their concentration and strength to make it to the top without falling.

Sam climbed up into the darkness, and the Riggle twins followed. It didn't take long before Bella's fingers ached. And a moment after she feared that she couldn't go any further, she heard the sound of cement scraping against cement, and sunlight flooded the tunnel.

Bella looked up at a circle of sky and smiled. It was nice to get out and stretch one's legs after being cooped up between Halloweens.

Sam reached down and lifted the twins out of the hole and helped them reel their bags up after them.

I swear, Ben, your bag gets heavier every year.

Or you're just getting older. Ben looked at Sam and pulled two strings on either side of his face, yanking the corners of his mouth up into a mischievous smile.

Sam snorted, mussed the tangle of strings at the top of Ben's head, and nodded toward the sunset. Such a beautiful sight.

Yes, and I like it when it takes its time, too, Ben said. It's like a slow, painful death.

Benjamin, Bella said, a mockery of shock in her voice. What a horrible thing to say.

What? Ben asked. It can't hear me. And it couldn't get to me if it could.

Bella looked down at the sundial that Sam had pushed aside to allow them passage from the underground. It was off-kilter and the shadow was all wrong. They'd come out on a hilltop overlooking a vast field of headstones. At the center of the field stood their treehouse home. From the outside, you couldn't see the windows or the chimney or the windowboxes filled with lilies. The tree was old and massive. Its roots disturbed the earth like the tentacles of a giant squid roiling the sea. The headstones all around it were nearly toppled in its wake.

All right, children, Sam said. You know the rules.

Yeah, yeah, Ben said. There's only one rule: Be back by midnight.

With the tributes, Bella said.

Yes, Sam said. You can't forget that.

Got it, got it. Ben said. How long have we been doing this?

I'm not sure, Sam said. A long time.

It's the same every year, Ben said. Nothing's changed. We always get back with time to spare.

With the tributes, Bella added. Sometimes more than two.

I know, Sam said. But I'd be remiss if I didn't remind you kids. I do like spending time with you.

We do, too, Ben said.

We sure don't want to get locked out, Bella said. That's the last thing we'd want.

Listen. Sam squatted in front of the twins, reached out, took their hands, and pulled them to him. He sat them each on one knee and hugged them close. That's the last thing I want, too. The sundial seals at midnight, and I can't move it when it locks itself. And I couldn't find two better helpers even if I had to. You know that. So, don't make it so old Sam has to go looking. You understand?

They did. The thought of never seeing Sam again was quite painful, but not as painful as the thought of dying a second time.

Dying once was more than enough.

KELLY CRENSHAW WISHED he'd picked a different checkout lane at the grocery store. But he was stuck now that a whole line had formed up behind him. He'd found himself right next to the two Halloween islands. The island to his left was still stuffed full with bags and bags of individually wrapped candies, but the island to his right was nearly picked clean of Halloween costumes. There were but a few cheap plastic masks dangling from rubber bands over a pile of flimsy one-piece superhero costumes. They looked like knockoffs, too. No kid wanted to dress up as a hero nobody'd ever heard of.

Kelly hated looking at the stuff. Halloween and all the rest were just bullshit holidays invented by marketing assholes to trick you out of your hard-earned cash. Fuck Valentine's Day, Mother's Day, Father's day, goddamned Administrative Assistant's day, and shit all over Christmas.

Shit on Christmas hard. Kelly caught himself whispering this aloud, breathing heavily, nostrils flared, staring at a wrinkled, plastic witch's hat. The thing had reminded him of a Christmas tree. Kelly imagined the Easter Bunny ramming O Tannenbaum up Santa's fat ass. He chuckled inwardly and glanced back to find that there was now a few feet of empty floor between himself and the next person in line, a mother holding her daughter close, with her hands clamped over her child's ears. She gave Kelly the evil eye.

Kelly smiled at her with half his mouth and turned around to see why the line wasn't moving.

Some lady had a miniature attaché case opened; the conveyor belt hissed along its pleather bottom. An accordion filing system nested inside, stuffed with coupons and WIC vouchers. Kelly sneered.

Leeches.

Kelly switched his bottle of bourbon from one hand to the other and pictured himself pouring a tall glass over ice and listening to some be-bop jazz cranked up to drown out the noise of all the little ratfucks in their costumes running through the streets. Drunkenness, darkness, and solitude were all fine, fine things. He couldn't wait to be back home, out of this world of idiots and dupes.

When he finally made it to the checkout counter he had exact change ready, but it still took the cashier forever to ring him up. He wasn't surprised. She was young, probably just out of high school. Kids these days were only taught enough of the English language to allow them to use a cell phone.

Kelly made his way out to the parking lot and wandered in search of his car. It was a huge Buick, so it didn't take him too long to find it. He set his bourbon on the car's roof while he used actual metal keys to unlock the driver's side door. The sound of a car beeping to let you know it was unlocked really got under his skin. There was no doubt in his mind that the CIA had the universal unlock code and could easily access any modern vehicle.

Kelly pulled the door open and set his bag down in the passenger's seat. He then opened every door in turn and rolled down the windows—manually, none of that electric bullshit. It was hot for the last day of October and, although his car had air conditioning, he refused to turn it on if the temperature was anything less than ninety degrees.

After letting the car's interior cool, he took his seat behind the wheel and fished a smoke out of his shirt's breast pocket. He flipped open his Zippo (none of this cheap, plastic Bic crap) and lit up. He looked around the parking lot for young ladies and let his eyes linger on their finely shaped asses as they walked by. He scowled at screaming kids being dragged by their mothers and issued a derisive snort when he saw a fellow old-timer using a walker to get around.

Then he noticed a girl in pigtails by the entrance to the grocery and couldn't believe he'd missed seeing her on his way out. She was wearing the most bizarre Halloween costume he'd ever seen. She looked like a rag doll. Her dress was mostly in tatters, with a few corduroy patches here and there that didn't seem to be doing much good, because the patches themselves had holes in them. But the rag doll dress wasn't what was unusual. What was strange was that her parents had let her leave the house with that skull mask on and those hairy spider legs sticking out of her torso. Based on her size, she couldn't have been more than seven years old.

She looked to be waiting for someone.

Maybe her mom's inside.

Then he noticed that the girl was standing next to a shopping cart. It was filled with two enormous, tattered cloth sacks. They were stuffed full, so they couldn't be trick or treat bags. Beggar's Night didn't start for another hour.

Maybe her mom's one of those hippies who brings her own bags to the grocery store to save the environment from plastic.

He picked a bit of tobacco from his lip and flicked it out the window toward the girl. He never smoked filtered cigarettes. Such niceties were for the pussies of the world.

The grocery's electric doors slid open and another masked kid in a costume ran out and met up with the girl. This kid had a shopping cart, too, and it was filled with groceries. They both moved in the same quick, herky-jerky manner. They were about the same size and were obviously having a conversation. Kelly figured this was the rag doll girl's brother. He was wearing tattered black pants, a cummerbund, bow tie, and what looked like a tuxedo jacket. The thing sparkled when the light hit it, but it looked like it was made of trash. Kelly couldn't tell from where he sat.

The little girl and boy rushed across the parking lot. No parents appeared out of the sliding doors to meet with them, and the kids pushed their carts out onto the sidewalk and kept running.

What the hell?

Kelly twisted the key in the ignition and backed out of his parking spot as quickly as was possible to navigate the giant Buick. He wanted to follow the kids for a few blocks to see what was what. He pulled onto the street and had to squint in both directions before he spotted the kids. They'd already made it two blocks down Hidden Drive.

They sure are fast little shits.

It looked like they were racing those shopping carts, weaving in and out of sidewalk traffic like a pair of reckless hooligans you'd see in some late-night screwball comedy. Kelly could hardly believe that they hadn't crashed into someone yet. He followed them for a few miles before they were forced to stop at a traffic light. This gave Kelly his first chance to pull up next to them and really get a good look.

The boy's tuxedo jacket seemed to be made out of hundreds of candy wrappers. He still couldn't make out what in the jacket was reflecting the light though.

And the boy's face...

He'd never seen a mask like that. It looked like the tragic aftermath of some cosmetic surgeon's psychotic break. The skin was scarred. It sagged in places and was stretched too tight in others. It looked to be fastened to his head with string and wire wrapped around dials, pulleys, and levers.

Maybe this is what the geniuses in Hollywood have done to the Frankenstein monster.

Kelly wouldn't know. He'd not watched TV or gone to a movie in over thirty years.

Kelly also got a good look at what was in the boy's shopping cart. It was chock full of cans of condensed milk, bags of sugar, and boxes of confectioner's chocolate.

Ain't it a little late to start baking up some Halloween candy, kid?

Kelly shook his head.

The light changed, and the kids raced across the street and were turning a corner before Kelly could get his car in gear. He followed down a side street and around the block and found himself at the rear entrance of Treehill Cemetery.

The kids zipped through the stone arch and up the motorway, their shopping carts teetering as they turned a corner and disappeared behind a mausoleum and a tall hedge.

Kelly brought his car to a stop.

What business do these kids have at Treehill?

He almost turned into the cemetery to follow, but decided he didn't care that much. They were probably just taking a shortcut.

Besides, he already felt like a goddamned pervert for following the kids around anyway.

He shook his head, lit up another smoke, and drove home, patting his bottle of bourbon like it was the plump knee of the wife he never had.

ONLY SCATTERED PINPRICKS of light could be seen in his darkened living room. The whirring smoke eater next to his ashtray had a green light indicating that it was on and a yellow blinking light telling Kelly that the filter needed to be changed. Across the room, the stereo's display had an array of flashing lights like the cockpit of an airplane. The turntable was stacked high with vinyl records. Another fell onto the platter, and the motor in the needle arm whirred as it moved into position. Thelonious Monk's Everything Happens to Me crept into the silence.

The curtains were drawn across every window in the house, every shade was pulled down. There wasn't a light on in any room and, most importantly, the porch light was switched off. He could have gotten up and turned on some lights hours ago—trick or treat was long over—but the bourbon had settled his bones, and he was feeling mellow. He was content to burn through smoke after smoke and listen to his jazz albums now without the faint sounds of children screaming and laughing through the walls. He'd eventually nod off in his recliner and wake up in the early hours of the morning with the beginnings of a hangover and make his way upstairs to his bedroom. Tomorrow he'd tour the neighborhood and laugh to himself at the egged and toilet papered houses, at all the smashed pumpkins in the streets.

Kelly smiled in the darkness as he wondered if his hatred for the human race truly qualified as misanthropy if it brought him so much joy.

He poured himself another tumbler full of bourbon and was about to light up another smoke, when the doorbell rang.

He twisted his wrist and looked down at his watch even though he couldn't see it in the dark. He cursed himself for being so stupid, then realized it didn't matter what time it was. He wasn't getting up to answer the door anyway. He smiled, lit up his smoke, and sipped his drink.

The doorbell rang again. And again. And again.

Probably kids playing ding-dong ditch.

He swigged his drink and settled in deeper into his recliner and listened to the bells. He told himself that the noise didn't bother him, that whoever it was would eventually get tired and go away.

But the doorbell kept ringing and ringing. Then the ringing was joined by an insistent knocking, like one kid was banging on the door with both fists while another little fucker was laying into the doorbell button like it was a candy dispenser.

What? They're now kicking and punching the door and ringing the bell? I should get my gun.

He tipped back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass on the TV tray next to his recliner, smashed out his cigarette in the ashtray, and struggled to get to his feet. He teetered a bit to the left, but managed to right himself without falling over.

God, the last thing I want is to break a hip and have to listen to a bunch of fucking geezers complaining about their health all day at some assisted living facility.

Fuck. That.

He got his bearings and walked out of the room, down the hall, and into the foyer with one hand on the wall to help guide him and to keep from tripping in the dark. He didn't want to turn on a light because he had no intention of opening that goddamned door. He was just going to peek out the front window and see which little government subsidized fast food workers of the future were out there scuffing up his door.

He made it to the front window without breaking his neck and pulled aside the curtains just enough for him to peek through without being seen.

The banging stopped. The jangling doorbell echoed through the house, the last note played like it belonged to the improvisational jazz coming from the living room.

Kelly didn't see any kids out on his front stoop.

No. No kids. Just a woman in a wedding dress. And she was standing several feet back from the door, by the stairs leading up to the porch, too far back to either knock on the door or ring the bell.

Fuck me in the ass and call me Mary. What the hell is going on?

Kelly went to the door and looked through the peephole. The woman in the wedding dress lifted her veil, and even though her face was distorted through the fisheye lens, Kelly recognized the woman as Tina Gurst from down the street. He didn't know much about her. She kept to herself, and he always got the impression that she hated people almost as much as he did.

Her mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.

Tina! Kelly shouted through the door. What the hell do you think you're doing beating down my door at this hour?

Her mouth kept moving, and he thought he could hear a soft moan.

Go home! he yelled.

She kept on moving her mouth like some goddamned fish.

But now he heard her crying.

When they start crying, there's no getting rid of them.

He yanked open the door as far as the chain would allow, and his words came out like a growl. Get the fuck out of here, you old—

The blood stopped him. A fine line of blood ran from the inside corner of her right eye down her cheek and dripped onto the front of her white dress.

Jesus, Tina.

Kelly slammed the door, slid the chain from its slot, and flung it open again.

The right side of her face was now covered in blood. He also noticed that she was wearing some kind of metal neck brace.

Are you all right? Kelly's voice wavered. What the hell happened to you?

Tina didn't answer. She continued to stare, unblinking, like she was in shock. Then she lifted both arms out to her sides and brought the cloth of her dress up with them, like she was pretending to be a bird preparing to fly away.

And two kids in Halloween costumes jumped out from under her dress like runaway dwarfs busting out of a circus tent. They raced past Kelly into his foyer, one to either side, knocking into him with the giant sacks they dragged behind them, and nearly sent him tumbling into a hedge.

He regained his footing, whirled around, and didn't see the kids inside. His eyes were still adjusting to the dark after being exposed to the streetlamps and moonlight.

Get the hell out of here, you little shits, Kelly yelled up at his ceiling. The game's over. Get the fuck out!

He took a few steps forward into the house, and the door slammed shut behind him, blocking out the light from the street. He stood perfectly still and listened to the patter of feet across the hardwood floors behind him, the giggles, the footsteps racing up the stairs, followed by a rapid hammering sound.

He searched the wall by the front door, found the light switch, and flipped it on. He squinted at the sudden brightness and heard something smashed to pieces in the kitchen.

That's it. I'm calling the goddamned cops.

He walked cautiously into the kitchen. The toe of his house slipper knocked into a small, square metal object and sent it skidding across the vinyl flooring. He went after it, his feet kicking aside more tiny metal things, screws and pieces of plastic. He picked up the square piece. It was a circuit board. He turned to the counter between the fridge and the stove and saw only a coiled cord where his phone should have been. The panel was ripped from the wall jack, too, and there were wires hanging out.

Oh, shit.

He made his way to the living room, flipping on lights as he went—there was no sign of the kids—and found his walking stick propped against the back of his recliner. He wielded it like a club and began searching behind furniture for his little home invaders.

More rapid hammering came from upstairs. A crash came from the kitchen. Glass shattered.

He rushed in to find one kid's giant bag on the kitchen table. It was stretched out at pointy angles from whatever was crammed inside.

Standing on the countertop, with all the kitchen cabinets open behind him, stood the boy he'd seen at the grocery, the one with the hideous, contorted Halloween mask. The remains of a highball glass lay shattered on the floor.

A cereal box smashed Kelly in the face. Then a can of soup hit him in the knee. A wooden spoon bounced off his shoulder.

Kelly lunged at the kid with his cane raised high, ready to beat the little beast's head in. But the boy was fast. Incredibly fast. He jumped from the countertop to the kitchen island to the table with lightning speed.

Kelly only managed to take a couple of steps forward before realizing the kid was now behind him. He whipped around and found the boy standing with one foot planted on top of his overstuffed sack, with his hands on his hips, as if he were a big game hunter posing for a picture with his latest kill.

Where's the candy, old man? the boy asked.

What? Kelly was breathing heavily now and the word came out more like an exhalation of breath than a coherent question.

You heard me, the boy said.

I don't have any candy. Is that what this is about? Candy?

Yes, sir. The boy pulled down two strings, one on either side of his face, and his frowning mouth turned up to form a maniacal smile. Halloween candy.

I had the porch light off, the shades drawn, Kelly said, speaking more to himself than to the insane child, eyes turned toward the front of his house.

I know, the boy said. That's why we're here.

Kelly raised his cane but didn't move to strike the boy. He'd thought about trying to attack again, but quickly gave up the notion when he noticed the boy was suddenly standing at the opposite end of the kitchen table, out of reach, the second his cane hand moved.

Although he'd love to smash in the brat's face, he'd have to deal with this in a different way. The kid was far too quick for him.

There's another phone in the bedroom.

Kelly lifted the cane higher and the boy jumped off the table and stood by the back door. Now, with some distance between them, Kelly raced out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs. His knees shook from fear as he climbed, afraid that the boy would suddenly appear and trip him and he'd go tumbling backward down the stairs and break his neck.

But the boy didn't follow. It sounded like he'd decided to busy himself with breaking dishes in the kitchen.

Kelly reached the landing, flipped the light switch for the upstairs hallway, but the light didn't come on.

Fuck.

His bedroom was at the very end of the dark hall. It was complete blackness down that way. There was another insane child hiding up there somewhere. That boy's sister, he'd guessed, the skull-faced girl dressed like a rag doll with giant hairy spider legs bursting out from her ribcage.

Little bastards.

He fished inside his shirt's breast pocket and retrieved his Zippo, sparked up a flame, and slid his feet cautiously along the worn carpet. When he arrived at the hall closet next to the bathroom, where he kept the towels and linens, he stopped moving because that's also where he kept the old toolbox he used as a gun safe.

Kelly smiled a crooked smile and flipped shut the Zippo. He yanked open the closet's folding door, reached up blindly to the top shelf and pulled down the cold metal box and set it on the floor. Resting on his haunches, he reached into his front pants pocket, pulled out his key chain and quickly found the right key—the smallest on the ring—and fumbled with the lock. His hands were shaking and moist with sweat.

Glass shattered downstairs.

A little girl giggled nearby.

But Kelly didn't turn to try to get a fix on where the girl was. He concentrated on opening the toolbox. He took a deep breath, steadied his right hand with his left, and managed to get the key into the slot. He twisted the lock open, pulled up the heavy metal lid, reached inside and hefted the cool, comforting weight of his fully-loaded .38 Special. He always kept it loaded.

Always.

His knees crackled as his stood. His back ached, but he barely noticed. The sense of power and control moving up from his gun hand through his arm to swell his chest dampened all pain, made him feel twenty years younger.

He turned toward the bedroom, intent on getting to the phone, but a voice stopped him.

Did you find the candy, old man? It was the boy's voice. He was close. Kelly turned around. The kid was at the top of the stairs.

Kelly noticed the boy was holding a butcher's knife, then found its handle sticking out of his left shoulder. He hadn't seen the kid throw the thing. It was just suddenly there in a flash of red pain unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Kelly fell back into the hall closet, his spine smacking painfully into the shelves, and almost dropped the gun.

But he didn't. He lifted it—even before he could regain solid footing—and fired.

The boy clutched his gut and tumbled backward down the stairs.

Kelly followed. Like a machine programmed to kill, he stomped down the steps after the boy and fired round after round into the boy's body as he made his descent.

When he reached the foyer, he sat down three steps up from the floor, and set the gun down at his side. His screams echoed throughout the house as he pulled the blade from his shoulder. He couldn't see for a moment after letting the knife slide from his bloody fingertips. But when his sight returned, his eyes focused on his house slippers speckled with red.

And the snails between his feet.

Tiny twitching antennas.

Snails?

But they were there, smashed flat into the carpet. A few were still alive and crawling away from him toward the boy he'd gunned down. Blood pooled around the boy's midsection. The kid's guts had spilled out onto the floor.

No. Those aren't intestines.

Kelly sprang to his feet when he realized that what he was seeing were snakes, snakes with bullet holes in them, slithering out from the dead boy's abdomen.

He ran halfway up the stairs before he remembered his gun. When he turned back to retrieve it, the boy's body was gone. Only a trail of snails and a coil of dying snakes remained.

Shit.

He grabbed his gun and climbed the stairs as quickly as he could and rushed headlong through the pitch black hallway toward his bedroom. He crossed the threshold and found himself caught in a net of elastic string that cut painfully into his face, his bleeding shoulder, his gut, as he fell forward and was stopped by the trap from falling all the way to the floor. Kelly was leaning forward at a ninety degree angle, stunned and breathless, when he felt hands on him. They twisted him around in the net of elastic string, wrapping him up in a tight cocoon.

The bedroom light came on, and the skull-faced spider girl stepped in front of him.

This will have to be quick, she said. You had to go and wake the whole neighborhood with that silly gun of yours.

Her jaw moved when she talked, but the up and down movement didn't quite sync up with the words she was saying. She held a device that looked like a cross between a fist-sized wasp and a turkey baster.

Me and my brother usually like to have a bit more fun, but it's getting late. She reached through the netting, wrapped her arm around Kelly's neck, and pulled him down into a headlock.

Kelly screamed as the wasp's stinger plunged into the inside corner of his right eye and blasted the interior of his head with an explosion of colors and exquisite pain. His body convulsed. It was like every part of him was grinding against every other part.

Then the pain was suddenly gone. Blood trickled from his eye. He could only see through his left eye now, and he watched the blood splatter on his bedroom carpet. He saw the wasp device again. Then it was gone, replaced with the girl's skull face, framed ridiculously by those perky pig tails. He got the sense that she was smiling at him, but it was impossible to tell. She placed a bony hand against his cheek in an almost touching gesture and said, It's over now. How do you feel?

He was terrified but couldn’t speak. His body didn’t seem to know how to process the fear and the pain. Intuitively, he knew that he needed permission to express himself verbally or physically now.

It's okay, the skull-faced girl said. You can tell me. You can speak.

Kelly swallowed, wet his lips with this tongue, and said, I'm so, so scared. And I want to cry.

Oh, that's so good to hear, the girl said. It's okay to cry. Just do it quietly.

With that, Kelly began to weep, and the tears rained onto the carpet.

Good, good, the girl said. We like it when you cry.

Kelly looked into the girl's face. He saw two bright green, mischievous eyes floating in the blackness of her eye sockets. He smelled something sweet. Cinnamon. It was overpowering.

Why do you smell so sweet? he asked the girl.

She cocked her head to one side and said, Don't you know? Sugar and spice and everything nice?

Kelly closed his eyes and said, That's what little girls are made of. His voice sounded as if it where echoing up at him from deep inside an ancient well.

When he opened his eyes again, he was floating outside of himself, looking down at his body tangled in a giant spider web that the girl had made with some kind of stretchy string anchored by nails she'd driven all around the door frame. The girl now had a pair of giant scissors, and Kelly feared for a moment that he'd soon be watching her snip his head from his shoulders. But she only used them to cut him down.

He fell to the floor, flat on his face. He was sure that his nose was busted. He saw a pool of blood spreading out from his smashed face into the carpet.

The girl turned his head to the side and began gathering up the thread and stuffing it into her giant bag.

The boy appeared in the doorway, clutching his gut, holding a nest of bloody snakes inside his shirt. A lone snail tumbled out onto the carpet.

The skull-faced girl looked up at the boy, made a clucking noise, and shook her head. It's your own fault, you know.

I know, the boy said.

Why'd you have to go and stick a knife in him?

He made me mad. I couldn't help it.

Well, we might be losing him because of you. He's lost a lot of blood. Look at him. He's all sticky and wet all over.

I'm sorry.

You should be. Sam won't be happy if we let him die.

The boy pulled strings and twisted dials on the side of his head until the corners of his mouth and eyes turned down into a parody of a Greek theater mask of tragedy.

Come over here and let me get you fixed up, the girl said. She searched through her bag and pulled out a stapler.

What are you doing? the boy asked.

I don't have time to stitch you up proper. Hold still.

The boy stood before the girl, turned his head away while she stapled his shirt together, trapping all the snails and snakes inside.

There. She tucked the stapler back into her bag and retrieved a sewing kit. Now you better get the cage on him quick. That gun made a lot of noise.

I will, I will, the boy said. I told you I was sorry.

I know you did. Now get to work. I've got to sew up his shoulder so he doesn't bleed to death on us.

Kelly watched the girl deftly work the needle and thread through the flesh of his shoulder wound, expertly sewing it closed. He didn't feel the pain of it. But he did feel a nauseating tugging sensation, even all the way up near the ceiling.

The boy dragged his bag into the room next to Kelly's body and unpacked a series of black metal rods and springs. There was a lunch box, too, filled with tiny silver screws, and what looked like a plastic drill you'd find in a toy chest.

The boy took up one of the metal rods and measured it against Kelly's right shin. He twisted and pulled the rod, telescoped it to the proper length, and locked the sliding action. He grabbed the drill and a handful of screws and drilled one end of the metal rod into Kelly's leg just below the knee and the other just above the ankle.

The pain brought Kelly back down into his body.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to kick and punch at these evil children. But he could only lie there while his body thrummed, his nervous system delivering pain signals to his brain like high-voltage electrical current.

The boy continued to drill into Kelly's bones, building an exoskeleton. When he had finished drilling rods into all of Kelly's limbs, he went away for a moment, and Kelly heard the unmistakable, slow and steady, click, click, click of bullets being loaded into a revolver.

The girl had finished stitching his shoulder and was now on the ceiling, pulling nails from the top of the door frame with a little pink claw hammer. She crawled down the wall, diligently removing nails from the wood.

The boy came back, and Kelly was finally close enough to see what made the kid's jacket sparkle. Woven in with the candy wrappers that covered the coat were hundreds of little sharp objects: open safety pins, smashed thumbtacks, twisted paperclips, and razor blades.

The boy held up and admired what was obviously a metal neck brace, the same kind of brace Kelly had noticed Tina Gurst wearing on his doorstep. Two large rings connected by a series of springs allowed movement in the neck and the head to turn.

All right, the boy said, his face hovering just a foot or so above Kelly's own. This work is a bit trickier. He put the brace down and twisted two dials set in the side of his head where his ears should have been.

Kelly heard the girl dropping nails into a metal container by the bedroom door. What are you doing over there? We really need to hurry this up, she said.

My face got loose and it's messing with my peripheral vision, the boy said. He continued twisting the dials, and his face rolled up to reveal the bright white skull beneath. When it was bundled up in a neat scroll at the top of his forehead, he said, That's much better. Now that I can see, I'll be able to finish him up in a jiffy.

You better, the girl said. I think I hear sirens.

Kelly thought he did, too, and hope rose through the pain and horror he was feeling. He listened harder and wished the siren would get louder, willed whatever vehicle it called from to drive faster.

But then he couldn't hear the siren anymore because of the blaring drill driving screws into the underside of his jawbone. His eyes shook with the vibrations. Blood ran warm down his neck and pattered on the carpet. The boy drilled the lower ring of the neck brace into both collarbones. Kelly's ribs and sternum shook so violently that he felt like they were going to turn to dust. He couldn't breathe.

Then it was over. The drilling stopped. He sucked in air like he'd just been saved from drowning, and with each inhalation and exhalation of breath, pain tore through his body in waves. He wanted so badly to scream, but he could not.

There we go, the boy said. We're all set. Kelly heard him packing his supplies back into his bag. Then the kid kicked him in the calf. You can get up now, old man.

Kelly found himself sitting up—despite the ceaseless pain and all the injuries—twisting around to his hands and knees, then pushing to a standing position. He saw himself in the full-length mirror by the dresser. His clothes were soaked through with blood. The brace around his neck made him look like a car crash victim. The metal rods screwed into his arms, legs, hands, feet, shoulders and hips looked like a bizarre medieval torture device. The girl had called it a cage.

All right, the boy said. You better get him dressed.

The skull-faced girl skipped across the room, pulled a puffy bundle of cloth from her bag and held it out before Kelly. The cloth was covered with hundreds of felt scales. Go ahead, take it, the girl said. Hurry up and put this on.

Kelly pulled the costume up over his legs and down his arms, zipped up the front. Then the girl handed over a dinosaur head. Great. Now put this on.

Kelly took the head and placed it over his own. The inside smelled like cinnamon. He could see out through the dinosaur's nostrils, could see in the mirror that he was completely lost and unrecognizable.

He was a t-rex wearing a tuxedo.

The approaching siren grew louder.

We better go, the boy said. We don't have a lot of time to get back.

The girl led Kelly downstairs. We'd have plenty of time if you would have just chased this guy into the web instead of toying with him.

The siren stopped.

The boy's bag thumped, thumped, thumped down the steps behind them. That was nothing. It's that lady's fault that we're running so late. She was just too good at hiding.

I know, the girl said. But it was kind of fun finding her, wasn't it?

It was, said the boy. I love playing hide and seek.

Kelly stepped down into the foyer. The skull-faced girl stood to his right, holding his hand. The skull-faced boy rushed forward and pulled open the front door. The walls swarmed with red and blue lights from a police cruiser stopped outside. Kelly could barely see the nose of the car around his neighbor's wedding dress. She was still standing in the exact same position, arms outstretched, holding her dress up to block the view of the street.

Ma'am, came a deep voice from out in the yard. A police officer approached the house. Ma'am, what seems to be the problem?

When the bride didn't answer, the officer's voice changed. He sounded worried. Ma'am, are you all right?

No answer.

All right, ma'am. I'm coming up. Don't move.

The girl's grip tightened around Kelly's fingers.

I'll take care of this, the boy said. He rushed through the door and ducked under the bridal gown and into the yard.

Help, he screamed. There's a bad man in that house!

Then there were gunshots. Two gunshots, followed by a horrible gurgling sound.

It's all right now, the boy said from the yard. We're all clear.

Whew, the girl said. Let's hurry.

She dragged Kelly through the door and onto the porch.

Go down the steps and into the yard, lady, the girl said. The bride did as she was instructed, revealing a driveway filled with light: light from the police cruiser's headlights, the red and blue emergency lights rotating on its roof.

Then Kelly saw the police officer, a big burly man, probably in his late forties, sprawled on the driveway. Blood still bubbled from a hole in his throat and was pooling rapidly around his head.

It was then that Kelly realized that he wouldn't be rescued from these monstrous children, that he'd likely die at their hands, disappearing from the world without a trace, with no one left behind who would miss him.

THE BRIDE STOOD IN the center of the yard, blood seeping down the front of her dress. Bella still held the