For Brandon, no night during the whole year was more special than Halloween night. Even more so than Christmas, this night had palpable magic in the air. In his sweetest dreams, it was Halloween every night.
Standing before the mirror fixed to his bedroom door, Brandon studied himself through the slits of his mask. The red helmet with a black star for its face evoked a sense of power inside Brandon’s heart, as most masks did. It was a constant sense of wonder to Brandon how he felt more himself when he was someone else. Stepping away, Brandon removed the mask and began donning his true costume for the night. Minutes later, he reappeared in front of the mirror and smiled behind his new mask.
He was now the wolf man. A snarling latex snout led to furious glass bead eyes. Faux fur glued around the face and pointed ears really brought the sight to life. With some help from his mother, the rest of his outfit accentuated the mask. Old clothes that had been shoved to the back of his closet were slashed and cut to resemble tattered rags. Under some of the cuts were splotches of fur to help sell his bestial transformation. Gorilla gloves, repurposed from his older brother’s costume from a few years ago, completed the look.
Brandon lost track of time as he posed in front of the mirror and perfected his new monstrous mannerisms. When the doorbell rang, he began searching for his pumpkin-shaped pail.
“Brandon!” called his mother, “You’re friends are here!”
Brandon bolted down the stairs two at a time as he raced to the door and flew past his mother to join the night.
A crew of terrors met Brandon outside his home.
“Wow! You look so cool!” said a hockey-masked child who sounded an awful lot like Anthony.
“Thanks,” said Brandon nonchalantly, “I made it myself.”
“Should we start on Main Street?” asked a bed sheet ghost that might have either been Mike or Alan.
“I don’t give a crap,” said a latex-masked zombie with its brains exposed that was definitely Rob, “just as long as we can get to the Deter’s house. Danielle said her parents are doing full-sized candy bars this year!”
Brandon looked towards the horizon and saw the last cooling embers of daylight extinguish behind a tree line. He inhaled the sweet smell of fallen autumn leaves and cool night air as he closed his eyes to savor the dawning night. That is when he turned toward his neighbor's house, anxiously searching for any sign of activity.
“I don’t care,” Brandon said through his snout, “let's just go!”
The group of monsters ran down the sidewalk, bumping shoulders with Kim Possible and Darth Vader as they went.
. . .
“Happy Halloween!” shouted the chorus of boys as they scampered away from their latest victim. On the street, they showed their bags and buckets to take inventory of their gains.
“I’m already half full!” exclaimed the ghost.
“Yeah, and we haven’t even hit the north side yet,” said the hockey-masked boy.
“We should start heading over there,” said Brandon, so excited that it was hard to control the volume of his voice.
“Brandon? Is that you?” asked a timid voice from behind the group. All of their masked faces turned to see a skinny kid wearing a hand-drawn, paper-cut-out mask that had been colored red. The boy wore thrifted red clothing that had white diamonds cut out and glued on. The new boy lifted his mask and Brandon’s gut tied itself into a knot.
“Why didn’t you wait for me?” asked the boy with tears in his eyes. “We were supposed to trick-or-treat together. And why aren’t you wearing your Red Ranger costume?”
The other boys broke out in laughter as Brandon stood paralyzed.
“What kind of crappy costume is that?!” hollered the zombie with a raised accusatory finger. “What are you supposed to be?! A used tampon?!”
Another round of laughter erupted as the boy wiped his eyes. “I’m the Red Ranger,” he corrected in a broken whisper.
“From that stupid baby show?!” asked a still-laughing ghost. “That's such a lame costume!”
Brandon jolted at that comment and turned away from the boy. “We should go if we don’t want to run out of time.”
“But,” started the boy with a quivering lip, “but it was your idea to be Red Rangers.”
Brandon whirled around on the defensive. “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a kiddy costume like that! You’re supposed to be scary on Halloween! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Brandon began marching away from the now-crying boy. “Come on guys, ignore this baby. Let's go.”
The group laughed and smacked Brandon on the back as the sounds of repressed sobs faded away behind them.
. . .
After another hour, the boys had more candy than they could possibly eat within a single lifetime, and that was, of course, not nearly enough for them. But the jack-o-lantern candles were burning out, and porch lights were being extinguished.
“One more street?” pleaded Brandon, not wanting the night to end.
“Sure!” called out his friends.
They picked a street at random that looked like it had front lights still on and went door to door, snatching up the last pieces of candy that the homeowners had to offer. As they walked away from one such house, inspecting their goods, Brandon looked down the street and gasped.
“Look!”
The rest of the masked heads turned and followed his hairy, gloved finger.
At the end of the street stood a proud and aging Victorian home. Crooked shutters dangled in the wind, stripped away paint revealed the dried and paled boards beneath. Candle flames danced in each window, and smoke escaped the chimney like a puttering wraith. It looked like something from an old black-and-white haunting flick. The house itself was the perfect embodiment of this holiday, but it didn’t stop there.
Jack-o-lantern sentinels lined the walkway leading to the front porch. Foam tombstones made a mock cemetery across the whole front yard with straw-stuffed dummies and plastic bones arranged throughout. Tattered white fabric tied around balls hung from a tree and fluttered in the breeze with sinister faces painted on them.
Never had a house whispered ‘Happy Halloween’ more than this one.
There was no further discussion; the whole group shuffled up to the house.
“Think they still got candy?” asked the zombie.
“A house like that?” asked the ghost. “I bet they got candy bars as big as my arm!”
They walked between the two rows of carved pumpkins, and all failed to notice that each candle puffed out as they passed. Once on the porch, they paused, for each boy wanted to relish this moment for as long as possible. It was the zombie that gripped the cast iron knocker and slammed it on the door thrice. As soon as he stepped back, the door creaked open to display a scarecrow. They took it for another prop until it stepped forward. Its head was a burlap sack, tied tight around the throat with a noose of thick rope. Crude black threaded circles were stitched into the fabric for eyes above a blue threaded grin. Straw poked out of small holes in the flannel shirt he was wearing and out of the wrists where gardener gloves were worn.
“Trick or treat!” called out each boy in unison.
The scarecrow chuckled. “I have a treat for you boys,” the scarecrow said in a voice that sounded like dead leaves scraping down a sidewalk in the wind. “I have the best treat you boys could ever possibly want!”
“King-sized candy bars?” asked the ghost.
“No,” crooned the scarecrow, “Better.”
“Fresh cookies?” asked the zombie.
“Uh-uh.”
“Free toys?” asked the hockey mask.
“A whole bag of candy corn?” asked Brandon.
“No,” laughed the scarecrow. “Something even better than that, but I can’t just give out my treat for free.”
The boys' masked faces turned and looked at one another.
“If you want my treat,” continued the scarecrow, “then you have to survive my tricks.”
“What tricks?” asked the hockey mask.
“Come this way and find out,” said the scarecrow as it stepped back into a darkened hallway of the house, toward an open doorway that light spilled out of, “if you dare.”
Each boy froze and clutched harder onto their sacks of candy and pail handles. The zombie stepped inside and turned toward the rest. “What are you? Chickens?” He stepped closer to the doorway and turned again. “Go ahead and stay out here; that just means more goodies for me.”
Brandon stepped forward just as the zombie disappeared into the doorway. Two more sets of footsteps followed him in. As soon as the last boy had passed the threshold, the door crept shut behind them. A bolt clicked itself into place.
Before them stretched a long hall lined with doors on both sides. At the very end stood the scarecrow, beckoning the boys. “Follow me through here,” rasped the scarecrow.
Hesitantly, the boys shuffled forward. As they started to pass the first door, its rusted hinges groaned and a cold wind swept over the boys. A spectral form glided out of the room and approached the boy dressed in a bed sheet.
“Another of my kind,” sniffled a little girl. She hovered in the air with her curled toes barely touching the floorboards. All her features were blurred as if a thick layer of fog separated her from the group and, if they stared at her directly, they could see right through her.
The boy in the bedsheet stumbled back and dropped his pillowcase of candy onto the floor. “A-a ghost! A real ghost!” he began screaming.
The little girl's face contorted in rage. “You’re just a boy,” she growled, “you are no spirit!”
In a flash, the ghost girl gripped the boy's exposed ankle and dragged his flailing body into the room she had emerged from. The door slammed shut, the boy's screams began to fade away into the distance.
The remaining three had been so terrified during these events that none had moved an inch. The hockey mask turned and ran back to the door they had entered through and yanked on the knob. “Let us out! Let us out! I don’t want any more treats! Please!” But the door did not budge.
“That was real,” mumbled the zombie. “That was really real.”
While the other two began to panic, Brandon stood still and observed the whole situation. He thought he understood and so stepped forward.
“Wait!” called out the zombie, “What are you doing?!”
When Brandon started passing the next door, it was thrown open. A single, massive paw stepped out of the darkness and into the dim light of the hall. The largest wolf Brandon had ever seen walked out on two legs, hunched forward with an arching spine. It growled quietly as frothing saliva dripped from its muzzle.
“Another member of the pack,” snarled the beast in strained words, “Will you join me on my hunt?”
Mimicking the mannerisms of the beast, Brandon growled back. “No need, brother.” He extended his pumpkin bucket forward. “I have just finished hunting and will share.”
The giant snout lowered to the bucket and sniffed with flaring nostrils. “You are most kind,” growled the beast before taking a mouthful of the wrapped candies and stepping backward into its room.
Once the door was shut, Brandon let out a shaking sigh and nearly collapsed to the floor. The other two inched towards him, carefully eyeing the door.
“You just have to play along,” said Brandon, trying to keep his voice even. “One of you has to go next.”
The hockey mask and the zombie looked at each other nervously, their wide eyes visible through the holes of their masks. The zombie gulped and began shuffling forward with one limp foot and groaning. The next door creaked open and a horrid smell filled the hall. It reminded Brandon of the time his father had pulled a dead cat out from under their trailer. The whole back half of the cat was coated in twisting maggots.
A corpse twitched out of the room, its bloated green skin peeling off its face and exposed arms. The clothes it wore were crusted with dirt and looked to be overly starched. One eyeball, milky white with bits of dirt stuck in its moisture, swung against its cheek as it hung out of the socket. The boy zombie froze when the living dead man approached him. Then, with a trembling hand, the boy reached into his plastic bag and pulled out a handful of candies.
“B-braaaaains,” stammered the boy, extending the candy to the corpse. The actual zombie gurgled and blood dribbled out of its mouth as it took the offering and muddled back into its room. Even after the door was shut, the boys all choked on the stench of rotting meat that lingered in the hall.
The hockey-masked boy dropped to his knees and dumped out his bag of treats. “Did either of you get the markers from that one house with the toys?”
“I did,” said the zombie before rooting around in his bag. He found the small box of mini markers and handed it to hockey mask. The boy turned his bag inside out to expose the white interior lining and stuffed a few fistfuls of candy back into the bag and tied a knot so the candy couldn’t escape. He then took the markers and drew two Xs for eyes as well as a frown with a tongue sticking out. With the red mark, he scribbled all over the knot and the dangling section of the bag. Brandon recognized it as a poorly made severed head.
With his creation behind his back, hockey mask slowly walked forward until another door opened. Out stomped the dripping wet body of a large man, wearing an antiqued hockey mask and splattered with blood. The killer did not say anything, he only cocked his head to the side at the boy, who in turn, stood solemnly and slowly pulled out his makeshift head from behind his back. With no words, he showed the fake head to the killer, who nodded and took the head before stomping back into his room.
The moment that the killer’s door closed, the door that the scarecrow had gone through reopened, and all the remaining boys ran toward it.
Where the hall had been sparse, this new room was crowded. Shelves lining the walls were packed full with different-shaped and colored glass bottles and tattered books. Tables were filled with roiling beakers of fluid atop mini gas burners. A constant stream of lightning ran between two tightly coiled rings of wire and a glass tank contained an ample supply of little rats that writhed like a living carpet. In the center of it all, an old man stood with his back to the boys but whirled around when he heard them enter.
The man wore a heavily stained and bleached lab coat as well as thick rubber gloves that reached up to his elbows. What was left of his hair was clumped together into wiry splotches of silver and a gnarly burn scar masked half his face.
“Good!” called out the man with pleasure. “My new research candidates! Now, as much as I would love to have you each stay with me I, unfortunately, have only enough funding for one candidate. So, I thought we could have a little competition to see which one of you is the brightest. Ready?”
The zombie and hockey mask nodded vigorously as Brandon gave a loose affirmative while scanning the rest of the room. He noticed an operating table vaguely hidden behind a standing cabinet that appeared to be covered with dark smears.
“Pop Quiz!” called out the scientist. “Which planet in our solar system is the fifth farthest from the sun?”
“Oh!” exclaimed the hockey mask, “that's Jupiter, right?”
“Correct! A point for our sports-star! Alright then, what is nine squared equal to?”
The zombie counted on his fingers and mumbled for a moment before blurting out, “81!”
“Correct! I see you boys are as skilled with arithmetic as you are with astronomy. Now, let's try history. During the American Revolution, as the colonists rebelled against the British Empire, the Americans often used the slogan ‘no taxation without _____.’”
“Cause?” guessed hockey mask.
“No,” scolded the zombie, “it’s ‘representation.’”
“Absolutely right, my little corpse.” The scientist laughed and rubbed his hands together. As the rest continued their quiz, Brandon kept searching the room through the slits of his mask. On this scan, he discovered a row of large jars stored within a display case at the far end of the room. Inside those jars were wrinkled masses of gray flesh. Brains. Human brains.
“Let's see who is familiar with the periodic table,” said the scientist. “What is the abbreviation for silver?”
“Si,” said Hockey Mask.
He was wrong. Brandon knew that the abbreviation for silver was Ag, but he chose to say nothing. The werewolf took an imperceptible step backward to let the other two boys shine.
“No, it's Au, right?” asked the zombie.
The scientist shook his head in disappointment. “Afraid not. Any other guesses?”
“Um,” the zombie thought and tapped at his mask. “It's A something…Ag?”
“You got it!” exclaimed the scientist. “Well, I think that settles it. My little corpse will be the perfect candidate for my next round of experiments. How could I not choose you? You clearly have the largest mind of all the boys here. You other two may leave through that door.” He gestured to a little door off to his side. Brandon began walking toward the door as the zombie finally caught on.
“Wait, they’re just leaving? But, but I want to go too.”
“Oh, we can’t have that,” said the scientist as he wrapped an arm around the zombie, “That would be a waste of such a beautiful and healthy brain.”
In one fluid motion, the scientist scooped up the boy with far more strength than any would suspect the old man possessed. Hockey Mask froze, watching his friend get carried to the steel table with leather straps dangling from its sides.
“You coming?” asked Brandon with his hand on the knob.
Not wanting to hear his friend scream anymore, Hockey Mask turned and ran toward the door.
This new room was pitch black. The only comfort it gave was that once the door shut behind our last two boys it completely silenced all of the zombie’s cries. The only thing they could hear were sounds that reminded Brandon of a creek: trickling, gurgling, wet sounds.
“What is that?” whispered Hockey Mask as he fought back tears.
“Don’t know,” answered Brandon just before groping the wall for a light switch. When he found one, he flicked it and then regretted it right away.
A single lightbulb crackled to life and exposed the room. Directly across from them, on the opposite side of the room, was the only other door. Laying in a heap, right in front of that door, was the body of a boy wearing a poorly made Red Ranger costume. Knelt over the boy was the scarecrow. At first, the sight was just odd for the two boys, but as the light brightened, the scarecrow jerked one of its arms back, clutching a long kitchen knife, the kind you would use to carve a pumpkin with.
The red ranger gurgled, and a string of blood-soaked saliva shot out of his mouth. His eyes jumped to the two boys, and they felt their blood turn to slush when they met his begging gaze.
“Good,” rasped the scarecrow, spreading his arms in welcome, “you’ve made it to my last trick. I’m having trouble gutting this pumpkin; it keeps moving, you see. Would you boys mind helping me?”
“That’s Jeremy,” muttered Hockey Mask with a whimper. A jolt of anger burst in Brandon’s chest when he heard the name. It was Halloween, they weren’t supposed to use their real names.
Collecting himself, Brandon stepped forward. “Can we leave once we help you?”
“Of course,” said the scarecrow, drawing out every letter, “but don’t forget, you have a nice treat waiting at the end.”
Without another word, Brandon walked over, got down on his knees, and held the writhing boy still.
“Thank you,” breathed the scarecrow.
“This isn’t right,” cried Hockey Mask, but he wasn’t Hockey Mask anymore. When Brandon looked back, the hockey mask dangled in the boy's hand. He was Anthony, only Anthony.
The scarecrow plunged the knife into Jeremy’s belly in three quick jabs. Brandon felt the boy jolt and convulse with each stab, but did his best to hold him still. The smell of blood was so dense that Brandon tasted pennies on his tongue. Panicked banging drew Brandon’s attention back to Anthony, who was slamming his fists against the door they had entered through.
“All done,” rasped the scarecrow. Brandon had been so focused on Anthony’s wailing that he hadn’t noticed the red ranger grow perfectly still.
The scarecrow rose and opened the door lying just behind him. Brandon followed but paused to watch Anthony sink to the floor, crying and pitifully clawing at the other door.
“You can stay with him if you’d like,” said the scarecrow, but Brandon shook his head.
“Wouldn’t do me any good,” said Brandon just before turning and following his host.
They were back in the hall that led to the front door. They shouldn’t be, Brandon knew that made no sense with how they traversed the house, but he was relieved nonetheless.
“Can I have my treat now?” asked Brandon. “I want to go home.”
“Certainly.” The scarecrow curled its straw-stuffed glove fingers around Brandon’s shoulders and spun him to face a grime-covered mirror. He stared into the glass bead eyes of his wolfman mask and again felt pride at his costume.
“You love Halloween, don’t you?” asked the scarecrow. Brandon nodded. “And you love wearing masks, right? Because you love changing yourself?” Again, Brandon nodded.
With a sudden yank, the scarecrow ripped the mask off of Brandon’s head, and the boy gasped. His curly hair was gone, replaced with glossy white plastic. As was his skin, his lips, his ears, and even his eyes. His head was now that of a store mannequin’s, featureless and plain. An unpainted doll.
“Now,” rasped the scarecrow as it uncapped a marker and drew a smile on Brandon’s unflinching features. “It will be easy for you to remake yourself as you see fit. You can wear a mask every. Single. Day.”
Brandon pushed the living scarecrow away and ran for the opened front door. Within seconds he was on the street, screaming through lips that no longer parted. All while the scarecrow’s whispering laughter echoed down the empty streets, chasing the boy.