As John fiddled to get the key into the lock of the front door, he heard a noise and squinted short-sightedly into the darkness.
It was Bob, his neighbour, peering over the fence.
“Happy Halloween, John.” Bob said. “Going out tonight for a Halloween treat?
“Yes,” John nodded. “Thought of going to the pub.”
Bob raised his hand. “Mind you, a man has been killed in a weird car accident,” he said, with a penetrating look. “On Hillier’s Road. The pub might be hard to reach.”
John nodded and smiled. “Might as well stay indoors then,” he said.
John entered the living room, switched on the light and looked around. The house was very old and dilapidated. In fact Bob had once claimed that it was over 175 years old. Used to be a badly managed boy’s foster home, he had said. Bob had apparently heard this from a real-estate agent who had let Bob into this confidentiality.
John looked around and stroked his chin. “This bloody place needs to be fixed,” he muttered under his breath. He threw his satchel on the old sofa and then headed towards the fridge. He took out a bottle of beer and peered at the meats and a bag of frozen pumpkin stacked in the freezer compartment.
Might as well stay at home, light a camp fire in the backyard or do a barbecue, he thought. He had no friends to invite and had no relatives in town. His only pastime outside work was to visit the local pub. He pulled out a couple of steaks and the packet of pumpkin and laid them out on the kitchen table. He needed a special treat on Halloween; barbequed steak and pumpkin soup.
He walked into the backyard, pulled the covers off the small barbeque and lit up the flame. It was a starry night. Very quiet except for the occasional group of screaming kids on the street outside. He smiled to himself. Aah. I can forgive their misdemeanours tonight…. It was Halloween after all.
He took the last gulp out of the beer bottle and then headed back inside the house. He wanted to change into his night gear quickly while the barbeque heated up and the meats thawed. The bedroom was upstairs. As he stepped towards the staircase, he heard loud knocking on his front accompanied by squeals of laughter.
John sighed and rolled his eyes. Halloween kids.
He opened the door and peered outside in the dark. There were around ten kids, all boys, dressed up in the most horrible disguise and attire. For a moment he shuddered as he looked at their faces. Someone had done a very good makeup job on the kids, he thought. They looked frightening. There was one kid, with a face painted like a skull, and even had a small jack o ‘lantern dangling on his hands.
“Trick or treat?” asked the kid in the front of the mob.
John scratched his head as he tried to remember if he had any chocolates and lollies in the house.
“Trick or treat?” This time it was the obese kid standing at the back of the pack, streams of blood running down his chin. John sensed a veiled threat in the voice and scowled at the pack.
“Trick it is,” screamed the boy in the front as John hesitated.
“Trick it is!” The pack of boys screamed in unison and before John could shut the door, the squealing group had edged past him into the house.
“Hey,” John shouted. “Get back all of you. You cannot do this.”
It hardly made any difference. Some of the kids had run into the living room and a few had run up the stairs towards the bedroom. John suddenly realised that barbeque was switched on and ran out to the backyard. He screeched to a halt when he saw that the kids were standing around the barbeque warming their hands.
“Listen,” he said. “You need to get out of my house right now.”
The smallest kid turned around on him. He had a sallow face and the horrible make up on the face that made John squirm inside his shoes.
“This is not your house,” the little boy said. “This is my house. I used to live here before.”
“What?” John could hardly believe his ears. “Now look here. I am losing my patience. Get the hell out of here. Now!”
Before the kid could answer, John heard a crashing noise from inside the house.
“What the fuck!” John said and ran inside the house.
He could hear some of the kids giggling in the bedroom. Two of them were running up and down the staircase, squealing with pleasure. A large vase lay in pieces at the bottom of the stairs. John groaned in dismay. It was an expensive purchase from his last overseas trip.
“Fiddlesticks! I will not have you dashing up and down the stairs like a couple of mindless zombies,” he said, his eyes bloodshot.
John could feel that he had started sweating with frustration. An old habit that was a warning sign that his patience was running out. He dug out his mobile phone from his pocket and raised his voice over the cacophony. “I need you to get out my house right now. Now! Else I am going to call the police.”
For a few moments, a deathly silence spread across the group. John could hear his own laboured breathing and felt a fine trickle of perspiration running down his face. He saw the kids step out of his bedroom. He glared at them for a few moments and slowly but deliberately, put his forefinger on the phone.
“You have one minute to get out of this place,” he said. “Just one minute.”
Suddenly a giggle broke dissected through deathly silence. John turned around. It was the pale little boy. The other group from the backyard had trooped in behind him.
“What are you giggling about, you idiot?” John asked.
“You can’t phone the police.” It was obese boy who was standing at the top of the staircase.
“This is my house,” wailed the little boy. “This is my house. I used to live here.”
“That’s enough,” John said. “I am calling police right now.”
“No you won’t,” said a sturdy looking boy. He looked like the leader of the pack. He had a horrible yellowish face and long red nails.
“How dare you,” John shouted. “And what will you do if I call the police, huh?”
There was a chocking silence around the room as the boys walked towards John. He suddenly realised that they were forming a tight circle around him. He was not enjoying this confrontation at all; in fact he felt a little petrified. He side-stepped and tried to get out of the circle but tripped over the broken vase and fell on his knees. He heard a click as someone switched off the lights. The only light in the room came from the jack o ‘lantern that had been placed on the floor.
John looked up and could see the group gathering around on him very slowly. He felt as if he was watching everything unfold in slow motion.
The sturdy young lad placed his face very close to John’s and raised his voice. “Did you just ask what we are going to do about it, did you?
John stared at him. The abrasions on his face looked so real now.
“Well,” the sturdy boy said with a smile. “We will kill you.”
Another giggle resounded across the room. “Like we killed the man in the car today.”
A sob rang across the room. “This is my house.” It was the little pale boy’s tremulous voice.
Mind you, a man has been killed in a very weird looking car accident…. the words of his neighbour flitted across John’s mind.
This used to be a boys’ foster home…. Bob had mentioned once….
He opened his mouth to say something but could only produce a croaking voice.
“I wish I could take the make-up off your bloody faces, you fucking weirdos,” he said wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
The fat boy laughed out loudly. “Makeup? What makeup?”
The group had now closed in on John. He could see their faces hovering over him and the smell the fetid breath hung in the air. John knew that smell… it was the rotten smell of death; of dead bodies. He suddenly felt very faint. He wanted to shout for help but could not.
The faces closed in and John peered at the faces as if through a haze.
The fat boy was right….. There was no makeup on the faces…. just age-old white wrinkles that made patterns on the little faces, weaving through what looked like dried blood.
He let out a silent scream as ten sets of long red nails dug into him.
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