Halloween Kills: The Official Movie Novelization E-Book

Tim Waggoner

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The official novelization of the highly anticipated sequel to 2018's Halloween, starring Jamie Lee Curtis.Halloween Kills is an upcoming American slasher film directed by David Gordon Green and written by Green, Danny McBride and Scott Teems. It is a sequel to 2018's Halloween and the twelfth installment in the Halloween franchise. The film stars Jamie Lee Curtis and Nick Castle reprising their roles as Laurie Strode and Michael Myers, with James Jude Courtney also portraying Myers. Judy Greer, Andi Matichak, Kyle Richards, Charles Cyphers and Nancy Stephens reprise their roles from the 2018 and 1978 films, with Anthony Michael Hall also joining. The film is produced by Malek Akkad, Jason Blum, and Bill Block.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

Acknowledgments

About the Author

HALLOWEEN KILLS

THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

HALLOWEEN KILLS

THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

BY

TIM WAGGONER

TITANBOOKS

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Halloween Kills – The Official Movie Novelization

Print edition ISBN: 9781789096019

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789096194

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2021

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Cover Image © 2021 Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

© 2021 Miramax, LLC. All Rights Reserved. MIRAMAX and HALLOWEEN KILLS are the trademarks or registered trademarks of Miramax, LLC. Used under license.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the

British Library.

This one’s for Dennis Etchison who,

as Jack Martin, wrote the novelization

of Halloween II. It’s an honor to follow

in his blood-soaked footsteps.

PROLOGUE

The Shape stands motionless at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the three women who have imprisoned him in this trap. Their faces display a range of emotions: anger, disbelief, fear… but most of all, triumph. This is most prominent on the face of the oldest woman, although when the Shape looks at her, he sees a different face, a much younger one. The face of She Who Will Not Die. The Shape is incapable of feeling anything as he gazes into her eyes, but something stirs inside him, a need for… what? Completion? Closure? Perhaps. Or maybe it’s simply a need to see the life fade in those eyes—those stubborn, stubborn eyes—to watch them become cold and empty, like his.

Iron bars separate him from the women, and orange flames flare to life around him. He feels heat on his back, smells smoke in the air, but neither sensation alarms him. They mean no more to him than the pain of the injuries he’s sustained this night, during his hunt. Some prey go down easy, some go down hard, but they all go down in the end.

Except Her.

The women leave, but not before She gives him onelast look, as if she wants to etch this moment into her memory so she might relive it over and over. The Shape understands this desire.

Then the women are gone, and the Shape stands alone in the basement, still staring up through the bars of his prison, at the empty space where those faces had been. He thinks nothing, feels nothing, is nothing.

The flames grow hotter, the smoke thicker, and he waits for whatever will come next.

1

HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS

Halloween night, 2018

Cameron Elam walked through the park in his bare feet. It was late October, and the grass was cold, but no way was he going to try to walk home in high heels. He’d only worn them as part of his costume, and he’d taken them off soon after he and Allyson had arrived at the dance. Not only did the damn things pinch his feet, he could barely keep his balance in them. And given how much he’d had to drink tonight, he figured he was unsteady enough as it was. So he carried the shoes, although why he hadn’t simply dropped them in the trash before leaving the high school, he couldn’t say. It wasn’t as if he was ever going to use them again. Maybe carrying them was a small way of punishing himself for having been such an asshole tonight. It wasn’t much in the way of penance, but it was a start.

He and Allyson had gone to the dance dressed as gender-swapped versions of Bonnie and Clyde, the infamous bank-robbing couple from the 1930s. Cam’s outfit consisted of a tan beret, brown scarf, yellow short-sleeved cardigan—now beer-stained— brown plaid skirt, lipstick, and those damn heels. Instead of a blond wig, he’d decided to go with his own brown, shoulder-length curls, and he hadn’t shaved his legs, figuring that would make the outfit funnier. The costumes had seemed like a good idea at the time, but once they were at the dance, no one had a clue who he and Allyson were supposed to be. The 1930s were ancient history as far as his generation was concerned. Practically prehistoric.

He walked through a small neighborhood park—oak trees, playground equipment, soccer field—rather than on the side of the street. The last thing he wanted right now was for someone to see him like this. He didn’t need people honking their horns and laughing at him as they drove by, shouting through open windows. Hey, baby! Looks like you had a rough night!

He couldn’t believe he’d screwed things up with Allyson so badly. Things between them had been going well lately, so much so that she’d even introduced him to her family. Her mom and dad seemed nice enough—for parents, that is—but her grandmother was an absolute headcase. Still, he had no room to criticize. His dad was pretty messed up, too. That was something he and Allyson had in common: nuts growing on the family tree. She hadn’t been thrilled about Oscar tagging along with them tonight, though. He could be obnoxious sometimes… okay, most times, but she’d put up with him because he was Cam’s friend. What she hadn’t put up with was Cam’s drinking. He’d brought a hip flask with him to the dance. It’s an accessory, he’d told her, that’s all. What he hadn’t told her was that he’d filled his “accessory” with gin. Not only had he drunk liberally from it every chance he got, he also had a couple of the beers that Oscar had snuck into the dance. He’d known Allyson didn’t like it when he drank, and to make matters worse, when she’d gone off to answer a call—most likely from Vicky— his former girlfriend Kim had approached him on the dance floor. They’d spoken for a couple minutes, making small talk. You having a good time? What’s the most ridiculous costume you’ve seen so far? And then, out of nowhere, she’d kissed him. Yeah, he’d kissed her back, but he’d been drunk and hadn’t realized what he’d been doing. Or maybe that had just been his excuse. Allyson had seen him kiss Kim, and when he’d tried to explain what had happened and how it hadn’t meant anything, not really, they’d argued. He’d ended up snatching her phone out of her hand and dropping it into a bowl of nacho cheese sauce. He hated her phone—it seemed she was always on the damn thing, interrupting their time together— but it had been a stupid, childish thing to do, and he’d instantly regretted it. But before he could apologize, Allyson had stormed off and he’d been too ashamed to go after her right away.

When he’d finally worked up his courage—and sobered up a little—he’d gone in search of her, but he hadn’t been able to find her. She’d left, and he couldn’t blame her. He’d looked for Oscar then, but he hadn’t been able to find him, either. The three of them hadn’t driven to the dance, and he hadn’t felt like bumming a ride off anyone, didn’t want to explain why he was on his own, so he’d started walking. The night air was cold on his bare arms and legs, and he wished he’d thought to bring a jacket with him to the dance. He shivered, and figured he’d probably end up getting a damn cold. God, could this night get any worse?

He wished he could call or text Allyson, but of course she didn’t have her phone. For all he knew, it was still back at the high school, submerged in cheese sauce. He could call Oscar, however. Maybe he knew where Allyson was, and even if he didn’t, at least he’d listen to Cam’s tale of woe. Oscar could be a jerk sometimes, but he was a good guy underneath all the smarminess.

He carried his own phone tucked into his skirt. He took it out now and called Oscar’s number. He listened as it rang on the other end. And rang. And rang.

“Pick up, pick up…” he muttered. “Where are you?”

A click, and then Oscar’s voice.

“Hey there, sassy lover. This is Oscar—”

Voicemail.

“—I’m not able to come to answer your call right now because… I’m standing right behind you. BOO!”

A beep, then Cam began speaking, the words coming out in an anxious rush.

“Oscar, call me when you get this. I messed up with Allyson. I gotta find her. Gotta fix it. If you guys are together, if you know where she is, let me know, okay, bud? Be safe.”

He disconnected.

“Dammit!”

In frustration, he tore the beret off his head and hurled it away from him as hard as he could. It spun through the air and landed soundlessly in the grass near the high chain-link fence that separated the park from the street. He was about to throw the high heels too, when he saw something lying on the other side of the fence, not far from the curb. There weren’t any streetlights close by, but the moon was full tonight—how appropriate was that?—and Cam could see that the object was human-shaped. At first he thought it was a scarecrow or a dummy, a Halloween decoration that someone had stolen and left in the street. But then the decoration stirred and let out a soft moan. Christ, it was a person!

“Hey, you okay?” Cam called out nervously.

Another moan, louder this time.

Cam didn’t think. He tucked his phone back into his skirt, dropped the heels, and ran toward the fence. There wasn’t an exit to the street here, so when he reached the fence, he began climbing, fast as he could. The metal links were cold on his hands and they hurt his already aching feet, but he barely registered the discomfort. The fence wasn’t all that high—maybe seven, eight feet—and when he reached the top, he swung his bare legs over and dropped. He landed with a jolt on a small strip of grass that lay between the fence and the street, and nearly lost his balance and fell. Goddam gin! He stood, turned, and hurried toward the man, reaching him in three quick strides.

The first thing Cam noticed was the blood. It lay on the asphalt near the man’s head, inky black in the moonlight. Then he saw the vicious wound on the side of the man’s neck, and he understood where all that blood had come from, was still coming from. He knew that if he didn’t do something, and fast, the man would bleed out within minutes, maybe seconds. He tore the scarf from around his neck and crouched next to the man. When he saw the wound close up—flesh torn and ragged, wet meat visible inside—his stomach lurched. He almost vomited, but he gritted his teeth and swallowed. Keep it together, Cam. This guy needs you.

“I’ll get help,” he told the man. He raised his voice and shouted, “Somebody help! Help us!”

He lifted the man’s head, wrapped the scarf around his neck, pulled it tight as he dared—eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the man—then tied it. He couldn’t use the scarf as a tourniquet, couldn’t risk cutting off the flow of blood to the man’s head, which meant this makeshift bandage was a temporary solution. This guy needed a paramedic, not some drunk high school kid. Although Cam didn’t feel very drunk right now. He felt stone cold sober.

His voice echoed in the night, but there was no answer.

He looked at the man, registering his features for the first time. He was older than Cam had first thought, in his fifties or sixties, with short, gray hair and a high forehead. He wore a dark jacket with a gold badge on the front and the Haddonfield Sheriff’s Department emblem stitched onto the shoulder. Cam wasn’t a fan of cops—what teenager was?—and he was uncomfortably aware that he still carried his flask, and that it wasn’t empty. But he told himself to forget about that. Who gave a damn if he got in trouble for underage drinking tonight? A man’s life was at stake.

“Hold on, man. Hold on. Officer…” He took a quick glance at the nametag on the man’s uniform. “Hawkins. Take it easy. C’mon, please. You got it!”

Up to this point, the man’s eyes had been closed, as if he were hovering on the brink of unconsciousness. But now his eyes flew open and his hands lunged toward Cam. He flinched, thinking the man was attacking him in his delirium. But instead he grabbed hold of Cam’s sweater with surprising strength and pulled him closer. His eyes were wide and wild, and when he spoke his voice was a harsh rasp.

“He must die. He needs to die.”

Then all the strength drained out of the man, and he let go of Cam’s sweater. He lay back, face pale, but he didn’t close his eyes, and while his breathing was rough, it remained steady. The man wasn’t ready to check out yet. He was a tough one.

Cam had no idea what the man was talking about. Who needed to die? But right now it didn’t matter. He grabbed his phone and called 911. And while Cam frantically explained to the operator what was happening, Officer Frank Hawkins gazed up at the full moon—which looked too much like an expressionless white mask to him just then—and remembered another night, another Halloween, long ago…

2

HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS

Halloween night, 1978

Frank Hawkins, twenty-five years old, ran through shadows cast by tall leafless trees, revolver in his right hand, flashlight in his left, feet pounding, heart racing, lungs heaving. When he’d joined the sheriff’s department a few months ago, he hadn’t anticipated running hell-bent for leather through quiet neighborhoods, desperately searching for a madman, yet here he was. And he sure as hell hadn’t expected that madman to be little Mikey Myers, all grown up and returned to Haddonfield to shed more blood. So far, Michael had killed three people during his homecoming—including Sherriff Brackett’s teenage daughter—and the entire department was out in force, determined to make sure Michael didn’t claim any more lives.

There weren’t any streetlights in this part of town. The residents here liked it dark and peaceful at night, wanted to preserve a cozy small-town atmosphere. Streetlights, with their cold garish illumination, were for cities—impersonal, crime-ridden, dangerous places. Not little old Haddonfield. And while some people had a habit of leaving their front porchlights on at night, most were off now, a signal to any late trick-or-treaters that the homeowners’ candy supplies had been depleted. No one had their back porchlights on, though, which was why Hawkins searched their yards. The darkness made a perfect hiding place for things that preferred to go about their work unseen—things like Michael Myers. He kept his flashlight off, though. He didn’t want to give away his location to Michael, didn’t want him to flee—or attack.

Hawkins had been ten, only four years older than Michael when the boy had, for some twisted, unfathomable reason, slaughtered his teenage sister Judith on Halloween night in 1963. Michael had been institutionalized ever since, his family home long abandoned. Hawkins had no idea what had happened to Michael’s parents. One day they were simply gone, their house empty. People gossiped about what had happened to them—some said they’d had another child and left town to start their family anew—but no one seemed to actually know. Hawkins figured that remaining in town, and especially in that house, had been too painful for Michael’s parents, and they’d gone somewhere they could, if not forget, at least not be constantly reminded of the tragedy that had struck their family.

In the fifteen years since Michael had killed Judith, Haddonfield’s children had turned him into folklore, telling stories about Michael, saying his family had kept him locked in the attic where they tormented and tortured him until he’d been driven insane. Or that he had been possessed by a demon that had forced him to commit murder—a demon that still remained in the Myers house and which would possess any child foolish enough to cross its threshold. Hawkins wondered what stories children would tell after this night was done.

He stopped running, as much to catch his breath as to listen and see if he heard anything suspicious. At first there was nothing, but then he heard the sound of a vehicle racing down a street a couple blocks over. He turned and saw the blue lights of a sheriff’s department cruiser flickering between the dark silhouettes of houses as the officer hauled ass down the street. Had Michael been spotted somewhere else? God, he hoped so. He wasn’t afraid of encountering the lunatic, but it wasn’t something he wanted, either. He’d never fired his weapon on the job, had never had cause to even draw the damn thing, and while he hoped his training would take over if and when the time came to take a shot at someone, the truth was he didn’t know if he could do it—and he wasn’t in a hurry to find out. Besides, rumor was that Michael had already been shot, six times as a matter of fact, point-fucking-blank. But that had to be bullshit. No one could take that many rounds to the chest and live, let alone go on the run. If Michael had been shot, which Hawkins seriously doubted, he was most likely lying dead in some alley or ditch and his body wouldn’t be found until the sun rose.

Where were the other deputies? This was a lot of area for one man to search, so he’d called for backup a while ago. And while he didn’t want to admit it, he was spooked out here by himself. He could use the reassurance of having more experienced officers with him. But so far he’d seen no sign of them.

He’d finished with this street, and he considered heading back to where they’d parked the cruiser. Maybe the other deputies he’d ridden with had finished searching and regrouped back at the car. Maybe they’d gotten word that Michael had been located somewhere else. But his job was to continue searching until he received orders to stop, so that’s what he’d do. Besides, what if Michael was lurking somewhere around here? Hawkins wouldn’t be able to live with himself if someone died because he’d gotten scared.

He decided to head west, and he jogged toward an alley between a pair of two-story houses, intending to use it as a shortcut. But he only made it a few yards before he froze. A tall, almost robotic figure was crossing the alley fifty yards in front of him. The man had just appeared, as if he’d emerged from the shadows, and he moved silent as a ghost, his feet making no sound. It was difficult to make out much detail from this distance, but Hawkins saw the man wore dark clothes—as if he was garbed in shadow itself—and his face was an eerie, spectral white. If Hawkins hadn’t known better, he might’ve thought the man was nothing but a disembodied head floating serenely through the night air.

He knew at once that he had found Michael Myers. Or perhaps Michael had found him.

Instinctively, he dropped his flashlight and fell into a shooting stance, feet apart, revolver raised, left hand gripping his right wrist.

“Stop right there!”

His voice came out strained and he winced to hear himself. He thought he sounded like a little boy playing police officer, but he didn’t tremble and his gun hand held steady. He didn’t expect the man—Michael—to obey his less-than-authoritative-sounding command, but he stopped walking at once. He stood there for a second, still as a statue, before turning to face Hawkins. Then, again moving like a machine instead of a creature formed of flesh and blood, Michael started walking toward him. Hawkins couldn’t tell if Michael was carrying a weapon, but he had a feeling the man didn’t need one to be a threat. Michael was a weapon all by himself.

Hawkins spoke again, his voice whip-crack strong this time.

“Stop! Haddonfield Sheriff’s Department!”

Michael kept coming, moving with a deliberate, mechanical stride. As he drew closer, Hawkins could make out the features on his mask. He’d seen it before, or one like it, in the display window of a hardware store downtown, but on Michael’s face, the mask’s features seemed to have taken on a strange life. They didn’t move, of course, but it looked as if the rubber had sealed itself to Michael’s flesh, forming a second layer of ivory skin. So lifelike were the features that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the eyes blink, the nostrils flare, the lips tighten. Speaking of eyes, a black line ran from the left one down to the chin, like the track of an ebon tear. Was that blood? Had one of his eyes been injured? Hawkins looked to see if there were any bullet wounds on Michael’s chest, but the fabric of his coveralls was too dark for him to tell in this light.

Michael continued toward Hawkins, pace relentless, arms held tight at his sides, hands open, fingers stiff and curled like claws. Hawkins was overwhelmed by sudden atavistic fear, a profound sense of wrongness, as if the thing coming for him wasn’t only inhuman, it was something that couldn’t, shouldn’t exist. Terror in human form, darkness solidified, death—the great Nothing itself—given shape.

Hawkins had been trained to give warning before discharging his weapon, but he was so frightened that he acted without thinking. He squeezed the revolver’s trigger, one, twice, three times in rapid succession. The gun roared and bucked in his hand, and the flash of its muzzle flare—so bright in the night’s blackness—temporarily blinded him. He blinked furiously, expecting to feel Michael’s hands grab hold of him any second, but he felt nothing. When his vision began to clear, he saw that Michael was gone. He ran to the spot where he judged Michael had been standing, looked left, right, turned back the way he had come. Nothing. It was as if Michael had returned to the shadows that had birthed him. Obviously, all of Hawkins’ rounds had missed his target; perhaps not by much, but as the old saying went, a miss was as good as a mile.

Hawkins squatted to examine the ground. He retrieved his flashlight, turned it on, and shined its beam downward. The alley wasn’t paved, and he saw depressions in the moist dirt. Boot prints—proof that Michael was human after all. Hawkins reached down with his right hand and ran his fingers over one of the prints. They came away wet and sticky with blood. Michael’s blood. The man could bleed, and what could bleed could die.

“Hawkins! You okay?”

Hawkins’ ears were ringing from the sound of his weapon discharging, and the voice sounded muffled, far away. Still, it startled him, and he sprang to his feet, revolver raised, ready to defend himself. Three men ran toward him, all carrying lit flashlights and wearing sheriff’s department uniforms and brown jackets. They too had their guns out, but they carried them at their sides, and Hawkins, embarrassed, quickly lowered his weapon. The three men weren’t that much older than him. Tobias and Sullivan were in their thirties, and McCabe was around the same age as Hawkins. As veterans of the sheriff’s department, they delighted in busting the rookie’s balls, but Hawkins was glad to see them now.

Deputy McCabe, the one who’d asked if he was okay, reached him first, but Sullivan and Tobias were close behind. The men might be veterans of the sheriff’s department, but right now they all looked as scared as he was.

“Did you see him?” Tobias demanded. “Where did he go?”

Now that the encounter with Michael was over, Hawkins lost control of his emotions. He began to tremble with fear, and when he spoke, he practically yelled.

“Where have you guys been? I called for backup ten minutes ago!”

“Easy, rookie,” Sullivan said, an edge of irritation in his voice.

“Slow dance in the big city,” McCabe added.

Hawkins was unfamiliar with the phrase, but he got the gist of it. He took a deep breath, let it out, and forced himself to speak calmly.

“He crossed right here. Saw him from fifty yards away. Then he just… disappeared.”

The three older deputies exchanged looks.

“Loomis said he shot him multiple times in the chest,” McCabe said.

So it’s more than a rumor, Hawkins thought, and he shuddered.

“No one could survive that,” Tobias said dismissively. He shined his flashlight on the ground. “Hey, footprints.”

“Always late to the chase, Tobias,” Hawkins said. He knew Tobias would be angry with him later, but right now he didn’t care. Michael was out there somewhere, and they—

“Shut up,” McCabe said, then he shushed them. “Shhh!”

Without speaking, the four deputies moved to stand back to back and directed their flashlight beams outward. They saw nothing. A siren wailed in the distance.

“He just disappeared,” Hawkins repeated. His voice held more awe than fear now.

McCabe began barking orders. “Sullivan, you and Tobias search Chestnut, south to the bypass. Hawkins and I will track Market Street to Lampkin. We’ll catch him.”

“Catch him?” Hawkins said in disbelief. “You kidding me? That asshole just killed Sheriff Brackett’s daughter Annie. You see Michael Myers, you shoot him, got it?”

Hawkins knew it wasn’t his place to give orders—especially when they countermanded McCabe’s—but he couldn’t help it. He’d seen Michael, had felt the vast emptiness that was shaped like a man. They hadn’t.

Sullivan and Tobias shared an uncomfortable look, then they turned to McCabe.

“Go,” McCabe said, and the two men started jogging down the alley. When they were out of earshot, McCabe turned to Hawkins.

“Jesus, Frank. You can’t be barking orders like that. Our badge says Protect and serve, not Shoot to kill.”

Embarrassed, Hawkins looked away from McCabe. A moment later, McCabe began walking, and Hawkins fell in line beside him.

“I used to know him, you know,” McCabe said, his voice subdued. “Michael. When we were kids.”

This surprised Hawkins. McCabe had never said anything about this before.

“He one of those weirdo freaks who’d pull the wings off butterflies, that kinda thing?” Hawkins asked.

McCabe shook his head. “Not that I ever saw. He was just—”

“He killed his sister when he was six years old,” Hawkins put in. He immediately felt stupid for saying this. Everyone in town knew this fact, and McCabe surely did. But Hawkins was nervous and had felt as if he had to say something. If McCabe was irritated by Hawkins’ interruption, he gave no sign.

“Yeah. My mom used to make me go to his house to play. Sometimes Michael would just stare out his sister’s bedroom window. I always wondered what he was looking at. And then one day… he just snapped.”

Hawkins tried to imagine Michael—an ordinary little boy—standing at Judith’s window, gazing outward, seeing… what?

“He was looking at Haddonfield,” Hawkins said. “A simple town where nothing exciting ever happened. Until now.”

They continued their hunt in silence.

* * *

On a street corner several blocks from where Hawkins and McCabe searched, eleven-year-old Lonnie Elam was in trouble. Three teenagers in Halloween costumes—one girl, two boys—had surrounded him, and they were pissed. Worse, they were all Mullanys, which meant they were Conrad Mullany’s siblings.

Up until ten minutes ago, Conrad had been Lonnie’s trick-or-treat partner. Neither of them wore costumes. Costumes were for little kids. They each wore jeans and sneakers, but while Lonnie wore a boring plain T-shirt beneath his red jacket, Conrad had on a kick-ass Kiss concert T-shirt under his blue puffer jacket. It wasn’t as if Conrad had actually been to a concert. One of his brothers had brought the shirt home for him, but that didn’t make it any less cool.

At the last house Lonnie and Conrad had stopped at they’d each only gotten a single piece of candy from stingy old Mr. Harrison: a tiny brick of rock-hard bubblegum for Lonnie, but for Conrad—the lucky jerk—a full-sized gobstopper.

As they headed back toward the sidewalk, Lonnie had said, “Wanna trade that gobstopper for my bubblegum?”

Conrad had laughed. “Are you crazy? Did you see how big it was?”

Lonnie had. What’s more, Lonnie hated bubblegum—and Conrad had been getting better treats than him all night. He’d get a dumb lollipop while Conrad got a peanut butter cup. He’d get a stale popcorn ball while Conrad got a brownie wrapped in cellophane. It wasn’t fair, and Lonnie had decided to do something about it. He pushed Conrad hard, and when the boy fell onto the grass in Mr. Harrison’s front lawn, he dropped his bag of candy. Lonnie snatched it up, jammed his hand inside, and rummaged around until he found the gobstopper. Grinning, he dropped the bag—he only wanted the candy, it wasn’t like he was a thief or anything—and started running. Conrad shouted after him, calling him names, some of them cusses that Lonnie had never heard before and which he decided to file away for later use. Lonnie kept running until he was sure Conrad wasn’t following him, and then he slowed down to look at his prize, still gripped in his hand.

Once he’d examined it more closely, he saw that the chocolate bar wasn’t that big. But even if it had been jumbo-sized, he knew he shouldn’t have taken it. And now that he’d stopped running and had a chance to think about it, he wasn’t sure why he’d stolen it. Conrad was supposed to be his friend, and friends didn’t steal from each other. Lonnie sometimes did things out of… what was the word his mom had used? Impulse. She’d said that meant he did stuff without thinking first. Later, when he did have a chance to think, he’d regret what he’d done. Well… sometimes. He’d decided to go back to Mr. Harrison’s, give Conrad his chocolate, and tell him that it had all been a dumb joke, and that he was sorry. He’d been on his way when Conrad’s siblings came running down the sidewalk toward him. Conrad wasn’t with them, but Lonnie had no doubt Conrad had told his brothers and sister what he’d done. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Conrad was watching from a hiding place somewhere close by. He was kind of a wimp.

Conrad’s siblings evidently didn’t think costumes were for kids. Maybe costumes became cool again once you got older. Marcia Mullany was dressed as a witch—pointed black hat, cape, short black skirt. She was blond but tonight she wore a frizzy black fright wig. Glenn Mullany was dressed as a soldier—mottled green combat fatigues, big black boots, black greasepaint striping his face. A plastic toy rifle completed his look. Ian Mullany was decked out as Frankenstein’s monster—green makeup, scars painted in red, plastic bolts affixed to his neck, black turtleneck, black pants, and even bigger boots than Glenn’s.

“He’s gonna get you, he’s gonna get you,” Glenn chanted.

Lonnie knew Conrad’s siblings… kind of. He’d been over to their house a number of times, and they’d nodded to him, said hey, but that was about it. They were teenagers. They viewed Conrad and Lonnie as little kids and wanted nothing to do with them. But that didn’t mean they intended to let anyone get away with picking on their little brother.

Marcia leaned in close to his face. When she spoke, her voice was tight with anger.

“Lonnie, if you touched Conrad’s candy, I swear to god I’ll beat your ugly ass.”

Lonnie’s first instinct—his impulse—was to lie. “I didn’t take it. Wasn’t me. It was Richie!”