When The Creatures Call E-Book

Clark Roberts

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

This collection of fifteen short stories and four essays pays homage to the powerful and influential voices in horror from the past 50 years.

In “Traditions Lost”, Halloween will never be the same for a small town after The Bad Man pays a visit. Serial killers torment a successful writer in the twisted tale “The Killers Never Leave Us.”

With “Marisa’s Curse”, a cursed golf hole unleashes unfathomable evil onto an elderly couple’s lives. “This is My Beach; This is Your Darkness” delivers an unforgettable tale of regret and what we all might owe for our past shortcomings.

In “The Dog Creek Coven”, fellow beastly writer Andy Rausch teams up with Clark Roberts and delivers a knock-out blow in a story about witches, werewolves, and a tenacious hitman.

Lean close to the firelight, and listen as the newest beast unleashes its tales.

“Whether you are an avid fan of the genre or one who reads it every so often, this is a collection you should pick up. Just know you won't be putting it down until you reach the last page.” - J. M. Van Horn, Editor, The Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers

Leseprobe

WHEN THE CREATURES CALL

LED BY BEASTS BOOK 2

CLARK ROBERTS

CONTENTS

Previously Published:

The Future Has a Name, and It's Clark Roberts

Why Horror?

I. Introduction: The Beast Burke

1. Best Day of Summer

2. Traditions Lost

3. The Headless Woman’s Woods

II. Introduction: The Power of a Bentley

4. Apple Trees

5. Fire Tires

6. The Killers Never Leave Us

III. Introduction: Game on, Gaiman

7. Christmas Planning

8. Marisa’s Curse

9. An Incident at Salem Middle School

IV. Introduction: Etchison’s Visions

10. The Visitor

11. This is My Beach; This is Your Darkness

12. The Essence of It

V. Rausch’s Sway

13. The First Horseman

14. Chrissie Dates America

15. The Dog Creek Coven (Written with Andy Rausch)

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2021 Clark Roberts

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

PRAISE FOR LED BY BEASTS VOLUME 1

“Think young Stephen King. That's the closest thing I can compare the short stories in this book to… There are moments in these stories where you think, 'holy crap, I can't believe this story went here!' And even when they are insanely fantastical, Roberts pulls it off with terrific, engaging writing that keeps you hooked from the start.”

ANDY RAUSCH, AUTHOR, THE SUICIDE GAME, LET IT KILL YOU, AND UNTIL ONE OF US IS DEAD

“LED BY BEASTS by Clark Roberts is an assortment of horrifying bits and pieces, many featuring children as the terrifying force behind the beasts. “Costumes” is one of the best stories I've ever read… All of the stories are intriguing, some are terrifying, some are heart-breaking…”

ASTRADAEMON, VINE VOICE BOOK REVIEWER

“This collection is elegantly framed, and every story delivers a nice solid punch. Roberts knows his influences well and honors them well with this book. Even so, you can clearly hear his voice throughout, and that voice is smooth and direct, playful at times and perpetually heartfelt.”

BRAIN SPERL, AUTHOR, FERTILE SOIL AND THE ROAD TO HELL

“Whether you are an avid fan of the genre or one who reads it every so often, this is a collection you should pick up. Just know you won't be putting it down until you reach the last page.” ~ J. M. Van Horn, Editor and active member of The Great Lakes Association of Horror Writers

PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED:

“Traditions Lost”- Halloween Horrors: Volume 2; October 6, 2020

“Apple Trees”- Erie Tales: Unlucky Thirteen; December 9, 2020

“Marisa’s Curse”- Marisa’s Recurring Nightmares; December 27, 2020

“An Incident at Salem Middle School”- Anotherealm.com; 2018

“The First Horseman”- Dead-End Jobs: A Hitman Anthology; June 11, 2021

“Chrissie Dates America”- Madame Gray’s Creep Show; October 26, 2020

To the horror lovers answering the call—

read on, creatures, read on.

THE FUTURE HAS A NAME, AND IT'S CLARK ROBERTS

AN INTRODUCTION BY ANDY RAUSCH

I’m not a big-name author, but I’m at a point where I’ve developed a modest following. As such, writers occasionally send me their books, manuscripts, and stories to assess. I don’t really like doing this, and the reason is probably obvious; most of them aren’t very good. Some of them lack talent, others lack the patience required to properly craft a story, and a lot of them are simply new writers who haven’t yet found their voices or haven’t yet developed the skill that comes with years of practice. Who wants to have to tell someone that their book or stories need work? It’s a process that isn’t fun for either one of us, reminiscent of the spanking father’s statement that “this is going to hurt me as much as it hurts you.” Only unlike the spanking, the statement is actually true in this case. But every now and then, one of these writers is good. And every now and again, one of them is really, really good...

I received a message from Clark Roberts in early 2020 asking me if I would mind if he sent me a copy of his newly published story collection, Led by Beasts, which was, at the time, being published by a tiny (but impressive) indie called Terror Tract. Clark had read a strange tale I had written “The Day Fat Terry Brought Dead Hitler to Iowa” that appeared in a Deadman’s Tome anthology, which Clark also had a story in. I enjoy short stories, so I said sure, send it over. At the time I received his book, I was knee-deep in Chuck Palahniuk’s graphic novel Fight Club 3, which I had been anxious to read for some time. But you know what? I opened the cover of Led by Beasts and was instantly hooked. Before long, I found myself so engrossed by the collection that I set aside Palahniuk to finish it. It was instantly apparent that there was something special about Clark’s writing. It was mostly just pure talent, but there was something more—a sort of undefinable magic. Some writers have it, most don’t. In 1927, the English author Elinor Glyn coined the phrase “It” (as in the “It Girl”) as an attempt to define an indescribable, amazing quality that a few, rare people possessed. Whatever Clark had, it was akin to that. Whatever it was, make no doubt, it was magical.

After that, I wrote a story for an anthology Clark edited, Clark wrote a story for an anthology I edited, and I suggested that he republish his book with Next Chapter. This isn’t to tell you a story about me, but an attempt to explain the rush I felt when I read Led by Beasts Volume 1 and the strong desire I felt to assist Clark in reaching more readers.

I absolutely adore Clark’s writing, and apparently, he’s a fan of mine as well. When Clark told me he was dedicating a section of Led by Beasts Volume 2: When the Creatures Call to my work, I was beyond flattered and beyond floored. But, as much as that fact delighted me, it was nowhere close to the level of delight I felt when I read this second volume. As much as I enjoyed the first collection, I believe this one is even stronger. Clark’s stories have a sort of Twilight Zone quality to them; they are strange, incredibly entertaining, and almost always lead to an unforgettable conclusion that knocks you flat on your ass. Beyond the aforementioned “It” factor, Clark possesses another talent that few writers possess, and that’s a genuine talent for closing out his stories with ridiculously potent endings that leave you considering them long after you’ve finished the story.

And don’t for one minute be fooled by the conceit of this book, which is that the stories here are stories inspired by some of Clark's favorite authors (which I'm one of, strangely enough). I mean, they were, but with that conceit in mind, a reader might be tempted to approach this book with the notion they are about to read lesser-quality imitations, but I assure you this is far from the case. Clark’s stories are magnificent, and they shine as bright as the sun, but make no doubt, their shine is entirely his. Clark’s stories are one hundred percent his and his alone.

So, with that, I present you with a collection of mind-blowing, fun as fuck, thought-provoking, balls-to-the-wall tales written by a one-of-a-kind up-and-coming talent and, dare I say, future master. Enjoy.

WHY HORROR?

People live enshrouded in ignorance, and they choose to do so. I’m writing the kind of story that reflects what I see, think, and feel when I look out the window here. The things that haunt us can be tiny things: a Web page, a voicemail message, an article in a newspaper…

I could write a story about a happy man selling happy flowers to a town full of happy people and it might be good, but I doubt I would enjoy writing it or find it spiritually or emotionally rewarding. I write from the gut. I hope people like it, but if they don’t… too bad.

ANDY RAUSCH, DENNIS ETCHISON, NEIL GAIMAN, KEALAN PATRICK BURKE, AND BENTLEY LITTLE

They search for me, hunt me out of my home,

like intrusive toddlers picking rocks

to dig up worms;

my fears are huge, 

and when their fat fingers touch me

my only safety is to hole-up where it’s darker.

CLARK ROBERTS

PART1

INTRODUCTION: THE BEAST BURKE

Booklist has hailed him as, “one of the most clever and original talents in contemporary horror.” I agree with Booklist. He is Kealan Patrick Burke, and he’s a beast of a writer. I think within the horror genre he’s got the best short story game in the past twenty-five years.

Nobody is more creative with their short stories.

Nobody is as original as Burke.

Nobody’s stories are as immersive.

Each time I read one of his collections I come across stories that leave me shaking my head, pondering how the hell the man even came up with the ideas let alone pulled them off in the short story format.

I’m not claiming the following stories of this section are on par with Kealan Patrick Burke. I will admit that they were written with his ability to immerse a reader into a fictional world within a handful of pages in mind.

I’m not certain my story “Best Day of Summer” would exist if not for Kealan Patrick Burke’s short story “The Barbed Lady Wants For Nothing,” which I’ve reread probably a dozen times if not more. Burke’s story has taken up a permanent residence in my mind, as it begs the following question—what really happens to all those missing people? Both Burke’s story and mine attempt to answer that question with supernatural occurrences, but beyond that they are completely unique from one another. I’ll tell you this, with “BDOS” I’m trying to gut-punch you. I want you to feel it at the end. I want you to feel winded like I have after reading a Kealan Patrick Burke story.

I started writing “Traditions Lost” for a Deadman’s Tome anthology titled Bikers vs. Zombies, but I didn’t complete the story in time. I hated the ending I’d written, and so I didn’t submit it. The story nagged at me for about a year before a proper conclusion came to mind. Kealan Patrick Burke has written a few collections revolving around seasons. His Autumn-themed collection Dead Leaves is an excellent study of the season we all look forward to and the pseudo-holiday we all love—Halloween. “Traditions Lost” is my Halloween story, and I strove to capture that crisp autumn air, that thrill of dressing up to trick-or-treat, and those feelings we associate with a dying year and moving on.

“The Headless Woman’s Woods” is one of the only stories I’ve written that I can’t recall where the initial idea sprouted from. I remember writing it, and more specifically I remember writing it after reading Currency of Souls. There is no connection between my story and that book other than my desire to write as detailed as Burke. I wish I had more to offer on the “THWW”, but I don’t.

1BEST DAY OF SUMMER

After telling his younger brother to hustle it up, Oliver turned away from the ice-cream truck thinking, this might be the best day of the summer yet. 

The sun shined, but wasn’t burning, and Dad had toted them up to the city park to bang the basketball against the unforgiving backboards and rims. 

It wasn’t often Dad pulled away from work for an entire morning to spend time with Ollie and his brother, so when it happened, woo-boy it sure seemed the treat. Topping it off, after a few games of H-O-R-S-E and a round or two of Lightning, the familiar tunes of an ice-cream truck rolled down the street. In the most unlikely behavior, Dad had opened his wallet and handed over a ten to Ollie and told both he and Noah to go ahead and splurge. Dad didn’t know a whole lot about the prices of an ice-cream truck, because a ten spot certainly wasn’t going to allow a ten-year-old and his younger bro to splurge, but hey, like Dad so often pontificated, beggars couldn’t be choosers. So off they’d raced waving down the ice cream truck. They were even first in line when the truck pulled over, and a small cluster of kids had gathered behind them. 

Ollie ordered a double-scoop Superman waffle cone and Noah after some hemming and hawing settled on a Peanut Butter Dream Ice Cream Bar. Ollie paid the worker, received what minimal change was left, and together, he and Noah started back towards the courts already feasting on their summertime treats.

“Either of you two playboys ever been with a woman before?” a low voice called over to them.

The question was so odd to their innocent ears it halted the brothers in their tracks. 

A white panel van had appeared out of nowhere. It idled on the side of road that cut a path all the way through the municipal park. They’d just come from this direction; Ollie could see the basketball court not far in the background where his dad lounged in the sunlight with his back propped against the ball. Ollie was certain just minutes before when he and his brother had led the scampering charge to the ice cream truck that the van hadn’t been there.

The driver’s door swung open with immediacy, and in an instant the man rocked himself out of the van. He made his way around the front of the van and stood before the boys, beaming a smile that was all things but trustworthy, at least in Ollie’s eyes. 

“Well, have ya? Been with a woman?”

The voice was odd, the question even odder.

A cold feeling of ice slid down Ollie’s back.

Despite his parents’ unending warnings to beware, he’d always come away feeling foolish for his cagey behavior when encountering strangers. 

But this? This felt different from the word go.

Maybe it was the van itself. Maybe it was the dark tint to the driver’s glasses or the sweat-stained, dusty ball cap. Maybe it was the silver skull-ring on his finger or the dark, coarse hair popping from the back of his hand and up his arm. Whatever it was, something inside Ollie was screaming that this was the exact moment Mom and Dad had tried to prepare Noah and him for whenever having the stranger-danger discussion. It was more than off; it was wrong. 

They were supposed to ignore the man and turn away. If the man came at them, the tactic was to run and yell for help.

Instead, Ollie had stopped. He’d stopped nearly everything.

Stopped walking.

Stopped licking his Superman ice cream.

Stopped breathing.

He even stopped being aware that he was a big brother and unconsciously his hand groped for Noah’s, not to offer comfort but rather receive it.

Not only that, but the rest of the world seemed to have stopped. Ollie’s focus narrowed to the man in the dark glasses and the white panel van.

 “I’ll just take that as a no then,” the man said. “The name is Stu and I got something reeeaaal special for one of ya’s in the back of this here van,” the man said. With an open palm he banged against the back sliding door. “Now no fightin’ over this. I knows how brothers like to scrap from time to time, but we’ll be fair and square in deciding who gets this special treat. Now promise me, no fightin’.”

“No fightin’,” Noah repeated, even taking to Stu’s drawl.

“I agree,” Ollie said, wondering why he was taking part in this conversation instead of turning heel. Despite the words feeling so detached from himself, he continued, “I won’t fight my brother.”

This was inexplicable. Ollie was scared. It might have been appropriate to think of his state of mind as scared as hell, yet his feet stayed frozen to the spot.

“Good enough for me,” Stu nodded. He grasped the back door handle, but before sliding it open, he said, “Now wait a minute here, playboys. You two wouldn’t be trying to pull a fast one on me, now wouldja? How can I be sure you’re of proper age? Hey, hot-rod, how old are you?” Stu nodded towards Noah.

Don’t answer him, Ollie thought. Please whatever you do don’t say anything, because once we start talking, we won’t be able to get out of this. I know I’m the older brother, and I’m supposed to look out for us at a time like this, but somehow I can’t, but I think I could if you’d just stay quiet, Noah. 

“I’m eight,” Noah said.

“Oh, alright,” Stu said, and took off his cap to slap his thigh agreeably. Dust jumped from the hat. “Eight’ll do. And how ‘bout you, big brother? What’s your age?”

He knew he shouldn’t answer, knew he should turn and run while yanking his brother along. 

“Ten,” he said.

The man set his hat back proper and whistled through unmoving lips. “Double-digits, eh? Big man you are.”

With that, Stu yanked the back door, and it flew open. WHHHOOOMPH!

The back of the van had been modified into a small bed chamber. 

The woman on the cot was the epitome of desire. She was raised up to her knees, straight-backed, and her fiercely blue eyes stared straight out at Ollie and his brother. 

Ollie had seen sexualized women on the internet and TV, but nothing like this in real life.

She wore a thin, almost see-through, white fabric that had been cinched and tied to resemble a bikini. Her golden skin sheened with a thin layer of sweat. She breathed deeply—cravingly—and with each breath her chest thrust up and out in display. Shackles wrapped her thin wrists and rusted large-link chains hung from mounted eyelets in the van’s ceiling, securing the woman.

Slut. 

The word surfaced to Ollie’s mind unbidden. A dirty word, a nasty word. A word Ollie had never spoken aloud and also a word he just plain didn’t like being in his thoughts. Yet, there it was in all its naked glory.

Slut.

It couldn’t be all bad though. How could something that was making his skin tingle this way be a bad thing?

“Take a good look at her, playboys,” the man said. “She’s quite the tart ain’t she?”

Next to him, Ollie heard his brother gasp, “Yes, sir!”

Only now did Ollie notice how tight the front of his own shorts had become. Oh man, he liked what he was seeing, but he didn’t want that to happen, not out here in the middle of the public park.

Panicked, he looked around, but to his relief saw that nobody was paying any attention to them.

“Best part is,” Stu chuckled, “one of you two playboys is gonna climb right up in there and get a round with her. Don’t that sound peachy?” 

Ollie turned his attention back to the woman. Oh, hell yes, he wanted to climb up and onto that cot with the goddess before them. He’d agreed not to fight his brother, but that was before he’d known what was being offered. He didn’t know the rules of how one was chosen, but all bets were off about him not taking a round out of Noah if that’s what he had to do. 

That body and her entirely sexually charged posture, yeah, he’d fight for that. Even more, her face was to die for—those intense eyes, those slightly parted lips.

Suddenly the face rearranged, and it was the most disturbing thing Ollie had ever seen in his ten years. 

The nose had stopped atop her forehead. The blue as the summer sky eyes had split up, one ending right next to the out of place nose at the top of the disfigured face and the other staring out from below a delicate but high cheek bone. The sex creature hissed, exposing razor teeth inside the mouth which now ran vertical along the opposite cheek.

The face spun again, this time a complete blur like a slot machine gone haywire. All of her features seemed to run together creating a visual vortex where her face should have been. All at once the features abruptly locked properly into place. 

It was still feminine, but was it even human? She had long, pointy ears. Her mouth had grown into a bestial protrusion, a slender muzzle with rippling lips exposing razor teeth. Her eyes were now cold, black ice all the way through with nothing, nothing, within or behind them remotely human. 

The sheer shock of the transformation knocked Ollie back a step.

“Uh-uh,” Ollie muttered, his voice filled with a tremor.

“Now listen here, big brother,” the man at the van calmly spoke. “I know what you’re thinkin’, and you probably ain’t entirely wrong. But the shits of it is, one of you is gettin’ in that van and that’s just how it’s gonna be? I can’t answer all the ways of the world, boy. I don’t even remember why or who made me guardian over that beautiful queen in there,” he thumbed over his shoulder. “Alls I know is, I am. Alls I know is it’s my duty, and I’ve been doing it for a long, long time. I also know this is inescapable. Now watch this.”

“Noah,” Ollie said urgently, hoping to cut off Stu before he went on. “We gotta fucking run.”

Stu seemed not to care. He cupped his hands around his mouth and arched his back in an effort to get the most projection. In the loudest voice Ollie had ever heard, Stu hollered, “HEEELLLP! HELP ME! I’M ‘BOUT TO DO SOMETHING AWFUL TO ONE OF THESE TWO ALL-AMERICAN BOYS, AND I REALLY DON’T WANT TO DO IT! CAN’T SOMEBODY HELP PUT A STOP TO ALL THIS MADNESS?”

Stu dropped his hands, frowned over at Ollie and Noah.

“Ya see,” Stu said, with a matter-of-fact expression. “It’s inevitable, kid. That succubus is gonna have one of ya. The only question is which?”

Olli knew the man was right, knew as much as he knew his own name. There was no escape, no way out of the situation because not one soul in the park seemed to even care about what was happening. Ollie even saw his dad swishing jump shot after jump shot at the basketball court. Dad was completely unaware of the life shaking event transpiring. It was a plain fact that the only way this situation was ever going to end was if either he or his brother went to the succubus, and Ollie wanted no part of that. 

Little Noah, however, he’d been transfixed with the creature in the van from the moment the door had been opened.

Better him than me, Ollie thought, and let go of his brother’s shoulder.

Robotically Noah faced him, held out his ice cream bar, and when Ollie took it, Noah peeled away. 

The succubus hungrily groped with her claws even as Noah leapt.

WHOOOOOMPH! The back door slammed shut like a sprung trap.

The van began to rock on its tires as if being buffeted by high winds. A mixture of screams and howls erupted from inside the van—none of it sounding pleasurable. The most god-awful orange glow lit up the van’s front windows.

The screams went on, and on, and on. 

The glow intensified.

The van rocked so violently Ollie thought it would tip.

Suddenly, the screams ceased.

The glow hit its apex and then faded like a heartbeat’s death.

“Ya’ll satisfied in there?” the man asked and pounded a fist against the van’s side. 

No response. 

The van was completely still, and the man chuckled.

“Well, big brother, I guess that about wraps it up,” the man said as if he’d buried the family bird. 

The shock of what had occurred, rooted Ollie in place.

The man ambled around the front of the van all the while continuing his explanation, “Ain’t never been a hangin’ or sacrifice been undone. No reason to feel no shame. Neither you nor I could prevent it.” Near the driver’s door he propped his elbows and leaned on the hood. He offered a cursory smile before looking skyward. “Hell, I can’t even explain it.”

“I want my brother back,” Ollie mumbled.

“It just don't work that way.” The man climbed in and once more the van rocked on its undercarriage. 

Ollie watched, desperate but unable to act, as the man leaned over the steering wheel and fired the van to life.

The van reversed, stopped, and the passenger side window slid down. 

“Life will move on for ya’,” the man called over to Ollie. He winked, dropped the transmission into drive. “Just see if it don’t.” 

The van rolled forward, and with silent tears running down his cheeks, Ollie watched until it was out of sight.

The melting ice cream running down his hands was what finally broke Ollie’s trance. 

“Awww, shit,” he moaned. His hands were going to be all sticky unless he went and washed them. He glanced to see if anyone had heard him cuss. 

Nope, but so what if they had? What would be the big deal? The world was full of people that swore. Shit, the world was full of things one thousand times worse than swearing—like murderers and kidnappers. 

He shook his head. Why was he thinking of all this terrible stuff?

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing there, but it must have been a bit, because the crowd of children and the ice cream truck were gone. His ice cream was melting all over the place. 

But why was he holding two ice cream treats?

Oh yeah, one was for Dad. 

Good old Dad.

There wasn’t any reason to keep standing here like a statue mounted in place. It wasn’t every day he got to spend all this free time with Dad. These were the best days to Ollie, just he and Dad hanging together. These were the days he lived for.

Would even kill for. 

Ollie turned and ran to his father, scampering a bit more excitedly than he thought a boy his age should. But what the hell?—even as an only child alone time with a dad as busy as his was to be cherished.      

“Hey, where’s you’re uhhh…” Dad started but halted. A perplexed look jumped to his face like he’d been asked a question he should’ve known the answer to but for the life of him couldn’t drum up an answer. He blinked, stared off searchingly. Blinked again. 

“Where’s what?” Ollie asked. He offered the melting Peanut Butter Dream Ice Cream Bar to his dad.

“Nothing, it’s just I could’ve sworn for a second that…” Ollie’s father’s voice trailed off, and then his hands went to his temples and massaged as if trying to relieve the onset of a migraine. He turned to survey the entire park and when he finished the 360 his brow had scrunched to complete bewilderment. “Does everything feel alright to you, Ollie?”

“Feels like the best day of summer yet,” Ollie said, and practically pushed the ice cream bar into his dad’s face. “Don’t let your ice cream melt any more than it already has.”

“Best day of summer?” his dad said as if feeling the phrase out, and this time he received the ice cream bar and licked it. He pulled away from it questioningly. “What’s this? You know I love cookie dough.” 

“Yeah,” Ollie admitted with a shrug, “guess I forgot.”

“I’m not going let it ruin the so-called best day of summer yet,” Ollie’s father said. He reached out to ruffle the top of Ollie’s hair, and then as if to be certain Ollie knew he wasn’t upset said, “Life moves on, I guess.”

Father and son turned and ambled back to the basketball court. They finished the ice cream and then continued to work on Ollie’s game. Ollie couldn’t recall the last time he’d had Dad’s undivided attention for any length of time—it always seemed someone interrupted them.

They played so long that hours later when the ice cream truck rolled through a second time Ollie’s dad once again dug out his wallet.

Best day of summer.

2TRADITIONS LOST

“Do you believe the story?”

Jim doesn’t immediately answer. He frowns before glancing down at the girl stepping stride for stride with him. They should be back at the house and closing out the night, he inspecting candy wrappers for unexplained tears while the girl waits for her bounty. That tradition is going to be gone someday, he reminds himself. Instead of pillaging the homes of their neighborhood, today’s kids are being indoctrinated into church put on “trunk-or-treats” and a sort of group celebration at the town’s main park. It pains him to admit that such a nostalgic memory as trick-or-treating from his childhood is disappearing as easily as covering a marred wall with a paint stroke. Undeniably though it’s happening. And rightfully so considering what had come to pass ten years prior this night. 

Instead of answering her question Jim suggests, “Maybe you’d rather go to Center Park. We still have time. It sure sounds like fun.”