Board Thread:Writer's Showcase/@comment-6822927-20190324172709

"Mr. Winslow just needs someone to keep him company for a while," my mother had told me. I almost said the reason the old bastard was always alone was because of what a creep he is.

Winslow was the kind of guy kids kept an eye on, whispering about how he had a basement full of torture machines which he would strap you to for days on end. Whenever a cat or dog went missing for any amount of time, we used to blame him. If we came back, we said they’d escaped somehow. Randy Parks always claimed Winslow cooked and ate any living creature with blood in its veins, and his house was haunted by his victim’s ghosts. Kids will believe anything, even if they know it’s bullshit. It’s fun.

There were other reasons I didn't want to go up to his house. It was Halloween and Darryl, Mickey and Bobby had invited me to go trick-or-treating. We were gonna hit 'the big ones' as we called it, a group of houses which always had the best candy. We went there every year and came back loaded with peanut butter cups, candy corn, lollipops, chocolate bars, everything that would make a kid's day on Halloween.

But this year, my mother had other plans. She always had a soft spot for old geezers like Winslow, all alone with no one to talk to out in the middle of nowhere. And this Halloween, she was determined to do something about it.

"But mom," I said, "I was gonna hit the big ones!"

"And end up rotting your teeth," my mother answered. "Ryan, it's always important to help those who cannot help themselves. Winslow has been living in that old ramshackle house for over thirty years now. He's lost all his family and friends. Why can't you just make a lonely old man's night and keep him company?"

"Mom, Randy Parks says Winslow murdered all his family and friends then cooked them into pies!"

"Ryan! How dare you repeat such malicious rumors! I'll tell Karen about her son, but I can assure you, Winslow has never hurt a soul in his life."

I sighed, trying to think of a way to spend my Halloween not taking care of some old fart who could die at any moment.

“And don’t you dare sneak out, because if you do, I will ask Winslow. Besides, I’ve already promised him you’d be there to keep him company. You can’t just let him down.”

“But mom -”

“No! No buts! Let’s make a deal: if you take care of Winslow for a few hours, I will give you fifty bucks and you can buy some candy tomorrow.”

I tried to protest, think of something which would make her see reason, but nothing came to mind. Instead, my shoulders slumped as I nodded glumly. Mom always got her way, that was a fact of life in my house. That was why my dad left - at least, that’s what he told me.

“Can I at least bring my phone?”

Rolling her eyes, my mom nodded, before clapping her hands together. “You can take your phone, but only so you can stay in touch with me. If Winslow needs anything, help him.”

“Yes mom,” I said, looking down at my feet. She patted me on the shoulder, then walked away, talking about what my duties would be and what I mustn’t do. I had to help him cook his food and clean up after him, talk to him, keep him company and, if needed, play a game with him.

All the while, I was thinking about all the fun I was going to be missing out on with my friends. They’d probably be living like kings after tonight, swimming in pools of candy which would last until next Halloween, if somewhat depleted. Then the cycle would start anew, but this time, I’d be missing out.

Even worse, the kids at school wouldn’t want to so much as talk to me if they learned I’d spent Halloween taking care of a geezer like Winslow. Randy would probably say I helped him catch and eat kittens, the little snot-nosed shit.

At least I could take my phone. Hopefully, the hotspot would last long enough that I could work out a plan with my friends to break out of Winslow’s and join them for hitting the big ones.

“Ryan? Why aren’t you getting ready? You need to be there in twenty minutes!”

“What?” I cried, spinning around to my mother. “What’d you mean?”

She was standing the kitchen doorway, a tray covered in tin foil in her hands, looking at me like I had grown a second head.

“You have to be at Winslow’s in twenty minutes before I went to Karen’s party! I told you this last night! Ryan, for Pete’s sake, pay attention! Now go up to your room and get your phone charger. You’ll need it. I will be texting you every hour to make sure everything is okay, so you should keep your phone fully charged.”

I nodded absentmindedly, realizing she was probably onto me before I had even come up with the idea of an escape plan. Damn it.

I stomped up the stairs to my room and found my phone already plugged in and charged by a USB cord, a text message alert proudly beaming from the screen. I unlocked it and went to messages.

It was Darryl. ''Hey man, guess what? We got Susie to come with us! Susie Erma Addison! The prettiest girl in school! Now’s your chance, man!''

My other hand clenched into a shaking fist as I punched out a reply.

I’m not coming.

It took Darryl a moment to answer.

''What? Why not? We’ve been planning this all month!''

I let out a breath of constrained oxygen before texting back. My mom’s making me take care of Old Man Winslow.

Darryl replied back in an instant.

''What?! Dude, you have got be joking! She can’t make you miss out on Halloween!''

''Oh, but she can. You know my mom, she always has to get her way. I put an emoji rolling its eyes on the end.''

''Ryan, you need to stand up for yourself. You can’t let her control you like this. Take a stand, do what you want to do. Look, I didn’t want to tell you this, but I was the one who convinced Susie to join us for you.''

I blinked, stunned. The rest of Darryl’s message was something I’d already been told several times in the past, but the thing about Susie was a welcome change.

''You… convinced Susie to come trick-or-treating with you guys? So I could ask her out?''

What are friends for, Ryan?

I couldn’t help smiling. There aren’t a lot of guys like Darryl in the world. I was lucky to have made one of them my friend.

His next message started with a yellow smiley face winking at me. ''We’ll find some way to break you out, alright? I promise you won’t miss Halloween this year.''

''Thanks, Darryl. You’re the best.''

Before he could text me back, there was a knock on my door, and I turned around to find my mother standing there, knuckles pressed against the door’s white paint. “Ryan! What’s taking so long? You should have your phone already and the charger. Why don’t you grab a book or something as well, just to keep yourself entertained?”

“I’ll have my phone,” I pointed out. She waved her hand dismissively.

“Oh please, you’ll only need that to text me. A book would be far more entertaining. You won’t be rotting your brain and end up in a summer camp for tech-addicted kids who get square eyes.”

I sighed and looked over at my bookshelf. After a quick once over I picked a book at random. When I turned it over, I found it was a copy of The Outsider, by Stephen King. Oh well. Not a bad choice for Halloween.

My mom cleared her throat. “Maybe you should pick something that Winslow would like. Say, The Great Gatsby or Of Mice And Men? You know, books he read when he was your age.”

I shook my head, tucking the hardback novel under my arm as I marched out of the room. My mom sighed. “Alright, your choice, but I know he’d like those books much better. Just go get in the car and I’ll drive you over now.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. My phone vibrated in my pocket, meaning Darryl had texted me back. I pulled it out as I stomped back downstairs and unlocked it.

Darryl had sent me a picture, of himself, my other two buddies, and a girl with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Darryl was dressed up as Black Panther, hands crossed over his chest as he grinned. Bobby was on his right, wearing a pirate costume with a black eyepatch and fake beard, a curved plastic sword held over the bandanna tied on his scalp. To Darryl’s left was Micky, wearing a Ninja Turtle onesie with a purple strip of cloth tied around his eyes which beamed at me through two holes.

Then there was Susie. She was standing next to Mickey, wearing a red and black dress with devil horns in her hair, a plastic pitchfork in her hands. Her smile made my heart skip a beat. She looked a bit disappointed, though, like I was right now.

Below the picture was a message. ''Just making sure you know what we are dressed as. We’ll break you out of Winslow’s tonight, buddy. I promise.''

I sighed as I got in the passenger seat of the car, tucking my phone back into my pocket. Mom was right behind me, still carrying the tray of food. Before I could close the door, she put her foot in its path, stopping it cold. “Hold this,” she said as she handed me the tray, practically dropping it in my lap. It was ice cold.

“What is it?” I asked, bewildered.

“Leftover chicken,” mom answered, walking around to the driver side door. When she opened it, she must have seen the look on my face. “Oh, just heat it up at Winslow’s place, you can both enjoy it together. Besides, I don’t think he even has that much food.”

“Mom, we can’t just give him our leftovers!”

“Why not? It’s not like we need it.”

“But mom -”

“Oh hush,” she said, waving her hand dismissively, “let’s just get you to Mr. Winslow.”

I did as she told me, placing my book on the tinfoil. I slide the seat belt across my lap and clicked it into the buckle while my mother did the same. All the while, I could only think about how embarrassing this was. It was Halloween, I should be getting ready to go trick-or-treating, but instead, I was going to watch over the old guy that scared kids.

That ended up being a secondary concern, however, as I realized that my first real chance to hang out with Susie Erma Addison had been snatched out from under me before I’d even known it was there. Damn it. I could already hear the rumors Randy Parks would be spreading, about how I liked old, smelly men more than pretty young girls like Susie, all while bragging about what a ladies man he was and how he’d treat Susie right. God, how I wanted to break his nose.

As my mom turned on the car engine and pressed her foot down on the pedal, I saw little kids dressed up as dinosaurs knocking on the door of a blue house. When it opened, a nice old lady appeared, holding an orange pumpkin bowl which she brought down so the kids could reach in and pluck out a handful, before plopping their treasure into white or blue pillowcases. I exhaled deeply through my nose.

As we passed by, one of the kids glanced up and I saw his face. Sitting up straight, I could only watch in horror as a smug grin spread across Billy Parks face as he waved his grubby little hands at me.

I looked around, and sure enough, there was Randy Parks, just two houses down on his phone. He glanced up when Billy screamed his name and then his head turned towards him, making eye contact. His own grin was as smug as a coyote, going along nicely with the cowboy costume he was wearing. Made him look like a regular old scoundrel out to cause trouble.

And I’d probably be his target tonight. Shit.

“Mom, how long will I stay with Mr. Winslow?” I asked her, trying to think of what I should do when Randy came for me with his pack of goons.

“A few hours,” she said, eyes on the road.

“When will you pick me up?

“When it’s time for you to go,” she answered.

I rolled my eyes, pretty much done with her nonsense.

“Oh, don’t be like that. You’ll have tons of fun, I’m sure of it.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, Winslow’s been alive for a long time, he probably has some interesting stories. I heard his father served in the Second World War. Maybe you could talk about that?”

Yeah, talk to an old guy who I didn’t know about his father fighting against Nazis. Totally not weird at all.

We turned around another street corner and I saw it. Winslow’s old, yellow, rickety house, surrounded by a chain-link fence held up with a rusty metal frame. An old green car was parked in the driveway, blanketed in fallen leaf litter. And I do mean blanketed. It looked like nobody had touched it in weeks.

Outside on the front porch, I could see someone leaning against the railing. He had a pot belly which pushed through an old grey shirt, a worn, brown jacket draped on his shoulders and arms. His head was so bald I could see the bare tree branches reflected in his skin, while a thin grey beard jutted out from his chin. The spectacles perched on his nose had golden rims while the lens was spotless, letting me see his blue, beady eyes staring at me as mom pulled the car up and put on the brakes. She opened the door without turning off the car, stepping out and flashing a smile at him.

“Hello, Mr. Winslow! Nice to see you. Isn’t this wonderful weather?”

Winslow’s mouth just hung open stupidly.

Mom came around to my side and opened the door, gesturing for me do something. I groaned quietly as I unbuckled myself, shifting my arms as I tried to figure out some way to carry the cold chicken.

“This is my son, Ryan. I know you two have never met, but Ryan’s a good young man. So good, in fact, he’s agreed to keep you company for a little while. If you need him to do anything, just ask, and he’ll do right as you instructed.”

Winslow finally did something. He blinked and squinted behind his glasses at me. “Could you repeat that?” His voice was low and raspy like there was something in his throat.

“I said, he’ll do anything you tell him to.”

“If I asked him to do something stupid, would he do it?”

“No,” I answered, “no I wouldn’t.”

Mom gave me a light jab in the side with her elbow, but Winslow just nodded. “That’s good,” he replied, running his tongue through a gaping hole where one of his teeth had been, “that’s real’ good. Come on inside, I could show you where the important rooms are.”

“That sounds lovely!” My mom said, guiding me towards the porch steps. The moment I had vaulted the steps and was standing next to Winslow, she turned around without missing a beat and got in the car, shutting my door then hers. Without so much as looking at me, she drove off, speeding down the road. I thank God there was no one outside to see her go.

Winslow turned to me, his face still dull. “Your mother always like that?”

I nodded.

“She reminds me of my grandma,” he muttered, turning around and opening the front door. He set one foot inside before stopping and turning to me. “Coming?”

I paused, unsure of what to do. Winslow’s house didn’t have any decorations like plastic skeletons, witches or even a Jack-o-Lantern. I doubted any trick-or-treaters would come by even if it did, as his house could pass for an authentic Halloween decoration all year round.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I muttered, quickly walking inside. Winslow stepped back and held open the door, letting me in first, then following behind whilst closing the door himself. His fingers looked like thin, bony claws as they fumbled with sliding a key into the lock. In the meantime, I had a look at the room I had just entered.

The first thing I noticed about it was that all the curtains were drawn. Light came from a tall lamp in the corner, illuminating the entire room. It fell on a sofa with blue fabric, a wooden chair that looked like a dog had been chewing on one leg, an old desk and a cabinet with glass panes in the door, through which I saw several bottles of wine. Right in front of the door were a set of stairs leading upwards to the empty top floor.

“This is the front room,” Winslow said slowly as the key turned in the lock, “this is where I spend most of my day, just reading or drinking. Stay out of that wine cabinet and make sure I don’t take anything out of it until at least an hour from now.”

“What?” I said, spinning around, finding Winslow’s blank face staring at me.

“I said, make sure nobody goes into that wine cabinet until at least an hour from now, okay? I’ve been aging that wine for about a year, just for tonight.”

“Why?” I asked, bringing my eyebrows together.

“Because I have guests coming over, and they like good wine. Wine always gets better with age, unlike my life.”

Okay. That was… an odd thing to say. Ignoring my evident surprise, Winslow carefully crept past me and pointed at the back of the front room, at a large white door sitting across from a matching partner.

“Kitchen’s that way. Put the uh…” When he turned back around, his mouth was still hanging open like a fish. “What exactly did you bring?”

“Leftover chicken. My mom made me bring it. Said you wouldn’t have a lot to eat in this house anyway.”

Winslow’s face finally had something aside from dull surprise, becoming shocked and alarmed. “Oh, I do! I have plenty of stuff to eat in this house! Plenty! It’s just not for me, it’s for my guests.” Then he settled and feebly swung his arm back towards the kitchen door. “Go ahead and put the chicken on the table. I have a microwave you can heat it up in, but don’t use any of the plates in the cupboard above the sink, okay?”

I nodded, tentatively stepping past him before I pushed open the door.

I was stunned to see how spotless it was. So much so, I almost thought the White House cleaning staff had come through. The sink was a brass antique, freshly polished, facet proudly facing me when I came in. The tiles of the floor were as white as fresh snow, and I suddenly became conscious that the soles of my shoes were probably dirty. There was a refrigerator, a stove which must have been built in the fifties but looked like it was born yesterday, and of course, one table with a single chair pushed up to it.

“Go on, put the chicken down. I wanna show you the rest of the place.”

Winslow’s voice snapped me out of my trance, and I carefully stepped across the tiles. Thankfully, the table was pressed against the wall right next to the door, so it wasn’t a long journey. Like the rest of the kitchen, the table’s surface was spotless, devoid of even the smallest stain. The light brown oak wood was plain and smooth, like it had been freshly cut the day beforehand.

“Nice kitchen,” I said as I stepped back into the front room.

“Thanks,” Winslow mumbled, “always good to keep it clean for my guests.” There was a strange twinkle in his eyes as he turned to his left and walked into a living room, the only occupant a single couch pressed against the far wall. There were two doors on opposite walls, one of which was open. The lonely window between them was covered by another curtain. Without needing to be prompted, I followed him, listening to his quiet mumblings.

“Here’s the bathroom,” he continued, gesturing to the open door. Inside, I saw that it was only a toilet next to a sink, neither of which were as spotless as the kitchen.

“I don’t clean it as often,” Winslow said, startling me, “mother always said it was better to have a clean kitchen than a clean bathroom. And you see that door over there? That’s the dining room. Stay out of there until I tell you.” Then he abruptly turned again and lead me upstairs. The stairs and floor were covered by a thick, cream carpet which was covered in particles of food or random junk. Winslow only showed me his own room.

There was a king-sized bed pushed up against the wall, a bedside table next to it above which was a gun.

“That M1 Garand was my father’s,” Winslow muttered, oblivious to my staring, “he served in the Second World War, from North Africa to the Rhine. Would have done some time in the Pacific as well before the bombs dropped. Had a tour in Korea.”

“Is it loaded?” I asked nervously.

“Hell no. I ain’t stupid,” Winslow said, voice low. Then he turned around and lead me back downstairs.

“There’s a basement,” he mumbled when we reached the bottom, “got some stuff down there I’d like you to bring up.”

“What stuff?”

“Oh, you know,” he said with a feeble wave of his arm that barely went past his chest, “pots, pans, the usual.”

“Shouldn’t you keep those in the kitchen?”

“No room,” was Winslow’s mumbled reply.

“No room? What do you mean?”

“Most of my cupboards are full of food. It’s common sense.”

“Uh, okay,” I said, setting my book down on the desk next to the staircase. Winslow led me to the basement door, pushed it, and gestured down the open passage. It was dark and musty, that much I could see at a glance. A faint chill came upwards, wafting over us both.

“The stuff’s in the back pantry. While you get it I’ll be preparing the food. Remember, none of it is for you, you eat your leftover chicken if you’re hungry. Only get the pots and pans.”

“Alright, alright,” I muttered, nodding my head as I stomped down the basement steps. Every time my foot hit one of the planks of wood, it would make a slight creaking sound, almost like a moan. I hurried down without much fuss.

Winslow’s basement had a single light bulb attached to what could pass for a ceiling, a beaded cord lazily hanging from it. The moment I pulled, bright light flooded the room and I had to shield my eyes for a second. When I opened them, the first thing I saw was a block of stone leaning against a wall. I didn’t realize what it was for a moment, but when it clicked, I suddenly wondered if Randy hadn’t been making up those stories.

Carved into the stone was a name with a date below it. June 6th, 1987. The stone was freshly polished, shining in the light. As I read the name’s first few syllables, I felt a lump in my throat as my guts twisted into a knot.

I’d heard of this person before. People still told stories about her endeavors. Randy said my dad was one. The local library had a section full of old newspapers for students to research, and in one was a picture I’d never forget. She’d been wearing a red dress while hanging limply from a tree branch. Now, I’d found her original gravestone, ten years after it had been stolen.

Nobody ever mentioned told me her last name was Winslow, however.

I shuddered then marched past the gravestone, doing my best to ignore it. It wasn’t my business if Winslow was a little bit crazy, but here I was, getting pots and pans so he could cook. Even if his business was intruding on mine, I could always ignore it. Nobody had to know he was a thief who’d stolen a gravestone, especially one which belonged to his family.

Then I found the wooden pantry stacked with pots and pans, and leaning against it were three more freshly polished gravestones. Only one had Winslow’s name. Another had a photo.

Throat tight, I decided to get four pots and pans, trying not to touch the stones. Especially the one with the photo. The picture itself was faded, not bad enough that you couldn’t see who was in it. I could feel him watching my every step. There was no color to the photo, so all I saw were two black specks where his pupils and irises should be.

The first pot was for noodles, and very, very cold. I put two pans in it, then another pot and lid on top, holding it stable with both hands. As the cooking tools clinked and jangled together, the man’s dark eyes seemed to regard me with staunch disapproval, which I couldn’t bear to be the victim of.

I began speed walking to the stairs, which groaned and protested under my violent steps. By the time I reached the top, Winslow was in the kitchen, waiting for me with dull eyes and an apron strapped around his waist.

“Yeah, those will do,” he said absently, “you see anything else down there?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t lie. I know you did. Don’t tell a soul, now, you hear?” His voice was still dull and absent, but how could I take that as anything else but a threat? Nodding my head seemed to satisfy him.

“Okay, bring them over. I gotta get cooking.” I didn’t make a noise as I walked over, letting Winslow take the pots from me. He set each one down on a different burner, lighting each element immediately.

“You don’t come in here until I’m done cooking, understand?” I nodded and turned around, walking away quickly. It was weird. His voice, no matter how dull it was, was sending shivers down my spine with every word.

I set down and began reading my book, trying to ignore the ambient sounds of Winslow cooking. It was after only the first few chapters when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I jumped, still on edge after my discovery in the basement, before reaching into my pocket and pulling it out.

Mother had sent me a text. ''Hi sweetie! I’m having a great time, and one of my friends asked how you’re doing with Winslow. She’s so proud of you for sacrificing your Halloween to take care of that helpless old man. How’s it going over there?''

“What’re you doing?” I looked up to find Winslow in the kitchen door frame, pots and pans sizzling behind him. A metal spatula covered in tomato sauce was gripped tightly in one hand.

“My mom just texted me,” I answered, and then Winslow squinted his eyes at me.

“And?”

“She wants to know if everything’s okay.”

“Did you tell her anything?” How could a voice that dull be so unnerving?

“I haven’t texted her back yet.”

“What are you going to tell her?”

“That everything’s okay.”

Winslow didn’t move, he just stood there, eyes boring into him with a blank expression. Chunks of sliced, beaten tomato were dripping down the spatula, small droplets of water landing on the floor. His chest rose and fell with every raspy breath and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

I didn’t feel like he was going to hurt me if I upset him. Winslow didn’t seem like that kind of guy. However, the way he stared at me, like I wasn’t really there… it made me realize he wasn’t all there.

Without thinking, I sent back a message to my mom, typing how nothing was wrong with shaking fingers.

“What’d you say?” Winslow asked, and he unsteadily took a step into the front room. I stood and held up my phone, letting him see the text. His face was lightly bathed in blue light as his eyes darted across it, lips moving silently. Then he grunted and turned around, going back into the kitchen.

I sighed and collapsed into the chair. For the next half hour, all I did was flip through page after page of Stephen King’s writing, not taking a single pause to glance up at the kitchen. I could just see Winslow shuffling about in my peripheral vision and caught the occasional mumble, but that was about it. Then he turned off each burning and began removing the pots and pans.

“Hey, Ryan. Come here.”

I started. Winslow was back in the door frame, this time without the spatula.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I need you to help set the dining room table.”

“Oh… why?”

“My guests will be coming soon.”

“How many people are coming?”

“Oh, about four.”

My mind suddenly flashed back to the gravestones in the basement, but I shook the thought off.

“So, should I set six plates of food?”

“Six?” Winslow’s face scrunched up, confused as he peered at me through his spectacles. Then he blinked and stopped squinting. “Oh. You aren’t eating with us. Only me and my guests. Understand?”

I nodded and when Winslow gestured with his shoulder I followed him into the kitchen. I was stunned to see that even after all that cooking the kitchen was still nearly as spotless as when I had first seen it, even the tray of chicken wrapped in tinfoil. The stove had a few spots of tomato sauce, but even the cooking tools were gone, leaving near spotless.

Winslow pointed at the cupboard above the sink. “Get down five plates. I’ll get the silverware and glasses. Be very careful getting those plates down, they belonged to a friend.” Before I could say anything he lumbered over to a drawer, pulled it open and pulled out several forks, spoons, and knives then walking into an open door.

With nothing better to do, I did as instructed, walking up to the sink and reaching up to the cupboard above it. The handle was brass like the facet and as I opened it, the hinges squeaked as quietly as a mouse. Inside I found several china plates, neatly stacked together. I needed to get five, so I counted out each plate with no trouble.

The first thing I noticed about each plate was on each one had purple flowers and green vines on them, like an antique tea set. They were just as freshly polished as the gravestones, and I paused on the fourth, observing my reflection in it.

It was the fifth one I almost broke. I don’t know how it happened, but somehow, my fingers slipped and the plate started to slide out of my grasp. Gasping in shock, I reacted instantly, flinging my other arm out and grabbing the plate before it smashed into the sink. Sighing in relief, I was just setting it down when Winslow burst in.

“What happened?” he said, leaving his mouth open.

“I almost dropped a plate,” I said slowly, bracing myself for what I expected to be a verbal thrashing.

Instead, Winslow’s face twitched around the edges of his nose and eyes. His upper lip shook unsteadily as he swung his body from side to side ever so slightly. His breathing became more and more raspy with every breath, and then he coughed, once, twice, three times. At the last, he bent over slightly, hands on his knees before he stood up straight again.

“Is it cracked?” he asked, his voice still dull.

I held it up with one hand, but as I inspected the well, Winslow was suddenly at my side, leaning into me.

My heart almost leapt into my throat when I felt his body pressing against my free arm and I would have dropped the plate had I not been clutching it tightly. Winslow’s head was so close to mine I could see brown spots beneath his beard and a small, pink wart in the folds of his neck. His breathing was still raspy and shallow but now it sounded labored as if he were struggling to breathe.

“Turn it around,” Winslow’s voice was husky, and I did as he said,  revealing the base. The year of production was painted in grey, sometime in 1957, but that wasn’t important. I was more concerned when Winslow leaned forward, so close his breath began fogging up the clear china. Red vines slithered across the whites of his eyes as he sniffed, and a thin line of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth.

Then he wiped it away and backed off, rubbing his hand on his pant leg. “It’s alright,” he whispered, “it’s not cracked. Now take the plates to the dining room.” Winslow turned around and shuffled away, back through the door.

I set down the plate carefully on the other four then picked up the stack with both hands, turning around to follow Winslow. Now that I didn’t have to deal with Winslow unintentionally invading my personal space, I dwelled on something that had just occurred to me.

The year these plates had been manufactured was on one of the gravestones. The one with the picture in it. For a moment, I considered it a strange coincidence, and would have left it at that, if it weren’t for the way that picture had stared at me with dark, disapproving eyes.

Without thinking, I looked down at the plate I had almost shattered, still shiny enough for me to see my reflection and what was behind it.

Just over my shoulder was a man’s face, staring at me with dark, disapproving eyes. I inhaled sharply and blinked, stopping in my tracks. When I looked back at the plate, I found only myself staring back at me.

“What’d happen now?” Winslow said, and I could hear his heavy footsteps approaching me.

“Sorry, just got a little spooked,” I replied and quickly went through the door, ignoring the goosebumps spreading across my body.

The dining room was lit by a glass chandelier hanging above a brown table, both ends curved like two halves of a circle that someone had planted a square between. Five chairs were situated around it, wines glasses and silverware set in front of each one. A bowl of spaghetti, a plate of carved turkey, mashed potatoes and a pan filled with chunky tomato sauce where in the exact center of the table, accompanied by two bottles of red wine. This was the only room where the curtains weren’t pulled across the windows, and I could see the green car covered in leaves.

Winslow wasted no time in taking the plates from me and setting one in front of each chair, adjusting the silverware on either side so they were perfectly parallel. After he placed the last plate down gently, he took a step back into the corner, clasped his hands over his stomach and smiled, revealing teeth with black build up between each one.

“Almost ready,” he declared, then picked up both bottles of wine, pulling out a corkscrew from his pocket which he then stabbed into their corks. After he had popped the second one, he handed me the open bottle while he picked up the other. “Help me pour these.”

I didn’t argue, just did as he asked. As I filled the first glass, a presence seemed to steadily build in the chair beside me, in perfect sync with the flowing wine. I stole a glance at the empty chair and saw it had been pulled out from the table, just enough for someone to sit down comfortably.

I swallowed my nervousness and proceeded onto the next glass, only to feel another presence appear in another empty chair, again pulled out like someone was sitting there. I kept my eyes on the third chair as I filled its glass, trying to see it move, only for Winslow to rudely cough. I looked up to see him glaring across the table at me, and for the only time that Halloween, he was angry. His nostrils flared violently while his mouth was clamped shut, jowls quivering slightly as his face turned a faint shade of red.

I took my eyes off him to check on the wine, heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t need to look at the chair to know it had been pulled away from the table. Instead, I stopped pouring and set down the wine bottle, stepping away from the table.

“What were you doing?” Winslow growled at me. “Didn’t your father ever teach you it’s rude to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“My dad ran off with his secretary nine years ago.”

Winslow blinked and his face began to lose its red coloration. “That’s right,” he muttered, “I remember that. Whole town was talking about it. No wonder you’re such a rude boy.” Without another word, Winslow removed the apron stained with tomato sauce, and held it towards me.

“Take this to the laundry shoot,” he ordered. “And don’t come back until I tell you.” I stepped around the table slowly and tentatively reached out my hand, fingers brushing against the thin fabric.

“Hurry up,” he snapped, and my hand instantly closed around it. He let go instantly and took a seat at the head of the table, grunting. His was the only chair which hadn’t been pulled out. When he glanced up at me, I turned around and quickly shot through the door and to the kitchen when I stopped.

I was standing between in the door frame, body frozen as I futilely tried to make it move. Then I heard voices in the dining room, whispering to each other.

Slowly, I turned around, apron forgotten as I dropped it on the floor. I took off my shoes and began tiptoeing back towards the room, afraid of what Winslow would do if he heard me coming.

Thankfully, he didn’t. I cautiously peered one eye around the door frame, heart racing in case I made on screw up.

Winslow had raised his glass, looking at the four empty chairs in turn with a warm smile, lips pressed together. A moment later, I saw vague glimmers around the other wine glass and then, seemingly unaided, they began to rise high into the air before coming to a stop.

As Winslow brought his own glass to his lips and tipped his head back, the others drifted and dipped backward as one, the wine to flowing out at an angle and fade away into thin air. Where the wine vanished, shapes began to form, all seated around the table. Like ink poured into a bowl of clear water, four people appeared. I instantly recognized the two on the far side of the table, facing the door.

One was a man in a black suit, his face gaunt and pale. Beside him was a girl in a red dress I’d only seen in a photograph with an angry, black mark on the skin of her neck, under her jaw. Across the table from them, backs to the door, was a soldier wearing a green cap, tarred by a dark red stain. By his side was an older woman who was thin and lean, almost emancipated. The two faces I could see had their eyes closed, content and at peace.

They drained their glasses quietly, with a practiced technique. Their skin was all a dull, sickly yellow color, the color of corpses. Winslow’s guests had arrived.

But all I could focus on was the man with a gaunt face. I waited with a lump in my throat for his eyes to open and confirm they were as dark and disapproving as the pair that haunted me ever since I went down to the basement. I wanted to scream and run into the streets, to get as far away from this house as I could. But I couldn’t move, my muscles constricted together so tightly I thought I would get a cramp. As the empty wine glasses left their lips, I finally moved away from the door, hand clasped over my mouth as I heard the telltale sound of glass touching wood.

“It’s a good night,” I heard Winslow say, “I’ve missed you all very much. It’s been so lonely here without you.”

“Oh, Davie, you don’t have to stay here,” an older woman said, “you should go out more and make some friends.”

“But nobody likes me, mom,” Winslow muttered, and I could now hear the food being served, splashing on the china plates. “I’ve seen how some of those kids look at me. Think I’m some kind of monster.”

“What about that kid who helped you set the table?” a man said. I bit my bottom lip to keep myself from gasping.

“Oh, him? That’s Ryan. His mother nagged me that he should spend his Halloween night helping me until I said yes. Like I need any.”

“Everyone needs some help,” the man continued, “I know I would have liked some while serving in Korea.”

“Yes, our wedding wouldn’t have gotten canceled, Howard.”

The room filled with amused chuckles, among them Winslow’s. His voice was youthful, not dull like moments ago. A second man’s voice, younger than the first, spoke up.

“You’ve been taking care of my plates, Dave. Just like you promised.”

“I always keep my promises, Richie. ‘Sides, they’re good plates. You would have made a fortunate with them.”

Richie. I remembered that name. It had been under the photo with dark eyes. Richie Burt. Died in 1989. Same year on the plates.

“If that drunk hadn’t been speeding, I would have.” More chuckles answered Richie.

Then the older woman gasped. “Oh, Davie, my car! It’s covered in leaves!”

“I know, mother, I know. I’ve been meaning to clean it, but… I’m sorry, mother.”

“It’s alright, dear, but you must take better care of it sometime. Please, at least take her for a drive.”

“I’m no good at driving,” Winslow muttered sadly. “I haven’t been able to get my license back.”

“Davie, it’s alright. No need to feel ashamed. You just gotta back on your feet, that’s all.”

“I don’t know how, mother.” There was a pause for a moment, then Winslow spoke again. “Would like a bigger serving?”

“Heaven knows I shouldn’t have gone on that diet. Look what it did to me. Nothing but skin and bone!” Even more chuckles followed.

“That Ryan kid doesn’t seem so bad, Davie,” said a young woman. “You shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

“He almost broke one of Richie’s plates,” Winslow retorted grumpily.

“It would have been an accident anyhow, Dave. I saw the whole thing. Even if he was a bit nosy, he’s only what, fourteen? We only get to be fourteen once.”

“True that, Richard,” the older man, Howard, said, “very true. I wish I could have been at your fourteenth birthday, Davie.”

“Maybe your mother wouldn’t have ruined it,” came the voice of the older woman, “I still haven’t forgiven her for kicking us out.”

“I can’t blame you, Cecilia,” Howard answered solemnly. Silverware clinked and scrapped against the china plates and then I heard chewing. “Davie, this is really good. You’ve outdone yourself this year.”

“Thanks, pa,” Winslow said proudly, “I tried my best.”

“Tried? Davie, this is your best.” The younger woman sounded like she was in heaven, sighing contently. “I’m even sorrier I left you when I did. I missed out on what a great cook you’ve become.”

“It’s okay, Emily,” Winslow answered, “wasn’t your fault.”

“On a different subject,” Howard said, “Davie, have you got any candy for the kids?”

“No, pa. I don’t. No kids ever come by here on Halloween.”

“Ryan has,” Richie said, “course, he should be out getting candy himself.”

“I know. His mother said she’ll pay him tomorrow.”

“Paying her own son to take care of an old geezer like you? My mother would approve of that, yes sir. Kid shouldn’t have to sacrifice his Halloween for a few bucks tomorrow. He should be rotting his teeth.”

They all laughed again, even Winslow. The glow in his voice was brighter now. Compared to the dull monotone he’d had before, it almost felt like he was a completely different person.

“Davie, have you read any good books lately?”

“A few, Emily, a few. That Ryan kid was reading something by the fellow who wrote Carrie.”

“King’s still publishing? Damn it, now I really wish I was still alive.”

“Trust me, you don’t. Things been getting bleak around here. I’m just waiting until I join you.”

Everything stopped instantly, then the guests groaned as one. Cecilia spoke up first.

“David Winslow, I’ve told you several times. Life is meant to be enjoyed. Savor every day you wake to.”

“Your mother’s right, David. I died and didn’t get to see you grow up. Do you know what that was like? Not being able to see my little boy go to school, bring home a girlfriend, and learn to drive?”

“I’m living on grandma’s money,” Winslow said, his dull monotone creeping back into his voice. “I don’t need to get a job or go out. I just order some food every month.”

“You need more than good food to really live, Davie,” Richie said sorrowfully, “that’s a fact of life.”

“Mom needed good food,” Winslow answered, but he didn’t sound angry. He sounded… resigned.

I droned out the rest of the conversation, letting it become ambient background noise.

Mom was right. Winslow really was a lonely old man.

Then my phone vibrated in my pocket, loudly. I jumped, biting my lip again, but I knew it was useless. Winslow and his guests had stopped talking again.

“Ryan,” I heard Winslow say, “what’re you doing?”

Before I could say one heard, glass shattered in the dining room, accompanied by panicked cries and surprised curses as chairs tumbled onto the floor. China shattered as something impacted into the table, which cracked in protest. Red paint splattered out of the dining room and onto the hardwood floor next to me. After this came several more thuds, more glass shattering, and water being poured onto something, but this time it came from outside. And through it all was the cruel laughter lead by Randy Parks’ snickering.

I can’t even remember running out the front door, nor how I got the M1 Garand. I do remember how heavy it was as I rushed down the front porch steps, holding onto the barrel like it was a club.

Randy’s posses was made up of three cowboys, all throwing rocks through the dining room window, pitching like they were playing in Major League Baseball. Randy was snickering as he poured a blue barrel onto Cecilia’s car, making sure some got in through what was left of the windshield and passenger side window.

It was when the last drop hit the hood and Randy pulled out a lighter that I found my voice.

“Hey, shitfaces! Beat it!”

The gang of desperadoes stopped. Randy’s punks widened their eyes when they saw the gun, dropping their projectiles and backing away.

Randy, however, just smirked even wider the moment lifted his head, and ran his thumb against the spark wheel, a devilish look in his eyes. He held out the tiny, orange flame above the hood.

“Hey guys, look! The vacuum cleaner thinks he’s a soldier now!” He laughed even louder, but his posse stayed silent.

“Randy, I think we should leave now,” one of them said quietly.

“Hell no, Gary!” Randy barked. “I’ve been waiting to torch this ever since Winslow killed my dog! Think I’m gonna miss my chance?”

“Randy, if you don’t shut your lying mouth, I’ll bash your face in!” I screamed, stepping towards him. The gunstock leaned against my shoulder, its weight pressing into me. I ignored how much my arms screamed for me to let it go. I wasn’t gonna let Randy have his fun this time.

“Thank I give a shit, Ryan? You think I’m scared of you? I’ll fuck you up so bad you’ll never walk again, then I’ll burn down your pedo boyfriend’s house!”

Rather than laugh uproariously, Randy’s posse nervously chuckled or groaned, one shaking his head. “Randy, Jesus, knock it off! You didn’t say you were gonna burn the car, just mess it up a little!”

“GARY, SHUT THE FUCK UP OR YOU’RE NEXT!” The posse didn’t say another word.

I was still inching closer to Randy, his green eyes glaring fiercely as I reached the end of the grille. Then he maimed letting go of the lighter and I stopped, sharply inhaling. Randy chuckled again.

“I shoulda known,” he said cheekily, mouth twisting into a sneer, “Ryan Dyson, hanging out with a cannibalistic pet killer. I bet your daddy’s real proud of his little boy. That’s why he made a new family, right?”

From deep inside myself came a growl like a mad dog, and I started edging around the grille. “At least he isn’t in jail like yours,” I said without thinking.

Something changed in Randy when I said that, something snapped. He stopped smirking, face tight with a dark fury. Then, without saying a word, he dropped the lighter.

I froze as flames sprang into life on the hood, racing across the chassis and into the seats. The heat flowed over me, intense and all too real. But my legs moved of their own accord, backing up to the house. Black smoke rose skyward like the Hand of God Himself, come to smite the sinners.

Then I saw Randy coming at me, a jagged rock in his hand. He raised his arm above his head. “Hell does Susie even see in you?!” he snarled.

I didn’t think when I swung the rifle at him. To this day, I am ashamed to admit I took some pride in hearing the sickening crunch as it smashed into his elbow. Randy didn’t even register it was broken before I smashed the end of the rifle into his nose, just like I’d always wanted to.

Randy collapsed to the pavement, blood dripping from his nose as he clutched his twisted forearm, his whimpers turning into screams that made my blood turn cold. The rifle lay on the pavement, forgotten, as I backed away from the sniveling heap that was Randy.

Only one of Randy’s boys rushed to drag him away from the carnage, but by that time, it was too late. The neighbors were already running to the scene, and I could hear sirens in the distance. There were people screaming at me to get away from the fire, but that wasn’t why I did. The burning car was a non-entity as far as I was concerned.

Then I felt someone grabbed my shoulders and spin me around. My fist was moving of its own will but stopped when I saw Black Panther staring at me, eyes big as Winslow’s plates.

“Ryan, what the hell did you do?” he said, pulling me away from the burning wreck towards the end of a rusty chain link fence. I blindly stumbled along with him, hands shaking.

There were three others already there, a pirate, a Ninja Turtle, and a girl dressed as a devil with eyes like an angel. When they looked at me, I thought they were looking at a stranger.

“Holy shit,” the pirate muttered, “just holy shit, Ryan. I think you killed Randy Parks.”

“What?” I said, voice cracking.

“Bobby, shut up! Ryan’s in shock!” The girl hissed before walking over to me, setting her pitchfork on the grass next to several plastic bags. I gasped when she cupped my face in her hands, turning it first one way then the other. Her hands were smooth and warm against my freezing skin, and when they left I desperately wanted them back.

Then she wrapped her arms around my chest and pulled me close. Still as a statue, Susie patted the back of my head softly, telling me Randy was still alive and that everything was okay. My breathing calmed down a bit as I realized I was in the arms of my crush.

Then I felt Darryl’s arms around me, followed by Mickey and Bobby. Surrounded by my friends and Susie, tears began running down my cheeks as I sobbed quietly.

Did that just happen? Had I broken Randy’s arm and nose? The police would arrest me for that, I knew they would. Karen Parks would demand it. They were getting closer, I could hear them. And oh God, Davie-

“Winslow,” I muttered and suddenly broke free from them, sprinting back inside. I ignored the men trying to put out the burning car, just like I ignored Darryl calling my name. Instead, I burst through the front door and raced past the basement and kitchen.

Winslow was sitting at the head of an empty table, ruined by a large metal box lying in the middle of shattered china and glass, red paint leaking out of it. More covered the food, the walls, the fallen chairs, the busted chandelier, and Winslow himself. Rocks of varying sizes littered the place. He didn’t seem to notice, hands laying in his lap.

His eyes were soaked as he turned to me, face covered in gooey red splashes that mixed with the blood on his forehead. They weren’t dull now - they were completely empty, tears leaving them as freely as his soul. Then, slowly, he began sobbing.

“They’re leaving,” he whimpered, “and they aren’t allowed to come back no more.” Then he cast his eyes to the living room window.

It was open, the curtains blowing listlessly in the breeze. There was a small crowd of people gathering outside, more than one recording the burning of Cecilia’s car as someone put it out with a fire extinguisher. None of them noticed as she and the other guests walked sadly down the road, glancing behind them every now and then. Nor did they notice the black shape, completely devoid of all features, waiting for them.

Howard reached it first. He held out his hand and an appendage emerged from the shape, clasping it. Cecilia took the other one, then Richie took hers. When he offered Emily his hand, she hesitated before accepting it.

As one, Winslow’s guests stared at the house, their faces lit up by the dimming fire. Now they were all gaunt and pale, not just Richie, and a weight seemed to weigh down on their shoulders. They stayed like that for a while, watching the house.

And then they looked at me. First I met Emily’s eyes, then Richie’s, then Cecilia’s and finally Howard’s. There was a mute appeal in all of them, their final plea in this world.

Then the black shape began floating away, and they followed. I watched until they vanished off into the distance.

“I can’t go on like this.”

Winslow’s voice cracked as he spoke, and I when I looked back at him, he was on his knees.

“I need them. My parents, my best friend, my girlfriend. They kept me going. Now… now they can’t come back. Not next Samhain or any other.” He couldn’t keep back the tears from running down his face, nor the pathetic sobbing.

“Ryan?” Darryl was standing next to the kitchen door, looking through the living room at the mess that had been David Winslow’s last dinner with the people he couldn’t let go of. Behind him were the others, taking the occasional wary glance at either me, Winslow or the walls, like something would burst out of them. I didn’t even notice them come inside.

“I didn’t mean to tell Gary,” Bobby said, shaking his head, “well, I did, but I didn’t know he’d tell Randy.”

I ignored him, instead walking over to Winslow. He looked up at me, eyes two grey voids.

“Sir,” I said slowly, “I… I’m sorry.”

Winslow didn’t say anything.

“I… do you want me to treat that head wound?”

He blinked, rubbing his eye with his hand. Drying paint, tears, and fresh blood now stained his fingers.

“I’d like that,” he murmured.

I held out my hand. Winslow blankly looked at it for a few moments, then took it with his soiled fingers. I pulled him up, supporting him as he found his footing.

Susie, Darryl, Mickey and Bobby were watching with mouths hanging open like a school of fish as I started to lead Winslow out of the dining room. He didn’t seem to notice them.

“Thanks for coming guys,” I said quietly, “uh… I gotta take care of Winslow. Could you clean up the mess?”

My friends and Susie exchanged glances with each other. Then, without missing a beat, Susie and Mickey walked over to the table and began picking up the broken pieces of china. Darryl walked into the kitchen and came back with a bucket, rags, and mop while Bobby got closed the window, then began picking up the chairs.

It was as I was wiping away the red paint and blood from Winslow’s face when the first cop came into the house, followed by his partner.

“What happened here?” he asked me. I opened my mouth, then paused, glancing at Winslow. His sad eyes had never moved from his feet.

As I relayed what had happened, telling him my name and how my mother made me take care of Winslow, I left out the gravestones, Winslow’s behavior, but I didn’t leave out breaking Randy’s arm and nose. I expected the cop to slap the cuffs on my wrists there and then.

Instead, he smiled at me. “I was wondering where that gun came from,” he muttered, “kid, you did the right thing in protecting yourself and Winslow. We’ll be taking the rifle as evidence, though.” Then he turned to the old man. “An ambulance is coming for you, Winslow. Do you have anything to add? Would you like to press charges?”

“The car was my mother’s,” he rasped, staring into space, “I told her I’d take care of it.”

The cop sighed, then got up, walking around to the living room. He coughed and I heard him telling my friends to stop cleaning, as this was a crime scene and he had to preserve it. Then he ushered them out and into the front room, giving me a respectful nod.

Darryl took a seat next to me, and sighed. “I uh… I texted you. Did you get it?”

I blinked, and pulled out my phone. “Oh. I did.”

“Uh.” That was all Darryl said.

“My aunt’s a nurse,” Susie said now, “she said that when someone’s in shock, you need to reassure them after checking for any injuries. That’s why I was touching your face.” There was a faint blush in her cheeks.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

“Randy’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?”

“Shut up, Bobby.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur. More cops arrived as the car smoldered, along with the ambulance. They ushered everyone outside while they made a thorough search of the house. The first cop gave me a knowing look when he came outside, his partner muttering about the basement.

As they loaded Winslow into the ambulance, paramedics holding a holding up an ice pack to his head, he finally seemed to notice me, blinking. Then he leaned over to one of the paramedics, lips moving slowly and weakly lifting up a finger at me. She turned to me, and the next thing I knew I was standing next to the ambulance while Winslow lay strapped to a stretcher.

Winslow’s dull expression had lifted slightly. He seemed warmer now.

“Thanks for your help,” Winslow said, “I appreciate it.”

I nodded, giving him a smile small. One which he returned.

Then I was lead back to my friends. They were sitting glumly on the pavement, doing nothing except holding their bags of candy. I sat down next to Darryl. When he turned to me, his face was a mask of stunned awe.

“Did… did you see anything in there?” he asked. “In Winslow’s house?”

There was something in his voice when he spoke. Something rather… unsure. For a moment, I wondered if anyone else has seen Winslow’s guests leave.

“Oh yeah,” I answered, “I’ll tell you about it later.” 