![]() Candies and BrainsA Story by bba![]() Two friends set out for an adventure on the lovely night of Halloween.![]() The ghastly moon shone feebly in the black sky. No stars could be seen. The
occasional strip of cloud slithered across the face of the moon like a finger
trying to erase it. It was All Hallows Eve and the children of Brookside Hills
were all dressed up, clutching their buckets and hoping to fill them with sweets by
night’s end. The streets were littered with mini-monsters and green aliens,
fairies with their sparkling wands and witches with their mother’s broom. They
marched along the streets - Concord Street, Columbus Street, Crisfield Avenue,
and Brookside Drive, knocking on doors and chanting trick or treat like the
town crier reminding the villagers it was time for their offering to God. Only
one street remained empty. Clinton
Street was on the far edge of the village. Nobody went there except to bury or to
visit the dead. The street was rough and unpaved unlike the others that ran across
Brookside Hills. Tall dried stalks clumped on the sides of the road like brown
walls, keeping trespassers from crossing over the empty lot. The leafless trees
reached out from the dark, grasping the sky with skeleton branches. There
was no sound as though nature itself didn’t want anything to do with Clinton
Street. A young man walked briskly on Clinton Street. He wore a black vest over the white dirty shirt, black moldy-smelling pants, and a pair of black shoes that looked like they hadn’t seen a shoe brush in years. He had just turned seventeen early this year, but with his stunted height and thin frame he could have easily passed for twelve. Under his right arm was the six-pack he managed to swipe from the fridge while old Annie wasn’t looking. He hated stealing from old Annie. She was sweet and probably the only person who was kind to him, kind enough not to treat him like garbage like everybody did, but he didn’t have any money to pay for the beer. On his other arm was a pumpkin-shaped plastic bucket like the ones the kids dangled under the noses of whoever opened the door. His bucket was already filled with candies. His name was Rupert Bartholomew and he hated the cemetery. Rupert
reached the rusty gates. He edged to the side where the wrought iron wall was
bent open then slid carefully in, trying not to spill the candies like his life
depended on it. Once inside, he walked more rapidly to the center of the
cemetery, where a candle was melting on top of one of the headstones. The
cemetery was abysmal as always. The dried flowers scattered on the ground didn’t
help get rid of the weird chemical smell that circulated the air. This is how death smells like, Rupert
thought, wrinkling his nose. The ground was dusty and dry like a cake left in the oven. Nobody even thought of planting grass, but even if they did, no grass would grow in this kind of
soil. Headstones protruded from the ground like jagged rows of teeth, waiting to close on an unsuspecting meal that would come near them. He broke into a run. He
stopped in front of the headstone. The candle had been waiting for him, its thick
tears streaming down the engraved name. He dropped the six-pack and the pumpkin
on the ground and rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Boo!” Rupert
stumbled backwards, his eyes as round as the moon, staring dumbly at the stocky
young man, who jumped from behind the headstone. The young man had a white face and his
cheeks looked like they were rotting - the skin cracked and peeling off. Bruno
Jerkins was ready for Halloween. “Jeez,
man, what’s got into you?” said Bruno as he moved from behind the headstone. He
had his stupid little smile as he examined Rupert on the ground. They
weren’t actually friends in school; they didn’t even belong in the same group. Rupert
was one of the geeks who flocked the library between classes, discussing
computers and role-playing games. Bruno was a loud jock, famous for his winning
touchdowns, and knew nothing else beyond the topic of sports. They met two
years ago in this cemetery and had been stuck with each other ever since despite
their many differences. “Aw,
what’s this, Roofy? You went out trick-or-treating without me? I thought we
were friends,” Bruno said. He kicked the bucket, sending the multi-colored candies
all over the cemetery ground. Rupert
said nothing while he picked up the candies and put them back to the bucket. “Jeez,
leave it, man. Aren’t you’re too old for candies?” Bruno said, disgusted at the
sight of Rupert. He reached for the beer, and with one motion, he
took one and threw it towards Rupert. “Here, have a beer.” Rupert
raised his hands to save his face from the flying can. He caught the beer and
the candies scattered back down to the ground like broken pieces of glass.
Bruno’s chuckle echoed throughout the headstones. “So,
what do you want to do tonight?” Bruno said, opening a can. He drank half the
beer in one swing. Rupert
shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you want to do?” “Me?
We did my thing last year, remember? It’s your turn now.” He
crushed the empty beer can with one hand, threw it over the headstones as far as he could then
reached for another one. Rupert had only taken three sips. He wondered how
Bruno managed to drink the awful thing. He fell silent, staring at the cold sweat
of the can in his hand. “Well?
Who do you want to visit tonight?” Bruno said after a few moments of silence. He
knew Rupert was thinking of somebody and with a little nudge he would have a
name. Rupert
skimmed through his memories. He really wanted to get back to somebody this
year that made his life miserable at school. So many names. So many faces. And
so many miserable moments. He thought about Jose the school janitor and remembered
the way he bickered at him and his friends around the school grounds every time
he had the chance. Then Rupert remembered the janitor died early this year. His
headstone still looked new and stood out from the rest in the dark cemetery. Then
there was Yvette, the senior girl who pranced around the school with her
cronies of giggling girls, thinking she was the prettiest girl in Brookside Hills. She once poured a glass
of orange juice on Rupert’s head when he wrote her a letter. He hated that girl
ever since and loved her at the same time. “Okay,
who is it?” Bruno said, seeing Rupert flash a faint smile. “Tell me, Roofy.” The
name he had in mind had been attached to Bruno’s name since he first stepped in
school. They were inseparable like a pair of butt cheeks. Rupert hesitated. He
didn’t know if Bruno would approve his pick. But then again, Bruno had picked Ms.
Sarah the math teacher last year and he didn’t even think twice about going
with the plan even though he really liked her a lot and math was his favorite
subject. “I
don’t know,” Rupert said, trying to avoid Bruno’s eyes. “Joseph Taylor?” Bruno
smiled. “Nice pick, Roofy. Nice one. Grab the rest of the beer, will you? I’ll
get the shovel.” They
walked away from the headstone towards the dark road of Clinton Street, leaving
the candlelight dance for the dead.
Joseph
Taylor was the PE teacher and Bruno’s head coach. They both had muscular
bodies, and Taylor could easily be mistaken for Bruno’s uncle. Taylor lived at
the far end of Brookside Drive with his mother and her two cats. Nobody at
school had ever asked why he still lived with his mother and they had a good
reason not to. It would be a death sentence to ask a stupid question like that
to someone with arms as thick as a toddler’s waist. The
two boys walked the length of Brookside Drive. The night was still young but
the kids were almost finished with their trick-or-treating. The buckets were filled
with treats, and smiles painted every face. Once in a while some kids would throw
a glare at the odd couple. The two looked too old for trick-or-treating after all, and even
though their costumes and make-ups looked convincing, the kids didn’t want them
on the streets tonight. Better costumes meant lots of treats. And the kids of
Brookside Hills were in no mood for any competition in this special night.
Although
the house at the end of the street looked the same as the other houses along
the Brookside Drive, tonight it stood out like a gap between perfect white teeth.
There were no decors of spider webs on the walls, no plastic bats hanging from
the ceiling, and no carved pumpkin heads on the porch. Taylor couldn’t make the
message any clearer. Halloween wasn’t his favorite holiday. Inside,
Taylor was on the couch watching TV and a bottle of beer in his hand. He
decided to spend the night catching up with weekend games and killing the twelve
bottles of beer in the fridge. This was his fifth bottle so far. “Trick
or treat!” The
voices behind the door reached Taylor like the ugly smell of a garbage can. He took
a deep breath and turned to the door. He could’ve melted that door with his
eyes. “Scram!”
he said. As
much as he wanted to hurl those trick-or-treaters from his porch, he decided to
stay on the couch. He figured his loud, deep voice would be enough to scare
them away. He turned back to the TV and missed his team make a touchdown. He
nearly threw his beer at the TV. “Trick
or treat!” He
choked the bottleneck tighter. Those kids
got some nerves, he told himself. He bolted up from the couch and headed straight
to the door. “Are
you deaf? I told you to scram!” he said as he opened the door. There
was nothing on the porch except shadows. Taylor clenched his teeth and squinted
his eyes, watching the darkness to reveal any kind of movement. “You
want to play games, huh?” he said. “Come out now and get your treats.” He
stepped out of the door, his stone-like heels thumping the wooden panels. The
wind pulled the door closed, and he spun around and threw the beer bottle. The
bottle found the door and exploded. Taylor’s temper rose from dangerous to deadly
dangerous. He heard footsteps behind him and his lips formed a grin. Heads will
roll tonight. “Trick
or treat!” Taylor
drew himself up to his full height and very slowly, as though giving the poor
trick-or-treaters time to change their minds, he turned. To
his satisfaction, the stocky young man didn’t move. Taylor wasn’t even bothered
that the young man had a well-formed body fit for a quarterback. He was the PE teacher and the head coach after all, and no teenager could ever take him down. “Trick
or treat, Coach,” Bruno said. Taylor
paused. That voice. It sounded familiar. “Yeah,
it’s me, Coach,” Bruno said, still hiding in the shadows. “So, would you give me a
treat?” “Jerkins?” Taylor
started to raise his arms to give the boy a hug. God, he missed his best
quarterback. How long had it been? Three years? Three long years since the team
hadn’t reached the finals. Three long years since the shelf at his office had
been deprived of the state championship trophy. Three long years since Bruno
had… Taylor’s
arms fell back down to his side. He remembered. Bruno shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t
be anywhere except under the ground. “Come
on, Coach. Gimme some treat, for old times’ sake, will you.” Taylor
took a step back. He felt the shards of the bottle under his feet, but he kept backing
away. Then the sound of the shovel came whooshing behind him. The shovel found the
back of Taylor’s head, and he flung forward. Taylor held his head and tried to straighten
himself up. Another swing to the head. Taylor stumbled back, his shoulder hitting
the wall and breaking his fall. He turned and saw the thin boy behind him
holding the shovel. “Trick
or treat, Mr. Taylor,” Rupert said, raising the shovel above his head. Rupert
swung the shovel towards Taylor’s neck, and kept swinging and swinging and
swinging until the head of the shovel finally hit the wall. The
two young men walked silently in the dead of the night, each holding a Halloween bucket. The children were long gone, and
probably feasting on their candies at their homes. Rupert couldn’t suppress a
satisfied grin all the way back to the cemetery. He was tired and his arms felt
like they had grown a few inches of muscles from swinging the shovel. But it
was rewarding. He didn’t feel this kind of satisfaction when they visited Ms.
Sarah the math teacher last Halloween. Tonight had been a different experience now
that he actually participated in the killing. The rush was addictive, consuming
and at the same time liberating. They
sat on the ground facing the headstone with the candle, now reduced to a stub,
flickering in the starless evening as if saying goodbye to the world. Rupert
looked down at the pumpkin head bucket with a grin still in his face. The pinkish
gray organ quivered with the slight movement of the bucket. It reminded him of jelly.
So sweet and so soft. “So,
Roofy, feeling good?” Bruno said. Rupert
didn’t answer but widened his smile. “I
thought so,” said Bruno, smiling broadly himself. He stood up, making the brain
inside his own bucket wriggle. “Well, see you next year, Roofy.” Bruno said,
giving a salute. He walked away from the headstone towards the heart of the dark
cemetery. “Yeah,
see you next year,” Rupert said. Rupert
waited for the candle to flicker out and die. Then he stood up and walked
towards the rusty gates of the cemetery, his bucket swinging on his side. He
took a left before reaching the gate and zigzagged through the headstones. He
reached an open grave at the far end of the row then looked down. He
hated the cemetery. The weird chemical odor always seeped into his shirt and
the cushion of his coffin had lost its softness. He climbed down into the grave and lay
down, placing his bucket of brain on his chest. Rupert mused over the night’s adventure and felt a slight disappointment. He wished he could have Halloween every night. There’s always next year, he promised himself, then closed his eyes. The End © 2012 bbaAuthor's Note
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Added on July 2, 2012Last Updated on July 3, 2012 Tags: Halloween, Brains, Buckets, Shovel, Horror, Fiction, Brian Ayson, I really don't know how to tag m AuthorbbaPhilippinesAboutI write short stories mostly, somewhere within the realms of horror, fantasy, drama, dark fantasy. Please feel free to read and write a quick review of what you think of my stories. Any comments gr.. more..Writing
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