The story continues as we step away from Armenor and reunite with the Legcheeses and their friends.
 |
| A poor sketch of mine from 2013, to give you a rough idea of what the Halloween Friends look like. |
Chapter 1
The Mash Next Door
Jonathan
Legcheese yawned and stared at the screen, waiting for a response. He still did not understand this whole
“Skype” thingamajig, but when his only semi-sane human friend in town insisted
upon using it, he had little choice but to agree. At least his friend was getting better at saving
his daily “It’s a Small World” number (sung in continuous, window-shattering,
and unskilled falsetto) for occasions outside of their video chats.
“That Thanta sure thounds like one big
thilly gooth!” Stanley Pharmacist lisped, almost spilling Dennis’s bowl and
thereby causing three seconds of unparalleled chaos for his pet goldfish. “But at leatht you met that Rudolph! Jonathan,
why haven’t you told me thith thtory before?”
“I have, Stanley,” Jonathan remarked. “I’ve told you this story once a month for
the past ten months. You were part of
it, remember? Your mom chasing Santa out of your house with a rolling pin? The
news calling it the ‘Great Christmas Incident of 2005’? Does any of this ring a
bell?”
“I’m not ath young as I uthed to be,” said
Stanley mournfully, placing a hand on his forehead.
“You’re 15,” Jonathan pointed out.
“And you’re thicthteen now! You got your
lithenth and everything. You can drive me and Dennith to Petco!” The boy, his
eyes all aglow, lifted the fishbowl to eye level. “Doth my Dennith want a little girlfriend
guppy to keep him company?” He listened intently for a moment, then appeared shocked. “Three guppieth? You want a fish-harem?
Oh, no….”
Jonathan, knowing that Stanley would need
to have a serious talk with his pet goldfish about the importance of monogamy,
pressed the power button on his computer and sat back in his chair. Unintentionally, his eyes wandered to the
side table next to his bed where Ms. Unicorn had once rested, rearing up
triumphantly on her hind legs. She was
not there anymore, and he had decided to leave her spot blank rather than
replace her with those shoddy plastic horses he saw at Target, or even with one
of his five dozen toy ponies that lined the shelves on his scintillating wall. She was an irreplaceable testament of
courage, strength, and majesty. Surely,
her resplendence and countless victories over malevolence would be memorialized
through songs all across the West for years to come. “Happy Halloween, Ms. Unicorn!” said the boy,
standing and sauntering to the dresser on the opposite side of his room. “I hope you’re enjoying the holiday up there
in unicorn heaven.”
On top of his dresser was the notebook
that Santa had given him, and the white pencil lying beside it; they sat there alone,
dusty with ten months of disuse. For a
moment he considered pocketing the notebook, perhaps to pencil an account of
the day’s activities—but he told himself that he probably would not write
anything. He never did. Even when he cleared his desk and his mind of
all distractions, and opened to the first blank page of the booklet, nothing
noteworthy came to him. I’ve granted you a gift for
good; may you write for goodness’ sake, he recalled Santa’s message to him, which
had accompanied the gift. Writing is
a blessing; its power none can see. Now
write in your own ending; make it a victory.
Life and death are in your hand. Maybe
Santa’s tonic had left residual effects of madness, evident in the plump man’s
cryptic words. Or perhaps Jonathan would find the
ability to write when there was something worth writing.
After donning an orange shirt and black
pants, he left his room and found everyone and his mother standing around doing
absolutely nothing in the family room.
Except for his father, of course.
Mr. Legcheese was swaying to music in his head and whipping up his
famous “Annual Pumpkin Muffins” for the fortieth consecutive year. This was some feat, as he was forty-three.
“‘ey, Johnny boy!” the man shouted, holding
a tray of muffins in either hand. The
apron with Cat’s head emblazoned on it seemed a bit out of place but
extravagant nonetheless. “So you finally
decided to leave your room. What in your great uncle Horace’s name could have
kept you in there so long on the morning of Halloween?”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” agreed
Shameka with a scowl. “Ghost over here was
getting antsy and was about to dump a bucket of ice on you to get you up. Isn’t that right, Ghost?”
“That’s right.” Ghost was fuming. “Jonathan, why would you invite us over for a
‘groovy shindig’—your words—at noon and decide to come out at 12:30? Do you
know how long we stood out here? What do you expect your guests to do? I’ve
been twiddling my thumbs for over half an hour.”
“Ghost, you don’t even have fingers!”
Pumpkin threw an exasperated stem to where his forehead might have been. “You don’t have thumbs to twiddle!”
“Firstly, that’s racist,” said his
ethereal companion. “Secondly, what’s
with the outburst?”
“I’m sick and tired of you blaming others
for your problems,” muttered the squash, “especially when you don’t have
problems.”
Ghost shook his head. “I know what this is about. This is about me getting mad at you for
misplacing the floss at our apartment, isn’t it?”
Pumpkin stared at him. “You. Don’t. Have. Teeth.”
Ghost glared back at him. “Mr. Cornelius is going to hear about this.”
Jonathan was about to provide his wise
input on the subject when his ears caught the sound of what was presumably some
sort of wild animal moaning, or perhaps the whine of a neighbor’s dog
beleaguered by a severe flea problem. But
when this unearthly squeal was followed by the unmistakable voice that
exclaimed “Johnny boyfriend!” he turned with excitement toward the hallway. There she was, Awana Humphfree, charging toward
him like a rhino that had spent years in captivity and was only recently
granted its freedom. Each spike of her sanguine
hair was a foot long, held intact by the finest and strongest beeswax that
China had to offer; her green left eye was particularly viridescent today,
while her black-hazel eye looked no different than usual; she wore leggings
that depicted several key scenes from the movie Casper (which resulted in an expression
of total revulsion from Ghost), along with a custom gray sweater inscribed with
the glittery verse, Mark 14:51-52; on her feet were black, lacy heels,
and from her earlobes swung two absurdly detailed turkey earrings.
“Awana!” Jonathan cried. “I’m so glad you made it, turtledove!”
“Oh. My. Gosh.” Awana stopped and turned
to look at Witch, who was picking splinters from her flying broom. “He called me ‘turtledove!’”
The hag shook her head.
“Thank you for making it to the party on
time,” said Jonathan, toeing the carpet nervously. “Your hair looks really red today.”
“Johnny boyfriend, you sure know how to
make a girl blush,” said Awana, clasping her hands behind her back. “I’ve been here since six this morning. I was watching you sleep until your parents
asked me to help them put up the Halloween decorations out front…two hours
ago?”
“Biggest mistake of my life,” lamented Mr.
Legcheese. “Girl has no notion of
product placement. She used every last
square yard of our spiderwebs to cover the mummy. How are any of our trick-or-treaters going to
see our mummy now? Riddle me that, Humphfree!” He set down the trays of
muffins, tore off his oven mitts, stormed off, and slammed a door behind him.
“Hold on a second,” said Pumpkin to Awana.
“Are you telling me that you got here at six and watched Jonathan sleep until
ten-thirty?”
“That’s right, Pumpkin,” answered the
girl, staring at her boyfriend with admiring eyes. “I love how he sort of chirps like a bird
when he has happy dreams.”
“Oh, that’s…wow.” Pumpkin shook his entire
body and sighed long. “I need to go back
to Armenor.”
“So what’s the plan for today, Jonathan?”
Bat screeched, flapping his wings desperately to keep himself in the air.
Jonathan gave Awana a hug and seized a
muffin. “First, we’ll eat lunch and have
storytime. Frankenstein’s monster is
going to read that book about himself….What was that one called again,
Frankie?”
The monster rubbed his chin. “Dear Jonathan, while it is indeed true (how
difficult it was to avoid employing the word ‘veritable’) that I am improving
in my knowledge of everyday speech (not ‘colloquialism,’ as I formerly would
have uttered), societal mores, and social queues, I am unable to determine if
your question was proposed in jest. It
is called Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.”
“That’s right, Frankenstein! It totally slipped my mind. Anyway, after we hear the story, we’ll get
our costumes ready. Then we get candy.”
“Yeah!” cheered Awana, raising an exultant
hand toward the ceiling. But after a
moment, her smile fell and her lips trembled.
Tears began to well in her eyes.
Everyone proceeded to mingle, but Jonathan
took Awana’s hand and stared at her. “What’s
wrong, sugarplum?”
She looked intently at his face. “One year ago today, I didn’t even know what
Halloween was, because Apo wiped away everyone’s memory of the holiday. Almost a month after that, we had the
incident on Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday ever! Even Christmas was affected by the schemes of
that evil professor. Now it’s the holiday
season again, and we’re all here together, fully aware of what day it is. Our enemies are gone, and nothing—no one—can
stop us from celebrating. Sometimes I’m
just overwhelmed with thankfulness that it’s all over.”
Jonathan smiled at her and kissed the top
of her head. It was all
over. Mr. Cornelius had created such
realistic characters that they had materialized in time and space, and had
taken on lives of their own. Professor
Aponowatsomidichloron and his mother, M.D., were two of these characters. They had devised ways of ruining the holidays
for the people of Vacaville through the use of potions: one to erase the memory
of Halloween, one to resurrect the dead, one to turn goodness to blight, one to
erase the memory of Thanksgiving, one to erase the memory of Christmas, and one
to create portals between earth and Armenor.
Jonathan and his friends had destroyed the first potion when they had
defeated Apo, and had thereby ensured that the other potions to erase the
memory of Thanksgiving and Christmas were never created. M.D. had used the sixth potion to open a
portal between earth and Armenor, but Super Pumpkin had cast the portal potion
off Melonir—right after Jonathan had defeated her and broken the vial of the
resurrection potion. Apo and M.D. had
preemptively sent the concoction of “goodness to blight” to Santa and corrupted
him with it…but the Halloween Friends had overcome him and cast the potion into
the Arctic’s bowels. That was the end
of it, thought Jonathan. We
destroyed all the potions. We defeated
Apo and M.D. Nothing crazy happened on
Valentine’s Day, Saint Patrick’s Day, or Easter. The holidays are safe, and so are we.
“Well, let’s get this show on the road!”
Bat demanded. “I can’t wait to hear
about old Frankie’s origins. I’m sure
it’s a short and sweet tale. Then we can get candy, and Cat and I can return to
the mansion. Right, Cat?”
“Meow,” said Cat.
“Speaking of the mansion, how is the Man With
the Green Toe these days?” inquired Jonathan.
“It feels as if I haven’t talked to him in approximately fourteen years.”
“He’s been depressed, moping around the
mansion lately,” said Ghost, drifting over to the kitchen. He tried really hard to pick up a
muffin, looking at Pumpkin the entire time.
Even though his incorporeal body failed to touch the physical object,
the appearance of rage on Pumpkin’s face (as the squash wondered which relative
of his had been slaughtered to sate the partygoers’ appetites) was almost
visible.
“What?” asked Awana. “Why is poor Mr. Cornelius depressed?”
Pumpkin averted his attention from Ghost’s
attempted betrayal. “That lousy excuse
for a writer has been referring constantly to the conclusion of one of his
stories. It’s the end of a series, he
has told us, but he won’t go into any detail about it. He said he has a feeling he’ll soon have to
say goodbye to some of his characters.”
Jonathan’s heart sank. He told me that I’m one of his characters. “Did he—did he happen to mention which story
this is? Or which characters he might have to say goodbye to?”
“Afraid not, kid,” said Pumpkin. “It seems to be a sensitive subject for him. And he doesn’t tell me anything, anyway. He never has.”
“Perhaps, dearies, we should bring a plate
of these gingerbread cupcakes to him,” suggested Witch, taking two muffins from
one of the trays.
“Those are pumpkin muffins, Witch,” Awana pointed
out.
The old hag wrinkled her nose as she
consumed one of the morsels whole. “On
Christmas of all days? I detest pumpkin!
No offense, Pumpkin.”
The squash shrugged.
Just at that moment, there was a loud boom
that reverberated through the building, causing a clock to plunge from the wall
to the floor. The sound was gone in an
instant, and those present glanced around the room with inquisitive
expressions. Another boom blasted
through the residence, lasting a couple of seconds before fading. Everyone held their breaths in
anticipation. Then the house began to
shake violently. Ghost, stunned, fell dramatically
to the carpet, cursing like a sailor.
Frankenstein’s monster and Witch dropped into battle stances. Jonathan and Awana closed in together and
wondered what evil could possibly be visiting them now. Bat alighted upon a recliner and stuck out
his chest threateningly. Pumpkin drew
his sword, which he always kept at his side—even when sleeping or bathing. Cat, her fur on end, let out a slow and admonishing
hiss.
The violent shaking did not fade within
seconds, or even after a minute.
Jonathan looked at his mother. “What is this? If it’s an earthquake, it must
be the longest one in history!”
“It’s not an earthquake, Johnny,” she
said, her voice composed. “Strain your
ears, son! It’s not the quaking of earth, but the sound of music that I hear!”
Jonathan realized that he did hear
music accompanying the tremors. He
dashed to the front door and swung it open.
The entire street seemed to be shaking, but indeed, an earthquake was
not the culprit. He gazed across the
front lawn and noticed that their next-door neighbor’s house seemed almost
ready to burst with a heavily amplified and undeniably charming “Monster
Mash.” The windows of the house shone
with an orange, enticing glow, and he thought he could see black and orange
streamers hanging from the ceiling inside.
Above the front door was a sign with the large and sparkly words, “Happy
Halloween!” Four bowls brimming with
candy, their exteriors covered in googly eyes, rested on stools in the patio
area. The property was decorated to
perfection: tombstones with silly names (Al B. Bach, for example), skeletons
taking baths in cauldrons, black tarps concealing frightening mummies,
malicious scarecrows shouldering undead crows, and of course spiderwebs
everywhere (Mr. Legcheese would have been envious to see that not a single
tapestry of web hid the mummies from view).
Jonathan’s mouth nearly dropped open in amazement.
“Johnny boyfriend, what do your elf eyes
see?” asked Awana.
“He can’t hear you!” shouted Shameka. “It’s our neighbor, Watson. Usually he is
more considerate than this. I think I
need to go have a word with him! There
is no reason for anyone to be playing their music this loudly at such a late
hour.”
“But it’s noon,” said Pumpkin, “and didn’t
I hear that you were blasting music and doing the Carlton around Christmastime
last year?”
Shameka grunted. “No comparison, Mr. Squash.” She marched to
the other side of the room, clearly seething.
“Johnny, move out of the way. And
take your pill! I’m going to give Watson a piece of my mind.”
“I’ll go with you,” Jonathan volunteered,
completely ignoring her command about the pill.
“I thought Watson was that weird next-door neighbor that everyone has,
but his taste for music is impeccable.
And look at his lawn! I might make a new friend.”
“Fine, let’s go,” beckoned his mother,
“before our windows start shattering.”
She trudged across the yard, weaving
around the poorly positioned decorations.
The others followed closely, curious to experience the outpouring of her
wrath. As Jonathan drew nearer to his
neighbor’s house, he was increasingly impressed by the meticulousness in every
item that garnished the property. There
were even holographic stickers on the front door: cartoonish pumpkins, ghosts,
witches, bats, cats, vampires, skeletons, and other figures that were commonly
displayed on Halloween. I haven’t
seen this man decorate his house once the entire time he has lived here,
thought Jonathan, rubbing his chin. I
know he was just getting moved in last November, but you’d think a man this
excited about holidays would have made Christmas decorations a priority. Or maybe he just really likes Halloween. Can’t blame him.
Along the way, he could not help but look
over his shoulder at what was clearly the most beautiful vehicle to ever have
graced the streets of Vacaville. Parked
beside the curb and shining in its retro glory was an orange 1976 Volvo Station
Wagon. Its right mirror was cracked and
its left mirror was partially detached from the door; its windshield wipers had
been stripped of their rubber, leaving nothing but a couple of lethal metal
blades; both of the back doors had been bereaved of their handles; the door to
the trunk was smashed and its window completely missing after someone
had backed into a fire hydrant at thirty-five miles per hour; sometimes the
headlights worked. Most importantly, the
car was property of one Jonathan Legcheese, and he had loved few things
on earth as much as he loved that vehicle.
He would often drive to Awana’s house around the corner, pick her up,
and drive her back to his house. If he
was feeling especially dangerous, he would take the car to get some
food. Freeways were avoided at all
costs, because he was a nonconformist (that’s what he told people, at least)
and hopelessly afraid of driving fast (which was the truth). He had named the car “Pumpkin on Wheels”
–POW—after a close friend of his, and he regularly boasted about the letters of
his unique and widely-recognized license plate: UNICORN.
By some miracle, he managed to wrench his
eyes from the glorious metal specimen and turn his attention to the matter at
hand. Shameka ascended the steps to their
neighbor’s patio and rapped on the door while the others stayed several feet
behind. A cool autumn breeze flicked
Jonathan’s hair to and fro and tickled his skin, covering his arms in
goosebumps. Bat attempted to have a
conversation with Cat, but the blaring music instantly drowned out his words. Awana tapped her foot to the beat.
“Clearly, no one’s home!” Ghost yelled
after about five whole seconds.
“I am afraid that logic eludes you, mine
ectoplasmic companion,” boomed the voice of Frankenstein’s monster. “It is perfectly rational to presume that the
ear-flattering—albeit far too clamorous—song we hear must have commenced upon
an external impetus.”
Ghost looked at Pumpkin helplessly. Before the squash could decode the verbose
statement, the door cracked open and a wave of warmth blanketed the group. Orange light, exceedingly bright even at midday,
spilled across the patio and onto the walkway where the Halloween Friends
stood. Watson appeared at the door, but
Jonathan looked past him into the house; there was a table bearing at least a
dozen pumpkin pies, another table laden with bowls of snacks and punch, orange
and black confetti on the floor, and trays overflowing with various tantalizing
meats (their aroma nearly irresistible) on the kitchen counters. The voices of people talking inside were
barely audible above “Monster Mash.”
Their neighbor wore a sable wide-brimmed
hat, a brown trench coat, black pants, and weatherworn boots. His mustache was dark, thick and unkempt, and
his spectacles darker and perfectly circular.
It was unclear if he was aiming to look like a detective or a Nazi military
officer.
“Shameka!” exclaimed the man, giving her a
hug. He reached over his shoulder with a
remote and turned down the volume of the music.
“What brings you here this fine holiday?”
“Um...hi, Watson,” she answered, obviously
surprised by his friendliness.
“Uh....Happy Halloween!”
“And the same to you, neighbor!” He
noticed the others standing in the background.
“Hey, kids, awesome costumes! Feel free to grab some candy; I think I
have enough here for every child in Vacaville, Solano County, and probably all
states adjacent to California.”
“Candy!” squeaked Bat, almost knocking
over Witch as he flapped his way to the porch.
The old hag muttered something about being tired of getting knocked down
and tripping over pumpkins. Ghost went
to one of the bowls and reached for a candy bar, but returned to the group
empty-handed and forlorn.
“That’s really kind of you, Watson,” said
Jonathan’s mother, pocketing twelve miniature peanut butter cups. “Gee whiz, now I feel bad about my reason for
coming over here.”
“What’s that, now? Don’t worry, you can be
frank.”
“With all due respect, I’d prefer to be
Shameka,” said the woman, snorting with laugher and seizing ten Kit-Kats.
The man slapped his knee and
chuckled. “You Legcheeses and your sense
of humor! Oh, goodness me, I’ll have to remember that one.” He looked at the
others, his face flushed from laughter.
Awana was the only one who ventured a giggle in response to the lame
joke. “But seriously, what can I do for
you?”
“It’s just...too loud, neighbor.” Jonathan’s
mother pointed to the living room. “This
song is probably one of the top five songs ever written, but you’re shaking the
neighborhood. You broke my husband’s
favorite clock, and I think you injured Ghost’s hip. So can I please ask you to turn it down?”
The shame was immediately evident on
Watson’s face, and he lifted the remote over his shoulder again to turn the
volume down several more clicks. “Oh
dear, I am so sorry. I didn’t realize I
was disturbing the neighborhood.
Honestly, I don’t know the first thing about raves. All I’ve seen from the movies is loud music
and dancing, so that’s kind of what I was going for. But yes, of course, I’ll keep it down.”
“That’s all I ask,” said Shameka,
assuaged. She snatched seven bags of
gummies. “Honestly, it’s nice to see
some activity going on over here. Most
of the time, we don’t even know you’re alive.”
“Oh, I am very much alive,” the man
replied, winking at the group.
“Especially on my favorite holiday.”
“Mr. Watson sir, your decorations are
elegant but terrifying, like an angry ostrich,” Awana informed him. “And from what I can see, you did a great job
decorating the inside of your house, too!”
“Why thank you, young lady! And I must
say, I love the punk rocker costume you have there.”
She grabbed Jonathan’s arm and whispered
to him, “This isn’t a costume. I don’t
know how much I like this man, Johnny boyfriend. In fact, I’m having some strong hate-related
feelings in my heart right now. Pray for
me.”
Jonathan touched her cheek reassuringly
and turned his attention back to the man.
“Watson, I didn’t know Halloween was your favorite holiday! What the
smell? It’s my favorite holiday, too!”
“Well, now that’s something, young
Jonathan.” The man scratched his head and studied the group for several
seconds. “You know, I’m selfish. When I came up with the idea for this party,
I just thought about inviting all of my friends. It didn’t occur to me that I should invite my
neighbors! I hope you don’t mind, and I
know it’s a little delayed...but would you all like to join the party?”
A few members of the group chattered
excitedly, especially Bat and Ghost.
Jonathan imagined listening to spooky songs, consuming an abundance of
candy, playing games, and eating so much food that his friends would need to
roll him out the front door. Perhaps he
was overdue to listen to Frankenstein, but there would be many
opportunities to do that in the future.
His parents never put this much work into celebrating Halloween. Sure, his dad baked, his mom cooked, and they
had always mottled the front lawn with passable décor over the years. But this was the proper way to
celebrate, and he did not think he wanted to miss out. After all, he thought to himself, everyone
here has had some terrible holiday experiences.
And who knows what will happen in the future? We may not always be
together on Halloween.
“Let’s do it, guys,” he told them. “Come on, we can hang out here for a while,
and we’ll go trick-or-treating afterwards.
It’ll be the perfect Halloween!”
“Candy now and more candy later?”
exclaimed Bat. “Come on, Cat, let’s stop
wasting time!”
“Meow,” said Cat, following him to the
door.
Awana furrowed her eyebrows with
contemplation and pulled Jonathan toward her as the others moved toward the
house. She looked at him, then at the
man, and then at her boyfriend again. “I
don’t know about this, muffin,” she muttered.
“My spidey sense is tingling right now.
I don’t think we should go inside.”
“What do you mean?” Jonathan asked,
shocked. “You’re all about
holidays, remember? I clearly remember you saying that in part two of this
story.”
“I don’t know....Something is off about
this entire situation. We should go back
to your house and listen to Frankenstein, instead. Maybe we can spoon!”
Jonathan shook his head. “Awana, you are the wisest human female I
have ever met. But we’ll have plenty of
time for spooning later. All I want to
do right now is eat too much candy and do the electric slide to ‘Monster Mash.’
Will you join me?”
“But I never learned the electric slide!”
She breathed quickly, panicking.
“Just wiggle your hips and you’ll be
good.” He dodged one of her hair spikes to kiss her forehead. “Now are you with me, or not?”
She sighed resignedly. “I’m always with you, Johnny boyfriend. OK, let’s go.”
He led her toward the door, and along the
way, Shameka addressed the group: “You all have fun, now! I need to get back
home for my bi-annual hopscotch competition with Mr. Legcheese. Just be back before midnight, got it, Johnny?
OK, everyone, be good! Don’t talk to strangers! Dance like no one’s watching!”
Jonathan and Awana were the last of the
group to enter the house. They lingered
near the doorway and marveled at the sundry adornments and festoons on the
walls. The colors of Halloween and the
catchy music were every bit as enticing as the scent of meat that permeated the
building. Their host shut the door behind
them, and he encouraged them to take their time “getting settled in” before
joining the party proper. As they
explored the festive entryway, all were far too busy to notice when the man
hung his trench coat and hat on a nearby hook; they were far too mesmerized to
see him remove his glasses, slip goggles over his bald head, and don an
all-too-familiar lab coat.
