Happy Halloween! 3: Chapter 2

To everyone's surprise, it appears that a certain antagonist from the first story has returned! Yikes! What will our heroes do? How will Jonathan respond? Will Ghost ever realize that he is...you know, a ghost? Why am I asking you? Read the next installment below!

Chapter 2

Revenge of the Scientist

I can’t believe he’s back, thought Jonathan, clutching the icy, stone-riddled wall behind him.  After all this time, and after all we’ve been through...he’s back.

While everyone had been admiring the garnishments near the front door, Jonathan had turned to their host to ask a question.  That was when he had seen the white lab coat, goggles, and shiny bald head of Professor Aponowatsomidichloron—the man who had been the brainchild of Mr. Cornelius and had leapt off the author’s pages to bring pain and suffering to earth.  The man whose nefarious inventions had plagued him and his friends in the last quarter of 2005.  The man who was responsible for the potion that corrupted the beloved Saint Nick.  The man he had outmatched with an exquisite toy pony, and whose ashes had rested at the base of an otherwise empty cauldron upon his defeat.  But he had returned in full, somehow looking stronger and healthier than he had previously; his shoulders were broader, his jaw less fat and more chiseled, and his eyes glowing with greater confidence—or was it resolve? It was then that Jonathan had looked toward the dining room—seeking a route of escape—and had noticed a projector pointing toward the wall.  There were paper figurines in the shape of people a foot away from the projector lens, and a fan was blowing upon these figures to give the appearance of movement.  The music was overlaid with a chorus of recorded voices to imitate genuine conversation.  Not a soul was in the room, dancing to the music, and he had realized that the Halloween Friends were the only guests at the Monster Mash.

Just as he had cried, “It’s Apo!” the man had taken a device from his coat pocket and pressed a button.  Beneath them the floor had opened, and the companions had plunged into a subterranean dungeon (even Ghost had fallen with the others, apparently failing to realize that he was a completely immaterial spirit).  Most of the them were now wandering about the dusty cell, trying to discover a way out.  Perhaps this had once looked like a normal cellar, but no longer: the greater part of the room, 10’ x 10’, was enclosed by bars that must have been made of a steel alloy; there seemed to be connections in the walls for laundry machines and sinks, but all appliances had been removed and the room was empty; a small window, ground-level and looking out into the front yard, was surrounded with bars of the same type of material as those of the cell; the only door was secured by far too many padded locks, and in it was set a minute window of tempered glass; the ceiling had closed immediately after they had been cast into the dungeon, and was made of such a durable material that the punches of Frankenstein’s monster were useless.  There was no visible means of escape.

They had only been here for a couple of minutes, but in that brief time, Bat had scanned every corner of the room.  Awana was busying herself with a series of intense stretches in case there was a need for any physical exertion.  Witch was rifling through her satchel of potions, frowning and muttering ancient expletives; Cat was circling her legs and purring.  Pumpkin had struck the bars of the cell with his sword to no avail, and both he and Frankenstein’s monster had vainly tugged at the cell door.  Ghost sat in a corner, crying and bemoaning the fact that he would not get the chance to sample any of the meats that Apo had on display in the kitchen.  Jonathan leaned against the wall, thinking.

How had he been oblivious to the fact that the mad scientist had been there for so long? He remembered that his neighbors—who had lived next door for at least a decade—had left abruptly without a word to the Legcheeses, and Watson moved in the following day.  It was said that the new homeowner had offered the former tenants an exorbitant amount of money.  Some claimed that he came from a dignified and wealthy family, but he wished to sever all ties from them and start his life as an aging bachelor in a small town; others spoke of a lamentable series of untoward circumstances that had befallen the man, which had coerced him into seeking solitude no matter the cost.  The Legcheeses had not inquired into his background or motives, but had shown up at his door with some scalloped potatoes, a piping bowl of split pea soup, a pet betta fish, and an offer to help him unload some of his paraphernalia into the house.  He had accepted the food and fish gladly but denied their offer, seeming a bit contrary but not exceptionally unusual.  Even then, he had possessed his wide-brimmed hat and dark mustache—a far cry from his slick-pated, clean-shaven appearance back in his lab.

The man was never seen outside of his house, other than during his brief excursions in an unassuming car every few weeks; whenever he returned home, he would pull silently into his garage and, after a wave and neighborly smile to any fortunate passerby, shut the garage door.  Some sort of landscaping company kept his lawn and shrubbery pristine, and a pest control company showed up bi-weekly to ensure the eaves were clear of spiderwebs.  Invoices were always slipped into a mail slot near the front door.  Jonathan sometimes caught a glimpse of the man walking past the window, or as he pulled into his driveway after several days or weeks abroad.  Not once had he noticed the faintest similarity to Apo—but perhaps the shade of the hat, the thickness of the mustache, and the lack of goggles were enough to make him look like another man entirely.

Another minute or so passed before the professor unbolted the door, opened it, and stepped into the room.  He placed a stool on the ground a couple feet away from the cell door and sat, looking at the group with a sickening smirk.

“Oh, what’s wrong, dear ones?” he asked them, feigning sympathy.  “Why the pale faces? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Not funny, you bald lunatic!” cried Ghost, remaining in his corner.

“Eh…it was a little funny, dearie,” Witch admitted reluctantly.

Apo looked at each member of the group in turn.  The faces that stared back at him were furious, except for those of Pumpkin (because he was a jolly jack-o’-lantern) and Jonathan.  When the professor’s eyes came to the boy, he seemed surprised.  “The once-immature, sniveling freak seems to have grown up a bit.  I see you have more hair on your upper lip than you did last time, but you never grew into those big ears of yours, did you?”

“We don’t talk about his ears!” said Bat.  “Mr. Cornelius’s orders.”

 Apo did not seem amused or concerned with what Cornelius might have to say.  He continued taunting the boy with his eyes.  “The most observable change, I must point out, is that you don’t seem as angry as your friends.  Why is that?”

Jonathan looked intently at the man.   I’m glad it appears that way, even if it’s the opposite of what I’m feeling.  “I killed you.  There was not a doubt in my mind that I killed you.  You were nothing more than ashes, but now you’re back.  How are you here right now?”

The immediate response was a whiny cackle.  “Oh, dear me! The boy is addlepated as ever.  I suppose some things never change.”  He scooted his stool a bit closer to the cell.  “Are you disturbed, child? Why? Did you really think you were safe? Did you truly believe this story was over?”

“Save the theatrics,” said the boy, struggling to maintain his composure.  His hand trembled against the wall.  “It’s obvious that we’re surprised.  If we had known you were still alive, you would be in prison right now...or worse.  So how the heck are you here? Just answer the question.”

 “Fine.” Apo reached into his lab coat and procured a vial containing a red liquid.  He swished it around, creating a scarlet whirlpool surrounded by glass.  “Do you know what this is, young Jonathan?”

The boy remembered how M.D. had placed a red vial on the window frame during her confrontation with him and Awana.  He had used Ms. Unicorn like a boomerang, knocking the potion off the side of the cliff in order to distract the woman.  And he recalled her final words before he had kicked her to her death.  “That’s a potion of resurrection,” he breathed, trying to conceal his fear.

“Correct!” the man replied, almost giddy.  “It’s a potion that can bring to life anything that has died.  Well, more accurately, that was what comprised the potion that awakened the cadavers you fought in my lab.  Remember that fun little episode? Of course you do.  But the potion that awakened me was mingled with ‘goodness turned to blight,’ meaning that any morsel of good I once possessed—any hint of mercy, any sympathy, any weak and tender sentiments—have been reversed.”

Professor Apo standing in his original lab!

“But you were dead, and M.D. was in a different world,” Jonathan pointed out.  “Who used the potion to bring you back?”

A hint of indignation touched the professor’s face at the mention of his mother.  “Our beloved creator is, in my opinion, quite predictable.  He has this annoying notion that good must be victorious, so I knew one of his protagonists would try to stop me.  It’s like he wrote heroism into their DNA…but I was prepared for that.  Below my lab was my bedroom, where I created a contraption that would diffuse the potion into the air every two weeks until its substance was exhausted.  I am very pleased to say that it worked.  Getting out of that rubble was a damned nuisance, but—”

“OK, so you were brought back to life,” said Jonathan.  “Then what? You decided to move in next door to us and spend a year smoking meats and renovating your kitchen before revealing your identity? Why?”

Apo projected a threatening finger toward him.  “Don’t you ever underestimate the comforts of a quality smoked brisket, do you hear me?”

“Yeah, Jonathan!” screeched Bat, landing on the shoulder of Frankenstein’s monster.  “Remember that one your mom made on New Year’s Eve? It changed me.”

“Meow,” said Cat.

“Cat has a point, my sweets,” Witch told Jonathan.  “Even the wicked need a good cut of meat from time to time.  Indeed, just last Saturday, I slaved over a slab of grass-fed beef for approximately seven hours.  What I would have given for a nice brisket!”

“Witch, I need you to put your game face on right now,” Awana whispered.  “I’m starting to see the vein that shows up in Johnny boy’s left temple every time he gets mad.”

“The trick is to coat it evenly with salt, pepper, and garlic powder,” Apo informed the old hag.  “Garlic powder, not salt, see? When you smoke it, you need some cherry wood from—”

“That’s enough!” Jonathan shouted, swinging his hand in the air.  “Apo, you enticed us over here and dropped us into this cell.  Now what do you want? Vengeance? Why wait nearly a year to do this?”

“Every good plan takes time,” the man explained, “even for one as intelligent as I.  Dear child, I have been quite the busy bee since last you saw me.  It’s not merely enough for me to ruin the holiday spirit for those of this town.  No, that would be much too easy with my current abilities.  I hate the holidays.  I hate people.  It’s time to do away with both, all across this vast world—and you will not be able to stop me, for you will be dead.  In fact, I’ve recently discovered that there’s no one on earth who can stop me! What a joyous day for Aponowatsomidichloron!” 

Jonathan averted his eyes from the man, and his heart dropped within him.  He could only imagine the sorts of evil schemes and malignant potions his enemy had created, locked up in his home and gathering chemicals and materials every few weeks over the past year.  Out of habit his hand went to one of his pockets, but he remembered that Ms. Unicorn was gone—broken!—as a result of the professor’s odious creations.  What I wouldn’t do to feel her majestic form right now.  Oh! Ms. Unicorn! He did not know what to say, or how to react.  The younger Jonathan would have exchanged immature banter with his foe and charged forth haphazardly, expecting adrenaline to help him topple the bars of the cell and lead him to victory.  But he could see that this would only result in a bruised shoulder, a few fractured hip and leg bones, and his own wounded pride.  Then he would start sobbing, just as he had done a year ago in the professor’s lab, and Pumpkin would again doubt him as a leader, and Awana would embarrass him by calling him roughly three pet names in front of everyone.  He realized that the only way to overcome the current predicament was to wait.

“What, no saucy comeback?” teased the man with a snicker.  “No empty threats? Nothing? My, my...this isn’t the way I thought it would go. I’m almost disappointed.”

“Now you leave him alone, Mr. Aponowatso-whatever-your-name-is!” demanded Awana, stomping one of her feet.  “Johnny boy learned last Christmas that killing and violence are not the answer.  Right, Johnny boyfriend?”

“I never learned that lesson,” Pumpkin remarked, his stout body having dropped into a battle stance.  His right hand fingered the twine handle of his sword.  “Open the door, Apo.  I’m going to cut off your limbs and remove your tongue.”

Ghost rose from his fetal position.  “This is why we’re friends.  I love you, Pumpkin.”

“Uh...cutting off limbs seems a bit excessive, don’t you think?” asked Jonathan, giving the squash a sidelong glance.  “But you were just joking, right?”

Pumpkin ignored that and continued staring down the man.  “Open the door, you bald demon from the pit of hell.  Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The professor actually appeared intimidated.  “Hmm....No, I don’t think I’ll do that.” He rose from the stool and took a few steps closer to the bars.  “In fact, I don’t see any reason to delay your judgment any longer.  I have far too much going on to engage in pointless discussion.  It's time for my plan to come to fruition.” He reached again into his coat and took out a silver device with a single lever.  “I must depart now, fools.  Goodbye.”

His hand grasped the lever and pushed it up, and the Halloween Friends heard a cacophony beneath them.  The floor began to move.  A small opening appeared in the center, and it widened steadily.  At that moment, Bat burst forward and slipped quickly between two bars.  He aimed to collide with Apo claws-first, but the man sidestepped him with reflexes that astonished everyone in the room.  He cackled wildly and declared that it was futile, all the while dodging a second attack with utmost ease.  Bat flapped his wings and backed several feet away from the professor, his eyes following his foe’s movements.  Behind him the floor continued to open, its gap now about a foot wide.  He surged forward with a single brisk motion but then snapped back, and Apo began to spin out of the way.  But he spun too early, and when Bat came soaring at him from the opposite direction, he turned aside with a movement lacking finesse.  That was a mistake.  A victim to his poor assessment of his distance from nearby objects, the device in his hand hit the wall with a loud crunch! and broke into three pieces that skipped across the floor.  One of the pieces plunged into the abyss waiting below the cell.

“Give me a B!” cheered Awana, pretending that she had pom-poms.  “Give me an A!”

“You worthless creature!” shrieked the professor, seizing Bat and whipping him back and forth in the air.  He smashed the poor, tiny animal against the nearby wall one time and knocked him unconscious.  Then, with the most vicious snarl any of them had ever hear, he discarded his small opponent toward the crack inside the cell (it had stopped widening upon the destruction of his controller).  Cat lunged forth with a distressed mew and caught her best friend in her mouth.  She landed on the other side of the cell and gave Apo a stare that promised retribution.

“It’s always something with you pestilent children!” the professor roared, snatching the two pieces of his device.  “This is what I get for allowing you a few minutes to speak before your demise.  Fine! Lucky for me, I made another one of these remotes.  I know I put it somewhere….I’ll just control the floor from the other side of that door.  Less intimate for me, but there will be no more delays.  I have a world to destroy.”  He whirled around and took several steps toward the door; then the doorbell rang.  “Really? Trick-or-treaters, at this hour? Son of a—”

After he had left the room, Cat dropped her friend softly to the floor.  The others crowded around, some of them looking hopeful for a sign that Bat was still alive, some mournful, and others irate.  Jonathan knelt down and petted the injured creature with a pronounced frown on his face.  He sighed.  The man is merciless, he concluded, now more than ever.  He is faster and stronger, and there’s no telling what sort of arsenal he has at his disposal.  I’m afraid that this is never going to end.  At Witch’s touch, he moved aside and let her into the circle.  She reached into her satchel and produced a small vial containing an ambiguously-colored solution.  Without a word, she scooped Bat into her hands and released a few drops into his mouth.  No one stirred for several seconds—no one but Cat, that is, who paced anxiously with his tail afluff.  Above the cell, the muffled voices of their captor and his new guests sounded in turn; it appeared that Shameka had notified some neighbors that there was a party at the residence, and they were hoping they could join.  There was the faint sound of a door shutting as Apo must have stepped outside.

Bat coughed and sputtered and began to flail his wings frantically.  Cat bounded over to him in an instant and proceeded to purr so loudly, some of the friends thought they felt the floor shaking again.  Witch stroked the fur of the agitated creature in her hands until he realized that he was surrounded by those who loved him.  He looked around, blinking in ostensible pain and confusion.

“Where in Ghost’s name am I?” he wondered aloud.

“In the cell of our greatest enemy,” said Jonathan with a sad smile.  He scratched Bat behind the ears and then, relieved to know the condition of his ally, started searching the cell.

“What—what happened?” asked the winged mammal.

Awana stooped down next to him.  “You saved our lives, Bat! You made Apo break his device—the one that was opening up the floor beneath our feet.  You’re a hero!”

“I’m a hero? You mean—like Jonathan and Pumpkin?”

“You’re every bit as brave as we are, if not braver,” Pumpkin encouraged him.  “Now we cannot let your valiant act be in vain.  We have to get out of here and kill this maniac, all of us, together.”

“How do we get out of here?” asked Awana, voicing everyone’s thoughts.

Frankenstein’s monster released a long, low groan.  “The answer eludes me, mine companions, but it is abundantly clear that we have precious time to discover what it is.”

“The lumbering nerd is right,” said Bat, wincing as he hopped out of Witch’s palm.  “Let’s not waste any time.  I don’t want one more person, animal, or vegetable to suffer at that man’s hands.”

Jonathan went to the crevice in the center of the room and peered inside.  The lighting was dim, but even if the place had been well-illuminated, he would not have been able to better comprehend what his eyes were seeing.  The subterranean chamber was taller than it was wide or long; they would plunge between twenty and thirty feet—not far enough to succumb to instant death, but a sufficient distance to sustain crippling injuries—before reaching an uneven dirt floor.  He could see the figures of two dozen zombie-like beings, although none were the undead humanoids that he and his friends had encountered a year ago.  Moseying about were gobbling turkeys and what appeared to be decaying Christmas trees (some had broken ornaments hanging from their limbs).  There did not appear to be any sign of a door or opening that could lead out of the room; it was fully enclosed to prevent escape, and the walls were so slick that climbing would be impossible.  He wondered why Apo had rigged the entryway of his home with a trapdoor, but had fitted the cell with a floor that opened slowly.  Perhaps the man had wanted to savor every second of his enemies’ fear before they plummeted to the presumably carnivorous beasts below.

Awana came to him and crouched at his side.  “Oh, great.  Now we have Christmas trees to deal with? What did he do, go to a dump at the end of last year and haul a bunch of dead trees over here? Is nothing sacred?”

“Yeah, and it looks like he deprived people of their turkey dinners, too,” Jonathan told her sourly.  “That’s one too many encounters with undead turkeys for me.  I’m going vegan.”

Awana’s hand went to her forehead.  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Johnny boyfriend!  That sounds like a miserable existence!”

He bit his lip.  “Yeah, you’re right.  I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.  What kind of life is that?  We should buy a honeyed ham after we escape.”

“Let’s buy three.”

Pumpkin moved within sight of everyone and put his hands where his hips might have been.  “OK, guys, we have quite the predicament.  We’re in a cell with bars apparently made of some otherworldly metal that we can’t budge or dent.  Bat can fit between the bars, but the door is padlocked from the other side.  The walls seem to absorb every blow that we might throw at them.  There is a single window at the back of our cell, but it is blocked off.  We have some very hungry-looking turkeys and Christmas trees waiting below, and Apo could be back in a matter of minutes.  Let’s put our heads together! What do we do?”

There was silence while everyone looked at each other.  After thirty seconds Ghost muttered, “It’s hopeless” and went back to his corner, accidentally phasing through the wall for a moment.  Cat curled up next to Bat and purred.  Frankenstein’s monster walked here and there, rubbing his chin in contemplation.  Jonathan and Awana continued crouching, physically putting their heads together but failing to realize that such an action, while certainly adorable to the hopeless romantic, does not actually make two people smarter.

“The answer is obvious, my sweets,” said Witch, beginning to hover in place on her flying broom.  “We must do precisely this, no more or no less, so listen carefully! We fly to Africa and procure a mongoose.  Their tails offer the exact sort of poofiness that we need at this desperate hour.  We take a handful of this fine fur and distribute it evenly among our satchels.  Then we crush twelve flies with a mortar and pestle, collect a quarter-pound of cow scat, extract oil from a eucalyptus tree (I’m afraid we can’t use that junk they carry in stores, because it’s bonkers), remove the shells from fifty-four acorns, boil a pot of lake-water, and measure out five gallons of cashew milk.  Now this part is critical! We throw the dry ingredients into a sack and wave it around at the highest possible velocity, shrieking the Discerning Hag’s Mantra of 1217 at the top of our lungs.  This will go on for about 3.5 minutes.  Then we put the dry ingredients into a heated cauldron, followed by the boiled lake-water and eucalyptus oil.  Mix everything together, let it cool down, fill up our vials with the concoction, and smash the vials against the bars of the cell.  The solution will burn through even the strongest metals.  We drink the five gallons of cashew milk, because alchemy is thirsty business.”

“Yeah!” Awana agreed, running confidently to Witch’s side.

“Woman!” groaned Pumpkin.  “Are you kidding me right now? We have none of those things! Or do you happen to have one of those potions on you at the moment?”

“I’m afraid not, dearie,” said the hag.  “After using that last one to help Bat, I’m carrying only four brews on my person: one to determine whether or not your lover is cheating on you, one to turn a person’s clothes invisible, one to make your muscles as limber as a hag half your age, and one to create a glowing, ethereal pathway that will lead you to your misplaced flying broom.”

“Not one of those sounds helpful right now,” Jonathan lamented.

“The second one sounds kind of helpful,” Awana admitted, blushing.

“What if I wait above the door where Apo can’t see me?” Bat offered excitedly.  “When he opens the door, I can fly out quickly and get help.”

The squash sighed.  “He won’t be coming back in.  When you were unconscious, he told us he’s going use his remote from the other side of that door and watch us from the window.”

“The window,” Jonathan whispered to himself.  But he did not turn his attention to the window that was set in the door; he looked to the one at the back of the cell.  It appeared large enough for all but Frankenstein’s monster and Witch to fit through.  “Awana, look around.  What do you think is the weakest thing in this room?”

“I know I need to exercise, hunny bunny,” said the girl, apparently cut to the quick.  “But calling me weak? That’s not my Johnny boy....”

Jonathan stared at her blankly.  “Awana, my furry dumpling, what is structurally the weakest part of this cell?”

“Oh! Those bars around the window, obviously.  They’re just being held in place by screws.”

The boy grinned at her and nodded.  He sprinted over to the back of the cell, leapt, ran several steps up the wall, and grabbed onto the bars.  Gravity wanted to bring his body back down forcefully, but the bars received that force instead—and they moved slightly.  He dangled there for a few seconds and tugged at the steel several more times, recognizing that with just a bit more strength, he could remove it from the wall completely.

“Everyone!” he shouted.  “Please help me! I think we have enough strength to take these down.”

He did not need to say another word.  In half a moment, Awana, Pumpkin, Witch, and Frankenstein’s monster were latching onto the bars and pulling them.  They tugged, and tugged, and the screws that bonded steel to steel began to separate from the wall.  Jonathan and Awana kicked themselves away from the wall with increasing force, refusing to let go until they had completed their mission.  Frankenstein’s monster roared and the veins in his arms bulged.  Witch decided to turn toward the other side of the chamber and sit on her broom, but she reached behind her, grabbed the bars, and tried used the flying power of the broom to assist.  Pumpkin put more focus on the spots where the screws were wedged, figuring that the added force to those areas would remove the bars faster.  Then there was a crack! and down tumbled the small cage from the wall.  It clanged loudly on the floor of the cell.

“What in the world was that?” Professor Apo yelled above, walking back inside his house.  “Termites?”

Jonathan and Pumpkin had been ready for the removal of the bars, and they were holding onto the windowsill.  Jonathan slid open the window and punched out the screen; then he pulled himself up and rolled onto the grass of the front yard.  Thankfully, he was hidden from view of the patio by a row of privacy hedges; he had feared rolling out onto the lawn in full sight of his captor.  We have to get out of here, he thought, but Apo heard us.  We don’t have time! His first thought was that he should scream for help, but he doubted if that would be the best move.  What if Apo hears me asking for help, and he kills my friends out of spite? Oh, what do I do? Can I stop him myself?

He felt something tapping his foot, and he realized that Pumpkin was grunting and attempting to lift himself up onto the lawn.  Jonathan reached down to retrieve him.

“He’ll kill us,” the squash told him, as if reading his mind.  “I know that look in your eyes, Jonathan.  I saw it in the lab a year ago, and I saw it across the hilltop when you faced M.D.  I have never witnessed anyone move as fast as Apo just did back there.  I hate to admit it, but the two of us together are not strong enough.”

The boy set him on the grass and was about to reply when the door inside the cell swung open.  Immediately after the professor stepped into the room, the rage on his face was evident.  He threw open his lab coat and revealed a belt lined with a dozen potions.  Those inside the cell turned to the window and attempted to run, but their foe cast two vials at the wall with inhuman celerity.  The glass shattered.  A yellow solution exploded across the cell.  Jonathan and Pumpkin dove toward the bushes and just barely managed to avoid a few drops of the potion.  The boy winced as he felt several jagged leaves of a bush tear into his skin, but this was the least of his concerns.  Please be OK! his mind shouted.  Please tell me they’re all still alive.  Please let her be OK.

When he peered back into the window, he found that his friends—even Ghost (though it was anyone’s guess as to whether he was faking it)—were paralyzed, stuck in the positions that they had assumed at the moment of their attempted escape.  Not even their eyes or mouths could move.  They appeared to be nothing more than breathing statues.  Jonathan’s heart sank when he noticed how close Awana had been to reaching the exit; but she stood there helplessly, and he felt even more helpless just a few feet away from her.  He was loath to risk his friends further by reaching back into the cell and prying her out, as there was no telling how the man across the room would respond.

“Something tells me these are the mildest of his tonics,” Pumpkin remarked, coming to his side.

“Quite the astute observation, Pumpkin!” said Apo with a laugh.  “Yes, it was a fun little design of mine that I came up with when I had some spare time.”

Jonathan groaned.  “Friggin’ antagonists with their super-hearing.”

Apo slapped his knees exuberantly.  “If you thought that was a good one, just wait until you see this.” He reached into a pocket and obtained a tiny remote; then he pressed a button that was too small for them to see.

At first there was silence, and Jonathan felt a sense of relief at the thought that another plan of the professor had failed.  He was about to turn around and pridefully notify his foe of this when suddenly he heard the sound of hissing in the air.  Looking left and right, he saw nothing, but the sound seemed to grow louder and nearer.  Pumpkin dashed several feet away from him to gaze out at the road.  Jonathan heard him mutter a curse.

“What is it, Pumpkin?” he asked, refusing to take his eyes off Apo.

“It looks like red...glitter is coming from the storm drains all over the street,” said his ally.  “But I don’t think it’s glitter.”

Apo shook his head.  “That it isn’t, my little orange friend.  What you’re seeing is the same potion that awakened me, and it’s being dispersed all over the town.  I hope you’re both up for a fight!”

Jonathan looked at him dubiously.  “You dispersed the potion all over town? Why? It’s not like there are corpses just lying around.”

Pumpkin sprinted back to his friend.  “No, kid....Baldy is right.  This place is going to be swarming with all sorts of unpleasant things.  We need to leave, and fast.”

“Leave? What do you mean?”

Nearby, one of Jonathan’s neighbors shrieked and sprinted across her front yard, pursued hotly by a massive jack-o’-lantern and several that were smaller.  It was a matter of seconds before people all over the street were running for their lives, most of them chased by carved pumpkins, plants they had failed to water, insects, or squirrels that had been mercilessly flattened by careless drivers.  To add to the chaos, turkeys and Christmas trees began to issue from the professor’s back yard and flood the suburb.

“Oh, would you look at that,” the boy remarked dryly, feigning astonishment.

“Come on, Jonathan!” Pumpkin shouted.  “We need to see the Man With the Green Toe! He’ll know what to do. You have to drive us, now!”

“You want me to take POW to the hills? He’s not ready for that kind of adventure!”

“You have a license!” cried Pumpkin.  “Use it!”

The boy shook with fear but figured that the squash was right; he usually was.  They hurried down to the orange station wagon at the foot of the Legcheese household and hopped in.  Jonathan turned his key in the ignition and looked off into the distance, where he could see Mr. Cornelius’s mansion looming beneath thick, pregnant clouds and jangling lightning.  That was where it had all started a year ago, and now he had to go back.  I can’t believe it’s happening all over again, he thought.  But now it’s so much worse.

“What are you waiting for, kid?” Pumpkin yelled.  “Let’s go!”

They peeled off down the road—dodging pumpkins, turkeys, Christmas trees, and all manner of resurrected creatures—and made toward the hills on the eastern horizon.

Happy Halloween! 3: Chapter 1

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.

Happy Halloween! 3: Prologue

Greetings, readers!

When I was 16 years old, I revamped a story from my childhood--a story called Happy Halloween! This gradually unfolded as a series, beginning as Happy Halloween! 1 in 2005 and finding its fourth installment in the brilliantly illustrated Santa Claws in 2018 (credit again to Derek Nochefranca for the incredible artwork).  The fifth and final story of the series begins here.  I intend to post the entirety of this final installment in six parts; the last portion should go up the day before Halloween, 2019.

To read the other stories in the series (highly recommended, as you will probably not have any idea what in Ghost's name I'm talking about in the latest release), click on the following links.  Enjoy! Have fun! Don't talk to strangers (unless you want to)!

Happy Halloween! 1 (2005)
Happy Halloween! 2 (2012)
The Day the Thanksgiving Turkey Ran Away (2014)
Santa Claws (2018)

Prologue

Armenor

They need to know.

He was lying on a rock, his energy expended.  The sky, blurred in his fading vision, was painted with long strokes of dark cloud.  Every few moments his consciousness would lapse, but only momentarily; then he would awaken once more, and only one thought pierced his mind.

They need to know.

He hoped that he might have some untapped reserve of strength, but it did not come to him.  And so he waited.  He waited, and the chilling wind that heaved the clouds from south to north dissipated.  He waited, and the murmur of the beasts around him died down.  He waited, and energy was revived anew in his limbs.  Breathing in and bracing himself, he rolled over until he was facedown and pushed himself up to his feet.  He tottered for a second, dizzy with the exertion, but managed to steady himself long enough to allow his vision to clear.  He was alive.  No, he was not in the underworld of which the world’s lore often spoke, and for that he felt a degree of thankfulness; he had long doubted that he would be permitted eternal bliss, where there was light and joy and peace, a place devoid of pain and tears.  Perhaps this was a second chance for him to attain to that perfect realm.

He turned to the side and almost fell onto his back once again—not from exhaustion, but from fear.  The massive eagle loomed above and looked down at him.  He was not quite sure if he was being considered as a snack or commanded—with an unflinching glare—to quit his trespassing.  It would be better not to linger for the answer, he decided.  Slowly and cautiously, and fixing his eyes on the preposterously grand creature before him, he backed away until he was nearly on the opposite side of the summit.  It was only then that he remembered to breathe and survey the rest of the landscape.

To his right stood the rudimentary, elevated building off of which Jonathan had kicked M.D.  He shuddered as the scene replayed in his mind: the sorceress berating the boy and hinting at sinister plans, the battle across the mountaintop, and using the last of his power and physical energy to knock the cauldron off the cliff.  He had collapsed and watched with relief as his companions had disappeared into the portal and the turkeys swarmed over him...but he was alive.  He lived, because the cauldron and its contents had been destroyed upon impact; Melhrir and the turkeys had instantly become docile and the portal had vanished.  Now he was alone and without direction...but not without purpose.  In fact, he quickly realized that another mission lay ahead of him.  But how would he begin?

Melonir permitted view of the surrounding world for seventy leagues, so he moved to the nearest edge of the summit and gazed at the lands beyond.  The Zedroc Plain extended in every direction, but to the south and southeast the jagged Shadow Hills prodded the heavens.  He knew that, beyond the great huddle of hills beyond, stretched the Vale of Val-Neor, the frost-tipped Casponin Mountains, and Sarnost Shores.  And beyond that? he asked himself.  The Eastern Sea and the islands of Kalunas and Volu-Nor.  Volu-Nor.  That’s my best chance, and the nearest.  Off I go, then! There is no time for delay.

The journey was lengthy and painstaking.  He was thankful to stumble upon a spring of fresh water after an hour’s descent down the mountain, where he refreshed himself and managed to regain some of his strength.  Nonetheless, his body was so weighed with exhaustion following the battle that any attempt to exercise his power was fruitless; the final act of blasting the cauldron off the cliff had drained his magical reservoir.  There was no telling when he would make a full recovery, or if this was even a possibility.  After all, it was not until recently that he had learned that he could use magic to fly—and not once had such an exercise so depleted him.  All he could do was walk and wait to see if he would be granted his powers once more.

Walk he did, taking over a day to reach the base of the mountain; then he made slow progress southeast along the plain.  He hoped to find respite in some of the towns of that region, inhabited by humans, but they shooed him away and threatened the use of dark magic if ever he showed his face there again.  The plain was calm and safe in the evenings, so he often began his treks at sunset and ended prior to sunrise.  During the day, fierce and ravenous hounds roamed the land in packs; he would therefore deny sleep until he had come across a tree capable of cradling him, or a rock capable of concealing him.  Save for a week-long stay in the hut of three amicable desert gnomes, this was how he passed the month before reaching the southern Shadow Hills.

It was there that he nearly despaired.  Although he was able to travel by day in these parts, the hills were so lofty that they blocked his view of the sun most of the day.  It was not until he ascended the peaks that he would find how far he had traveled, and in which direction.  To make matters worse, in most places the hills were blanketed with slivers of rock the color of obsidian (the scales of war-fallen dragons, in fact), causing him to slide far more than he liked.  Being a pumpkin, and therefore round in form, the slightest slip often resulted in the most absurdly long and excruciating tumble.  He imagined that he was now hardly recognizable as the appetizing squash of his former life.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months.  Though he did not know it, the ninth month of his journey was coming to an end when he crested a hill overlooking a dense cluster of trees.  Unfolding on either side of the forest was an expanse of untrodden fields and golden patches of earth.  The only forested region in the Vale of Val-Neor is Soira Forest, he thought.  He turned to the west and saw the faint glint of buildings.  That, then, must be Tarsen Town.  I will find relief there before starting on the final stage of my quest.  But alas, I am far too weary to continue today.  He sighed and sat on the nearest rock.  His travels had exhausted him in both body and mind, and he was doubtful that his stubby legs could carry him the rest of the way.  Perhaps Tarsen Town had donkeys for sale.  But there is no steed capable of fording the sea beyond; I will need a ship.  The Spine of Crel stood beyond the forest to the south, blocking view of the tumultuous seas.  M.D. said Jonathan needed a reason to kill Apo....

He was dozing when he felt movement beneath him, and he thought that he had set off a rockslide—a common occurrence in this area.  Now having grown accustomed to this phenomenon, he prepared to move to the side and set up camp for the night...but the movement was repeated with greater force.  As soon as he looked down, he noticed two craggy eyes meeting his gaze.

“A petrein!” he exclaimed.

The creature, a lustrous humanoid studded with bronze stones, let out an irritated grunt and rose to its feet quickly.  The squash was hardly able to believe the strength he felt in its body; he was propelled down the cliff in a single motion, and thanks to momentum, he found himself bursting down the hillside.  His disturbance of one petrein apparently resulted in the disturbance of the entire petrein community, for during his stomach-turning descent, he noticed the hilltop coming alive with their movement and grunts.  They were no more than dots in the distance when the force of some object knocked him unconscious.

“I have seen things few people would believe, and have fought battles with enemies more terrifying than you can imagine,” said a young man who was crouched in front of a tree.  “I have been acquainted with magic I may never be able to explain, and I grew up on a farm.  But among all the experiences of my short life, never have I encountered a pumpkin with consciousness.”

He realized that he was seated on a rock (not a petrein) in what was presumably Soira Forest.  Groggily, he hopped to his feet and surveyed the terrain; the trees were scant here, and the red light of sunset projected the silhouettes of their leaves upon the cold earth.  The ground ascended to the north, specked with the dark scales of the Shadow Hills.  Save for a light breeze flicking the leaves against one another, all was silent and still.  He turned his attention again to the young man and assessed whether or not he would be able to put up a fight if their meeting proved hostile.

“Pray don’t move too quickly,” said his host.  “You took quite a tumble down that hill; I imagine you’re a bit rattled.”

The squash sensed no deception or ill-will in his tone, but remained on guard.  “Your speech is unlike any that I have heard.  I presume that you don’t come from this area?”

“From the south, actually.” The stranger motioned to his left.  “Beyond the borders of this world.  My name is Hargolan, of the country Farlenas by the sea.”

“Farlenas.  Indeed, no region within these lands bears such a name.” He stepped forward and extended his arm forward.  “I am Gourdo of the city called Zierro, also to the south...though perhaps not as far south as Farlenas.”

Hargolan shook the arm-stem and smiled.  “Well met, friend.  I’m glad to see you awake and aware rather than falling helplessly down a slope.  What brought you to these hills? A solitary hiking expedition?”

“Not by choice.” Gourdo would have appeared mournful if he, a perpetually grinning jack-o'-lantern, could have accomplished such a feat.  “I am afraid I have been tasked with an urgent mission.”

“You have been tasked with an urgent mission,” said the young man, “or you tasked yourself with an urgent mission?”

The squash paused, rubbing the area where his chin might have been.  “The boy is astute, perhaps because he, too, has tasked himself with an urgent mission.”

“This is true.” Hargolan’s face fell, and his hand touched the pommel of a sword at his hip.  “But I sense that this is my fate; my path was chosen for me.  To deny it would be a breach of what has already been willed for me.  How can I possibly resist? If I do nothing...well, more than Farlenas is at stake.”

“Are you hinting that you must save the world?”

“Yes,” replied Hargolan, “or at least...I must find the one who has been foretold to save the world.  Someone far stronger than I.  Unless the prophecy is a false tale.” He took a seat on a nearby stump and studied Gourdo for a moment.  The wind died down and all was quiet, as if the world held its breath to better listen to an important conversation.  “You wouldn’t know of one called Sage, would you?”

“Sage,” said the squash contemplatively.  “Sage....Do you mean a sage? A seer, or perhaps a wizard of some kind? Or do you speak of the pungent shrub that people sometimes use for tea?”

“No, that’s not what I mean, though I could really use some tea right now!” The young man chuckled, but he seemed discouraged.  “Oh well, I guess my search continues.  And what about you, fair squash? What is your mission?”

My mission.  Pumpkin, his cousin, had been leaping, spinning, and slashing at the bellicose turkeys atop Melonir while he had been striking magical blows at the cauldron.  He had begun to feel exhaustion setting in, but even in his weakness he had used his magic to listen in on Jonathan’s conversation with M.D.  The boy is...well, just a boy.  It is unlikely that he made sense of anything that wicked woman told him.  But he had heard enough to surmise that a great evil would soon visit the boy’s world—assuming it had not already manifested during Gourdo’s long journey.

“You wanted me to kill Apo?” Jonathan had asked the sorceress.

The woman’s response had been smug: “Yea, even he willed to give up his own life—to please Mother Dearest.  Had thou properly disposed of the ashes of thy antagonistic professor that lay at the base of his cauldron…thou wouldst shoulder less responsibility for thy—and thy world’s—future.”

They need to know, Gourdo thought again to himself, if it isn’t too late.

“My mission,” he told Hargolan, “is to travel to the magical island of Volu-Nor, still a long way south of here, and take a portal to another realm—a realm that is in grave danger.”

“Another realm,” the young man whispered to himself.  He stared off into the distance.  “And you feel responsible for this...other realm?”

Gourdo moved his body in a nod.  “If it still exists, then yes.  Just as you are tasked with saving this world—or at least finding this ‘Sage’ and aiding him in doing so—I must not neglect to save a different world.  It is a world filled with love and family.  My cousin, and others dear to me, currently abide there.”

“That sounds like a world worth saving,” said Hargolan.  “May I ask what it is called?”

“It is called ‘Earth,’ though I am most familiar with the humble town of Vacaville.”

Hargolan pursed his lips and took a step away from the stump on which he had been sitting.  “You look weary with travel, and even wearier with your burden to protect.  I know that burden well, Gourdo, and I have a good feeling about you—even though we met just a moment ago.  My search continues...but there is no reason for yours to do the same.”

What in the world is that supposed to mean? the squash asked himself.  “If you mean to dissuade and deter me from my quest, then I must inform you that I am fully prepared to continue on despite the weariness and burden.”

“I would expect no less from a fellow hero,” said Hargolan with a smirk.  He muttered something unintelligible and waved a hand in the air.  Suddenly, rainclouds swarmed together in the heavens and cast deep shadows upon the forest.  The wind picked up again, at first intermittent gusts, then longer squalls, and finally heavy gales that nearly knocked Gourdo on his face.  He grabbed onto the rock behind him and watched the surprising display; Hargolan’s hand remained in the air, waving ponderously.  While the phenomenon was certainly unusual, Gourdo did not feel any fear as he watched the shadows deepen and the wind shake the trees.  The young man’s countenance, peaceful and resolute, put to rest any initial anxieties within him.

“Hargolan, what is this?” he shouted as thunder joined the wind’s chorus.

“What does it look like?”

“It looks like dark magic!”

The young man laughed.  “You are correct, my friend!”

“But--but is not dark magic reserved for those who are evil?” His voice betrayed his befuddlement.  “Those who practice wicked deeds?”

“I wish I had time to tell you my story,” said Hargolan.  At that moment, a purple orb appeared in the space between them and expanded slowly.  “But alas, I don’t.  It’s quite long; I’m convinced it would take three books to explain it in full.”

“I hope to read it some day!” Gourdo clasped the stone more tightly, and the purple orb grew to the size of a small house.  It looked awfully familiar.  A portal, he thought.  Hargolan has created a portal.  What sort of power is this?

“Do me a favor, Gourdo,” said his new friend.  “Join your cousin and the others on Earth, and help them save it.  I am not sure if I will succeed in my quest, but you make sure to succeed in yours.”

“I will do everything I can!” he promised, noticing that his body was beginning to lift from the earth.  The portal was drawing him.

“Farewell, friend, until we meet again!”

“Goodbye!” Gourdo released the rock and spiraled into the portal, disappearing in an instant.