A (11:00)
Kevin shook his head, his expression growing serious. He glanced around for his youngest daughter, who was a few cars ahead, chattering excitedly with a friend from school, safely out of earshot. Turning back to Taylor, he took a deep breath, considering whether he should tell this story or not. Well, it's not just that. Listen. Old Gods of Appalachia presents One Last House A Tale for the Season Mavisdale, Virginia 1981 it was a perfect night for trick or treating. A crescent moon shone overhead amidst a field of stars, not a cloud in sight. The temperature hovered just above 60 degrees as Kevin, Jesse, and his older brother, Stevie, sat at the kitchen table at their dad's house, putting the finishing touches on the Halloween costumes they spent all Saturday afternoon pulling together. At 13, Stephie was getting a little old for trick or treating, but taking responsibility for his little brother granted him another year's leeway before the folks handing out the candy started asking, aren't you a little old for this, son? The past few years playing chaperone had fallen to their older sister, but at 15, she had finally been granted permission to attend a Halloween party with some of her high school friends, so she had skipped this weekend at Dad's. That suited Kevin just fine. Jenny, who lately had begun insisting on being called Jennifer, used to be fun, but these days she acted too much like their mom, constantly correcting their grammar, harping at them about whether they'd finished their homework, and nitpicking every little thing they did, like she was the queen of Mavisdale or something. You boys ready, Gary? Jesse walked into the kitchen, tucking the tail of a clean plaid shirt into his jeans, hair still damp and the scent of Old Spice lingering on his freshly shaved cheeks. Simon, the snowshoe Siamese cat who'd been part of their family since Kevin was 4, trotted in after him, leaping up onto the kitchen table and butting his head into Garry's arm, begging for attention. Simon was an outgoing, friendly cat, the kind of cat who'd never met a stranger, but their dad was by far his favorite person. Gary scritched his chin absently as he admired the two boys costumes. Kevin wore one of the white button ups their mama had bought for him for church, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and had fished an old brown fedora out of the attic that once belonged to Papaw Jesse. Stevie wore an old pair of Kevin's coveralls and a Michael Myers mask he'd bought at Ben Franklin with some of the money he'd saved up mowing yards that summer. He'd asked to borrow one of his daddy's hunting knives, but unlike the machetes, Garry kept those sharp, so the boys had agreed to take turns carrying that. Stephie's voice was muffled behind the white face rubber mask over his head. Kevin's face lit with a gap toothed grin as he shot their dad a thumbs up. Yep. Ready, dad? Let's go then. The plan was for the boys to ride into town with Gary, who was headed over to Jocko's Bar and Grill for his regular Saturday night out. The Jesse farm was on the outskirts of Mavisdale and didn't have many close neighbors. Kevin and Stevie's parents had always preferred they do their trick or treating in town where there were sidewalks and street lights and plenty of other kids running around whose mommies and daddies drove them in for the same reason. The sort of folks who had nice houses within the town limits tended to be doctors, lawyers, dentists and accountants and the like. Community leaders that parents felt more comfortable trusting not to hand out candy that was doped or, God forbid, poisoned. From their youngin's perspective, they were also the type who could afford to give out the best candy. Reese's cups and Kit Kats, Hershey bars and Starburst as opposed to the weird stuff like licorice whips and butterscotch chews. Hell, one of the local judges was even known to hand out full sized Snicker bars. Gary pulled his old blue and white 2 tone F100 into the parking lot behind Jocko's and the three of them filed out. He surveyed his boys with a look filled with both love and caution. You two mind curfew? Don't be knocking on anybody's doors after 9, okay? You got your watch, Stevie? Yes, sir. If you boys don't feel like walking all the way back home, you come get me at Jocko's. We'll be fine, dad. Alright, y' all have fun. Be careful now. And check that candy before you eat it, you hear me? Yes, sir. Gary gave the oversized fedora on Kevin's head a playful swat and turned to head into Mavisdale's only pub. Set free at last, Kevin and Stevie ran down the street to join a gaggle of other kids approaching the door of the nearest house. The soft orange glow of the street lights above shone through the trees overhanging the streets of the sleepy little town, painting the sidewalks in shifting leaf dappled shadows as a cold breeze blew through their branches. Dead leaves and a riot of oranges, reds and browns crunched underfoot and the wood smoke scented air rang with the crackling of little witches and the giggling of baby ghouls. They took in a good haul that night, the orange and black plastic bags they carried weighing heavy in their hands. By the time folks started turning off their porch lights, signaling it was time for the local ghouls and goblins to head on home, the two boys were about halfway down a narrow, weed choked dead End street, its trees draped in a strangling cloak of kudzu, when light behind them began winging out. Stevie paused under a street light, pulling his mask off and pushing up the sleeve of his coveralls to look at his watch. 8:55 it's about time to head home. Kevin shot his older brother a pleading look. Oh, come on, just one more. Stevie hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the darkened porches behind them. It looks like everybody's done for the night once they turn off the lights. They're probably out of candy anyway. Not that one. Kevin pointed in the direction they'd been heading at the far end of the street, past a rusty boarded up trailer and an overgrown lot with a set of steps heading up to a barren space where a house must have once stood. A lone porch light flickered weakly through the leaves of a massive oak tree. Stevie sighed. Okay, one more and then we're heading home. Got it? Got it. Kevin sprinted toward the end of the street, his sneakers crunching over dead leaves, busted bits of sidewalk and rocks as paved road gave way to a thin layer of gravel over packed dirt. The property at the end of the street was surrounded by a battered chain link fence that dragged the ground from a bent left gatepost, its busted gate swaying in the breeze, the house itself a narrow Victorian with a rusted tin roof, a weathered porch whose rotting boards listed to one side, and a couple of with three windows that had been boarded over, set back from the road behind a pair of ancient looking oaks whose branches hung low over the front yard, burdened with the weight of both time and the kudzu vines that spread between them over the roof of the old structure. If he'd seen it in daylight, Kevin, Jesse would have thought the place was abandoned. And yet from the inky shadows beneath the age bowed roof overhanging the porch, a bear bull emitted a weak, stuttering glow, just illuminating a ragged looking scarecrow propped up next to the front door. On the opposite side, a scorched jack o' lantern sat dark, its candle guttered. Stevie's footsteps crunched over the gravel as he caught up, but Kevin still startled when his brother's hand landed on his shoulder and Stephie chuckled. You wanted one more house, kid. Look like you picked a winner. He nodded toward the front door. Come on. The front steps creaked, dilapidated wood sagging underfoot as Kevin stepped up onto the porch, his eyes taken in the details of the scarecrow guarding the door. A stitched together burlap sack formed a misshapen head that leaned to the right, its blackened eyes appearing almost burned in the gloom. It had no mouth, and the head was secured to whatever formed its body with a rope tied into a noose. The orange plaid flannel it wore looked almost new, as did the jeans that made up its legs. A pair of white Converse high tops protruded from the cuffs. Well, that's creepy as shit. Yeah, it's. It's. It's really good. Kevin turned toward the door. It was an old fashioned number made of a thick slab of heavy oak that, though its varnish had long since peeled away, was nonetheless still solid as stone. A wide center panel that had once no doubt held a thick pane of leaded glass, maybe even stained glass, had been half assed, repaired with a piece of plywood. He rapped his knuckles lightly on that hardwood. Trick or treat. As they waited for the occupant to answer, Kevin glanced down at the creepy scarecrow with a startled cry. He stumbled away as a fat cockroach wriggled out of one of the effigy's empty eye sockets. His older brother chuckled, though he too took a cautious step away from the scarecrow. Gross. I don't think they heard you. Let me try. Stevie raised his hand to the door, applying three solid thunks to its surface. This time they both called out, trick or treat. The latch gave a soft click and the door swung open on silent, well oiled hinges, revealing a darkened foyer within. To the left, what must have once been, a grand stairway rose into darkness, its carved railing now coated with a thick layer of dust. To the right, they could dimly make out a bulky, lumpen shape resembling an old humpback sofa draped in a sheet. At the end of the hallway. Ahead, a faint beam of light stretched around a corner. An elderly voice called to them from the direction of the light. Well, come in, dears. Come on and get your treat. In the back of his mind, Kevin could hear the voices of his mama and daddy. Never get in a stranger's car. A stranger's house must count, too, right? I'm afraid I can't make it to the door again tonight. It's my arthritis, you know. Kevin glanced up at Stevie. His older brother shrugged and leaned down to whisper to him. It's okay. She's just an old lady. Come on. Kevin stepped hesitantly over the threshold, his slow footsteps carrying him toward the light. There was a strange, musty smell to the air. It reminded Kevin of the smell of attics filled with old clothes, but carried a hint of cloying sweetness twined with a bitter whiff of a ammonia. To his right, amorphous shapes loomed out of the shadows of what must have been the living room. From the porch, he had seen a wide bay window that must be in there, but its drapes were pulled tight, admitting no light. From the street ahead, a wan yellow glow illuminated a stretch of cracked linoleum in the corner of a cabinet. As Kevin and Stevie approached the doorway at the end of the hall, the elderly woman's voice came to them again. Very faintly, a gentle, crooning sound. Shaz. Yes, my baby. Sh. Soon, soon. Kevin wondered if she was looking after her grandbaby tonight, or maybe talking to a little dog, though if so, it wasn't much of a watchdog. Maybe a cat. As they stepped into the kitchen, his ears picked up a soft, skittering noise. Must be a cat, Kevin thought. Their cat had never run when somebody visited their dad's house, but some of their friends, cats were afraid of strangers. The noise hadn't really sounded like a cat, not exactly. It didn't quite have the weight of a cat's feet scrabbling on a smooth surface. But what else could it be? Something small? A kitten? Oh, maybe the old lady had mice, and she needed a cat. The kitchen Kevin and his brother entered was decades out of date, its fixtures and appliances relics of a bygone era, which was no surprise given the condition of the home's exterior. The cabinets, which must have once been white, were yellowed with age and warped with damp. A hulking wood burning stove positioned against one wall where it connected to a metal pipe that must lead to a chimney, consumed the majority of the space. A double basin sink, its porcelain chipped and stained, stood adjacent to it, stacked high with dirty dishes that nearly obscured. A small window, like most of those he had observed from outside had been covered with cheap plywood. The cracked linoleum under their feet was patterned in sort of a blocky black and white zigzag. The room was far dimmer and dirtier than any kitchen Kevin had ever set foot in. There were black stains along the edges of the floor and dust bunnies like tumbleweeds in the corners. The stovetop looked greasy, and the musty odor they had noticed when they entered the house was overlaid here with a sour tang. His memo, he thought, would have been horrified. His mama, too. Hell, even his daddy and his fishing buddy, Mr. Collins, kept better house than this. At a small square table with spindly legs and a Formica top that might have once been white under decades of nicotine stain and coffee rings sat the owner of the voice that had invited the two boys inside. The woman appeared ancient, the topography of time carved into her face like a map, her shoulders hunched under its burden. The pattern of the brown dress that draped her spindly frame was near indecipherable, though Kevin thought it might have been meant to look like flowers. A ragged black shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and an Old Fashioned black tobacco pop with a curved handle rested at one elbow. At the sight of them, black eyes squinting from behind a pair of round Coke bottle glasses, the old lady picked up the cane that rested at her knee and pushed shakily to her feet. Yes, come in, come in, children. It is so lovely to have young people visit again. She had an unpleasant way of speaking, her words accompanied by a sort of smacking sound, her tongue darting around her mouth and over her teeth like an unruly little dog jerking at its leash. Come on, boys, be scared. I won't mind. The lines of her face parted in a smile, revealing a set of teeth that seemed almost too large for her face. Her gums were blackened with what looked like disease, and the teeth were yellowed with age and tobacco stains, though for all that they weren't worn to nubs, they were large and sturdy and shiny was spittle. As a graying pink tongue darted across them again, Kevin had the unsettling impression that she might very well bite after all. At a nudge from Stevie, Kevin realized he must be staring fumbling he stammered, trick or treat. The old lady cackled with delight. Oh my, yes, it is all. How is Eve, Isn't it, my babies? Now, where did I put my candy, Bob? Kevin shot his brother a nervous glance as she turned away from them. Shouldn't she already have the candy out? There were Halloween decorations on the porch. She'd invited them in because he'd yelled, trick or treat. Stevie just shrugged and subtly twirled a finger at his temple. Just a crazy old lady, kevin interpreted. Right, sure. The elderly woman tottered over to the counter and began rooting around a lower cabinet, keeping up a low patter under her breath. Oh, yes, my babies. Candy. Candy for the children. Treats for my babies. Yes, soon, my lovelies. My darling. So soon. Yes. Kevin felt the hairs rise on his neck, wondering again just who or what she was talking to. The old lady spun back around with a surprising speed, lunging at them across the kitchen. Kevin took an involuntary step back, startled, and she cackled again. Trick or treat. Her black eyes flashed and Kevin almost thought he heard a note of mockery in her voice as she parroted his words back to him. Here you go, boys. Help yourselves. In her arms she carried a green carnival glass punch bowl filled to the brim with rainbow colored hard candies wrapped in clear plastic. There were peppermint rounds and lemon drops, butter mints and licorice sticks, chicken bones and toffee chews. Mamaw candies, Kevin and Stevie had always called them. Not a fun size Snickers or Mini Reese's or even a Tootsie Pop inside. When Kevin hesitated, though, the old lady thrust the bowl at him. Don't be shy. Kevin forced a smile and reluctantly reached into the bowl, pushing his hand below the top layer to feel around just in case some more appetizing offering might lurk beneath the surface. Something grabbed onto his finger and then his wrist and then another finger. Within the space of a heartbeat. The moment it took to draw a breath, something was crawling all over his hand. Kevin jerked his hand out of the bowl, staring at it in shock. Cockroaches. A dozen or more of them clung to his hand, beginning to crawl up his exposed wrist. He started to scream. What the fuck? The old lady screamed with laughter as Stevie pulled the Michael Myers mask out of the pocket of his coveralls, using it to swipe the foul things off his younger brother's hand. Kevin's heart thudded in revulsion and terror and he thought he might wet his pants. His face was wet with tears and his skin crawled Though he could see they were gone now, he could still feel tiny legs all over his own. The bowl of candy roiled a choppy rainbow sea as the roaches hidden beneath the layer of sweets rose to its surface. The old lady's face split in a rapturous death's head grinned. Come out, come out, my babies. Come me? Who's come for dinner? A skittering, chirping hum rose around them, growing in volume. The shadows seemed to gather and seethe as a rising tide of gleaming brownish black carapaces rolled from every dark corner. Stevie grabbed Kevin's arm and jerked him into motion out of the kitchen and back into the narrow hallway. A heavy slam echoed throughout the old house, shaking the rotting walls, and Kevin knew even as the two boys fled toward the front door, they would find it shut tight. Stephie reached it first, yanking at the latch, but the door wouldn't budge. It was locked, he realized, though he couldn't fathom how they had left the door open behind them. He had neither seen nor heard anyone but the old woman, whose screeching laughter still carried from the kitchen. Kevin pressed closer to him, his voice high and keening with panic.
