Tim still had his clown costume on—maybe he slept in it—and he’d absorbed Brendan in conversation enough so that he didn’t notice the creature lurking in the shadows of the Shack. I kept my back to the walls as I snuck sideways around the house to the front.
When I reached the opposite side of the building, I started running for home. I wasn’t taking any chances.
As the black trees whirled past, a memory surfaced from the dark recesses of my brain.
“Hey, Creeper,” I’d said to Brendan as we poured into the middle school gym for an awards ceremony one day. “Kill any kittens lately?”
A popular guy was there and started guffawing. He shoved Brendan with his shoulder, and Brendan nearly fell over. He glared at the guy and then me, his blue eyes blackened with hate.
“Uh-oh, better be careful,” I shouted as Brendan stomped up the bleachers to the topmost corner to hide. “He might be looking for his next victim.”
I ran harder away from the Haunted Shack, my breath growing ragged, the cold air stinging my face.
Why had he waited for me? Or maybe it had just been a coincidence. Maybe he wanted to talk to Tim about the house. Or, maybe—I felt the bottom of my stomach drop—maybe he was going to report me for sexual harassment. I’d done it, hadn’t I? Actually touched my fangs to his neck? That was probably assault in some places, especially when the perpetrator was wearing pointy teeth.
So not only was I not going to get my Halloween bonus, I’d be out of a job too.
I slowed down as I reached my neighborhood, feeling safer in the two miles between my home and Brendan.
At home, I stashed my bag by my nightstand and pulled off my slinky dress. Stood in front of the mirror and ran my fingers through my hair, which had flattened from the wig. Touched the faint remains of the scar I’d gotten at fifteen and sighed.
My phone pinged from the bag.
I told myself I wasn’t going to check it, that I was just going to go to bed. I tugged on a pair of fleece pajama pants and put on a blue shirt with an owl.
My phone pinged.
Even if I really liked him, even if tonight made that abundantly clear, what did it matter? Neither of us wanted to be with each other, our real selves, not even in our dreams.
My phone pinged.
Swearing, I dug out the cell from my bag.
I had three direct messages in Twitter. All sent within the last five minutes.
I waited for you. Did you turn into a bat and fly away?
I bit my lip, tasted traces of lipstick.
I mean, not waiting in a creepy way. Like in a ‘Hey, fancy running into you here at two in the morning! Since we’re both here, want to get a cup of coffee?’ way.
I sighed. Read the final message.
But maybe you hate coffee. Because vampires don’t drink coffee. What I’m trying to say is, that was the best haunted house visit I’ve ever had. But I’m already over the maximum number of messages I should be sending girls who bite my neck here, so if you get this and want to talk more, give me your number. I’m around.
I sucked in a quick breath. I shouldn’t have done it, but I wanted to talk to him. To apologize. To find out what he was thinking. To laugh. To flirt.
I messaged him my number.
Another ping.
He’d texted me.
Seriously, the best haunted house visit.
Another ping.
And the best not-kiss.
Chapter Seven
I let out a long sigh, and in its wake came a happy, giddy smile.
It was my best too, I texted back. The not-kiss part.
Ping.
Is that a special feature of the house? Didn’t get that the first night. Only somebody wanting to suck the marrow out of my bones. Which sounds less pleasant. Not that I wouldn’t have let her.
Only for valued customers, I wrote back, feeling awkward against his quick wit. Having spent so much time being other people that week, it was becoming hard to remember how to be myself.
A pause. Hey, want to talk on the phone? Get old-fashioned? Real time, real voices?
My fingers hovered over the screen for a minute as I scrambled for a reason we couldn’t talk to each other—especially using real voices.
Sorry, company policy. Can’t talk to visitors, I finally offered feebly. Ruins the mystique.
He didn’t text back for a full minute and a half—I knew; I counted the seconds.
I’d lost him. Not that I’d ever had him. He knew I was lying. I should’ve been relieved. It was better that way, before he showed up again at the Haunted Shack and I did something stupider, like exchange bodily fluids with him.
Then a ping. Okay. But texting is okay?
I breathed out. Texting is okay.
So what’s your name, vampire girl?
Elvira.
Really.
Yes, after my mother.
You do realize I can just Google your cell number and find out.
Go ahead and try. This is a Transylvania number. And it was also a new cell number, so he probably couldn’t find it. I hoped.
A minute went by. You must be right. Sure is a long walk home to Transylvania from the Haunted Shack.
Not when you can sprout wings.
Are you a method actor? You seem to be taking this vampire thing pretty seriously. Not criticizing—it’s working for you.
No, no method. And if you ask one of my theater profs, this doesn’t count as acting. Not really. I just work at a haunted house.
You could have fooled me. You’re an awesome actress. Screw the theater profs.
“Not that it matters,” I muttered. I’d probably have to quit school soon anyway.
Yeah, screw the profs, I wrote. They wouldn’t know a zombie if she ate their spleen.
Ha! So you’re in school?
Yes. It felt good to tell him something honest, something real. Middletown University.
Good school. I’m at State, but staying at a friend’s tonight.
A friend? I texted back, suddenly worried it was someone who knew me.
Okay, by “friend,” I mean my mom. Who’s not actually a friend.
Got it. Have you taken your mom to the Shack before?
She’s not into that. Plus, after tonight…I think next time I’m going alone.
He’d said, next time. There wasn’t an emoticon for what I was feeling then. Teager, I thought. Like he’d said over Twitter the other night. I was terrified and eager to see him again. And to talk to him right then.
You from around here? he continued.
Nearby. You?
Yeah, born and raised. Just my mom, my sister, and me here now. My dad left when I was a kid.
My dad left too, I said, a little dull ache in my chest.
Sucks right?
Yeah, it sucks.
We texted back and forth about stuff in town we both knew: the diner with the terrible servers but awesome omelets, the gruff garbage men who rolled your empty trash can down the street. We texted about how Tim was the creepiest clown ever, but how he was such a nice guy.
After a while, I started to relax. I lay back in bed, curled around my cell, glancing out the window. The moon was over the trees, a shiny dime with thin gray clouds smeared across its face. It cast a beam of silver light into the room.
Despite my best efforts, eventually our conversation turned back to the past.
I met a guy like Tim when I was in high school, Brendan wrote after we’d been talking over an hour. At a comic book store. It was nice to meet someone who liked dark stuff too. Had a hard time growing up, was kind of messed up when my dad left. Just kind of closed down, didn’t want to deal with anyone at school, etc.
I thought of how I’d felt around that time, before my dad left too. How angry and helpless I’d been. How good it’d felt in the moment to be mean at school, to release some of that bitterness before it ate me alive.
As unhealthy as Brendan’s strategy
had been, mine was far worse.
Yeah, so I was kind of a nerd, he continued.
I know, I thought. I helped make you that way. But instead I wrote, School can be tough. Not to mention thirteen-year-old boys. And then—bravely, foolishly—I added, I know I did some stuff I regret back then.
It was the closest I’d ever come to telling any of them I was sorry.
Like what? he texted back. And thirteen-year-old boys aren’t half as bad as thirteen-year-old girls. Trust me. I knew one who could flay the skin off your body while keeping a pretty smile on her face.
Startled, I glanced up in my bedroom mirror and caught my reflection. It glowed white in the dark, washed pale from the moonlight, my scar invisible. Right then I could’ve been any age, twenty or forty or even thirteen again.
I was the girl he was talking about. That witch Nora.
He texted again. So what kind of stuff did you regret?
I looked away. Through the window, strays of wispy gray clouds parted in the night sky to reveal the bright moon for a single moment. It was a moment where I could change my course, right the path I was traveling. I could come clean, be honest, be real.
My heart beat in my ears.
What if I told him the truth right then? Over text, over the phone? My palms grew clammy.
He’d hate me—of that, I then had no doubt. And, selfishly, I didn’t want this to end. Not yet, not before it was Halloween and the Shack closed and it had to be over anyway.
So what kind of stuff did you regret?
Because, after that week, I meant for him to never see or talk to me again. Because I couldn’t ever be around him without a costume or mask.
I fucked Frankenstein, I finally texted back.
LOL
You should’ve heard that guy groan.
ROFL
The clouds drifted back over the moon and the moment was gone.
***
We kept texting back and forth and before I knew it, it was 3:33, then 5:21, and then 6:16 and dawn was breaking in a little pink line above the trees in the neighborhood.
We texted about his sister’s upcoming wedding, his website, how he always ate a bowl of cereal at ten o’clock each night. We talked about my classes, the silly television shows I could watch all day, and which scary movies frightened me the most growing up. I even mentioned the dolls.
So six-inch-long plastic dolls creep you out more than anything? he asked.
Yes! Don’t they creep you out?
It’s just that you seem so fearless, he wrote. But of course they creep me out. They remind me of thirteen-year-old girls.
Trying to dodge that conversation again, I was quick to reply. So you’re scared of girls.
Wasn’t it obvious?
He was funny and sweet and interesting and, best of all, asked me questions and seemed genuinely interested in my responses. I’d been around guys who were interesting or funny and at least pretending to be sweet, but not often ones who seemed like they wanted to know your theories on the various merits of the fork and spoon and why the spork hadn’t really taken off in American cuisine. I didn’t really talk about that stuff much usually, because it seemed dorky, but it was late and he was such a fun guy to text with, it just spilled out.
You should really be an actress, he said as the sky started to turn the color of skim milk. I hope you do more theater, but like in your way.
I yawned. Yeah, because that’s a sensible career choice.
Hey, who ever thought I’d make money having a website writing reviews on all these Cleaver Man sequels? Plus, you don’t like it, playing the monsters?
Yeah, I do kind of like it.
So…?
I don’t think my acting would translate well to Broadway.
Who says it has to? Hey, change of subject but did you notice that it’s now the next day? Crazy.
Thursday. We’d talked all night, me and this guy who didn’t know my real name or face.
I sighed. I know. I should really get to bed. I have class later today.
Rough. Incidentally, when does that work policy about not talking to customers end?
Umm. I bit my lip and didn’t respond.
It must be November 1st, right? When Halloween’s over? Because last I heard the Haunted Shack wasn’t open after Halloween.
I made myself type something, anything. You never know. We could have evil turkeys running around and murderous pilgrims and hands exploding out of pies.
Now that’s how I’d like to celebrate Thanksgiving. I’m thinking you could rock a murderous pilgrim role.
Seriously.
But, really, your job ends November 1st, right?
I pressed my lips together. There was no getting around it. Yes, I typed, and somehow even in print the word felt meek, cowardly.
Okay. So, at 12:01 a.m. on November 1st, you’re coming to a party. We’re having a Cleaver Man party here at school. Come dressed as your favorite victim. I’d get out of it and come to you, but I helped plan it.
I didn’t know how to say No, and in the make-believe world I’d created with him, the one where he didn’t actually hate me and he felt as happy as I felt about him right then, I didn’t want to. I was pretending that all we had was that week; time had slowed to a halt, and life didn’t exist past Halloween.
Okay, I texted back.
12:01 a.m. November 1st. It’s a date.
But in reality I knew once the clock struck midnight on Halloween, I’d text him with some reason I couldn’t be there, some mysterious illness. Then I’d do a fade away. He didn’t need more friends, and with that face I was sure he didn’t want for girls. He’d forget about me.
I didn’t know if I could say the same. But, then again, I deserved whatever pain was coming my way, didn’t I?
So when are you working at the Haunted Shack next?
Friday night.
I’ll see you Friday.
Don’t you have other houses to visit? For the rankings?
Don’t worry about it. I’m a man of many talents.
Even in my fatigue, my confusion and denial, a little warmth spread throughout my body at his words.
So I’ll see you Friday night. Devil’s Night.
Devil’s Night.
Chapter Eight
That Thursday night, Elle and I walked through town, our arms linked, to the bonfire thing she’d invited me to earlier in the week.
The night air was cool and crisp, perfect for October, and as we walked through downtown we started singing “Werewolves of London.” We were floating off a buzz we’d gotten back at her dorm room, and what we lacked in tune we made up for in volume.
Howling and laughing, we turned a corner by a row of shops. I stopped suddenly.
Lights were on in the coffeeshop, the one where that girl worked—the girl I'd teased in middle school.
“Huh?” Elle said. “Why’d you stop? We were mid-chorus.”
The girl was in the shop, her back to us as she reached to place a mug on a high shelf. Probably closing up for the night.
I hadn’t meant to go this way.
“Sorry.” I tugged Elle's arm to the side, guiding her down a dark alleyway so we wouldn't have to pass her. “Let’s go this way.”
In the neighborhood just past downtown, our noses led us to the right house. The smell of burnt marshmallow blew to us from a big yard in back. There, a fire pit sat smoldering in the middle, surrounded by rows of log benches, a case of beer at one end.
We sat on a bench near the fire watching a few flush-faced college guys burn things—sometimes marshmallows, sometimes Halloween candy—on the ends of long sticks. A breeze riffled the ends of my hair.
After a while, Elle went over to talk to some friends, but I stayed watching the fire, nursing a cold beer someone had pressed into my hand.
I looked up at one point to see a tall blond guy staring at me. He smiled. I smiled back. Then I ducked my head.
I didn’t know w
hy I felt so guilty all of a sudden. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. Brendan and I weren’t together. We hadn’t gone out. He didn’t know my name. He’d never even technically seen me.
Fifty-four more hours until Halloween is over, he’d texted me earlier that evening. Not that I’m counting or anything.
I’d been wildly happy to see his message before reality had set in. The euphoria from our long text conversation faded, I tried to remind myself we couldn’t go out. We shouldn’t talk. It would take us back to a time neither of us wanted to visit again.
Sitting on the log, I took a deep breath and made myself look up again at that guy.
But someone else was in his place. A guy with short-cropped sandy hair. Firelight flickered on his face.
Someone familiar. I knew him.
I froze.
It was Brendan’s friend. The one that’d come to the Shack that first night. He was talking to someone and he hadn’t noticed me, I didn’t think, but any moment he might. What if he recognized me, and came up and asked my name—or asked someone else?
I stood up, whirling around—and ran smack into someone’s chest. A man’s chest.
I gazed up. It was the tall blond guy I’d caught staring at me earlier.
“Hey, what’s the hurry?”
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I blurted. “Anywhere else?”
“Sure.” He smiled. “That was easy.”
I glanced back over my shoulder. But Brendan’s friend was gone. Another guy was in his place, and looked nothing like him. Had I imagined it? I felt confused, dizzy.
“I’m Jonah. And you are…”
“Nora.”
He led me into a clearing in the forest, under the cover of trees. We sat on a big tree stump. I wasn’t naïve; I knew what he’d brought me there for, but I also knew if Brendan’s friend was really out there by the fire, I could be seen.
And I needed to remind myself that there were other guys in world, guys I hadn’t terrorized, who stood a chance of being in a relationship with me that didn’t involve year-round cosplay. I took a deep breath, looked around at the forest. The trees grew thin and tall toward the dark sky, leaning toward me in a way that made me feel crowded. Watched. Judged.
Jonah didn’t waste any time before putting his arms around me. The murmur of the group in the yard grew quieter. I shivered.
“You cold?” he said.
“Not really.”
“No. Because you’re really hot.” Jonah stared at my mouth and moved closer.
The trees stood like silent sentries, watching me. Waiting.
“Wait,” I said, pulling away. “There's something you should know first.”