Robert Duperre - The Gate 2 - 13 Tales of Isolation and Despair

“Nice hair,” Katie said.

“It’s a wo hawk,” Matt replied, pausing for dramatic effect. “You see what I did there? A punk-rock werewolf.”

He howled again.

“Whatever you say, goofball. Hey, I know! Maybe you should join Team Jacob.”

“Maybe I should eat your face,” he said, pointing a wobbly, elongated finger at her.

“Matthew,” Mrs. Hapler said. “How many times have I told you, we don’t eat our guests. Especially the nice ones.”

“But that’s what werewolves do!”

Mrs. Hapler looked at Katie, feigned a sad, contemplative face, and sighed heavily. “He has a point, you know, and since it is Halloween and all, I guess I’ll make an exception. But—” she took another sip of her drink “—if you really must eat her face, please do it outside. I just mopped.”

“Thanks, Mom! You’re the best.”

Katie laughed. They always knew how to make her laugh.

Katie and Matt gathered their things and said their good-byes.

“We’ll be home sometime after midnight,” said Mrs. Hapler. “You two behave, and be careful. And get me a Tootsie Roll.”

Then they were out the door, racing down the street and off into the night. They passed through the same field Katie had come through earlier in the evening, intoxicated by the nostalgic promise of excitement and adventure.

They didn’t see the pale-faced children creeping along the tree line.

Two hours later, with pillowcases full of sweet, sugary booty—Tootsie Pops, Smarties, Kit Kats, Snickers, Milky Ways, and so much more—Katie and Matt entered Bridgetown Pines and turned the corner at the far end of Farmington Circle.

Thick woods flanked both sides of the road, and a scant few streetlights did their futile best to hold back the shadows within. The branches overhead clacked like wind chimes constructed of bones. All around, orange and yellow and red leaves lazily floated to their deaths, soft and peaceful.

Katie shook her head, smiling. “What the hell are we going to do with all this candy?”

“Well, I intend to eat it,” Matt said, removing his mask and gloves, the transformation back to human far less dramatic than depicted in movies. His face glistened with sweat. “I’m crazy like that.”

Katie had a witty comeback lined up, something about agreeing that he was crazy, but the words were swept away in a whirlwind of chatter that exploded within her head, suddenly, painfully, as if she had become hardwired into every cellular network in the world—and everyone was shouting. Her knees buckled.

Matt dropped his pillowcase, reached out and steadied her. “Hey, you okay?”

She saw Matt, his eyes wide with concern, and then looked past him, beyond the curve of the road. What she saw both frightened and fascinated her, but reconciling those feelings amidst the bedlam in her head proved impossible. Waves of pain crashed against the inside of her skull, like the layers of her brain were being burned away.

“Katie,” Matt said. “What’s wrong?”

The cacophonous buzzing and chatter in Katie’s head dissipated, slowly, but words continued to fail her. Instead, she pointed.

Ahead, on Samantha Walker’s front lawn, stood a small cherubic figure, curiously strange but equally horrifying. It was naked and without discernable genitalia, ghost-white skin shiny, smooth, like a small mannequin. Its hands were outstretched, cradling a long red candle, a teardrop of flame flickering above it. Wax glistened and dripped like blood between the child-thing’s fingers, the contrast striking even in the dark.

The thing stared at them, eyes unblinking, black and emotionless, almost alien.

Something screamed through the quiet but still present static in Katie’s head— run run RUN! it seemed to say—but her legs refused to budge.

When Matt turned and saw the thing staring at them, he flinched and leaned back as if preparing to bolt. “What the crap is that?”

Katie cleared her throat, found her voice again. “I don’t know. What do you think it is?”

“No idea.” Matt craned his neck forward and scrunched up his face, as though he were trying to read a road sign far off in the distance. “Was it there before?”

“I don’t think so,” Katie said. She glanced down the street, and gasped. “Oh my God, Matt, look! They’re everywhere.”

There were nine houses on Farmington Circle, all clustered near its circular end. Katie had always felt close to her father here. He’d helped build every house on the street, and they stood a testament to the man he had been—quiet, strong, sheltering. She felt protected in their presence.

Now, standing before each of those homes was a perfectly still child clutching a dark red candle, and Katie no longer felt safe.

“I don’t get it.” Matt shook his head.

She didn’t get it either, but she felt a jagged blade of fear scraping its way down her spine. She loved horror—books, movies, music—but the image before her was too spooky, too real.

A darkness comes, child, a single voice said, entering her mind uninvited, as smooth and cold as an icicle.

“What?” she said.

“I said—”

“No. Not you.”

Matt cocked an eyebrow, made a fist, and spoke into it: “Crazy Katie Bananas, this is Big Daddy Matt, come again? Over. Ksssh. ”

The blade of fear grew still at the small of her back, its tip piercing her skin with slow, steady persistence.

“Did you hear anything?” she asked, unable to look away from the child.

Matt’s brow crinkled like a pile of discarded wrapping paper on Christmas morning. “You okay?”

“Never mind,” she said, massaging her temples. “I don’t like this.”

“Word up on that, sista. This is either a stupid joke, or everyone on this street is in a weirdo cult. Maybe both. Sure you’re okay?”

She nodded. But Katie couldn’t shake the feeling that something beyond their understanding, something unnatural—even supernatural—was happening. A big pill to swallow, but the alternative—that she was bat-shit crazy—was much bigger, and she wasn’t quite ready to gulp that one down.

“Can we go?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Matt picked up his candy, and together they walked into the unknown.

Matt crossed the front lawn of his home, his movements bold and purposeful. His footsteps darkened the dew-covered grass with each step. As he drew closer to the figure he slowed, hesitated, and then stopped a few feet away.

You must run, flee . A darkness comes .

“Matthew,” Katie said, tugging on his arm like a toddler trying to get her mother’s attention. “Can we please go inside?”

She looked back over her shoulder, half expecting to see an army of porcelain-skinned children creeping up on them, claws and fangs bared. But still they stood, one on each front lawn, blank-faced and unmoving.

“It’s fake,” Matt declared. He was staring into the black orbs that served as the child’s eyes. “Christ, what a bizarre prank.” He chuckled like a mad professor up to no good in his la- bor -atory, though Katie knew it was a nervous kind of laughter.

“Matthew, it’s real.” She wasn’t sure why she believed this, because it made no more sense than any other tale this holiday had been built upon, but she knew it was true. She felt it, heard it loud and clear.

“What? Come on! It’s fake,” he insisted. “Probably a plastic Halloween prop—a weird one—or some wacky Japanese candleholder. They never get that shit right.”

“I’m hearing a voice, something…I don’t know, Matt, but I don’t like it. We have to go.”