Everett laughed, and even checked above his head to see if a light bulb had appeared there, like in cartoons, because he had had a good idea.
He went in the horsey barn, where people always kept nice blankets for their animals for the cold days that came not long after Halloween. Sure enough, there was a nice big brown one lying across the gate that kept the horse inside. The horse on the other side of it scooted and scooted until it was against the wall, far away from Everett, but that was okay. He would bring it an apple later, or some fingers, and see if it would be his friend.
Everett found some rope, too, and used it to tie the blanket around his waist and his neck to make a hood. Then he picked up the scythe and studied his moon-cast shadow. It was just like the Reaper!
Wait. He needed more. No one had face paint or decent plastic masks around here, but that was okay. Everett was a big boy. It was time to move on from kid costumes.
Everett thought of the witch and the motorcycle people from the last Halloween, and how he made masks out of their faces, but the best part was the skull part, under the skin.
Everett had a skull too. But his face was in the way.
Everett went inside Marion Stansler’s house with his ears of corn and his new costume. There, he found a really nice knife to help him with both.
Chapter 33
You Always Stand In My Way
Adonijah Cooke stood facing Conal, now behind the skinned-maple bars of the town jail, as though his candlelit glower could bypass Judgment and send the Irishman plummeting into hell.
“Adoni, why don’t you leave this to me?” Bennington stepped between Cooke and the cell, placing loving hands on his friend’s shoulders. “Go and mourn your boy. When you’re ready to bury him, I’ll pay for the box.”
“This scoundrel would just as soon have seen you hang, Bennington,” said the grieving father.
“Yes. We cannot let ourselves descend to such a state.”
Adonijah finally turned and shuffled out, followed by his devastated sons.
“It wasn’t me who…killed Jonas, Bennington,” hissed O’Herlihy. “Your old house whore lied.”
“Guilty of this murder or not, your sins have found you out, Conal.”
Bennington checked that the door of the jailhouse was closed tight, then slid the flimsy chair, last occupied by Jonas, against it. “Just count yourself lucky you’re locked in here now.”
“You know the killer?”
“I only know there are worse men than even you loose in the world, Conal.”
Conal opened his mouth to boast of just how much worse he could—and would—get, but stopped himself.
* * * *
Two full cups of his own corn whiskey had become a nightly habit for Schroeder, the only thing to silence his increasingly troubled mind as the settlement’s turmoil filled his thoughts.
For the last week, he had been preparing a special batch, though he was certain he could never gain the courage to distribute it.
Even so, when he heard the knock, he sat up so fast his addled mind swam.
“Good heavens!” said his wife, Olga. “Between you and the door, I might have died of fright.”
“Hush, Olga!” Schroeder tossed off the quilts and reached for his rifle.
“You hush yourself. It’s only your…‘customers.’”
It was unlikely to be anything so mundane.
The floor’s cold planks against Schroeder’s bare feet made him curse, fully waking him from the nightmare image of Hezekiah Hardison—first hanging in his field like a crucified corn god, and then lying pale and bloated as he and Conal rolled his corpse in the oilcloth.
He skimmed a mental list of all possible visitors, the first space on this list occupied by a black question mark for the unknown killer-on-the-loose.
The knock had come from Gregor Tiernan at the door, with Theodore Blaisdell mounted on a restless mare behind him. “We need you, Friedrich. Conal needs you!”
“Conal? What has…?”
“Bennington and his fellows have moved to blame Conal for murder,” said Gregor.
“Jonas Cooke!” shouted Theodore. “Cloven in twain!”
“He’s in the jail now, Conal is,” Gregor explained. “We’re gathering in the secret hall.”
“We go now!” Theodore yelled.
Schroeder turned and peered into the darkness of his house to buy a moment of thought. “Move on to the next man, and I’ll be on your trail,” he said. “I’ll bring something useful.”
* * * *
Schroeder’s mother had been born with a caul, a sign of clairvoyance.
She had never spoken of it, until the day Friedrich told her he was leaving for the new world. Then she wept with despair, telling him Sensenmann would follow him there.
Schroeder’s horse was small and old. With the dark seeming to slowly enclose him like a crushing chrysalis, Schroeder was tempted to push the nag to hurry, fearing that moving too slowly would make him a tempting target to whom or whatever (Sensenmann) was doing all the killing.
He had been dismissive of his mother’s reaction, right up until this very moment when dissension was coming to a head, the leaves were dropping like frogs upon Egypt in the book of Exodus and a very real Angel of Death was creeping among them.
The night ahead bore a weight of fatefulness that made him regret leaving Holland, of ever even meeting with the ambitious Anglos who had mapped this leaf-covered corner of hell.
Yet turning back to his settlement home was no more an option than turning back to Europe.
Olga would be up worrying very late this night, and a good many after.
* * * *
Modern day
With Dennis and Bernard drawing the few pumpkin demons that hadn’t made their way to the Community Center, the witches’ drive to the theater was uneventful.
“I’d hoped for something open all around,” Ysabella said, “but we’ll make this work.”
The Grand Illusion Cinemas was Ember Hollow’s most recognizable landmark other than Saint Saturn
