“Yeah, right,” Stuart said and scoffed with a sideways glance at his brother. “Maybe I can be in the band one day though. Keyboards or something.”
“No way, daddy-o.” Dennis shook his head, as he always did when Stuart raised the topic. “College. Then some more college! After that, college. You’ll be going to college—beyond the grave!” Dennis goosed his brother, right in that spot under his ribs that made him giggle like a baby. But for Stuart, the appeal of one day being like his brother was near irresistible. “We’ll see.”
“For real, Stuart. Mom’s had plenty of guff outta me. She doesn’t need it from her widdle baby bubby.”
“Shut up. You’re doing okay. Pretty good, actually.”
“Maybe.” Dennis took his eyes from the road to give Stuart an earnest, penetrating gaze. “But you’re gonna do better.”
A dozen yards ahead, burly Mister Dukes cast a scowl at them, which seemed reasonable given that he was in the midst of unwinding moist toilet paper from his mailbox. His morning’s labor was only beginning; more of the soggy bands lay draped across his shrubs.
Dennis slowed the hearse and rolled down the window. “Morning, Mister Dukes. Ya got hit?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Dukes waved to Stuart as he wadded the tissue into a handful. “Hey, it wasn’t you, was it, boys? Be honest.”
“Come on, Mr. Dukes.” Dennis stayed cool, as always.
“Aaah I’m sorry. It’s just … that weird music, and whatnot.” Dukes squinted like the concept was a literal indecipherable blur to him. “What d’ya call it? Junkabilly?”
Before Stuart could stop himself, he explained, “It’s called horror punk!”
Dennis nudged him. “Easy.”
“No offense, boys.” Dukes frowned at all the unpapered yards surrounding his. “Guess I’m just too old for all this Halloween crap.”
“Never too old for Halloween, Mr. Dukes!” Dennis called, waving. “Hope you make it to the Pumpkin Parade!”
“Maybe.” Dukes waved, mumbling something they couldn’t hear.
As they pulled away, Dennis gave Stuart a reproachful glare. “Gotta build good rapport with the public, Stuart.”
“He doesn’t respect our music!”
“Nobody does. That’s why it’s called punk, genius.”
Stuart had this thought and the music to fill his mind for the rest of the ride to Ember Hollow Junior High. If they had stayed at Mr. Dukes’s place longer, they would have seen him open his mailbox and find a single piece of orange-and-black-wrapped candy.
About the Author
Photo by Scott Treadway
Patrick C. Greene is a lifelong horror fan who lives in the mountains of western North Carolina. He launched his Ember Hollow series with Red Harvest and Grim Harvest. He is also the author of the novels Progeny and The Crimson Calling, as well as numerous short stories featured in collections and anthologies.
Visit him at www.fearwriter.wordpress.com.
