Written in five parts. In honor of Halloween, Stiles and his friends knock on the door of the neighborhood Beldame (a witch, hag, crone, or old woman), but they choose the wrong door to knock on. Featuring Mini Pack Kids and Papa Stilinski!
The Beldame: A Halloween Story
Part One
Sheriff John Stilinski hated Halloween with a passion. Besides his belief the holiday inspired in children negative attitudes of avarice, gluttony, envy, and self-entitlement, it was the busiest and most chaotic night of the year for the sheriff's department – and, therefore, the worst night to be working. From false alarms to crank calls, fearsome and dangerous pranks to pumpkin smashing, drunken disorderlies to indecent exposure, public intoxication to reckless driving, trespassing to disruptions of the peace, and just general mischief and mayhem – Halloween was the one night of the year troublemakers and lunatics seemed hellbent on making the lives of first-responders miserable. Dispatchers swamped in calls, struggling to discern which were valid and which were fake; officers, firefighters, and EMTs who were required to answer every call, stretched too thin over too wide an area. Serious crimes and injuries, grotesque and bizarre occurrences only Halloween could produce, dotted amongst wastes of time and emergency resources. Rampant paranoia and idiocy at its height.
Then add to this mix of havoc and misdemeanors, hordes of poorly-supervised children in costumes running amok, fueled by ungodly amounts of sugar, and banging on strangers' doors demanding a treat or else be tricked. Accidents and incidents just waiting to happen. Tricksters waiting in the shadows for the inevitable opening of Pandora's treat bag of nightmares. Or else something much, much more terrifying.
Over the past decade and a half, almost three dozen children had gone missing from the Beacon Hills area. The majority of these kids had vanished on Halloween night, after becoming separated from their parents or friends. Gone without a trace. A parent's worst nightmare, and Sheriff Stilinski, first in the capacity of deputy and then as sheriff, had been given the unfortunate task of interviewing the missing child's parents: when was the child last seen and by whom; could they provide a physical description of the child; was there any place the child might have gone of his or her own volition, a clubhouse or a favorite play area; was it possible the child could be hiding, playing a cruel joke; was there anyone who wanted to hurt the family; would the child have left with a stranger; did they have a current photograph of the child that he might circulate? Question after question. Textbook material: missing posters and news stories, amber alerts that eventually faded into the background. One routine question complicated by Halloween: what was the child wearing? A hundred different answers which would make it impossible to miss such a child, if not for the hundreds of other children in disguises: ghosts and vampires, Disney princesses and comic superheroes, fairies and Frankensteins, pirates and cowboys, aliens and zombies, animals and inanimate objects.
Frantic parents who wrung their hands, gazed blankly out windows and at walls, as they responded, and hurled questions rapid-fire back at him: how could this happen? Why? Where could their baby have gone? The only thing John feared more than the unknowing, the awkwardness when once again he couldn't give them answers, was knowing. He was terrified someday he would find their children, broken and bloody, abandoned corpses in faded Halloween costumes, and he would have to knock on their front doors. The bearer of the worst news imaginable. The harbinger of death.
Sheriff Stilinski hated being on duty on October 31st.
He poured himself a generous mug of black coffee, and added a dram of whiskey to calm his nerves. The front door slammed shut. Apparently his son had returned from school. Was it so late already? "Stiles! How many times have I told you not to slam that door?"
"Sorry, Dad." A messy head of brown hair, connected to an equally unruly boy of eleven, bounded into the kitchen. Stiles let his book-bag slide off his shoulder onto the floor. He hopped onto a stool at the breakfast counter. He grabbed an apple from a nearly-empty fruit bowl, and bit into it.
Sheriff Stilinski sipped his coffee and grimaced. "How was school today?"
"Fine." Stiles kicked his legs back and forth, banging the underside of the counter. He chewed noisily, and stared at his father expectantly. Sheriff Stilinski wondered how much Adderall Stiles had taken. He really needed to better monitor Stiles' medication. Stiles sighed dramatically.
Sheriff Stilinski raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Stiles?"
"Did you get it?"
"Get what?" The sheriff turned and rinsed his mug in the sink. At first Stiles wasn't sure if his father was kidding him. He placed the mug upside-down in the dish-rack and waited patiently for his son to answer. Stiles groaned.
"Daaaadd," he whined, "you promised you'd pick up my costume this morning!" All week Sheriff Stilinski had been too busy to take Stiles costume shopping. Aside from his usual shifts, he had been investigating past missing persons cases, preparing classroom Halloween safety lectures, and organizing deputy assignments, all in an effort to keep the children of Beacon Hills safe this Halloween and keep the sheriff's station functioning like a well-oiled machine. Stiles had gotten tired of waiting on his father, and he had gone to the local party supply and costume store with Scott. He had found an awesome Batman outfit, complete with mask, cape, and utility belt. Mr. Barrister, the kindly old man who owned and managed the shop, promised to set the costume aside for Stiles. His father just needed to come into the store before he closed on Halloween and pay for it. Sheriff Stilinski had promised Stiles he would pick the costume up that morning, while he was out buying the milk and toilet paper they desperately needed.
Sheriff Stilinski had completely forgotten. He placed his hands on either side of the sink and sighed. He had gotten distracted poring over the missing children's files, looking for patterns, similarities, and clues – anything to link the victims. He had become so absorbed in the cases, he had neglected his morning errands altogether. He hadn't even purchased groceries. "Stiles, I'm sorry. I was busy, and I-"
"It's fine, Dad." Stiles slid off the stool and padded out of the room. Sheriff Stilinski pinched the bridge of his nose. Claudia had always been the one to juggle the details of their everyday lives: keeping the fridge well-stocked; making sure they had enough bathroom tissue, coffee, and vitamins; stockpiling the medicine cabinet with cold remedies, cough syrups, and two types of Tylenol – extra-strength for John and children's for Stiles. She had baked cookies for sports team fundraisers, attended PTA meetings, prepared nutritious school lunches, patched the holes in Stiles' jeans, changed the bed sheets once a week, and purchased or made the required costumes, valentines, decorations, painted eggs, and extravagant feasts for holidays. John hadn't realized how much Claudia did – and how incapable he was at running a household – until she was no longer there to help him.
Sheriff Stilinski found Stiles in the living room. He was flicking through television channels, staring blankly at the images that flashed on the screen. Stilinski checked his wrist-watch. It was five minutes after four. "Maybe there's still time to get you a costume. Maybe not the Batman one you wanted, but-"
"Stores close early on Halloween. Don't worry, Dad. It's okay. I'll wear last year's costume." Sheriff Stilinski considered the long legs stretched out on the coffee table, the lanky arms drooping lazily at his sides. In the last six months alone, Stiles had experienced a growth-spurt that had pushed him up three inches and two shoe sizes. He'd never fit into clothes from a year ago.
Sheriff Stilinski hated disappointing his son. Worse yet, he hated the silent indifference with which Stiles accepted these disappointments. Where was the usual crying, arguing, and tantrums typical of children that age? When had facing disappointment become a simple fact of his everyday life? When had he started to expect his father would let him down? Yet another reason for the sheriff to hate Halloween: he would always remember this as the year he had failed to buy Stiles a costume.
He needed to fix this. Sheriff Stilinski grabbed the remote from Stiles and turned off the TV. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Just come on." Sheriff Stilinski nudged Stiles' feet off the coffee table and climbed the stairs. Stiles sighed, and grudgingly followed him up to his father's bedroom. He sat on the bed, as the sheriff threw open the closet door and rummaged inside. Over his shoulder, Stiles could just glimpse his father's dress shirts and his one good suit jacket, his formal uniform for special occasions like officers' balls and police funerals. To one side, partially hidden from view, Stiles could see the soft fabrics of the select few of his mother's dresses his dad couldn't part with: scarlet satin and dandelion cotton, lavender polyester that brushed the floor. Stiles recognized a cobalt velvet one from the photo above the living room mantle, a white lace sundress he remembered her wearing at his seventh birthday party. His father bypassed all these. Ignored the shoes tidily lined, the boxes neatly labelled and stacked. He seemed to be searching for something specific. "It's got to be here somewhere," the sheriff muttered to himself.
"What?"
"Maybe it's in the trunk." Sheriff Stilinski cleared papers, blankets, and dirty shirts off a wooden chest in the corner. He glanced inside. "Yes! Here it is." Stiles knelt beside him, peering into the trunk of wonders. He had always assumed it was full of linens, or something equally boring. Instead the chest contained mementos and memories: photo albums and keepsakes, award ribbons and old toys, ticket stubs and handcrafted cards, a bridal veil and wedding cake topper, postcards and tacky souvenirs from American and foreign cities. Treasures from a life before Stiles. He picked up a first place ribbon. "Your mother used to ride horses when she was a teenager," the sheriff told him. "Here, look." He handed Stiles a faded photo. A beautiful girl held the reins of a white and black Appaloosa. Its mane was smartly plaited, but her own braid was loose and messy. She was holding a bouquet of flowers and grinning. She looked so young, so happy, so free. Stiles couldn't believe this young beauty was his mother. The image of Claudia he remembered most was the last one: sick and ashen, small in a stark white hospital bed. But wait – there, in the laughing dimples and in the warm brown eyes, he could see his mother. Could see her smiling and covered in flour up to her elbows, as he helped her bake an anniversary cake for his father.
"How's this for a costume? This is the real deal: everything I have left from my days as a rookie cop with the LAPD." From the trunk, the sheriff withdrew a folded navy blue shirt, a black belt, a dark tie, and a peaked hat. He shook out the shirt: it was collared, with long sleeves and small black buttons. Los Angeles Police Department patches were sown onto the shoulders. Over the left breast was pinned a shining gold badge: the LA City Hall against a backdrop of the rays of the setting western sun; the designation of city, department, and rank; and, at the bottom, a series of numbers. "That's my badge number," the sheriff said. On the right breast was a simple rectangular tag Stiles liked best of all: "J. Stilinski."
"Go ahead, try it on." Stiles pulled his hoodie over his head, and he put his arms through the sleeves. His fingers trembled with excitement as he buttoned up. The material felt cool and heavy against his t-shirt. It smelled of mothballs and stale wood, but beneath those scents he could smell the tiniest whiff of his father. He imagined a young John patrolling city streets wearing this shirt, clean and slender, his hands on his hips, an optimistic gleam in his eye.
The uniform was too long, but Stiles tucked the bottom of the shirt into his jeans to hide its length. His father helped him roll up the cuffs so they didn't extend beyond his wrists. Sheriff Stilinski smoothed down the collar and adjusted the badge. As he knotted the matching elongated tie around the boy's neck, Stiles touched the nameplate at his breast. The sheriff placed the hat on Stiles' head. The boy tipped his head back to keep its rim out of his eyes. John nodded towards the mirror. "Take a look."
Stiles stood on tiptoe and examined his reflection. The uniform was a little big, but not unattractively so. He'd grow into those clothes someday soon. Sheriff Stilinski's heart hiccoughed at the full effect of Stiles in his old uniform. He smiled fondly at his son. "What do you think? It might not be the Dark Knight, but it's a genuine crime-fighting outfit."
"It's awesome! Thanks, Dad!" Stiles wrapped his arms around his father's waist. Sheriff Stilinski looked at the oversized hat balanced on his son's wild mop of dark hair, and the love in his heart flared and swelled, growing until it erupted into a paralyzing sense of foreboding he couldn't shake. Stiles would be walking the dark streets, while he was stuck at work. He may have been dressed like a man, but he was only a boy yet. Small, innocent, and vulnerable. A child playing dress-up in the old clothes of a man who had seen blood and horror.
Sheriff Stilinski put his hands on Stiles' shoulders and crouched down so they were at eye level. Stiles was fidgeting with the heavy gun belt slipping down his narrow hips, trying to make it stay up. "I think I have a squirt gun I could..." he trailed off, looking full into his father's face. John's jaw was rigidly set, his mouth creased in frown lines, his pale eyes serious and urgent. He pressed the tips of his fingers into Stiles' skin. "I need you to listen to me, okay Stiles? This is important. Are you listening?" The boy nodded. "Yeah."
"Under no circumstances are you to wander off alone tonight. You and your friends stay together as a group. No one goes off on their own, for any reason, do you understand?" Stiles nodded again. "I realize Halloween involves talking to strangers, but be smart. Don't give out any personal information, and don't leave with anyone, no matter what they say to you or promise. Watch out for cars. Stay in well-lit areas. If something happens, get to a phone and call me. You'll need to take care of the others. Keep them safe. I'm counting on you to take care of everyone, okay?"
"Okay." Stiles stood up straighter. He felt the weight of his father's badge on his chest. He felt it giving him strength and purpose. Policemen protected and guarded people. They were brave. Tonight he would play Guardian. Tonight he would be brave.
"Good boy." Sheriff Stilinski checked his watch. If he didn't leave now, he would be late for his shift. He rose from the floor, but Stiles grabbed his hand. "Dad?"
"Yes, Stiles?"
"I'm glad you forgot my Batman costume."
Sheriff Stilinski squeezed Stiles' hand and then released it. "Be careful out there tonight."
John hated working Halloween night.