The Halloween Story.
A Mission: Impossible fiction.
He lived in Los Angeles California and loved it. It was October 31st and warm enough to leave his balcony doors open. A comfortable breeze blew in, rustling the Halloween decorations but not interrupting the jazzy but slightly eerie music coming from his high fidelity stereo.
Every year Jim Phelps held a Halloween Party in his lush high-rise apartment. Invited were both friends and workmates. His friends did not really know what he did for a living, something to do with the government was all they knew, and the people Jim worked with did not know where Phelps had met his friends, those he usually socialized with outside of work. Neither group asked uncomfortable questions, possibly feeling they should not, and Phelps was thankful.
So far, fifteen minutes before midnight, all was well.
He watched as Barney Collier served a cute redhead, Carla Stone, from a cauldron of red bumbling brew, which was actually warm rum. The young woman had come in with Rollin, giddy and obviously a would-be starlet of some kind. Phelps did not think she was his type and it grew obvious the longer they stayed. The girl wandered off to talk to a man and woman closer to her own age and Rollin, always a performer, was engaging a small crowd with some magic tricks.
Willy, lighter on his feet than one might think, was dancing with a couple of fetching young women, possibly the daughters of Alex Curron, a friend from Jim's sports club.
Phelps visually search for the female member of their IMF team and was not surprised to see her backed into a corner of the room, a glass of white wine in her hand, talking with a group of men, some unmarried and others not, who were more than intrigued by the sophisticated blond beauty. Jim thought of rescuing her but then got a better idea. He decided to use his own form of distraction. "Attention!" he called, lifting his hands. "We're getting close to midnight and that means … it is story time."
There was a gentle applause.
"A ghost story, Jim?" A jolly man called from near his terrace's glass door.
"Yes, but instead of me telling a tale of fright this year - how about one of you?" He looked at Cinnamon, "Maybe a female perspective?"
She briefly made eye contact with him and nodded, both her approval and thanks. "I have one." She said, extricating herself from the men's ineffectual clutches. She handed her drink to one of them and pushed forward.
Rollin lifted his head, hearing and seeing what was happening, and smiled his apology. "Excuse me, I want to hear this." He said to his disappointed audience. Like others, he sat on the long sofa in the middle of the room as the partygoers gathered around. He saw Carla move off onto the balcony with the couple she had been speaking with. He was glad she found someone who could withstand her constant yammering. He would not have invited her to the party but her mother was a friend of his landlady's and he did it as a favor.
Cinnamon was escorted by Phelps and stood near the fireplace, taking center stage.
Some people at the party wore costumes, Rollin himself came in with a cape, but Cinnamon wore a simple but attractive green gown, which matched her beautiful eyes. Rollin watched her hesitate as the story began, making eye contact with him, almost as if she was remembering something and asking approval. Curious, he mimed his consent.
"This is about a young woman. We will call her Cynthia. She came to New York as a fledgling model and, for a time, lived in an old apartment in a dilapidated building, which she shared with another girl a little older than myself. I mean herself."
Cinnamon smiled gently at the murmur of snickers from her audience.
She was still taking college courses while modeling to pay for her schooling. Both Cinnamon and her roommate, Patricia Crandall, were on a very tight budget. Cinnamon took the bus or subway everywhere to get to her assignments and classes. Often, while modeling, she reported into a photography studio on Forty Third Street – and sometimes it was very late by the time she finished a shoot.
One night, after a long session where she wore little more than a black leotard and held a can of baked beans, Cinnamon was excused. Before she parted, the laconic photographer – Rudy - bluntly told her very few of the photos taken in the three-hour shoot were usable. She should not expect to receive a large commission from this shoot. Still, whatever came in bought groceries. Cinnamon noticed very little money, other than rent, appearing from Patricia's position as a background dancer in a nearby nightclub.
It was dark in the building by the time Cinnamon removed her makeup and changed into a blouse and skirt. Rudy had packed up his gear and probably thought she had already left. Cinnamon, purse strap over a shoulder, walked into the dimly lit hall and was suddenly startled still by the screech of something on the tiled floor.
"Is someone there?" she called. There was no answer so the young model continued down the hall until she once again heard the noise, followed by an odd slurping sound.
Nervous, Cinnamon rounded a corner and immediate felt relieved. It was the janitor, his back to her, mopping the hall floor.
"Oh, that is so unfair!" a nervous woman in her late thirties cried. She sat to Rollin's right and chuckled along with everyone else, "I thought you were going to have your young model attacked by some kind of a swamp creature."
Cinnamon's tone was light. "No, not quite."
"Please continue." Willy urged, his two companions by his side, as enraptured as the others.
Again, Cinnamon glanced at Rollin who, once again, nodded.
Phelps saw the motion and it occurred to him Rollin must already know the story.
"Are you going home now, Miss?" The janitor turned and looked at her. He was a smiling but somewhat grizzled old man. "It's nice night for a walk home."
"Yes," she said, a hand on the staircase rail, pausing on the top step. Cinnamon smiled sweetly at the janitor. Strange that she had never seen him before. "You have a good night …"
"Alfred. My friends call me Al."
"Alright, Al … I'll be back on Thursday."
"Oh Miss," He approached her, "There is an old fashion bar – a tavern really – right across the street from this building. You should try it out some night after you're done. It's a nice little place … and relaxing. A lot of fun people are inside. I go there myself occasionally."
Cinnamon looked at him oddly for a moment. It seemed an innocent enough suggestion but Cinnamon could not help feeling slightly unnerved by Alfred and his peculiar gap-toothed grin. "Well, thank you. I might do that some night."
"Why not tonight?" he asked.
"I am afraid I need to get home. I have class early tomorrow morning and I still have homework to do."
"A student, eh? What are you studying?"
Cinnamon felt a little more relaxed and lifted the book in her hand. She had hoped to crack it open between film loadings but never really got a chance to turn a page, "Tonight it's economics." She said.
"I was always fond of anatomy and biology when I was a youngster. Well, there is always tomorrow." He said with a wink and turned back to his mop and bucket.
Cinnamon nodded, wondering if his comment was innuendo, and continued her walk down the stairs. When she got outside she looked to where the tavern was located and frowned ever so slightly. In the light of the street lamp she saw it was a shorter brick building between two larger sky scrapers. It looked dark, the windows painted over and she heard nothing, no music or conversation, coming from inside. It seemed abandoned. Surely, Al was mistaken.
Suddenly, Cinnamon felt an unnatural rush of air to the back of her neck. A coldness and sense of dread overcame her. Frightened, she nearly ran to the bus stop. She was lucky enough to catch the bus just before it left. With a deep exhale, Cinnamon clutched her book and purse. She was grateful to be in a vehicle with other people. There weren't many; an older lady with a straw hat, a man looking out of his window, puffing on a pipe, and there was another gentleman behind her. She saw him briefly, dressed in black, but he really had no discernible features. Still, she was with a group and her mother would be happy about that. She had always told young Cinnamon to never go anywhere in the big city without friends and acquaintances around.
"You never know what fiend is out there." Cinnamon murmured quietly to herself.
Once back in her apartment, Cinnamon was pleased to see long limbed Patricia, pajamaed and eating a bowl of ice cream, watching television.
"Hey roomie, how'd the shoot go?"
The apartment was small. There was a tiny living room and kitchen connected together, with their two bedroom doors in close proximity to their fine common area.
"Good." Cinnamon placed her book on the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator door to get a glass of milk. She felt a little foolish now, allowing her imagination to get the better of her. "My check will be ready by tomorrow but I'll pick it up on Thursday." Despondent, Cinnamon looked at the milk bottle. If she hoped to have a bowl of cereal tomorrow morning she better not drink any milk tonight. She closed the door.
"Uhm …" Patricia turned from her position of the ratty sofa and held the bowl tautly between her hands. "Do you think you could pick it up after class tomorrow?"
"Why?"
"I came up a little short on rent last month and Mrs. Proctor, kind soul that she is, gave me a couple of weeks to make it good … but I owed someone some cash and he sort of insisted I give it to him right away."
"Pat …" Cinnamon rolled her eyes, "You did not gamble your part of the rent money away, did you?"
"It was a sure thing."
"Obviously it was not."
"He took advantage of me."
"A card shark?"
"No. Dice up against a wall."
"What?!"
"He was charming and sweet and he made me want to join in. Before I knew it all my money was gone."
Frustrated, Cinnamon bit the inside of her lip and calmed herself. There was no point in getting upset. It would serve no purpose. Patricia was not usually so delinquent but she did have eyes for handsome men and they, in the process, usually walked all over her. Besides, if it wasn't for Pat's kind heart Cinnamon might not have a place to live. She practically picked her up off of a bus bench when Cinnamon could find an apartment, within her budget, to live. And, over the last three months, Pat usually kept their fridge well stocked with nutritious food – although lately Cinnamon noticed a sorry lack of fruits and vegetables.
"Okay, I'll get it tomorrow. But afterwards I'm going to your club and meet this rogue who robbed you of your hard-earned cash."
"Oh good, we can go home together!" Patricia piped, seeming unaware of her friend's ire.
"Who is he? A waiter?"
Pat nearly laughed. Sometimes Cinnamon, although younger, reminded her of Mother. "Yes and you'd like him!" She watched as Cinnamon turned and placed her hand on the knob to her bedroom door, "He also MC's a lot of the on stage talent. He's going to be famous himself one day. His name is Rollin Hand!"
"What was that name?" Barney asked, lighting a cigarette as he listened in near the beverage cart.
"Robert Clark." Cinnamon repeated.
"Is he the ghoul that's going to attack her?" an excitable girl to Willy's left asked.
"Patience." Rollin said, calmly. He said nothing else but eyed their story-teller with a knowing gaze. To anyone else he simply looked like a man who wanted her story to continue without interruption. However, both Cinnamon and Phelps watched him curiously, one with a mild smile and the other somewhat suspiciously.
"Go on, Cinnamon." Barney urged.
It was a Tuesday evening and Cinnamon was pleased because the vendor on the corner of their street always sold cheap but fragrant loafs of Italian bread in the mornings on Wednesdays. She would go down first thing tomorrow and bring a crusty loaf up for she and Pat's supper that evening. If nothing else, they had bread, butter and coffee. Pat might also bring home a leftover cake or pie from the club if they were lucky. Usually, when one or the other received a check or cash, they would celebrate with a big-time meal but, seeing as how this check was going to rent, they would not be as blessed this month.
Cinnamon tried to study in her room but was having a hard time concentrating. She needed to ace this next quiz because she had done so poorly on the one this morning. Cinnamon never really studied for her Economics course the evening before. She was tired and irritated at Pat - and also a little frightened.
Just after she changed into a nightgown, prepared to open her book, Cinnamon looked down into the street outside her apartment window. She and Patricia were on the fourth floor, always an arduous walk up with heavy books, but it gave Cinnamon a clear look out onto the sidewalk.
There she saw a man. He was dressed in black with a dark hat and gloves. It was a warm October night but he seemed comfortable as he hovered outside, pacing back and forth. At first Cinnamon did not think too much about it. Although their street was usually quiet she was still in the middle of the city and people wandering about at all hours was not truly unusual. But, as she started to read her book, pacing much like the man outside beside her bed, Cinnamon recalled the dark man who sat behind her on the bus. No, that could not be him, could it? She never recalled him getting off the bus with her.
Cinnamon stopped her movement and looked up from her book, struck by the thought. Again she looked out of the window.
No one was there.
Relieved but also a little puzzled, Cinnamon slept fitfully that night.
Continue ... (soon).