Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the songs "Vagabondage," "Spark," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).
CHAPTER 26
GHOST OF MIRACH
October 31, 1994
Redwood City, California
Jackie's Miata
...
Jackie sang along with Ro Skirving, full of fervor. She was driving her Miata on the Bayshore Freeway, three hours from sunset and toward a compulsory social event, and Degenerate Matter pounded through the stereo. Her time with Steven in Oshkosh had made her feel comfortable listening to the band again. The music kept her from turning the car around, but she would've preferred holing up in her house. That was what she did most Halloweens, ever since she'd starred in Dale Fischer's horror movie.
"I'm a planet," she scream-sang and took the El Camino Real exit, "a wandering star. Changing orbits when I feel like it." The song was "Vagabondage," and she felt like a fraud singing it, but the lyrics described who she aspired to be. "I may be roving, but I'm not aimless. Can't be what you want me to be. I'm what I need to be, what I need to be … and that's free."
Eleven years ago, Dale had invited her to a house in Oceanside, a house she never should've gone to. And she'd never been to the house she was driving to now in Redwood. She asked Deborah for directions last week, to check out the place before the party. But Deborah said, "It's only fifteen minutes from where you live. Don't be such a mental defective," and gave the directions only last night.
Jackie turned her car onto Sabrina Court. The house was the first one on the right, a Spanish-style home that was all white stucco and curves. A wrought-iron fence surrounded the property, with fake severed heads impaled on many of its posts. The choice seemed bizarre for a kids' Halloween party, but it was being thrown by one of Deborah's high-society friends. Someone who probably had no idea what five- and six-year-olds would like.
A few cars were parked on the street. They had to belong to fellow volunteers like Jackie, who'd arrived early to help out. She swallowed a Valium, praying it would ease her anxiety. Two milligrams was all she could take, though. She had no one to drive her home.
With her Chanel, half-moon handbag clutched under her arm, she approached the house. Gravestones, bloody skeletons, and groaning zombies decorated the front lawn, and the door was no better. A wrought-iron contraption had been screwed onto the front, resembling dungeon bars warped by the fires of hell.
She glanced across the lawn to her car. Her instinct told her to run, but that would decrease her standing in the Blonde Brigade. She wasn't married or dating anyone. Her wealth had come from divorce, which garnered her only so many socialite points. Attending this party wasn't optional.
That didn't mean wouldn't keep herself safe, however. Inside her purse was a small can of pepper spray. She wrapped her fingers around it and rang the doorbell. She expected to hear a wolf howl or evil cackling. A normal bell sounded to her relief, but the door opened so fast she shrieked and whipped out her pepper spray.
Deborah's husband, Robert, stood before her with gory makeup on his face. His cheek was bloody, like a chunk had been bitten off, but Jackie had the presence of mind not to spray her can at him.
He put up his green-painted hands. "Nice to know my makeup's convincing. If this scares you, the kids'll go wild."
She dropped the pepper spray back into her purse. The rest of his skin was a nauseating green, like his hands, and rags hung off his body. "What kind of Halloween party is this?" she said.
"No hello?" He gestured to his face. "I don't expect a kiss with all this goop, but a hello would be nice."
"Sorry, sorry. Hello, Robert." She offered a polite smile but imagined punching him in the gut. Like Ann-Marie, he had the ability to make Jackie feel like a child. Maybe because he was almost old enough to be her father.
He stepped away from the door, allowing her to enter the foyer. Its lights were on but dimly, and beyond the foyer was a hallway with a wide staircase. People were hard at work there, draping fake cobwebs over the banisters.
"Could you imagine if I showed up to work dressed like this?" Robert said.
"They'd have to change CNN to ZNN," Jackie said. "The Zombie News Network."
He laughed. "That's a good one. Instead of analyzing stocks on my show, I'd tell people where they could find the best brains."
She matched his laughter, but hers was fake, and he clasped her shoulder. She flinched at the contact, fear billowing through her like smoke. If he'd caught her physical reaction, he might interrogate her about it, to absolve himself of any wrong-doing.
"We're so glad you could help us out," he said, hand still on her shoulder. Clearly, he hadn't noticed her startle response. "Deb's upstairs, waiting for you. Third—no, fourth room on the left."
"Thanks," she said and headed for the staircase.
Volunteers decorating the banisters were in various stages of makeup. Some had complete faces. Others had half a face done, but all their looks were horror-inspired. Again, Jackie said, "What kind of Halloween party is this?" but received only greetings from the volunteers.
On the second floor, special red bulbs lit the long hallway. Jackie counted doors as she walked, and a roaring dark shadow leapt at her. She staggered back, unable to breathe enough to scream.
Muffled laughter came out of the shadow. Jackie gripped her purse at her side as her heart jackhammered in her chest. Adrenaline had electrified her system, but the shadow was actually a man in a werewolf mask. He also wore a shredded T-shirt covered in fake blood, which made him hard to discern in the hallway's red lights.
"Asshole," she muttered, but the werewolf continued to laugh as he descended the stairs. She flipped him off behind his back. The party hadn't even started yet, and she already regretted coming.
At least the room behind the fourth door on the left had proper lighting. It appeared to be a guest room, with Halloween costumes blanketing the bed. A white woman she didn't recognize stood in front of another white woman she didn't recognize, who was seated in a chair. A square table was beside her, protected by a plastic cloth and covered in cosmetics.
"Jackie, you came!" Deborah said. She was makeup-free, standing by the bed in a simple top and jeans.
"You told me to be here, so I'm here."
"This is Katherine Sullivan." Deborah pointed at the woman in the chair. "She's the owner of this fine home and the braaaains behind this event."
Katherine waved as the other unknown woman glued a fake sore to Katherine's forehead.
"And this Brandi Whitford," Deborah said, "assistant makeup artist to Ve Neill, who won Oscars for both Beetlejuice and Mrs. Doubtfire. She's graciously lent her services to us."
Jackie dug her nails into her purse. Deborah's effusive flattery was as sickening as Katherine's makeup, but Deborah wasn't done. "Ladies," she said, "this is Jackie Burkhart-Corin, astrologer of the stars to the stars. She's done the charts for Lita Ford, C.C. Deville, and Vince Neil, among others."
Blood heated Jackie's face, and she swallowed a grunt. This was how the Blonde Brigade always introduced her, no matter how many times she'd asked not to be. She'd had her last name legally changed back to just Burkhart and stopped making astrological charts years ago—except for the ones her mother and Ann-Marie had forced on her at the Wintry Wonderland Fundraiser.
"Oh, wow, I'd love you to do my chart!" Brandi said. She had a green streak in her otherwise black hair, and her hands were stained all sorts of colors. "How much would it cost?"
Jackie's adrenaline had faded from the hallway scare, but her pulse beat quickly. A few months ago, she might've agreed to do Brandi's chart. It could've earned her more social cachet, but she said, "I can't. I'm—"
"She can't take your money because she wants it to go to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation," Deborah said.
In the chair, Katherine placed her zombified hand over her heart. "Thank you, Jackie. That means a lot to me. In fact, you volunteering to help means a lot." She looked at Deborah with tears in her eyes. "You have such wonderful friends."
Deborah grinned as if she'd just been crowned Miss California. "I do, don't I?"
"Hold on," Jackie said. "What exactly did I volunteer for? I thought I was going to bring out snacks for the kids and keep them from jumping on the furniture."
Katherine shook her head as if she were confused.
"Jackie's got a quirky sense of humor," Deborah said and grasped Jackie's arm tightly. "Come on, silly. Let's allow Brandi to finish Kate's makeup. I'll fill you in on your role outside."
She pulled Jackie into the hallway and shut the guest room door. Jackie freed her arm from Deborah's grip, but the urge to shove Deborah back tensed her muscles. "Words," Jackie said. "Use your words. I would've come out here with you."
"Kate's eldest daughter died of cystic fibrosis a few years ago," Deborah whispered. "This is a charity event to raise money for the CFF."
"A haunted house? You told me this was a child's party!"
"Semantics. Each room has a different Halloween theme. That room there," Deborah said and pointed to a door across the hallway, "will be almost pitch black. It's full of bowls of food that feel like eyeballs and viscera. Disgusting stuff."
Jackie eyed the staircase, planning her escape, but the staircase seemed to be moving farther and farther away. "I'll donate money to the cause, but I can't stay here."
"Robby and I will lead two groups of kids at a time through the rooms," Deborah went on, like Jackie hadn't spoken. "Ropes are being setup on the lawn for the lines. We're expecting a big turnout. Entry fee is a hundred per head, but that's not the real money-maker."
She waved toward the back of the hallway, perhaps at some unseen part of the house. "After the haunted tour, VIPs and their children will be led to the courtyard. We're having a fully catered bash out there. Tickets to that cost a thousand per head, and we've made thirty grand on those so far—"
A pair of witches ascended the staircase. Deborah disrupted her monologue to acknowledge them, and they entered the first door on the left.
"But whoever donates the largest amount to CFF," she continued, "gets a stock portfolio consultation with Rob. Do you know how many people would sell their first-born child to have such an opportunity? With Rob's advice, a person could make tens of millions of dollars in one phone call or e-mail."
Jackie cupped her forehead. She was dizzy, but that wouldn't stop her from leaving.
"Kate and Jerry's pool is gorgeous. Did you see it on your drive over here?"
"No," Jackie said, "and I won't."
"Of course you will. I'll bring you back there during a break."
"No, I mean, I have to go."
Deborah stepped between her and the staircase. "That would be a mistake. I'm sorry if this isn't 'your scene,' but suck it up. Brandi's going to make you up as demonic pixie. She's got body paint that glows under UV lighting, and..."
Deborah's voice faded as Pam Macy's headshot flashed in Jackie's mind. Following it was Jimmy Headgear's HBO comedy special and Donna's Cosette photo shoot. So many people from high school had become successful and famous. Jackie was supposed to be one of them, but she'd married herself back into high society—and now she was divorced. If she became a pariah to the Blonde Brigade, she'd truly be no one and nothing in this world.
"All right, all right," she said. "I'll stay, but I won't take part in the haunted house. Give me something else."
"You are so difficult!" Deborah threw up her hands and groaned. "Fine, you can collect money and checks outside. 'Shelle already volunteered for that position, considering she's a hefty gal. All she'd have to do is sit … but I'm sure Brandi can transform her into a fat vampire."
She strode toward the staircase, obviously annoyed, but she wasn't the only one. "You should have told me what this party was about from the start," Jackie said, close behind her.
"Then you wouldn't have come."
"That's my choice to make. By keeping information from me, you took that choice away."
At the top of the stairs, Deborah glared at Jackie, and the hallway's red light reflected in Deborah's eyes. "Friends sometimes have to do that for each other's own good, dah-ling. Especially when someone doesn't know what's best for her."
Deborah descended the staircase, and Jackie grabbed the banister hard. Kicking Deborah in the back and watching her tumble, stair-after-stair, would've been satisfying. Even without monstrous makeup, she was a horror. But Jackie let her reach the first floor unharmed, a luxury Deborah hadn't given her.
Hyde saw only darkness. A blindfold covered his eyes, and Ro was driving him in her '92 Eagle Talon to an undisclosed location. Each Halloween, they switched off surprising each other. This was her year. They happened to be in their hometown of Minneapolis for it, not on tour, and she'd asked him for a big show of trust.
He scratched his fingers through his short beard. Weeks ago, she'd told him to grow it for this jaunt. A bowler cap hid his hair, and he was wearing his denim jacket. He had to keep his identity hidden, but going incognito on Halloween was easy.
Weeks ago, he'd also told her Jackie figured out he was O. MacNeil. "She's a clever one, huh?" Ro had said then. "What does she think about it? About you now?"
"She's processin' the whole thing, but we don't have that barrier between us anymore."
"So what she told O. in that letter she's told you."
"Nope. But now she's got that choice."
Ro understood his meaning, that he wasn't cutting himself out of Jackie's life or vice versa. If she was unhappy about it, she didn't let on. She simply patted his cheek twice and said, "Do what you've got to do."
Now, Heart's Dreamboat Annie blasted through Ro's car stereo, and the Eagle Talon's windows were closed. That made gathering clues about their Halloween destination impossible. His other senses were useless. If they'd gone over the Mississippi River to St. Paul, he couldn't hear it, smell it, or feel it.
Didn't matter. Ro parked the car after less than fifteen minutes. His instructions were not to take off the blindfold. She'd do that for him when the time was right, but she led him out of the car, holding his hand.
"Stick close to me," she said.
Cold air saturated his lungs as she led him forward. The scent of soot, garbage, and asphalt entered his nose, but faint music drifted to his ears once she stopped him.
"We here?" he said.
"Not quite," she said, and a door creaked open. The smells of the city disappeared, and the music grew louder. She'd brought him inside somewhere. "Stairs."
His reflex was to rip off the blindfold. Being out of control like this always set him on edge, but he climbed the narrow, uneven staircase. The banister wobbled a bit in his grip, but he soon came to a landing. Another door squeaked open, releasing the stuttering bassline of industrial music. A distinct buzzing was layered over it, and the odor of disinfectant stung his nostrils.
"You brought me to a tattoo shop?"
"I brought you to my shop," Ro said and pulled him closer to the buzzing. "This place helped me stay alive, in the present. Each musical note inked on my skin represents a moment I made that choice, to keep fighting for the life I want." She guided him to sit on a bench. "It's your turn."
He blinked beneath the blindfold, his lashes scraping against the fabric. Several of his ma's boyfriends had been tatted up, but one tattoo in particular smashed through his memory: LOVE HATE. It had been inked onto beefy fingers and pounded bruises onto Hyde's body. The bastard was sneaky. All his punches had been below the neck, but once Edna discovered Hyde's purpled back, "Uncle" Russ was out.
His ma hadn't apologized, though. Or acknowledged the three months of beatings. By then, not discussing what happened in their decrepit house had become the norm.
"This ain't me," he said now and went for the blindfold.
Ro blocked him from taking it off. "Some self-reflection is needed, love. We've both got scars, but life's a waste if all you do is trace your fingers over them. Write a better story on your skin."
A man's yelp broke through the loud industrial music. A curse followed. Hyde went for the blindfold again, and Ro grasped his wrist.
"The pain'll be worth it," she said.
"For who?" He snatched off the blindfold with his free hand, but his eyes shut at shop's bright lights. "You're the one who gets off on whatever pain I feel. Not me. What would you do if I had no more pain left to fuck out?"
The pressure on his right wrist increased. Ro was squeezing it. "I don't get off on your pain. I get off on your release of it." Her fingers sprang off him. "I want you to be free, love. You need sex to get rid of your pain. I don't understand why it works, but it does." She rolled up the sleeve of her jacket, revealing the black musical notes at her wrist. "Tell me you don't have a bad experience, or a dozen, with someone who had tattoos."
"Can't," he said, opening his eyes. They adjusted to the light, and he was relieved to have his vision back.
He and Ro were sitting on a bench in the reception area. The guy manning the counter had piercings through nose, his eyebrow, and every part of his ears. He was on the phone and flipping through an appointment book. He probably couldn't hear any of Hyde and Ro's conversation. Even without being distracted, his distance from the bench, the music blasting through the shop's speakers, and the noise of tattoo machines would make eavesdropping tough.
"That's why you should do this," Ro said. "Counter the bad with a good experience. I had a custom piece designed for you, but if you don't like it, pick something else." She gestured to the walls. Flash art hung beside larger full-color illustrations, likely drawn by the shop's tattoo artists. "Don't let your past dictate your present."
Hyde breathed deeply through his nose. The smell of disinfectant stung him again, but he held the breath for a count of seven before letting it go. It was a relaxation technique he'd learned from mandatory addiction counseling after his DUI arrest. It worked for him but only to a point.
"A lot of tats are badass," he said, "and I get why people dig 'em, why they work for you. But if one's stamped on me, it'll just be a reminder of—" His fingers knocked into the bowler hat on his head. He'd been going for his scalp. "Crap."
He readjusted the hat, but tonight was turning into a shitshow. He couldn't do what Ro wanted, not the way she wanted it, and numbness tingled in his skin and deeper.
"You spend half your time in bondage to your past," she said.
"Spent my whole life trying to avoid pain," he said. "Pushed it onto other people. Gonna end up pushing it onto you." His voice had little affect. He felt disconnected from the words, but what lay behind them was an electrified fence of emotion.
She stood from the bench. "Christ. Time to go."
She tried to pull him up, but he didn't move. "If marking up my body would balance everything out … if bashing my skull into a thousand fucking pieces would—"
"Steven, I need you to leave with me."
He finally stood, and she led him to the narrow staircase. He climbed down slowly, and she said, "If I'd known this place would yank you elsewhere, I never would've brought you here."
He turned around on an uneven step, using the wobbly banister to help him, and stared at her. "I don't get it, man. Why the hell did you fall in love with me?"
"Words won't do it justice. Keep moving."
"Shouldn't be a risk to be with me … but it is," he said and continued down the stairs.
Darkness met them outside. Streetlamps were few and far between, and he followed her around the corner to a small parking lot.
"I was trying to teach you about choices and pain," she said, "and I still plan on teaching that to you." They walked past cars that weren't theirs and reached her Eagle Talon. "You think being hurt will balance the scales? Then I'll hurt you, but you have all the power in this. One word from you, and it ends."
"Whatever you're going to do," he said when they were in her car, "one word from me, and it stops?"
"That shouldn't be a question, love."
She revved the Talon's engine and drove him into the unknown.
A folding table was set up on Katherine's lawn, flanked by illuminated skeletons. Lit decorations provided most of the light out here, except for the waning crescent moon. Not that Jackie needed to see much. Taking people's money or prepaid VIP tickets, putting them into a lockbox, and giving out wristbands was mindless work. But she'd rather do this job for a month than be trapped a minute in the alternative originally intended for her.
The haunted house had a big turnout, like Deborah claimed. The line of people waiting to enter was long, and the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation was sure to receive a huge donation from this event. That explained the security guard standing behind the table. He was here for the money's protection, not Jackie's.
She wished he were standing in front of her, though. No one was left in the admission line, but people in the haunted house line had cameras. They were snapping pictures of the gruesome lawn decorations. She hid her face behind her hair whenever she could, but her stomach clenched at every flash.
"Jackie?" The voice was Brie's, and Jackie brushed hair from her eyes. Brie was dressed in a black cotton lace dress, and pale makeup gave her the appearance of a corpse. Very Gothic. Her boyfriend, Antonio, stood to her right … and her friend Rod stood to her left. "I did not expect to see you out here," Brie said.
"Back at you," Jackie said before she could swallow it. Rod was the first man she'd allowed to touch her sexually in two years. She'd prayed she would never see him again.
"Aren't you supposed to be inside?" June said, wedging herself between Brie and Rod. Her long hair had been teased and moussed to resemble the Bride of Frankenstein's Monster, but her husband was visible behind her. "Deborah said she assigned you to scare-duty."
"Michelle wanted it more, so I switched places with her." The lie came easily, but no doubt June and Brie would ask Deborah for confirmation.
Brie smacked June's arm. "Don't give Jackie a hard time. She's here, and that's what matters.." She handed Jackie a pair of VIP tickets. June did the same for herself and Trevor, but Rod held onto his. "Cold feet" Brie said to him.
"Save me a place," he said.
"Ah." Brie winked at Jackie. Then she and June left with their men for the haunted house line.
Rod leaned his hands on the table. "It's really good to see you, Jackie."
"It's nice of you to contribute to the CFF," she said, looking past his shoulder.
"That's all I get?"
"What more do you want?" She was watching for cars, hoping more people would arrive, but the haunted house line was already packed. Brie and June had arrived after a five-minute lull, and Jackie expected another lull. Or for guests to stop coming altogether. She'd been out here three hours, and Deborah said ten o'clock was the cut-off point.
"Halloween has made you cranky," Rod said with a chuckle, and his good humor drew her gaze. He wasn't in costume but wearing a long-sleeved Alice In Chains shirt. His thick brown hair was shorter than she remembered, not quite reaching his shoulders. But his face still had that playful, youthful smile she couldn't help but like.
"It's not my holiday," she said.
"That's too bad. The way this place is decorated is right up my alley. Can't wait to see what's inside."
"Great. Give me your ticket.
Rod stood up straight and held out his VIP ticket. It was just close enough for her to grab it, but he snatched it away. "Or how about I wait here until you're free, and we go in together?"
"Hah. 'Trick or treat.' I know what you're doing, and it's really immature." She glanced back at the security guard, but his face was impassive. "You feel like I cock-teased you on our date a few months ago, and now you're—" She tucked her chin to her chest as a camera flash went off. "Damn it!"
"Don't like your picture taken?" he said.
"No."
"They only got your back."
She gripped her knees below the table. "I just want this night to be over. Please don't make it worse."
"Wasn't trying to, and I'm not here to mess with you. I had a cool time on our date—" He flicked his eyes away from her, as if rethinking his words. "Well, before the end. Wish you could've enjoyed it like I did. Wish you could enjoy tonight, too."
"Well, I can't. But don't let that ruin your night." She gestured for his ticket. "The line's moving up. You should join Brie."
"What's your favorite movie?"
She gritted her teeth. Some men didn't know how to take a hint. "The Princess Bride."
"Inconceivable!" he said, imitating Vizzini, lisp and all. "You got it on tape?"
"Of course."
"So how about you let me make tonight better for you? We go back to your place, pop in the movie. Have some wine. Laugh it up."
She dug her shoes into the grass. Her instinct was to reject him, to protect herself, but he'd respected her boundaries during their first date. He'd stopped when she told him to stop.
"Cosmos gives most to those who take risks," Steven sang in "Spark". Coming to this haunted house had shoved her into the past. If she didn't make a different choice when the opportunity presented itself, she never would.
"What about the haunted house?" she said.
"I'm here for you," he said, and she glared at him. "It's not a line. It's also not for revenge, if that's what you think. I'm not Inigo Montoya. Figured the haunted house would be my consolation prize if you said no, but Brie told me you were volunteering here tonight, and I—"
She tapped the lockbox. "Donated a thousand dollars to charity just to see me?"
"Guess I did," he said, grinning with a shrug. "Like you said on our first date, we're all a little nuts."
His embarrassment, his vulnerability, was more than endearing. It felt familiar and safe.
"Okay..." She checked her watch. "I've got twenty minutes left before I'm done. But, really—" heat radiated in her stomach—"a thousand dollars to see me?"
"Gorgeous and humble. Who wouldn't pay that kind of dough for a chance with you?"
Her legs squeezed together beneath the table as desire throbbed between them. Her body was aching to be touched by him again, and the sensation reassured her as much as it was jolting. Miraculously, this man bypassed her brokenness. Degenerate Matter's music, her developing friendship with Steven, the work she'd done in therapy the last three months—since her first date with Rod—all of it might let her function more normally with him.
"Tonight won't go the way our first date did," she said. "That's a promise and a warning."
"Noted and appreciated. Happy just to spend time with you."
He rested his hip against the table, and the warmth in her stomach spread throughout her body. Maybe he could be the spark that reignited her.