November 28

Mrs Wallace never arrives to take Lindsey home. I get out the sleeping bags and junk for the night. By the next morning, Lindsey returns to her gloomy state.

Ben calls. We have this stilted conversation.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"So how was your Thanksgiving?"

"Good. Everything was last minute but it was fun. How about yours?"

"Good. Not last minute, but fun."

"Good."

There is a pause.

Then Ben asks, "I was wondering if I could - if you wanted to go to a movie or something today."

I nearly leap out with a loud "yes." My hostess duties intervene. Would it be terribly rude of me to waltz off to the movies while Lindsey is in such a funk?

I glance over at Lindsey. Only she is no longer in a funk. "Say yes," she coaches.

I give her a doubtful look. "You don't mind?"

"Stella, don't you dare squander this," she intones fiercely.

I uncup the receiver.

"Yes." When I consulted with Lindsey, I had time to decompress, so I don't sound as psycho as I would have.

"So you would?"

"Yes, a movie sounds great."

"So, it's a date."

Holy shit, a date.

"Yeah."

II

Lindsey oversees everything when I get ready for my date, when I select my outfit and put on my make-up. She never runs out of suggestions.

It's weirdly similar to when Adele and I would discuss clothing and beauty tips at length. It's closer than I've ever come to this in this life: Joanne and Chelsea are never that interested in their appearances and Alice's tips always seem too extreme. Alice can pull them off okay, but if I copy her I end up looking grotesque.

Anyway, the collaborative efforts produce something very pleasing: somewhat sultry but not too overwhelming.

Lindsey and my parents (naturally) accompany me to the door when Ben arrives. If he's flustered at facing such a large audience, he hides it well.

"This is my mom, dad, and Lindsey," I introduce quickly. I suspect he already knows about Lindsey's role in the murders on Halloween, and I do my best to downplay it. Also because Lindsey still feels embarrassed about her mother foisting her upon us for Thanksgiving.

"Nice to meet you." Ben holds out his hand to Dad and then to Mom. They both return his handshake.

"So you're going to a movie?" Mom asks, even though I've already told her our plans.

"Yeah," Ben answers. "We'll come right back after." Hearing him promise that is a relief to all of us, with Alice's disappearance still fresh in our minds.

When we can finally separate from my folks, we slip into the car. Talk comes more easily once we get on the way. Ben tells me about his day with his parents and his brother and how they stop by his aunt's house as they do every year. I tell him about Dad taking Lindsey to his shop and our quickly assembled meal.

We buy tickets to Powder, a movie that just opened. I have no idea what it's about, except that some guy gets struck by lightning (according to the poster in the lobby.) It turns out the main character, Powder, has a weird condition in that his body is extremely conductive to electricity. Powder is somewhat of an outcast: besides his appearance (pale and bald) he has grown up secluded from ordinary society until Jeff Goldblum discovers him. The movie is pretty sad.

There's one scene when after Powder enrolls in a prep school, some guys are bullying him in the cafeteria, so Powder does this Uri Gellar stunt in which all the silverware crashes together in a tangled sculpture formation - except Powder's. While everyone else in the cafeteria gapes in silence, Powder smirks and continues eating his lunch.

I think that must be how Michael felt when he beat to death that stupid kid who kept harassing him, when he tied up Ronnie and slit his throat, when he shoved that knife into my, er, Judith's stomach. Michael did not have superpowers like Powder. He had no recourse to stop everyone from bullying him, or so he thought. But was he really that helpless about this situation? Like the Macbeth question, did he really have no choice?

This dilemma makes me lose focus of the movie.

III

Afterwards, Ben asks, "Did you like the movie?"

"Yeah."

Before I can shut my mind, I ask, "It sounds like something from Ripley's Believe It Or Not." I've got to fix this problem of my not being able to separate fiction and reality.

"Yeah," Ben drawls. "They've got some cool stuff."

He walks me to the door. I watch him ruffle his har and lick his lips. Time slows. I can guess what will happen next and all my thoughts rush out of my ears.

Just as he closes in for a kiss, Mom yanks open the door.

Mom stumbles back. She just realizes that she interrupted a vital moment. "Sorry," she mouths, then says aloud, "I'm going to the drugstore. Dad's at the shop. If you want, there's some leftover food in the fridge."

She adds, unable to resist, "Lindsey agreed to chaperone."

I make a visual production of rolling my eyes. "Thanks, Mom."

She brushes my shoulder. "Be good."

She steps around us and jogs to the car.

"Your parents are nice," Ben says neutrally.

I press my lips into a smile.

We get inside, and Lindsey immediately waylays us.

"How'd it go?" she asks, purposely vague.

"Good," I echo. Turning to Ben, I ask, "Do you want to grab something to eat?"

"Sure."

I extract the blueberry pie from the overstuffed fridge. "It's nothing gourmet, but . . ."

"Blueberry pie's good."

I scoop out three slices. This way Lindsey has something to occupy herself with, until she can question me freely about the date.

Lindsey slyly drops out of the conversation. Hoping maybe that we would forget she was there and something would happen. She finishes her pie first and then absents herself so subtlely that we barely notice.

"Good pie," Ben says after he swallows the last of the crust. "I like blueberry. My father's a dentist, though, and he thinks blueberry pie is evil. It stains the teeth. The real damage isn't any more than a lot of other things people eat, but he finds it annoying"

He grins sheepishly. I glimpse his teeth; they're not terribly purple.

"Weird, huh?" Ben says.

"Weird." I smile keeping my lips closed.

His hand lands over mine.

"Open your mouth," he asks, a mix of a command and a plea.

I bear a grin. I'm sure it looks stiff; I'm a little more self conscious about my teeth than he is. He slides his chair closer and our lips join.

There is a lot more zing this time. Electricity seems to shoot through us like we're both colossal Powders.

When it ends, I smile again. This time my mouth parts open a little.

I move to the sink to wash the plates. Ben gets up to browse the short built-in bookshelf overlooking the kitchen table.

I rinse the plates. I hear a weird shriek as I wrench the water on full blast.

Then I remember something.

I abandon the sink and walk out the back door.

IIII

This isn't exactly a trance. I remember everything that happened. And I haven't exactly lost control of my body. I could have stopped it if I wanted to, but I didn't want to stop.

Ben sees me exit and calls to Lindsey. They both call my name but I ignore them. They see me roam down the driveway and turn towards the Myers' house.

After they correctly guess my destination, Ben volunteers to go after me himself, but Lindsey doesn't want to be left alone. By the time they figure out their strategy and catch up to me, I am already in the Myers' yard.

I am kneeling on the ground in the backyard. The ground is mottled with dozens of flat stones - gravestones for Michael's pets. Most of them are for Michael's pets.

"He killed Whiskers," I inform Ben and Lindsey when they find me.

They are still breathing heavily from their three block dash.

"Who? Michael?" Ben asks, once he finds his voice.

"No." I look at them. Lindsey tells me later that that look has creeped her out. My eyes are fuzzy, and they are filled with sadness. Lindsey also tells me I appeared to grow backwards - that I become childlike.

I don't elaborate on my cryptic message. Instead, I climb to my feet and head inside the house.

The Myers house is fairly dangerous even without Michael roaming around the town. It is crumbling apart. Michael and Laurie and Dr. Loomis had done a number to the rotted walls and floors on Halloween. Air whistles through the gigantic gaps in the walls. I sidestep the potholes (at one point I have to leap over several broken planks up the stairs) and up to the one of the rooms.

My room.

I pause in silence. The room is very different from how I remember it from my dreams.

Ben and Lindsey follow. Ben cautions Lindsey to step only where he steps, but otherwise no words pass between them. They finally reach the room.

I tiptoe to the closet. I crouch down to the floor and tear open a floorboard that must have gotten warped over the years. The board used to slide away very easily. Then I lift out a pink shoebox full of treasures.

"Stella."

I look at them, responding to my current name for the first time.

"We should go," Ben says. "Your mom'll be home soon."

"Okay," I reply complacently. I pat the lid of my treasure box reassuringly. "I got what I came for."

IIIII

"Maybe we should hold off on this," Ben finally says. He has not spoken to me since we left the Myers' place. We wait in silence until Mom comes home.

I reluctantly part with the treasure box, mostly because I don't want Mom to see it. Ben surely has noticed my unusual attachment to the box.

He's freaked. Lindsey's freaked. I'm not freaked. I don't mind that Judith's possession has interrupted the date. To be fair, it was near the end of the date: technically not an interruption.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, half meaning it. "It was important."

Ben only looks at me sorrowfully.

"This can't be a good idea," he is saying gently. "Maybe we should hold off on this."

"Okay," I agree. I pretend I am being responsible in holding off a relationship for now. I pretend I'm not so angry that I want to shake him until he understands how important this is.

Ben is right, on a logical level. I should not be considering a full fledged relationship until I sort all of this out. But I am so tired of waiting. How long should I have to wait until I can pick up my life again? Until I am no longer in the shadow of Michael's crimes?

I swallow my anger. My impatience is not Ben's problem, I remind myself. And he has been more than generous with my crazy theories - driving with us to Berryville and all.

"Look," Ben says, still trying to be nice. "Everything's crazy now. With your friends going missing and the deaths on Halloween. Maybe when things settle down . . ."

He trails off.

"I guess you're right," I say. The blood in my face steams. He is right, but I don't like it.

"Take care," he says. He pecks my brow then returns to his car.

IIIIII

I go back inside to more bad news. Parker has left a message on the answering machine. Chelsea's car has been found at the train station - the same place where they found Hawk's car.

The call confirms my worst fears. If Chelsea had left on her own, without telling anyone, that would be the last place she would stash her car. Even if she were taking the train, she would have parked by the shoe store or somewhere.

"How was your date?" Mom asks.

"Good." Which it was, until the end. Mom believes me. She puts my low mood down to the news about Chelsea.

"Chelsea will be okay," Mom consoles me. I nod, but avoid correcting her overly optimistic view. I would love to believe that Chelsea is okay like Mom does.

Lindsey waits in my room. Undoubtedly she has heard about Chelsea's car, but she does not side with Mom's optimistic view or my bleak one. Instead she pushes Judith's treasure box forward.

"Let's see what's in it." She sounds overcome with impatience.

Glad that she isn't prying into Ben's leaving, I spread out a towel to catch all the dust and then sit on the floor next to Lindsay. The box makes a puckering noise as I detach the lid. The contents inside, however, are in fairly good shape.

I unroll the cloth that covers all the items. (Another thin layer of dust thwarted.) Then I slowly sort through the treasures.

I first reach for a card tucked in the side of the box. It's Wendell Myers' truck license. Judith had squirreled it away because she thought either Mom or Tony would throw it away. Lindsey lifts out the bigger items: a plastic doll, a small rubber ball, a gangly stuffed duck, and other toys that Judith had wanted to keep away from her family. Then a pumice stone, a dolphin shaped pendant, and a braided bracelet similar to the ones Lindsey made, with yellow and purple threads.

"Weird," Lindsey comments.

At the bottom of the box, folded in a notecard, is a Polaroid of a black and white tuxedo cat.

"Whiskers," I identify. I take out the photograph. It is important for me to keep this picture. I don't want my only memory of Whiskers to be of finding him eviscerated from a lawnmower run-in.

A scrap of paper latches on to the photo as I take it out and floats onto the bed spread.

The paper did not come to memory as easily as the other treasures. I glance at the large wobbly handwriting:

Dear Palice. If you find this Tony Hammond kild me. He kild Whiskers. Don't let him kill Mom and Michael. Judith Myers.

"Should we show this to the police?"

I take time to decide. "I guess so. It is evidence." Of what, though? All of this happened before Michael was even a year old. This note would not answer anything, except maybe why Michael became homicidal.

"Maybe the cops can find Tony Hammond," Lindsey suggests.

"Maybe," I say. "But they can't charge him for anything Michael did."

"But if Judith thought he was going to kill her, he must have done something."

"It depends on whether anyone can prove it," I mutter. That helpless feeling rears up, that one that occurs whenever Tony's name comes up. I never had any proof of his wrongdoings. And now I don't even have proper witness testimony.

The note counts for something, I convince myself. Sheriff Brackett, at least, would take an interest in it, if for no other reason than it would provide insight to Michael Myers' mind.

"I guess we should get going now." I stretch out my legs and stand up. "Before it gets dark."

IIIIIII

Lindsey detours to the bathroom before we leave, while I search for Mom. I don't find her in the house, so I stop to write a quick note for her.

I pick up the pen, dangling from the magnetized notepad on the fridge door, and set the point on the paper.

A black shape moves in the corner of my eye. Its reflection catches on the chrome border of the refrigerator handle. I am about to turn for a better look when I fall forward, my head bashing into the fridge door.