Part Two: Trick or Treat

At quarter after five, Stiles knocked on the McCalls' front door. Melissa McCall answered. She was dressed in jeans and a floral-print blouse, her dark curls hung loosely around her shoulders. Stiles was always a little surprised to see her dressed causally without her work scrubs. In his mind, she seemed to exist as an embodiment of her job, just like his father. "Nurse" wasn't her occupation any more than "sheriff" was John Stilinski's: it was simply who she was, an essential part of her heart and personality. She smiled warmly at the boy on her doorstep. "Hi, Stiles. Don't you look handsome?"

"Hey Mrs. McCall. Is Scott ready yet?"

Suddenly a tiny ball of fur and teeth leapt out from behind the woman, its massive claws raised above its head, poised to attack. "Raaaawwwwrrr!"

"Hey Scott."

"Aw, man." Scott removed his wolf mask and stared at Stiles glumly. He had been waiting for this moment all day – his big costume reveal, and his chance to scare his best friend. Stiles was always startling him or playing jokes on him, but he could never seem to get Stiles back. "Weren't you scared at all?"

"Why would I be scared of a dog?"

"I'm not a dog! I'm a werewolf! See? Grrrr!" Scott shook his furry mask in Stiles' face. Stiles didn't react; Scott stuck out his bottom lip dejectedly. His mother hid a chuckle behind her hand. Scott surveyed Stiles from head to toe, from sneaker to peaked hat. His eyes lingered on the shiny golden badge. "What happened to your Batman costume?"

"This is better." Scott had to agree. The outfit was a tad large on Stiles, but the thick cotton and real metal accessories far exceeded the usual thin fabric, cheap rubber, and dull plastic of mass-produced Halloween costumes.

"Before you go, let me take a picture," Melissa said. The two boys stood side-by-side, hips touching, arms thrown around each other's shoulders. They smiled their wide, toothy grins for the camera. Melissa snapped a couple photos, and then a couple more. Freezing in time this perfect moment of childhood happiness and friendship. Another image for the scrapbook she had already started and would add to over the years. Photos of Halloween costumes and lacrosse games, birthdays and Christmases, dances and school days, first cars and first loves, summer afternoons at the beach and sneaky candids of the ordinary moments that build a life of memories. Graduations, college dorms, weddings, a new generation of little McCalls and Stilinskis. Melissa stared at the tiny screen, at her two handsome boys, trying to imagine it all. She wished she could keep them this age forever.

"Uh, Mom, can we go now?" Scott asked. His mother's eyes were misty. She broke from her reverie and laughed. She handed Scott an empty pumpkin bucket. She kissed her son's cheek, before he pulled on his werewolf mask. His face was completely covered except for the two round holes for his eyes, the edges of his flesh just peeking out. The large mocha eyes were too thoughtful, too innocent, too friendly to belong to a were-canine.

"You boys be careful," she ordered, "and have fun!"

Scott and Stiles had arranged to meet their friends at the elementary school. Three of the four remaining members of their gang were already there. They were waiting at the swing-set. Allison Argent was pumping her legs, pushing the air as hard as she could, gaining altitude and then falling back in a rush of wind that thrilled her. Her chestnut hair was wild and tousled, tangling in the breeze as she swung back and forth. Her legs were clad in striped orange and black stockings, which matched her outfit: a raven colored dress accented in spider webs and pumpkins, a satiny red-orange fabric blended among the stark black polyester. On the ground beside her waited a short straw broomstick and a tall pointed hat.

She was laughing loudly. "Come on, Lyds!" she encouraged. "Swing with me!"

Lydia Martin was seated on the swing beside her. She sat primly with her hands folded in her lap. Her strawberry-blond hair was perfectly curled and pinned. A silver crown with plastic gems perched delicately on her head. She was adorned in an ankle-length lavender gown, which curved and fanned prettily around her. "I can't, Ally," she answered with a patience beyond her years. "If I do, my dress will ride up and wrinkle, and I'll mess up my hair."

"Oh, pooh!" Allison gripped the chains and leaned back, shaking her untidy mane and laughing.

"Some people have no regard for appearances," Jackson commented. He leaned sideways against one of the swingset's vertical beams. He was clothed in green fabric, with swatches of brown at his knees, elbows, and feet. A lighter beige material extended from his chest to his abdomen. A belt at his waist tied a plastic shell around his back. His face was bare, except for a red bandana around his eyes. He was twirling a plastic sai in his hand as he spoke. "I think you're quite right to want to look nice, Lydia. There's nothing wrong with being pretty."

Allison stuck her tongue out at him. As she rose into the air, she saw Scott and Stiles entering the schoolyard. "Hey guys! You're here!" She jumped from her swing, landing with both feet in the gravel. She raced over to greet them, her cheeks flushed.

"Hi, Allison," Scott said shyly.

Jackson and Lydia came over to them. Lydia handed her friend her hat and broom. She inspected Stiles and Scott with an appraising eye. The werewolf and the policeman. She thought Stiles was coming as Batman, but she liked this outfit much better. The blue really brought out his eyes, and she liked being able to see his face. She didn't understand boys' fascinations with wearing masks, especially if they had nice faces, like Stiles. "I like your costume, Stiles."

"Thanks, Lydia."

Jackson crossed his arms over his chest. "You're late," he grumbled. Lydia subtly elbowed him, and Allison rolled her eyes. Scott glanced around the playground and surrounding yard. They were one person short. They couldn't begin trick-or-treating until they were all together.

"Where's Isaac?" he asked.

"Late," Jackson complained. Weren't kids punctual anymore? Didn't they have common decency and manners? Did good breeding mean nothing? He harrumphed. "We should just go without him."

"No," Scott was adamant. "We're waiting for him."

Allison agreed. "I'm sure he'll be here soon." While they waited they figured out their game-plan. They wanted to hit as many houses as possible in the few hours they were given before curfew. Lydia thought they should stick to the surrounding neighborhood, working up one side of the street and then down the other, to increase efficiency and decrease walking and effort, especially since they needed to account for the additional weight of candy as their bags filled. Jackson wanted to walk a few blocks north to one of the richer neighborhoods. He was positive the payoff would be better. Allison wanted to hit the more populated areas, where they might see more of the kids from school. Scott preferred quieter neighborhoods, where he could focus on his friends.

Stiles was oddly quiet during this discussion. He was watching the sun slowly trek across the sky, watching as traffic thinned and the streets came alive with the sounds of chatter, doorbells, and laughter. He was alert to everything around them. He felt he was seeing with new eyes, noticing details he wouldn't have before: every shadow and looming figure, every car and house. He was beginning to wonder if Isaac would ever come, when he noticed a lanky form loping across the soccer field towards them.

The newcomer stopped beside Allison, and bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He was dressed in baggy black jeans, and a long black shirt, no different from what he would wear on a normal day. On his head he wore a hideous sack, and over the sack a bowler hat with bits of straw glued underneath. The yarn stitched mouth was crooked, appearing to smirk and grimace simultaneously. There were no openings in the sack, not even eye holes, so that not a single inch of the face was exposed.

"Isaac?" Allison asked cautiously.

"Sorry. I'm. Late." The boy beneath the sack panted, and the kids instantly relaxed as they recognized the voice of their friend.

"Didn't put much effort into your costume, did you?" Jackson sneered, earning him another elbow from Lydia. The skinny, faceless boy ignored this jab. Scott patted him on the back and told him he was just in time.

A policeman, a werewolf, a witch, a princess, a ninja turtle, and a scarecrow set out. Their significance lost as they were swallowed by a sea of shrieks and shouts, of pleases and thank-yous, of delights and disappointments, of ghouls and goblins and fantasy creatures. They stayed together as a group, feeling a heightened sense of independence as they passed little children, whose hands were clasped by harried parents or guardians who commanded them not to stray too far ahead.

Their treat bags filled with chocolates and candies, mini bags of chips and cans of soda, tins of mints and raisins, juices boxes and sugar packets, lollipops and gumdrops. After one house, Jackson pulled a toothbrush and mini tube of toothpaste out of his sack and curled up this nose. "What is this?" he demanded.

"A toothbrush, obviously," Lydia answered calmly.

"I know that. Where's the candy?"

She nodded back at the house. "Dr. Ryan lives there. He's a dentist."

They continued to collect treats, their bags growing heavy, until they practically had to drag themselves up the street. Stiles began to loosen up and enjoy himself, allowing his ultra vigilance to fade into the background. Even Isaac, who had been extraordinary quiet all evening, begun to make his presence known, laughing and joking, trading goodies with Allison and sneaking extra pieces into her tote. Yet he never removed his hood, even as dusk fell. Scott had rolled his mask up an hour ago, keeping it curled back on his head, and enjoying the cool October breeze on his face.

Jack o' Lanterns winked at them from porches and window sills. Ghosts shivered and swayed from tree branches. The yellow eyes of black cats followed them, as their footsteps pounded on the pavement. Over-ripe apples, too heavy for their twigs, littered lawns. The kids scooped these up and threw them at each other. A couple of smushed apples escalating into an all-out war. Lydia screamed and shielded herself, as fruits and dead leaves were hurled around her. Allison grinned wickedly, and with her expert aim hit her target every time. Jackson dodged and used his shell. Isaac mastered the element of surprise.

They were shooed from a yard by a middle-aged man with vampire fangs, and the game changed into tag, the kids whooping and yelling as they raced down the street. The sun was steadily descending over the horizon. The darkness casting its long fingers and extinguishing the light. Street lamps flickered on, casting pools of pale light. It wasn't until the children paused for breath, exhausted and thrilled and flushed with young blood, that Stiles realized where they were – or, rather, where they were not. He straightened and stiffened, inspecting the area. Night made familiar landscapes strange, and it took him a while to figure out where they were.

Fewer houses dotted this stretch of road, identical and indistinguishable in the darkness. Yards sloped and extended, bordered by tall dark trees. Their branches gnarled fingers stooped and looming over paved streets. In the dark, the green grass looked black, and the wind in the leaves was the whisper of spirits. Up ahead, the sidewalk disappeared, seamlessly merging into a back-road leading into the country. Rolling hills blended into a sea of sinister forest. Stiles searched for a street sign. The intersection read, "Pineview Crescent."

Stiles knew this street. If they continued down this road, up over the hill, they would reach the graveyard where his mother was buried. He had never been there after sunset, and he didn't think he wanted to be. There were fewer people out, fewer cars. Many of the houses had darkened windows. He could now distinguish For Sale signs staked in the yards. This neighborhood, he remembered, was under development. A decade ago, it hadn't existed at all, this area nothing more than countryside.

The air was still and silent, broken only by the joyful babble of his friends. Lydia noticed Stiles' sudden silence, the tension in his face. She touched his hand gently. "What is it, Stiles?"

When he looked at her, his eyes were stern and reserved, like those of a man. "We need to get out of here." Louder, he said, "Guys, we need to leave." The chatter stopped. Five sets of eyes looked at him questioningly, wondering at the authoritative tone in his voice. "We shouldn't be in this area." Poorly lit, poorly populated, poorly trafficked, situated at the edge of town. He should have paid more attention. He never should have let them come this way.

Stiles took Lydia's hand, and she began to follow him back the way they had come. Isaac, Allison, and Scott followed suit, convinced by the grown-up influence with which he led them. The common sense their parents had instilled in them slowly returning.

"Wait." Jackson stood rooted to the spot. He pointed across the street. A dirt walkway snaked from the sidewalk to an old house. It was weather-beaten, with a sagging front porch and peeling red shutters. Half-hidden by tall trees and overgrown bushes, it seemed to lean slightly to one side. Lights blazed in two of the downstairs rooms behind pink patterned curtains. Smoke curled from a little chimney. "We haven't been there yet."

"We have enough candy, Jackson," Stiles said. "Let's go." Jackson shook his head and bolted across the road. "Jackson." Stiles looked both ways for cars before stepping into the street. The entire gang trailed after the bullheaded Jackson. The kids stared up at the house. It was ancient, but they could see rose bushes, lovingly tended, and a garden of wild flowers. A faint whiff of cookies reached them.

"We haven't even done the best Halloween tradition of all!" Jackson told them.

"What tradition is that?" Scott asked.

"The Beldame tradition."

"Which is?"

"One of us has to knock on the door of an old crone."

"That's it?" Allison asked, placing her hands on her hips. She rolled her eyes. "We just knock on the door and then what?"

"You ask her for a treat." Jackson pointed at the house behind him. "It's a dare only the bravest kids do. You can't pick just any old lady. You have to pick an ugly one. A weird old hag who lives all alone. I've been in this neighborhood before. My father helped acquire the land for the development company. He told me this woman's been living in this house for at least fifty years. She hardly ever leaves. She's really strange. She talks to herself and there are spider webs all over her house. I think one of us should pay her a visit."

"This is ridiculous."

"It is Halloween, isn't it? And I dare Isaac to knock on her door. What do you say, Isaac? Are you chicken?" The Lahey boy was silent. His body was rigid, as Jackson continued to sling insults at him. None of which he defended or denied. Jackson started clucking and flapping his arms in Isaac's face. "What's wrong with you? Are you retarded or something?" Jackson shoved him.

"Hey!" Allison leapt forward and pushed Jackson. "You're a jerk!"

"Why don't you go then, Allison, if you're so brave?" The girl looked up at the towering house, eerie and shadowed.

"Why don't you go? It was your stupid idea!"

"Because I thought of it. Besides, I know I'm brave. I just doubt these guys are. Like Scott here. I bet Scott never did a brave thing in his entire life. He just cowers behind his mommy."

"I do not!" Scott's hands balled into fists at his sides, and he glared at Jackson. Jackson returned his stare. This was escalating too quickly, and Stiles knew it was only seconds before someone did something stupid. He was supposed to be taking care of them. He was their protector tonight.

"I'll go," Stiles volunteered. Everyone stared at him in surprise. "The sooner we get this dumb 'tradition' over with, the sooner we can all go home." Stiles pushed open the front gate. It creaked on its rusty hinges, the squeal sending a cold shiver down Stiles' spine. "You guys stay here. Together." He took a deep breath and ascended to the house. The shadows seemed to grow and expand around him, surrounding him, ready to open their large jaws and swallow him. He resisted the urge to look back, to turn and run. He forced himself to move slowly, deliberately through the yard to the front porch, where a single dull light shined its pale radius on the door.

There was no doorbell. Stiles lifted his fist and knocked. Inside he could hear the creaking of wooden furniture, the shuffle of slippers on the floor. "Coming!" The door was unlatched and opened, revealing an old grandmother of a woman, a shawl wrapped around her frail shoulders. The blue, spidery veins protruded from under her colorless paper skin, as she opened the door and welcomed him. Her thin lips pulled taunt across her teeth into a smile. She was not ugly, nor was she pretty. She appeared to Stiles simply grey and frail, a brittle wisp of a woman. But her liquid cobalt eyes seemed to blaze with a hidden fire. "Such a handsome young policeman at my door!"

"Trick or treat?" Stiles asked uncertainly.

"No one ever comes to my door, dear me. My house is too far out, and young children never want to bother with a poor old woman like me. But I believe I have something for you, my sweet. Come in for a moment, and I'll see what I have."

Stiles stepped over the threshold. She closed the door softly behind him, and he was consumed by the great, ancient house.