Part Three: Into the House

The children watched as Stiles bravely marched up to the spooky house, knocked on the door, and was ushered inside by a dark silhouette. He disappeared into the rectangle of light, and then was gone. They waited with bated breath. Waited and waited. A lot of time seemed to pass, but it could have been only a couple minutes. None of the children had watches, and time dragged by slowly as they waited, trembling on the sidewalk from the chill seeping into their bones and from anxiety. There was no apparent movement within the house. No shadows passing behind the curtains. They watched restlessly for any sign of Stiles or the old woman. Not a word was spoken. The street was silent as a tomb.

"Stiles has been in there a long time," Scott said finally. He was worried. "We shouldn't have let him go in there in the first place. This was a stupid idea, Jackson!"

"You're only supposed to knock on the old woman's door. You're not supposed to go inside!"

"He only went up there because you were being a jerk! If you wanted to do the Beldame tradition so badly, you should have gone yourself!"

"Don't blame me for what Stilinski does!" Jackson fired back.

Scott's hands balled into fists. Jackson's words broke the final straw which had been maintaining what little patience he had left. "You're always such an arrogant prick!" His mother would hate that he had used such foul language, but he didn't care. Jackson was a prick. An idiot. A bumhole. A bastard. "You don't care about anyone but yourself!" Scott lashed out at the other boy, shoving him to the ground and tumbling after him. Candy scattered across the pavement. Scott's werewolf mask and Jackson's red bandanna were ripped off in the scuttle, as the two boys wrestled. They rolled over the dirty street, tossing punches and obscenities at one another.

Isaac jumped into the middle of the fray and attempted to separate the two boys. Allison was there beside Isaac, first sternly commanding them and then fiercely yelling for them to "Stop! Just stop!" She stomped her foot. "This isn't helping Stiles." But the battle raged on.

Isaac had managed to grab Scott's shoulders, and he was trying to pry his friend off Jackson, when a stray hand came up and accidentally struck him in the face. Though it had connected with an unintentional target, the blow packed a wallop. Isaac stumbled backward. The lanky boy instinctively threw his arms in front of his face to shield himself. He cowered away from them, but no one noticed and no further punches were aimed at him.

Allison was at the point of losing her cool altogether. Stupid boys and their stupid fights. Morons, all of them! She resorted to drastic measures. She seized her broomstick, wondering if it would be best utilized as a crowbar or a club. She was leaning towards the latter, more violent option. She raised the broom above her head, and was about to bring it down, when she was stopped by Lydia.

The pretty redhead hadn't taken her gaze from the house during all this fighting. She continued to stare apprehensively, though she didn't know quite what she was looking for. Her knuckles were white as she tightly gripped the fence. Stiles' name was an unspoken chant on her lips, as if she could magically summon him from the house, if her will was strong enough. A breeze fluttered through the trees in the yard. The whispers of the leaves sounded like the voices of frightened children.

Suddenly a sharp pain shot through her temples. She grabbed her head and screamed.

"Lydia!" All fighting ceased instantly. Any animosity immediately and completely forgotten, as only children are capable. Allison ran to her friend's aid. She placed a gentle hand on the girl's back. "Lydia, what is it?"

Lydia's baby-blues were wide and wet with tears. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. The tears trickled down her cheeks. She tried to speak but choked on the sound. Allison rubbed her back in soothing circles. The three boys crowded around worriedly. "It's okay. You're okay. Take a deep breath."

"Stiles!" Lydia sobbed, and snapped her head up. She glared wildly at the offending house. "Something's wrong!" She didn't know how she knew something was wrong with Stiles. She just did. "We need to go in there."

The others looked at each other fearfully. "I'm sure he's okay, Lydia," Allison reassured her. Lydia shook her head forcefully. "We should wait here and-"

"I'll go." Scott stepped forward. His face was drawn in resolution, but a flicker of fear flashed in his brown eyes. "I'm going up there." He reiterated, swallowing his nerves. If his best friend was in trouble, he needed to act. He felt instinctively, somewhere deep inside, that Lydia was right. He trusted her intuition.

"I'm going too," Isaac said, stepping up beside Scott.

"We all go," Allison decided. She glared at Jackson, whose left eye was puffing up, daring him to disagree with her. She knew they were safer as a group. There was security in numbers. "No more splitting up."

The others nodded in agreement, even Jackson. He could tell there was no point in arguing, and there was a tight knot in the pit of his stomach. His guts felt twisted and topsy-turvey. This feeling was called guilt, he believed. He didn't like it. If anything happened to Stilinski, everyone would blame him. They all seemed to really like the kid, and he just knew they'd hate him if the idiot got killed. Lydia would never like-like him if that happened. "Okay," Jackson said. "But if he's dead, we run like hell."

The tears dried in Lydia's eyes as the group ascended the pathway. Self-possession took over as she shifted into emergency mode. She needed to keep her head clear, in case they ran into trouble. She followed closely behind Scott, who had naturally fallen into the leader position. It wasn't until they were standing on the front porch that they realized they didn't have a plan, and there wasn't any time to formulate one. "Just stay close to me," Scott instructed, raising his hand to knock.

An old woman answered the door. She wore faded purple slippers, a floral house dress, and a plain, bleached waist apron. She was wrapped in a heavy knitted shawl, which had slipped slightly to uncover one thin shoulder. Her snow-white hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Around her neck, her reading glasses hung on a beaded strap. In her wrinkled and leathery face, deep blue eyes shone and twinkled mischievously, clear and sharp. In her left hand, she clutched a pair of knitting needles. "Ah, more trick-or-treaters, but so late!" None of the kids knew what to say. Of course, dressed in their Halloween costumes, she could assume they were there for sweets. "What do we have here?" Her knowing eye passed over them critically. "An alpha wolf cub, a wailing girl, a witch hunter, a wrathful lizard-"

"Who are you calling a lizard?" Jackson demanded, forgetting his uneasiness. He pounded the shell on his back. "I'm a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, you blind old bat. Ninja turtle."

The old woman ignored him. Her penetrating gaze fell finally on Isaac and rested there. "-and a scared little boy with a very dark, very grownup secret." She smiled. "I suppose it's sweets you want. Come in, children. Come in." The old woman beckoned them inside and shut the door behind them. "We don't want to heat the outdoors." She cackled.

The house was pleasantly warm and clean. The entryway was decorated with striped wallpaper, a low table above which hung an oval plated mirror, and an antique coat-rack. A living room opened on the left-hand side, with soft cushioned sofas and wooden furniture draped with lace doilies. A muted television played a black-and-white horror film. A rocking chair faced the screen, a basket of yarn at its feet.

On the other side of the entryway lay a beautiful dining room straight from a magazine advertisement. The wallpaper was a pale blue, and the matching furniture was a dark mahogany: a table for six with high-backed chairs, a large cabinet full of lovely china, a buffet with flower vases and a display of delicate tea sets. Through an opening at the end, they could glimpse a kitchen which had gone out of style in the 70s, but was clean and well-kept. Everything in the house was perfectly preserved and perfectly ordered. Not a speck of dust or a cobweb in sight. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Just ahead of them was an old wooden staircase with slanting steps, leading up to the remainder of the darkened house. Overall the atmosphere was homey and cozy, warm and inviting. A grandmother's house with yummy treats baking, timeless treasures and rooms full of history worth exploring, stories and mysterious creaks and crannies. The air was sweet and heavy with the scent of baking and potpourri, peppermint oil and bleach, the musty mothball smell that plagued the old, no matter how thoroughly they washed and cleaned, and an underlying earthy smell, faint and strange, like decaying leaves and damp soil.

"I don't have any candy, but I've just made a fresh batch of cookies." The old woman shuffled into the living room and retrieved a large plate from the coffee table. It was piled with lumpy, chewy, chocolate chip cookies. "Have as many as you like." She offered them the delicious goodies.

Isaac reached for a cookie, but Allison slapped his hand away. As mouthwatering and tempting as they were, Allison's parents had warned her never to eat un-packaged or homemade treats on Halloween. Usually she found their advice overly-protective and paranoid – who would want to give children poisoned candy? - but now she saw the wisdom in their words. She looked the old woman in the eye. "No thank you," she declined politely, but her fierce stare contained defiance and brazen courage. The old woman stared back at Allison. When the girl refused to look away, the woman grinned and laughed.

"I'm afraid cookies are all I have, my dears. I don't normally get visitors on Halloween, especially so many at once!"

"Actually ma'am," Scott interjected civilly, "we're looking for our friend Stiles."

"'Stiles'?" The old woman smacked the boy's name. Scott's skin crawled as she licked her thin lips with her fat tongue, exposing pallid gums.

"Yes, ma'am. He knocked on your door a little while ago, and we've been waiting for him, but he hasn't come back. We were wondering if he was here, if you, uh, had seen him?"

The old woman tilted her head and scrunched up her face in thought. "Yes, I remember! The young policeman."

"That's him!"

"Why, he left here some time ago. I believe he went out the back door. The pathway is dark. Perhaps you missed him. Maybe you were distracted?"

"Maybe..." Scott looked at his friends. Isaac shrugged his shoulders. Allison shook her head, not in negation but in doubt. She wasn't certain anymore. Jackson had his arms crossed sulkily. Scott wondered if they could have missed Stiles exiting while he and Jackson were fighting. Maybe they hadn't noticed and he had wandered off the back way. Maybe he was already half-way home by now. But why would he leave them like that?

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help, dears," the old woman apologized. She shuffled around them and reached for the door knob, cuing the children to leave. "I'm sure he's out there, wondering where you lot have gotten yourselves to."

"Thank you," Scott said. "Sorry to have bothered you. Good night."

The old woman opened the door a crack, and the children turned to leave. But Lydia stayed firmly rooted in place. She knew the old hag was lying. Stiles hadn't left the house. She hadn't taken her eyes off it for one second; she would have seen him leave. Even if he had used another entrance, she would have noticed, would have perceived his shadow or heard his familiar gait. And he never would have ditched them willingly. Never. He was here somewhere, and she was going to find him.

"Excuse me, can I use your bathroom?" Lydia asked. The exodus paused. The old woman slowly closed the door uncertainly. She appeared confused, and then narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "Please," Lydia begged. "I really, really, really have to go." She did a little pee-pee dance to emphasize her point.

"Alright." The old woman sighed, and retracted her hand from the door. She shambled to the base of the stairs. She gripped the banister. "Follow me, girl. I'll show you where it is. You children stay right there."

"Thank you!" Lydia hopped along after the woman, but not before giving Allison's hand a squeeze. "Stiles," she mouthed, and Allison nodded in understanding. They heard Lydia chattering as she climbed the stairs after the old woman.

Allison gestured the boys into a huddle. "We need to find Stiles," she whispered.

"What if he's not here?" Jackson asked.

"We can't take that chance. We'll split into two. Scott and Jackson, you guys search the left side. Isaac and I will search the right. Be quick, before the old woman comes back." The boys agreed to this plan, and they split up. They could hear Lydia's animated jabber from upstairs, as she asked the woman about different fixtures of her home. Then they heard a door slam shut – their signal to hurry up – and the old woman's step on the boards above their heads. They quickly reconvened at the door, their faces flushed. They had not found a single trace of their missing friend. Perhaps he wasn't there after all.

The old woman ambled down the stairs. Her breathing was a raspy gasp. She limped to the old rocking chair and gingerly lowered herself into it. "My hip's acting up. I just need to sit a moment, children. You're welcome to come in and wait for your friend. Bring the cookies with you. Why don't you have one?"

The children sat awkwardly in the woman's parlor. She unmuted the television and they watched with her as a vampire lured a young woman to him, and sank his teeth into her neck. They listened for the sound of a toilet flushing and taps running. The old lady pressed the cookies onto them. "Take one."

Scott reached for a cookie. He lifted it to his lips, but Allison stopped him. She grabbed it out of his hands and threw it onto the plate. Her face was pale. Scott opened his mouth to ask her why she had done such a thing, but she pointed to the cookie. He leaned closer and peered keenly at the dough. What he had first believed to be large chunks of chocolate appeared, on closer inspection, to be house flies! Scott gagged. The old woman turned her eye to look at him. "Alright, dear?"

"Yes'um. I just, uh, swallowed the wrong way." She nodded and rocked in her chair. Several minutes passed, and still they had not heard from Lydia. The old woman grew suspicious again. She started to rise from her chair. "Perhaps I should check on the poor girl-" Allison stopped her.

"Lydia always takes forever in the bathroom, even at school. It's all the skirts of her dress. She'll have to hold them up just right so they don't wrinkle," Allison rambled, coloring her lie with an abundance of words. Anything to keep the woman distracted. "And she always covers the seat with toilet paper before she sits. She also mentioned she wasn't feeling well earlier. I can go see if-"

Upstairs, Lydia screamed.