Part Five: Unhappy Halloween

The call came in at 9:56pm.

Sheriff Stilinski was sitting at his desk, tackling the mountain of paper work that had already accumulated that night: a vandalized stop sign on Seventh Street, a fender-bender on Elm, a smashed store window on Main, a teacher's TP'ed house on King, and a group of teenage hoodlums they had tracked from Eleventh to Walnut Grove, whose antics included trespassing, underage drinking, destruction of public property, and general assholery which ranged from blatant disrespect of authority to frightening small children. He could hear their irritating post-pubescent voices from the holding cells, yelling profanities and nonsense about violations of their rights. He heard the word "pig" several times. Stilinski thought it ironic he was labelled a "pig" for upholding the order they were so filthily trying to mangle. He might have been amused at the thought, might even have cut the punks some slack, if he wasn't overworked and already extremely exhausted. By Halloween standards, the "fun" was only just beginning. The mayhem wouldn't start until most of the children were home in bed, sleeping off their sugar-induced comas. The real lunatics came out late.

Sheriff Stilinski had tried phoning Stiles an hour earlier, to see how the trick-or-treating had gone. There hadn't been any answer. He assumed Stiles was crashing at the McCall residence that night. He would call Melissa when he had the chance, just to check in. Stiles had seemed happy with the impromptu costume his father had given him. All toothy grins and proud smiles as he stood in front of the mirror, introducing himself to his reflection as "Officer Stilinski, Junior."

Sheriff Stilinski smiled at the memory, but there was a nervous knot in the pit of his stomach he couldn't get rid of. It wasn't that he thought Stiles had faked his enthusiasm, or that he wouldn't have a good time tonight, and even though he still felt guilty about not picking up Stiles' Batman costume, the apprehension gnarling his insides was worse than those things. He couldn't shake the feeling Stiles was going to land himself in trouble.

A female deputy brought him a hot cup of coffee and he smiled at her gratefully. He tossed down his pen and accepted the paper cup. He took a sip and then gulped down half its contents. The coffee burned his esophagus on the way down, but the pain felt good. The deputy watched him, wringing her hands together nervously. Sheriff Stilinski set down his cup and sighed. "Yes, McBride, what is it?"

The deputy startled. She clasped her hands together and said slowly, "Sheriff, there's a call on line two."

Sheriff Stilinski put the index and middle finger of his right hand to his temple, and pressed down on the pounding that had started beneath the skin. A vein under his eye pulsed and made its presence apparent in the severe overhead light. "What is it this time?"

"It's a boy, sir. He says he and his friends were attacked by an old lady with, uh, well with spider legs."

"Another prank call?"

"I thought so, sir, but the boy seems legitimately panicked. He says the woman attempted to kidnap one of his friends. He asked for you specifically." The knot in the sheriff's stomach tightened. He prayed this was just another case of a paranoid kid, sensitive to the spookiness of Halloween, who had imagined danger where there was none. "He said his name was Jackson Whittemore. He and his friends are on Pineview Crescent."

Sheriff Stilinski stood abruptly and grabbed his jacket. He swept past the deputy; she hurried at his heels. "Why didn't you lead with that piece of information?" he snapped. The deputy's eyes widened at her superior's gruff manner, but she hurried to her desk to fulfill his next orders. "I'm going to handle this one personally. Send a couple deputies after me – Gonzales and Stewart will do. Tell them we have a possible 207A. Suspect may be armed and dangerous."

"Sir, there's something else you should know!" He was already at the door, pushing it open. Cold night air blew into the station. "He requested an ambulance as well." Sheriff Stilinski blanched. The shiver that crept down his spine had nothing to do with the temperature.

Sheriff Stilinski reached the scene first. He left the cruiser running, and bounded out of the vehicle. The rotating red and blue lights illuminated the area, flickering dimly on the ancient house, and giving it an unearthly appearance. A demon house from hell. In the distance, he could hear the faint shriek of approaching sirens. The sheriff didn't have time to wait for back-up to arrive. He unholstered his weapon and raced up the pathway. He could hear noises inside.

The door was unlocked. He threw it open, gun drawn and ready to defend. Six little sets of eyes turned to look at him. There was an audible collective sigh of relief. Sheriff Stilinski's eyes scanned the room for any sign of a threat. Stiles' friends Scott, Allison, and Isaac stood to his left in a tight huddle. Jackson was a short ways away, to his right. They seemed intact and unharmed, aside from a few scrapes and bruises. Scott was holding his head with one hand, and Allison had carpet burn on the exposed section of her arm. Jackson had the beginnings of a nasty purple shiner around his left eye, and the entire right side of Isaac's face was covered in cuts and bruises. Scott could be nursing a possible concussion, but otherwise the kids were alright.

A small pile of damp soil was heaped at the bottom of the stairs, and at the top sat Lydia Martin, messy and red-faced. She panted wearily, and patted the hand of the brown-haired boy who was leaning heavily against her. "I think," she wheezed. "It's finally over."

Sheriff Stilinski assessed the scene in a fraction of a second. Behind him, he heard the deputy's car screech to a halt at the curb, followed closely by an ambulance. The immediate area was secure. His eyes fell on his son, and he lost his composure. The danger was gone, and he shifted from sheriff-mode to dad-mode. He forgot about being a cop. He forgot about other people's children. His fatherly instincts took over. Sheriff Stilinski vaulted up the stairs and enveloped Stiles in his arms. He pressed his son against him. "Hi...Dad," Stiles murmured weakly into his shoulder.

Sheriff Stilinski drew the boy back, and cupped his face with his hand. He examined Stiles' face for injuries. He noticed his son's speech patterns were off, and he hardly moved. Getting Stiles to sit still was a feat of gargantuan proportions even Atlas could not endure. Stiles tried to move his arms to embrace his father, but his movements were feeble and sluggish. Yet his eyes were clear and alert. Sheriff Stilinski's brow wrinkled. "What's wrong Stiles? Have you been drugged?" Stiles glanced at Lydia, and a look of understanding passed between them. They could not tell Sheriff Stilinski the truth about what had happened. Who would believe them anyway?

She answered on his behalf. "The woman who lives here drugged Stiles." She pointed at the puncture wounds on the side of the boy's neck. Sheriff Stilinski's frown deepened in hatred. "She used a needle to inject him with a drug that causes temporary paralysis. We came looking for him, and, uh, she ran away. Also, you're going to want to check the attic."

Sheriff Stilinski didn't give a rat's ass about the attic. "Thank you, Lydia. Why don't you go downstairs with your friends? You can tell the officers what you told me." Sheriff Stilinski ordered Deputy Stewart to check the surrounding area for the suspect, while Deputy Gonzales finished clearing the rest of the house. Then Stewart was to take the children's statements.

Lydia nodded and descended to where her friends stood. Paramedics had arrived and were treating the kids for injuries. She was immediately seized by Allison in a tight hug, and it was effectively – and quietly – communicated to the other children that they needed to get their stories straight, and not mention any horrible spider-ladies. Scott glanced over the EMT's shoulder as the man asked him questions and shined a light in his eyes. His face was trouble, and he ignored the man who was attempting to determine the extent of his concussion. "Isaac," he asked, "did you get those injuries during the fight?"

"Yes," Isaac lied. The lying came easily to him now, but he was glad Scott had suggested such a perfect reason for his injuries, that he need not think of one himself. "The old witch did this to me." Scott nodded and accepted this as truth, and the female EMT cleaned and bandaged Isaac's scrapes. Had Scott been older perhaps he would have recognized the extent of Isaac's injuries could not have resulted from any incidents during the night – even his tumble down the stairs – and that the coloring of his bruising was too dark to be only several minutes old. Yet they were just children and unable to see past the facade that fooled even the adults in Isaac's life.

Sheriff Stilinski shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around his son's shoulders. He lifted Stiles into his arms. He cuddled the boy close to his chest. When was the last time he had carried Stiles? Not for years, it seemed. He could feel Stiles' heart beating like a caged bird. He carried him outside, to the waiting ambulance. He set Stiles down inside and explained the situation to a third paramedic. The man was confident that the drug would wear off shortly, and Stiles would regain full mobility. He just needed plenty of rest and fluids.

The EMT bandaged Stiles' neck and inserted an IV in his hand. The boy winced as the sharp needle pierced his skin. He hated needles. Sheriff Stilinski frowned. He wished there was another method of inserting IVs – one that didn't involve breaking through his son's fragile skin. He placed a hand on his son's knee and tried to encourage him. Stiles reached for his hand. Sheriff Stilinski curled his fingers around the smaller ones. Stiles' hands were so cold.

Deputies Gonzales and Stewart came out of the house, trailed by five weary children. While taking their statements, the children had spoken animatedly, talking loudly over each other, but they were now quiet. Sheriff Stilinski read the exhaustion in their faces. They crowded around Stiles, asking him questions about how he was doing and what had happened before their arrival. Lydia alone was silent. She stared steadfastly into Stiles' eyes. Stiles mirrored her expression, her gaze. Sheriff Stilinski recognized the look on their faces. He had seen it a thousand times, especially during his days with the LAPD. It was the look of trauma victims, of children who had seen and known too much. It was the look of lost innocence. "Stewart, take the kids home," Stilinski ordered. "Their parents must be worried sick."

Stiles' friends were loaded into the police cruiser without complaint. Even Scott, who wanted to stay at his best friend's side, and Jackson, who had been cheated out of his candy, as it lay scattered and crushed on the street, did not protest. They were all tired and sore. A vague fear clung to them like a layer of sweat, though the fearful thing itself was gone. They longed for home and their snug little beds, for the comfort of their parents' loving arms. Only for Isaac did the idea of home spark no feelings of solace.

Sheriff Stilinski rubbed his thumb over Stiles' knuckles, and pulled the shock blanket the EMT had given him tighter around his little body. Deputy Gonzales interrupted the moment and pulled the sheriff aside. "I called forensics," Gonzales informed him. "You're going to want to see this, sir."

Sheriff Stilinski hesitated. He looked at Stiles. These were the moments he hated most: when duty called him away from his son. Stiles nodded and released his hand. Sheriff Stilinski wasn't sure what hurt worse: that Stiles understood the sheriff's duty and graciously let him leave, or that after what had happened he would still leave his son for his job.

Sheriff Stilinski followed Gonzales into the house. The deputy led him upstairs to a second-story bedroom. It was small and sparsely furnished. The narrow bed and toy chest in the corner suggested it was a child's room. Sheriff Stilinski frowned when he noticed the barrier blocking the window. Gonzales opened the double-door wardrobe and stepped aside. Sheriff Stilinski stepped closer. Instead of the expected clothing, the wardrobe held a random assortment of items: cloth bags and teddy bears, hats and shoes and other accessories. The sheriff's eye fell on a navy blue peaked hat. He lifted it up and inspected it closely. His scowl deepened. "This is mine. I gave it to Stiles."

Gonzales pulled on a rubber glove, so as not to compromise the scene, and removed a faded pink plush unicorn. He showed it to the sheriff. "Look familiar?" Stilinski inspected the stuffed animal. Why keep this toy separate from the others in the toy box? It did look familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. "The Murphy girl who disappeared back in '02-"

"Had this with her when she disappeared." Sheriff Stilinski scanned the other items in the wardrobe. He pointed to a plastic red helmet. "Jake Byers, vanished 1998, was a Power Ranger for Halloween."

Now it was Gonzales' turn to frown. "There are hundreds of items in here. Do you think they all belong to missing children? Why would she keep them?"

"They're trophies." Sheriff Stilinski turned away. His hand tightened on the police hat. "Reminders of her victims." Deputy Gonzales blanched. "When the other officers get here, we'll bag this stuff for evidence. Have you checked the attic yet?"

"No, sir."

Lydia had told him specifically to check the attic. "We'll go up now."

The attic door was partially open. The air that wafted down the stairs was warm and rank. As they ascended, the sheriff kept his hand to the wall, searching for a light-switch, but he couldn't find one. The sheriff motioned with two fingers for the deputy to draw his weapon. The room was close and claustrophobic. There was no movement, but as the sheriff's eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out several lumpy shapes. Gonzales stepped forward, and shouted as something sticky and silky plastered his face.

The sheriff unsheathed his flashlight and trained it on the deputy's face. Gonzales ripped the spider web from his face. He curled his nose. "Gross. I hate spiders." Sheriff Stilinski passed the radius of light around the room. One huge spider web covered the entirety of the attic. Gonzales' eyes widened. "What the hell?"

"Hold this." Sheriff Stilinski thrust his flashlight at the deputy and bent over one of the thread-weaved bundles. His fingers dug into the dusty fibers. A tiny skeletal face gaped back at him. Gonzales covered his mouth with his arm.

"Oh God." He gagged. "You're not opening another one?"

The threads on the second bundle were silkier and stickier. Only the thinnest layer of dust covered it. The tips of the sheriff's fingers brushed cold, soft flesh. The young boy was pale, his eyes closed in preternatural slumber. His body, clad in a tattered Captain America costume, was in the beginning stages of decay. Sheriff Stilinski sat back on his haunches and rubbed his face. He sighed heavily. "It's Sammy Collins."

Gonzales' brow furrowed. "The boy who went missing last Halloween?"

The sheriff nodded. "Yes." He stood and took his flashlight from Gonzales. "Judging from the level of decay, he's been dead less than a month."

"You mean...?"

"He was here the entire time. An entire year captive in his house. He never left Beacon Hills. Who knows what happened during that time...That woman would have done the same to Stiles..." Sheriff Stilinski turned abruptly and headed down the stairs. The front door opened, and a newcomer called the sheriff's name. Several deputies and the Beacon Hills forensics team crowded in the entryway. Sheriff Stilinski gave them their orders, and referred them to Gonzales for all further instruction.

"Where are you going, sir?"

"I'm taking my son home. You can handle this Gonzales." Stiles was reclining on a stretcher in the ambulance. Sheriff Stilinski knew he was feeling better: the boy was bombarding the paramedic with questions and picking at the bandage on his neck. The IV and shock blanket were gone, and color had returned to Stiles' face. "Is he good to go home?"

"He should be. Just monitor him throughout the night. He can have a child's Tylenol if he feels any pain or notices any stiffness. If he starts to run a fever or loses mobility, take him to Emergency." The paramedic smiled and patted Stiles' shoulder. "But I'm sure he'll be fine. You have quite a boy here, Sheriff."

Stilinski smiled. "I think I'll keep him."

Though Stiles had regained enough movement in his legs to be able to shuffle, the sheriff lifted his son out of the ambulance. "Dad, I can walk on my own, ya know."

"Yeah, I know." But he did not lower his son. Stiles wrapped his arms around his father's neck, and Sheriff Stilinski carried him to the police cruiser. He packed Stiles into the passenger seat, fastened his seat belt, and tucked his sheriff's jacket around him to keep him warm. When he started the car, he cranked up the heater. Static crackled over the police scanner. He reached over and turned it down. As of that moment, he was unavailable.

They drove down Pineview Crescent in silence. Stiles watched the witch's house grow smaller and smaller in the side mirror. They turned left at the intersection. The greater Beacon Hills area sparkled in the distance. How many times have I passed that house to visit Claudia's grave? Sheriff Stilinski thought grimly. He glanced over at his son. The boy's forehead was pressed against the window. His face lit up under the street lamps, but his eyes were strangely vacant and distant. I almost lost him too.

The air in the car was too hot, but Stiles didn't complain. His father kept his eyes on the road, as they drove wordlessly through the streets of town. Trick-or-treaters had long since returned home to count their loot. Houses and yards were dark and quiet. Faceless pumpkins stared darkly, and plastic ghosts tumbled in the breeze like trashed candy wrappers.

"Dad, are you...mad at me?" Stiles asked softly.

Sheriff Stilinski glanced at his son. "Stiles. Why would I be mad at you?"

"I just..." Stiles shrugged his shoulders. He shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't listen to you. I was supposed to protect the others, but I didn't pay attention to where we were, and then when Jackson started picking on Isaac and Scott, I..." Tears slipped from Stiles' eyes. "I went off on my own. You told me not to, but I did. I thought if I went I could...I shouldn't have. The old woman invited me into her house, and I went in. You told me not to be careful, and I..." Stiles sobbed heavily.

Sheriff Stilinski pulled over onto the side of the road. They were only a block from home, but Stiles was crying so hard he couldn't drive another yard. The sheriff gathered the boy into his arms. Stiles hid his face in his father's chest. His thin arm snaked around his father's back. He weakly clenched a bunch of the sheriff's shirt in his fist. Sheriff Stilinski could feel Stiles' tears dampening his chest. He put his hand on the back of Stiles' head, holding him close. He tangled his fingers in Stiles' matted hair and breathed in his scent. "Shh, Stiles, it's okay. It's okay, son."

Stiles shook his head against his father's breast. "It-it-it's not," he gulped. "You-you t-t-old m-me...and s-s-she...h-her m-mouth...I-I c-c-couldn't m-move or s-see...I d-d-es-er-ved i-it!"

A shiver ran up Sheriff Stilinski's spine. He crushed Stiles tighter against him. What had that woman done to his son? "Stiles, listen to me. Are you listening?" Stiles nodded and sniffled. "You did so good tonight. You looked after your friends. You kept them safe, you kept them together. You're a Protector, Stiles. You have a natural instinct to protect people, even if sometimes it means putting yourself in danger."

Stiles drew back and looked into his father's face. "Like you?"

The sheriff smiled. "Yes. You'll make a wonderful police officer someday." Stilinski wiped the tears from Stiles' face with his sleeve. He held his son's chin, memorizing every line and angle, every mole and freckle. "I'm not mad at you, Stiles. I'm proud of you. What that woman did to you..." Sheriff Stilinski swallowed, remembering the webbed corpses in the attic. "You could never deserve that, no matter what you did. Lydia told me how brave you were, how you tried to look after them. Did you know about the attic?"

"I thought there might be other kids."

"And you didn't want to leave without them?" Stiles nodded. "See, Stiles, you have such a good heart. You're still young. You have your whole life ahead of you to break the rules and disobey me. But no matter what happens, no matter what situations you end up in or what trouble you get into, I want you to remember two things. Just two. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah."

"You can always come to me."

"What's thing number two?"

"I love you."

Stiles smiled. "I love you too, Dad." Sheriff Stilinski hugged Stiles one final time, and then put the car into Drive. Stiles wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and snuggled back against the seat.

When they got home, his father would draw his bath and put him to bed. The sheriff would call the station, receive any updated reports, give his final orders, and take himself off-duty. Then he would spend the night in a chair beside Stiles' bed, fending off the nightmares that were sure to come. And when the morning dawned, chasing away the darkness and awakening his son, he might take a sick day and get some sleep. Or he might spend the day tossing a baseball with his hyperactive son. Chase him around the yard and tumble laughing to the ground. Forget the faces of missing children. Forget the night his son couldn't walk, couldn't run from the danger breathing down his neck. Forget the attic of tiny corpses in costumes, and the little room with the little bed.

Stiles laid his cheek against the seat and watched his father. His face was dimly illuminated by the lights of the dashboard. His green eyes sparkled supernaturally with the blinking of the turning signal. Stiles' fingers brushed against the cold metal plate on his breast: "J. Stilinski."

John Stilinski sighed as he turned into their driveway. Pieces of the Jack O'Lantern Stiles had carved the night before were smashed and scattered on the lawn. A dozen gooey egg shells were splattered on the front porch and windows.

He hated Halloween.

END

Sorry this is coming so late: life got in the way this week. I hope the ending doesn't feel as sloppy and rushed as it does in my head. I really wanted to get this posted tonight, and I really wanted to end with that line (having come full circle from the first chapter), and this chapter ended up being longer than anticipated, so please excuse any choppiness. I always need to insert some Sheriff and Stiles love into my fics. They are my absolute favs. 3
I hope you enjoyed. Please remember to leave a review!