It was the most wonderful time of the year.
The time when the dry, crunchy leaves seemed to be dusted in cinnamon. When tart pink apples hung on every tree and the air smelled like bales of hay, burnt sugar, and yesterday's rain. When crows lost their fear of scarecrows and every house was haunted.
Tonight was Halloween.
According to the calendar, anyway. It wouldn't really be Halloween until Timmy was free of the kangaroo court known as school. No, he was not being dramatic! He NEEDED to be home right now, putting the finishing touches on his costume. He had everything planned out, right down to the plain black tennis shoes that didn't quite fit anymore, but were absolutely essential because Crash Nebula did not wear white sneakers with brilliant, lemon-yellow laces. His Mom had said they were "on sale".
He squinted at the clock, every second the steady, maddening plink of Chinese water torture.
He was certain it was moving backwards.
The fact that none of the adults were stopping to take notice of the monumental importance of today just proved they were soulless husks, like greasy, half-crumbled paper bags from the doughnut shop - with NO doughnuts inside.
"Hurry up!" Timmy impeached the clock under his breath.
"Want me to speed up time? " asked the violently green pencil on his desk, an edge of manic interest in it's voice.
"Absolutely not!" vetoed his equally violent pink eraser. "Timmy's education is very important!"
Timmy and the pencil groaned in unison.
The bell finally ran on Ms. Dinklemeyer's history class and Timmy scooted out the door without turning in his homework. Mr, Crocker was at the door to his classroom, peering out with one sullen eye as the gen pop stampeded past. He probably had something hidden behind his back, sniffing for fairy dust or magical body odor, or whatever it was he was sniffing for. Because surely, surely, if their were any fairies to be caught in the booger-smeared halls of Dimsdale Elementary School, it would be today of all glorious days.
He wasn't wrong.
Timmy hurried past at double-time, crashing out the front door and into the golden blaze of a late October afternoon. The air smelled like dry grass and dead leaves and pine needles baking in the sun, like wild apples piled up alongside the road, sweet and soft and vaguely rotten. It smelled like Halloween.
Timmy didn't get on the bus. Instead he walked home past the rows of decorated houses. Here was a field of Styrofoam tombstones. There was a skeleton eight- no, nine feet tall! That house had four pumpkins set outside on their stoop, their empty grins just waiting for a candle. Timmy fished a crumpled square of paper out of his pocket. On it were the same rows of houses all done up in crayon, color-coded according to the kind of candy they'd given out last year, if there was a mean dog that had to be avoided, etc. Timmy clicked his green pen with a flourish.
"Alright! Now, if we start at my house and cut across Pear Street..."
The Flanders weren't home this year, which was perfectly fine by Timmy. Instead of candy, Mr. Flanders always handled out pictures of Jesus and quotes from the Bible. Given this, Timmy could only conclude Jesus must hate candy and kids in general. He made an "X" over the house. By comparison, he circled the Loud house multiple times in great, thick loops.
The Louds always had the best candy. Pop-Rocks and Ring Pops and SweeTARTS, which were well worth the risk of being the victim of some kind of prank involving frogs or squirrels, or fire-crackers tied to squirrels. Good candy also meant you had to get there before the rich kids and their stupid, fancy costumes. The kind their folks bought at Target or KMart, and were made of satin or plastic, or had things that lit up or made noise. Timmy made a face. Nevermind them! This year he had a costume that was really going to blow everyone's socks off!
"You ready for tonight, sport?" His bright pink backpack asked cheerfully.
"You bet! I've been ready all day!"
A chill breeze scattered leaves across the street, so many it sounded like rushing water. Timmy folded The Plan and put in back in his pocket. He scrambled across the street (after looking both ways, otherwise Wanda would lecture him about safety) and raced across a wooded strip of No-Mans-Land that cut the neighborhood into roughly equal crescents. Hard round crabapples bounced away from his tennis shoes. Timmy booted several for good measure just to see how far they'd roll.
He reached his house and flew through the door without touching the front steps. The house was empty. Mom and Dad had already dressed up like a hotdog and a bottle of ketchup and gone downtown to some kind of grown-up music thing. Who would want to go and sit and listen to music all night? Timmy bounded up the stairs and went straight to his closet. He'd buried his treasure like a pirate of old, except instead of sand he'd used a mountain of old clothes and a plastic baggie that'd once contained half a ham sandwich.
Once.
In the same way a corpse was once a person.
What remained inside was no longer ham, or even sandwich. To breach containment on that particular life-form would mean certain death. Wanda had pitched a fit two weeks ago when she'd found out. Timmy had pleaded his case. It's utter stomach-churning, skin crawling, disgusting-ness, he argued, would keep his stash safe should Vicky happen to rummage through his closet. She wouldn't even touch the dishes if there was a single, soggy speck of food on them. She'd make him rinse them off and load them into the dishwater, all while checking her fingernail polish for imaginary chips and collecting an extra five bucks off Dad for "cleaning up around the house" while she was babysitting.
Seeing the wisdom in this, Wanda had relented.
Timmy inserted his hand into a bright yellow dish glove, all the way to the shoulder, and pinched the sandwich baggie with two fingers. Without breathing, he moved it - very, VERY carefully - to the trashcan. Cosmo popped into existence and peered in with the the same horrified fascination as if he was looking at something radioactive, or a two-headed puppy.
"How long do you have to leave something before it gets sen- senti- ense- before it starts thinking?" He gushed. His green eyes were about the size of satellite dishes, which made him look more unhinged than usual. "What if we're throwing Mold People away? Like, they've got a whole city and town, and little schools for their Mold Children, and we're just, like, throwing their whole civilization away? Shouldn't we open it up and chec-"
Wanda appeared over him with a little pop. She brandished her wand threateningly.
"Cosmo Julius Fairywinkle-Cosma, you so much as touch that abomination and I swear I will divorce you."
Cosmo shot away from the trashcan so fast he left a trail a smoke.
Timmy shook the garbage bag containing his hidden trove out and ran his hands over old grey pajamas he'd spent all month trimming with aluminum foil. With a pair of Mom's old black underwear worn over top, and a plastic hairband that'd he'd decorated with little cardboard wings (wrapped in even more aluminum foil for that extra special effect!) Timmy was ready to become-
CRASH NEBULA! Only the toughest, handsomest, coolest superhero this side of Alpha Centauri!
He proudly laid the ensemble out on his bed. The mall only had Batman utility belts, which wouldn't have matched, and didn't have the Honorary Silver Star of Rigel on the buckle, so Timmy crafted his own out of an old belt of Dad's and copious amounts of golden paint, painstakingly applied in multiple layers over a period of several days. In the slanting afternoon sunlight, it gleamed with an almost otherworldly luster.
Speaking of sunlight-
Timmy shot the window a dirty look. It was still too light outside to get dressed. Leaving for Trick or Treat before the descent of darkness was LAME. Only little babies went out in the daytime. After one more suspicious look at the trash, Wanda floated over to him.
"Come on, sport. Let's get some dinner!"
"I'm not hungry! I wanna goooooo! I'm bored!"
"Yes, you are."
"He's Hungry or Bored?" Cosmos asked. "I'm confused."
"He's got a big night ahead and he can't do it on an empty stomach," Wanda insisted, herding them from the room.
Timmy bounced and fidgeted as Wanda summoned a box of macaroni from the cabinet. When the grater levitated out of the drawer and started shredding real cheese, Timmy perked up. Mom never put real cheese in the macaroni. A plate and glass sailed out of the cupboard and set themselves on the table. Cosmo flicked his wand at the silverware drawer and a fork zoomed out like a intercontinental ballistic missile. Timmy jerked sideways before it turned his ear into a kebab.
"This day is taking foreeeeeever!" he whined.
"Well, if time flies when you're having fun, then time crawls on its belly, like a slug, when you're not - so if Timmy's not having fun, then time is just flopping around on the ground like a fish trying to visit its Aunt up a pane of glass and-"
"I think we get the picture, Cosmo dear," said Wanda, setting a pot of water on the stove.
Timmy groaned and thunked his head against the table.
It took about a half an hour - an eternity, really - before the macaroni was done. Timmy inhaled it like he was starving and washed it down with half a gallon of cold chocolate milk. The sun was just dipping behind the maples trees when he bounded back up the stairs two at a time.
It was TIME.
He wiggled into his costume with the utmost care and Cosmo helped him tie his shoes. He'd worn a big sweater with the arms stuffed with rolled up socks to make his arms seem more muscular, and Timmy admired the exquisite beefiness of his bod in the mirror. He buckled on his belt and imagined it going into the montage.
Cosmo zoomed into his bedroom wearing a pillowcase over his head.
"Are we taking the bucket or this? This one's got soooo much more room and-"
"Yeah, and it's also got flowers on it," said Timmy distastefully. "Crash Nebula doesn't do flowers."
He exited the bedroom with a dramatic flap, skating down the hallway rug like he was surfing on the faces of Emperor Burg's horde of minions. He peeked outside. The sky was a darkening shade of blue, shadows were gathering the bases of the trees in deep, liquid pools. Timmy's heart beat faster. He snatched his oldest and favorite pumpkin pail from the table. His fairies were suddenly nowhere to be seen.
"You gonna put it on your head?" asked his left, lime-green Medal of Honor that was suddenly pinned to his chest. "Oh, oh, are you gonna haunt the city like the Headless Horsemen, riding down ne'er-do-wells and ruffians? Want me to set it on fire?!"
"No fire! The humans will get suspicious," said his right, neon-pink Medal of Virtue.
The doorbell rang.
Timmy threw the door wide.
"Hey!"
"Hello!"
He was greeted by Doctor Weird and Roach-Man.
"Guess who!" said Doctor Weird in AJs voice.
He was wearing one of his Dad's enormous blue t-shirts like a tunic, tied at the waist with two belts and a tasseled curtain cord, and turned his old vampire cloak inside out so that the red lining was showing.
"NO cheating!" said Chester, in his best Roach-Man voice.
He was wearing a pair of red swim googles and his bike helmet. Two bendy straws were taped to the sides in an excellent replica of antennae.
"You guys look great!" Timmy cried. "Neat beard!"
"You like it? I used watercolors," said AJ proudly.
"You ready to go?!"
"Yup!"
"Definitely!"
"Sweet belt, Tim- uh, Mister Nebula."
Timmy swelled with pride. "Please, please. Call me Crash. Mister Nebula was my Dad," he said grandly.
The three of them giggled.
"Doctor Weird is AJ," his left medal whispered. "And I think the bug is Chester. Can't be sure though. We should check. One of Crash Nebula's many enemies might have sent him to kill us."
"Retaliators, away!' Timmy shouted.
Roach-Man, Doctor Weird and Crash Nebula hurried into the neighborhood. They passed a gaggle of little girls going the other way, a scintillating horde of satin and lace and other frilly stuff. Timmy and his friends gave them a wide berth, just in case sequins were contagious. Like a sparkly case of the chicken pox, or cooties.
"We hitting the Louds first?"
"Duh!"
They scrambled through the neighbor's yard, cut through the overgrown alleyway that ran alongside Mr. Peterson's creepy old house, and raced up the street, hands clamped against capes and masks that threatened to jostle off.
As always, the Loud house was absolutely metal in all the best ways. Mr. and Mrs. Loud were dressed up like Mr. and Mrs. Addams from that weird old TV show, with Mr. Loud smoking a thick pretzel like a cigar. Behind them was utter pandemonium as their army of kids made finishing touches to their costumes.
"Trick or Treat!" said the Retaliators.
"Capital idea!" shouted Mr. Loud and he began throwing enormous handfuls of candy into their waiting hands. Snickers and Smarties and Pop-Rocks, disappearing into plastic pails and one old pillowcase with a delicious rustle and slither. Timmy's toes curled with pleasure inside his shoes.
It went like this for the rest of the night. House by house, it became harder and harder to hold their candy buckets as the dead weight of their loot steadily increased. Popcorn balls. Pay-Days. A box of... raisins?! Timmy would have just tossed that one into the bushes, but Wanda had told him not to litter, so he didn't, but it was an insult having to haul around so many useless extra grams - especially when they got to the bottom of Depot Hill.
Timmy eyed the steep grade with the same resigned determination he imagined Nebula must have felt in Season 4, Episode 9. The one with the stairs and all the bad guys. Roach-Man slung his pillowcase over one shoulder.
"Come on, gang! Never give up. Never surrender!" he said, pumping a fist in the air.
"Never surrender!" Crash and Doctor Weird chorused.
By the time they reached the top, however, they didn't have any breath to celebrate their victory. Depot Hill must have been straight up and down. Timmy's pail of candy felt like it weighed fifty pounds. He doubled over on his knees to pant, slopping several brightly colored candies onto the asphalt.
"Time out, guys. T-time."
Timmy plopped down on the sidewalk. Doctor Weird wiped his sweaty face on his arm, smearing his beard up one cheek.
"Hey, doc," Chester, also known as Roach-Man, panted. "Why don't you- just make a portal... and we could- just, like- warp to the houses? Make with the magic already!"
"Did somebody say MAGIC?!" Timmy's green medal piped up.
"Hush, you," said Timmy's pink medal, fondly.
Timmy scooped a pack of Milk Duds off the road and looked at it thoughtfully. The selection of First Candy was always an important, solemn affair. He tore into the pack with gusto.
"Nice costumes, turds!"
The Dud in Timmy's throat turned into a wad of lead. He gulped and it dropped into his stomach with a sound like dropping a rock into an empty bucket. He whirled to see Francis emerge from the shadow of an apple tree. His two new groupies, Chad and Tad, were there too, like two overstuffed beanpoles in Ninja Turtle hoodies and jeans.
"Whatchu supposed to be, anyway? Evil gay Superman? You guys look like total morons!"
"I- I'm Doctor Weird, not Superman!" AJ yelped, offended.
"Huh. Stupid red cape coulda' fooled me," said Francis, eyeing them with ill intent.
"It- it's not stupid!"
"Uh, yeah. It is. Real stupid. Not as stupid as your face, tho. Looks like you painted your face with turrrds."
AJ flushed and stared at the ground. Timmy balled the Milk Dud wrapper in his fist.
"He's not stupid, you're stupid!" he shouted.
Francis turned his steely grey eyes in Timmy's direction.
"Timmy," Wanda cautioned softly.
"RUN!" Cosmo hissed.
But Timmy couldn't run. His legs still felt like jelly from lugging all that candy up the side of a mountain. He couldn't have run even if- oh, geez that was the point wasn't it?! Francis and his goonies had been waiting up here for victims too tired to fend them off. This was an ambush. A trap! Timmy's eyes cut to the dirty plastic bag Francis was clutching in one beefy hand. It was already half full. The Retaliators weren't the first ones to be caught tonight.
Timmy clutched his candy bucket to his chest.
"Looks like ya got yourselves a haul," said Francis. "We haven't had much luck tonight. How about you share some with us?"
"You- you're not even in costume!" Chester protested, aghast.
Timmy didn't think his buddy had worked out the gravity of the situation yet.
He took a step back. His knees wobbled dangerously.
"Hand it all over, and I'll be nice and leave your stupid costumes in one piece," Francis threatened, taking a mirroring step forward. "I'm a nice guy. Spirit of Halloween an' all."
"You mean their cheap costumes!" Chad sniggered.
"Poor people costumes!" Tad sniggered even louder.
The Retaliators looked at each other in desperation. Francis and his meatheads closed in. All three of them were 5th Graders and quite a bit bigger, especially Francis. The huge boy popped his knuckles like a series of gunshots. Chester whirled and tried to run. Tad jumped in the way. Timmy felt a lump of anger swell in his throat as Francis pried his Jack-O-Lantern from his hands and upended it over the plastic shopping bag he was holding. Timmy watched his candy slither out and disappear, sick with impotent fury. Francis tossed his pail into the apple tree.
"HEY!" Timmy squawked.
Francis palmed his face and shoved him onto his butt with a painful thump.
"Are those your mommies' underwear, turd?"
Chester and AJ were relieved of their candy as well. Chester tried to hold onto his Jack Skellington bucket. Tad tore off one of his antennae. Chad pushed him into AJ. Tad and Chad were filthy rich. They were handsome. They were popular! Why were they hanging out with a jerk like Francis? Didn't they get enough candy last year gloating and impressing the adults?
"Thanks, turds. Mighty kind of ya ta gather all this up for us," said Francis. "Happy Halloween!"
Hooting and slapping high-fives, the bigger boys slouched off. Timmy picked himself up off the ground. There was a piece of gravel caught under the skin of his palm. He picked it out with a wince.
"JERKS!" AJ bellowed into the night.
Francis made a gesture over his shoulder that Wanda would never have allowed. Timmy thought about getting mad and demanding to know why she hadn't turned Francis into a warty toad, or turned him inside out, or given him a super wedgie and hung him in that apple tree by his dirty underwear- but he didn't. There was no point. Da Rules were perfectly clear: no magic in front of other humans. Not even Cosmo would cross that particular line. Wanda wouldn't let him. Not unless the entire universe was at stake.
Timmy sniffed helplessly.
Chester looked like he was going to cry.
AJ picked up a rock and threw it after the bullies. It bounced off the asphalt with a loud, flat crack. Timmy realized he was still holding onto one solitary Milk Dud, which was rapidly melting into a chocolate smear between his fingers. The very last Halloween candy of them all. Timmy offered it to AJ, who shook his head miserably. Timmy offered it to Chester.
"Nah, man. It's- it's okay. You keep it."
"Why are they so mean!" AJ whined. "WHY can't they just go get their own candy!?"
"Cause they're dirty, sweaty bungholes?" Timmy offered sullenly.
He waited for Wanda to tell him off for language.
She said nothing.
Francis and his gang picked on them every day at school, but it had been a long time since they'd struck a blow so unforgivably mean. Timmy scrubbed his runny nose against his arm and went over to shake the apple tree. His pumpkin pail was caught halfway up, wedged into that magical place from which no rock thrown and no stick was long enough to ever free it. There was a place like that in every tree, every culvert, and every roof in Dimsdale- a sinister bingo line that sucked in balls and kites and Frisbees like a black hole. Timmy shook the tree a little more, his expression pleading. There was a subtle poof of sparkles. The pail fell out of the tree.
"Come on, Retaliators!" he said, trying for some of Nebula's effortless bravado. "There's still a couple houses on this side of town. The night is young, crime fighters! Never give up! Never... surrender?"
AJ and Chester looked at him miserably. AJ snuffled loudly and wiped his face, smearing his beard around even more.
"Sure, man. I- I guess," he mumbled in a hollow voice.
"Who you kidding?" Chester snapped. "We've already hit all the good places! There's nothing up here but-"
He cut himself off, looking into the sad, defeated faces of his friends.
"But old man Coons gives out cans of pop," he finished lamely. "Might be Fanta again."
They gathered their buckets, fixed their costumes, and hunched off towards the last row of houses in the neighborhood. Every Trick or Treat, every door knock, every ringing doorbell sounded hollow now. Like the magic had been sucked out. When the last house had closed its door on them, Timmy peered into his pail and saw three Mars Bars, an Almond Joy, a handful of brilliant red Fireballs, and a can of Pepsi from Mr. Coons. No grape Fanta this year. Nothing bright or colorful or amazing. No Smarties. No Tootsie Pops, Seedlings or Sour Skittles. Just a handful of dull grown-up candy. Like the kind his Dad would eat.
Timmy resisted the urge to cry.
"...Well. Good night. I guess," said AJ. "I, uh... I should get home."
Timmy opened his mouth to say something, that they should stick together, that it was Halloween, that if they changed costumes real quick and went back to other houses they might get some more candy that way- but he closed his mouth without saying any of it. What was the point? AJ was right. Halloween was ruined. Might as well just go home and wait till next year.
"Uh, yeah. See ya. Nice... nice costume."
"Yeah. You too."
"...Bye."
"Bye."
They parted ways at the park. Chester walked with him for a while longer, then split off at the shortcut, and then Timmy was alone, dragging his pail along the ground. His shoes were starting to pinch and the chill breeze sliced through his costume like fangs. It was going to be a long walk home. Timmy was certain he was the most miserable boy in the entire world.
"I'm sorry you lost your candy, sport," said Wanda, hovering next to his ear. Timmy could feel her wings tickling her cheek as she kept pace with him. She smelled like lavender and cashmere and the best sugar cookies anybody ever made in the world.
"We'll make up up to you, okay?" she promised.
"Yeah. We'll make you all sorts of candy!" said Cosmo exuberantly. "Bucket and buckets and buckets, and when you've eaten too much, we'll magic the candy outta your stomach so you can gobble it up all over again! The kind that fizzles in your mouth, and the watermelon kind, and- and lollipops as big as your head! Oh, and don't forget about the milkshakes! How's a great BIIIIG milkshake sound, Timmy? With lots of whipped cream and cherries, and pumpkin ice-cream from Fairy World and-"
"Thanks, guys," said Timmy weakly, "but it's not the same."
He appreciated their attempts to cheer him up, he really did, but their candy just wasn't Halloween candy. Halloween candy had to be Trick-or-Treated. You had to fill up your bag, feel it getting heavier and heavier, until you were hauling it around like Captains Flint's booty because it was soooo worth it. You had to get in from other people's houses, and your costume had to be the best, because Halloween candy was special. Timmy sniffed quietly. Wanda and Cosmo shared a helpless look over the top of his head.
"...Would you like to visit Halloween Town?"
"No thanks, Wanda."
"Or carve a pumpkin the size of your house? With a chainsaw?!"
"Nah. I'm good."
His sneakers scuffed against the pavement as he walked, his fairies silently returned to rest on his chest with a defeated sounding poof. A dog started barking somewhere off in Dimsdale, the sound flattened by distance. His pail bumped against a small pine cone, which skittered invitingly ahead for him to see how far he could boot it down the road. Timmy hunched past without trying.
The wind picked up, flattening his patchwork costume against his body. Stray leaves and bits of old, dry grass skated across the pavement, scratching, scratching - like a hundred paper hands. A thick plume of woodsmoke drifted into Timmy's face. Above his head, the streetlight gave an ominous flicker.
Timmy stopped in his tracks. He wasn't sure why. There was the slightest whisper of sound- no, not a sound. A disturbance in the cool air, like somebody had left a window open. The veil between worlds cracked and something slipped through. Something that was never meant to wander this plane of reality. Snatches of demonic chanting arose from somewhere nearby. Somewhere close. Timmy suddenly felt like he should hide. Dive into the grass and lay low till whatever it was passed him by.
"Heeeeeey, twerp. Whatcha doin'?"
Timmy felt like somebody had upended a bucket of cold water over his head. He whirled in the direction of the voice with a soft, unmanly eeep of terror. He already knew who it was; it couldn't be anyone else. His wide, quivering eyes fell on Vicky leaning against the streetlight.
"Ahhhhhh! Run for your lives!" Timmy's green medal wailed.
Timmy clutched his pail to his chest like a shield. What good would running do? Vicky was too fast. Like scary fast. Faster than the school bus. Faster than Francis. Faster than Dad finding a stash of Girl Scout cookies! She'd be on him like white on rice before he'd made it to the other side of the street. His only chance- oh, who was he kidding? He didn't have a chance. He was doomed. Kaput. Worm food.
"Hey, Vicky," he squeaked. "H-h-h Happy Halloween."
Vicky casually pushed off the streetlight. She was wearing her usual outfit, green top, black jeans, brilliant red high-tops- but Timmy was quick to note that something was different. A pair of horns protruded from the top of Vicky's head and a matching tail with a flat, spade-like end was tucked into the back of her pants. Their thick coat of blood-red sequins scintillated and flashed in the glow of the streetlight. It was the cheapest "costume" Timmy had ever seen in his life - and also the most frighteningly accurate.
"Give," she ordered, and Timmy gave up his candy pail without so much as a whisper of protest.
Three Mars Bars and a can of pop wasn't worth his life.
Vicky stared into the pail with a look of pure disgust. She tipped it sideways and Timmy heard everything slop to one end.
"This is it?" she spat.
"I had more, but Francis and his goons stole it all," Timmy said in a small voice.
Vicky glanced down at him. Timmy wished he looked brave and tough, like Crash Nebula, not small and pitiful, with watery eyes and a little red snub of a nose he kept wiping on his sleeve. He sunk his front teeth into his lip to keep it from trembling. Vicky rattled the contents of his pail one more time, then shoved it into his chest. Timmy clutched it before it hit the ground. The can of soda would make an especially large mess if it popped and he didn't want to add "cold, wet and sticky" to his already extensive list of things to be miserable about.
"Tch. The fat little goth? Yeah, I know him. His pops pays me good to babysit."
Timmy couldn't imagine anyone as big and mean and loud as Francis being babysat by anyone. Then again, Vicky was no normal babysitter. He wondered if she made Francis brush his teeth with wasabi toothpaste and sent him to bed before the sun went down. He struggled to wrap his head around that kind of raw power.
Vicky lifted a half-eaten candy apple he hadn't noticed to her mouth and took a bite, her teeth puncturing the hard, candy shell and into the tart white flesh beneath with a grisly pop. Timmy swallowed hard. Flecks of translucent red candy pattered on the pavement next to his shoes. He envisioned her gnawing on the bones of the damned down in Heck.
"So," Vicky drawled, fixing him in her evil pink stare. "Where'd they head off to?"
"As your lawyer, I advise you to scarper," Cosmo whispered.
"I agree," said Wanda.
Timmy's feet felt frozen to the pavement.
"I, uh... they..."
He wasn't even sure he understood the question.
Vicky took another bite. Munch. Crunch.
"You deaf or just stupid?" she asked, glaring at him.
"Stupid! Definitely stupid!" Timmy yelped. "You- you mean Francis and his gang?"
"No, I mean the Easter Bunny and his elves," said Vicky darkly.
Munch.
CRUNCH.
Timmy felt a piece of apple flesh land on his cheek. He quickly swiped it away.
"I dunno. They caught us up at the t-top of Depot Hill. Then they went down the street."
Vicky stretched both arms over her head. Her spine made all sorts of gross noises.
"Depot Hill, huh? Welp, lets go and see."
She started off down the sidewalk. Timmy didn't budge an inch. Her back was turned now. Maybe if he took off really, really fast down the hill, and threw his candy pail in her face like he was chucking a piece of meat at a charging bear, he could make it back to his house before she caught him and munched on his face like that apple. Vicky threw a dangerous look over one shoulder.
"Didn't you hear me, twerp? You. With Me. NOW."
Timmy scampered up next to her. He had to jog to keep up with Vicky's much longer stride. He didn't mention they were going back the way he'd came. He also tried not to think about where they were going, or what kind of torture Vicky had in mind for him once they got there. A car rolled by, headlights tracing ghostly pools of light on the pavement. Timmy wondered if he should have called out for help as it passed. Did this count as a kidnapping, like the mafia shows his Mom watched where the victim ended up with cement shoes?
"Where we going?" Timmy whispered.
"Somewhere," Vicky answered cryptically, stepping off the sidewalk and into the park.
"Yeah, over the rainbow!" Cosmo chimed in. "That's code for the bottom a lake, or locked in a dark creepy basement, or-"
"That's enough," said Wanda. "You're scaring him!"
Timmy gulped audibly.
The park no long felt like a safe, responsible and an utterly boring place to be. Shadows crouched under all the playground equipment. Moonlight glinted where it touched metal. The empty swing-set creaked in a sudden gust of wind. Shivering, Timmy clutched his pail for comfort. His tennis shoes squeaked on the damp grass.
"Well, this is creepy," Cosmo observed.
"There's nothing in the dark that isn't there when the light is on!" said Wanda.
"Oh, right. I shouldn't say that in front of Timmy. He doesn't need to know about the N-O-T-H-I-N-G," said Cosmo, reverting to the same trick his Mom and Dad used when they spelled out D-E-N-T-I-S-T.
Timmy's eyelids drooped in exasperation.
"Or worse," Cosmo added in a hushed whisper, glancing about as if expecting to see fangs and a pair of glowing, faintly luminous eyes glaring at them from beneath the monkey bars. "G-M-"
"Do NOT invoke that name!" Wanda interrupted loudly.
"Not helping, guys," Timmy hissed at his chest. "And stop S-P-E-E-L-I-N-G stuff!"
"What'd you say?" Vicky snapped.
"Nothing! Just- just talking to myself!"
Vicky ducked through the ornamental hedge as the far end of park, where it butted against a tall, wooded, and very dark hill. Timmy squeezed through the branches. They scratched at his face and costume, and turned his headband askew. Vicky was already hiking up the slope. Timmy followed as quickly as his stubby legs could carry him. The trail was long, but sloped and meandering, and it wasn't long before they found pavement again. Timmy straightened his headband and looked around.
STOP sign.
Scraggy old apple tree.
Crumpled Milk Dud wrapper.
"Hey," said Timmy. "I know where we are! We're back on Depot Hill!"
"Wow. Good job, twerp. You really blasted that one outta the park."
Timmy had no idea how going through the playground led here, or how it avoided the lungs-aching, calf-burning slog up Depot Hill, but he concluded it had something to do with Halloween magic, or maybe Vicky had demon powers inaccessible to mere mortals. Like the ability to go into the woods and pop up anywhere she wanted.
Vicky set off down the street again. Timmy wondered if she meant to walk him to death. Like, just keep going in circles around town until his legs finally gave out and he died. He scuffed his runny nose on his sleeve. In moments they'd crossed the street, turned the corner, passed the last streetlight on the block, and just when it's dim sodium glow had faded to almost nothing- Timmy saw it.
"T-the graveyard?" he squeaked.
"Yup."
"On Halloween?!"
Vicky eyed him with a malicious grin. "Scared, twerp?"
Timmy looked at the wrought iron fence with its sharp spikes, at the dead sweet pea vines that choked said fence. He could hear their dry, shriveled pods rasping against one another. The crooked gate was slightly ajar.
"N-no," Timmy stammered, "I-I just think somebody should, you know, keep watch-"
Vicky planted a hand between his shoulders and gave him a shove. Timmy threw both hands out to stop himself from breaking his nose on the gate, only for the hinges to swing wide and unceremoniously dump him onto his face. Vicky howled unrepentantly.
"Oops!"
Her high-tops crunched on the pathway as she stepped over him. When she didn't kick him, Timmy cautiously picked himself up, brushing dirt and twigs from the front of his costume. A sudden breeze swirled around the headstones, stirring the petals of old, sun-bleached roses and fake purple irises. Timmy didn't think anybody had been buried here for years. Nobody fresh, anyway. He scrambled to keep up with Vicky. The only thing worse than being with Vicky in a haunted graveyard on Halloween Night was being alone in a haunted graveyard on Halloween Night. Behind then, the gate creaked sharply.
"What was that?!" Cosmo cried.
"Just the wind, dear," said Wanda soothingly.
"Are you sure? I think we're being followed."
Timmy began to imagine he heard voices. Did they belong to the people in the graves? People with weird old names like Herb and Bartholomew, and little boys like him that'd died of scurvy way back when Dimsdale had been a pilgrim town? Were they happy somebody had come to visit their lonely cemetery, tonight of all auspicious nights? Or were they turning over in their old, rotten coffins, eager to feed on the trespassers?
His nose tickled with the scent of overturned earth. The shadows ahead resolved themselves into mounds of fresh dirt piled up around a gaping, rectangular hole. Timmy's breath caught in his throat. Vicky had already dug his grave for him and now she'd brought him out here to lie in it!
There was a flashlight lying on the ground, throwing its crummy yellow glow onto a nearby crypt. Someone very important must have been buried there, because on top of the slab was the biggest assortment of candy Timmy had ever seen in his life. More than the Halloween aisle at the store. Gumballs, lollipops in every color, popcorn balls the size of his fist, Skittles and candy-corn and Smarties all piled on that cold, grey granite like an offering to a dead king- no, a GOD.
Timmy's mouth fell open in a loose O of surprise.
With such an embarrassment of wealth, it was no wonder it took him an extra second to notice the three boys picking through the candy, scornfully discarding things like DOTS and licorice pieces. Vicky's lips peeled into a frightening smirk. Timmy's left medal started whistling the Coffin Dance under it's breath. He shivered as Vicky stepped around a headstone which, up until that moment, had been partially concealing them from view.
"Evening, loosers," she crooned.
Timmy watched as Francis, Tad and Chad gasped and jumped back. Francis gawked at the older girl, his frightened eyes locked on hers. Tad made a whimpering noise. Chad didn't utter a sound, but there was a damp spot in the front of his jeans. Timmy knew he should feel sorry that Vicky had made him pee, but he didn't. All he could think about was the stolen candy and Chester's broken antennae, and the sticky feeling of Francis' hand on his face.
"Hi, Vicky," Francis breathed.
"Hey, Franny," said Vicky, examining the tips of her fingernails.
She'd painted them a dark, glittery shade of red that reminded Timmy of blood.
"Heard you've been making a killing tonight," she continued. "And you weren't even gonna share any with me."
Tad was clinging onto Chad's coat.
"Oh, Uh- w- we woulda' brought you yours tomorrow. Promise," said Francis.
"Mmmmm. I don't believe you. I'm thinking you were gonna keep this little haul all to yourself."
"We weren't! Honest!"
"Honest and for true?!" said Vicky, pronouncing the "r" in true like a "w" so it came out all scornful and baby-like. She took a step forward. The boys took a mirroring step back. "See, you cleaned out the twerp earlier, and that's a real problem, cause anything he gets is half mine - and do you know what half of nothing is, Franny?"
Francis' mouth worked soundlessly.
Vicky tapped his cheek with one short, red, fingernail.
"Come on, Vicky. Give us a break," Tad mumbled.
Vicky stabbed a finger at him.
Tad snapped his mouth shut so hard Timmy heard his teeth click. Vicky turned her withering glare back on Francis. Timmy usually thought of pink as being a nice color. Pink reminded him of Wanda, of bubblegum and strawberry milk. Pink was a nice, gentle color - unless it happened to be the exact shade of Vicky's eyes. Then pink was the color of death, of poison, of a jungle frog the color of lipstick with enough toxin in its skin to drop Jorgen Von Strangle. Timmy held his breath.
"Well?" Vicky demanded coldly.
"N-n-nothing?' Francis whispered.
"That's right, Franny. Nothing. So now I'm taking all of it."
She looked at Tad and Chad.
"BOO!"
Both 5th Graders jerked backwards. Tad's foot skidded backward into thin air. He grabbed on to Chad's jacket with a panicked yelp. Wet dirt sluiced out from under their heels as they fought to remain upright, but Tad's annoying good-looks didn't come with good balance, and Chad was already off-kilter trying to do some kind of pirouette. With a cry, both boys tumbled backwards into the open grave.
Timmy stared at the chaos with a kind of horrified fascination - like watching a car wreck unfold on the highway - as Francis shoved away from Vicky and ran towards the bright purple two-wheeler leaning against a headstone. It had iridescent tassels flying from the handlebars. It had a basket. It definitely didn't belong to Francis. Timmy distantly wondered which girl at school he'd stole it from.
Francis heaved his beefy leg over the bike and took off down the little path before his butt had even touched the seat, front wheel juking back and forth as he fought for control. He was going to crash! No, no he'd gotten control of it. Barely. He was going to escape-
Francis was forcibly removed from the bike as Vicky casually stepped out from behind a mausoleum and palmed his face like a Spalding. The bike continued on without him for several feet, pedals whirring, before it seemed to realize it was riderless and tipped over in a heap. Timmy's mouth fell open. He glanced at the spot Vicky had occupied just seconds earlier and saw nothing but empty air. He could imagine the little dotted outline flashing to indicate where she'd been.
"Told you!" Cosmo wailed. "She's not human!"
"Now I'm sure there's a... rational explanation," Wanda hedged uncertainly.
Yeah. She's either the Devil - or, like, married to him, Timmy thought, picturing Vicky in a bridal veil with a bouquet of severed heads she was holding by their spines. Kind of like what she was doing to poor Francis right now.
"Gotcha!" said Vicky triumphantly.
She carried Francis back up the path as easily as Tootie carried that awful Timmy doll of hers.
"How nice of somebody to have this deep, dark, wormy hole already dug for me! Why don't you check it out?"
She tossed Francis into the grave right on top of his buddies, who were standing on tiptoes trying to claw their way out, but the dirt was too soft and wet, and the top of the hole too far over their heads to get a good grip. They went sprawling in a heap as Francis roughly landed on top of them.
"Get OFF of me, fatso!"
"Ow!"
"Somebody's standing on my sunglasses!"
"Vicky, come on!" Francis pleaded. "We're sorry, alright!?"
"Vicky-
"Vicky, p-please!"
Vicky hummed a sinister, off-key tune while she wandered around the grave and selected a shovel planted upright in a mound of earth. "Oh, you're sorry, huh? Sorry for forgetting I get a 70/30 split? Sorry for making me hike all the way up here to beat your ass?"
Cosmo gasped. "She used the A-word!"
"Timmy, forget you heard that!" Wanda chimed in urgently.
All Timmy could think was that his fairy godparents had some weird priorities, considering they were about to watch Francis and his gang get buried alive. Vicky shoveled up a serving of wet dirt and lazily chucked it into the hole. Francis yelped as wet dirt pattered into his spiky black hair.
"Come on! You can have the candy!"
"Oh, I'm taking the candy," said Vicky. Another shovel-full followed the first. "This is about sending a message."
"You're crazy!" Tad hollered.
The shovel made a satisfying, crunchy scrape as Vicky scooped up another heap and sprinkled it into the hole.
"And the message is," Vicky continued, "this town, the twerp - and his candy - are MINE. Capisce?"
Her voice rolled over from her usual, slightly high-pitched drawl to something that resembled one of the mobsters from that show Cosmo had let him watch late one night - or maybe Dracula's knock-off Italian cousin.
"You're-a pissing on my territory, Tad. You know what-a happens when you pisssss on mai territory."
"Awww, we're the obsession of a psychopathic murderer," said Cosmo. "Ain't that romantic?"
Timmy shifted uncomfortably.
"...V-Vicky?" he hedged. "You're not gonna bury them all the way... are you?"
He froze as Vicky momentarily paused her digging to slant him a predatory look.
"You can help me up here, twerp, or you can be down there with them. Your choice."
Timmy's eyes went wide. He threw a horrified glance at the grave, then back at Vicky.
"Sorry Francis!" he squeaked.
Chad spluttered as Timmy used the side of his sneaker to start exuberantly kicking dirt into the hole.
"Arrrrgh, Turner you little- VICKY! Vicky, listen. I'll make a deal with ya!" Francis hollered.
"I'm listening," said Vicky lazily.
"You let us go and I'll give you my allowance money!"
Vicky planted the shovel upright in the dirt and leaned against it.
"Mmmmm. Tempting. I reeealy wanna fill this hole up with dirt, though..."
"You can have all their allowances too!"
Tad and Chad immediately set up a howl of protest.
"DUDE! You can't do that!"
"I'm not giving her diddly squat!"
Vicky shrugged and hefted the shovel again.
"WAIT! Wait wait wait- okay! Okay, you win. All my allowance!" Tad yelled.
"And your birthday money?" Vicky wheedled, eyes glittering.
"And my birthday money!"
"Deal."
She dropped the shovel and began sweeping great, glittering armfuls of candy into a discarded shopping bag. When she'd gathered up everything but crumbs much too small for the graveyard's mouses, she threw the bag over one shoulder and set off down the path at a victorious saunter. Timmy scrambled after her.
"Hey. HEY!" Chad yelled, voice already fading with distance. "Aren't you gonna get us out of here?!"
"Wasn't planning on it," Vicky called back. "You're big boys, aren't you? Find your own way out. And if ya can't, well... somebody'll find you. In a couple of days!"
A chorus of protests rose from the open grave. Vicky threw her head back and cackled, the sound seeming to hang in the air around them, wrapping itself around the headstones, and skittering through the leaves on the rising breeze, like the voice of Halloween itself. A fingernail moon emerged between the scudding clouds and framed her head between its upward points, giving her a blazing, unholy coronet of sequins and moonlight. In that moment Timmy was sure he was beholden to a magic far older than milkshakes and pumpkin ice cream; here was the personification of darkness and mischief, of every ghoul hung on every porch straining to be free on Halloween night. Timmy had never been so terrified, or so awe-struck, in his entire life.
The spell broke as Vicky bent and stood the bike up. "Nice wheels."
They were nice wheels, Timmy had to admit. Girls' wheels, but nice. He wondered if Vicky was going to keep it , or whether she'd hawk it for extra scratch somewhere on the other side of Dimsdale, in some kind of gritty bike chop-shop where they drank coffee instead of apple juice, and the the kids wouldn't notice or care about stolen property.
Vicky hooked the candy onto the handlebars and walked beside the bike, tires crunching over the fallen pine needles. The indignant wailing of the 5th Graders slowly faded into the night. When they reached the gate, Timmy scrambled to open it with being asked. He didn't want Vicky to change her mind and leave him back there.
They walked in silence for several blocks, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the bike chain. The houses they passed had their porch lights off now, but most were still aglow behind drapes of purple lights and fake cobwebs. Timmy jumped as Ms. Pettigrew's mean little bulldog, Buddy, raced towards the fence, flecks of drools flying from its chops. Despite it's small size, Timmy figured it outweighed him by like fifteen pounds, and he had more than one memory of Buddy knocking him to the ground, blunt claws scratching painful welts into his skin.
"Oh, shut up," Vicky deadpanned, kicking a half-rotten crabapple at the fence. It bounced off inches from Buddy's nose and the bulldog immediately fled back onto the porch. "Stupid dog."
Timmy glanced up at her, too afraid to say anything that might break the spell of... whatever this was. He was so busy concentrating on being quiet he didn't notice he was standing at the bottom of his own driveway until Vicky came to a sudden halt and he nearly got the bike's fender stuffed up his nose.
"End of the line, twerp."
I'm... home?
Timmy gawped at his house as if to verify it was, indeed, his own house and not some kind of trick. He wouldn't have put it past Vicky to build a whole new house that looked like his house, and smelled like his house, but was filled with spiders and snakes and a barbecue pit where she intended to put a spit up his butt and cook him like a rotisserie chicken.
The porch lights were off, and not a single skeleton or Jack-O'-Lantern adorned the front lawn, except for the chain of bats Wanda had helped him cut out of black construction paper and tape to the front window. Vicky made a clucking sound with her tongue.
"Your folks really went all out this year," she observed dryly.
Thinking of the flocks of real bats that'd been fluttering around the kitchen, the floating candles in his bedroom, and the sink in the bathroom which alternated between dispensing green slime and licorice-scented soap, Timmy didn't really think that was a fair assessment, but of course he didn't say so.
He nervously stepped away from Vicky and started crab-walking up the driveway. Surely there was no way he was getting out of this alive. Vicky hadn't even asked for the can of pop still in his pail, but if she thought he was trying to swindle her she'd shake it up and squirt it all over him, so it was better if he just kept walking and-
"Hey, twerp. You forgettin' something?"
"There it is," said Timmy's left medal.
Timmy cautiously glanced back over one shoulder. A few seconds passed. Vicky indicated the sack of candy swinging from the handlebars with a tilt of her chin, her eyes half-lidded.
"Don't do it, Timmy," said Wanda urgently. "Think about your kids!"
I don't even have any kids! Timmy thought wildly.
His eyes darted from candy, to the Vicky, then back to the candy. Halloween candy. Quite possibly the most powerful artifact in the world. Was he going to go to his room like a coward, on Halloween night, and eat a sad bite-sized Snickers like a prisoner at the Bastille - or would he risk certain death for a chance at a Tootsie Pop? It was a stupid choice. It was also no choice at all. Timmy took a step forward, then another. And another.
Vicky watched him like he was the goat in Jurassic Park.
"Hold out your hands," she purred.
"Timmy, sweetie, think about this," Wanda pleaded. "Do you really want to spend Halloween in the emergency room?"
"Do it, Timmy," Cosmo egged him on. "Live dangerously!"
Timmy stuck out his Halloween pail. He wondered if Vicky wanted him to cry and go "Please Vicky, may I have some more?" like the sad little boy in the story Mr. Birkenbake had made them read. Timmy also wondered if this extra humiliation would help him get any candy. Vicky dropped the brown, soggy core of her candy apple into his pail with a depressing thunk. Timmy's face sagged in exasperation. His arms drooped. Yep. Typical Vicky. Honestly, why did he even-
"I said hold it out!"
Timmy thrust his arms at her as Vicky swiped the kickstand out with her foot and tugged the bag off the handlebars. Holding it in both hands, she upended it over his pail. Timmy gawked, eyes bugging out to the size of dinner plates, as a cascade of brightly colored treasures sluiced into his pail. In seconds Timmy had to lock both elbows to keep from dropping it, and Vicky was still pouring. The glittering cellophane reached the lip of the pail and mounded up like icing on a cupcake, like whipping cream on a milkshake.
Vicky pinched off the neck of the shopping bag. It was still over half full. She hung it back on the handlebars. She eyed his pail, frowned, and then stuck out her hand. Timmy fully expected to have everything roughly dumped onto the ground and the pail fitted over his head, because did he really think he was getting anything except his butt kicked tonight? Vicky loved giving him stuff, then taking it away later.
Her hand plunged into the candy, knocking several Reese's onto the ground, and fished out an enormous popcorn ball wrapped in green cellophane.
"That's mine," she declared, in a voice Timmy would expect from a villain in a bad movie.
He clutched the handle of his pail.
It felt like an anvil.
Vicky eyed him with a mean, satisfied grin.
"Nighty night, twerp. Happy Halloween."
Timmy felt a shiver go down the back of his neck. This was a trap, it had to be. He didn't budge. Vicky placed both hands on her thighs and leaned towards him. A curl of wind stirred her scarlet bangs. She smelled like old, cracked, plastic doll heads, like pumpkin flesh, lip gloss, sulfur and death.
"Shoo," she whispered.
Timmy shot towards the house like Wile E. Coyote. He threw and locked the front door, then took the stairs two at the time, crashed into his bedroom, then locked that door and pushed the bed in front of it for good measure. His bedroom was dark and quiet. It smelled kind of funny, too. Sour and moldy. Maybe that rotten ham sandwich had gotten out. Maybe it was in here, in the dark, waiting to jump on his face and make him the baby daddy for all it's rotten ham children. Timmy crept to the window and peeked through the blinds with two fingers.
Vicky was still standing in the driveway, watching the house with a sly, lidded smirk. Almost as if she knew Timmy was looking, she looked up at his bedroom window, teeth gleaming in a sharp, Cheshire grin, and wiggled her fingers at him in a mocking little wave. Timmy eeped and ducked down behind the sill. After a minute, he cautiously leaned back up.
The driveway was empty.
"Oh, man," Timmy gulped.
"Spooooky," Cosmo chortled.
His appeared in the air next to Timmy with a pop. "Look at all this candy!" he gushed, hovering over the pail. "Smarties and Tootsie Rolls and ooooo, those little wax bottles that taste really weird and get stuck in your teeth. We made a killing! Speaking of which, and not that I'm complaining, but did we just become accessories to murder?"
Timmy's right medal turned back into Wanda. She tapped his bedside lamp with her wand. A dim yellow light flooded the bedroom. Timmy peeled his pinchy shoes off and sat on the floor, shivery and out of breath.
"Do you think those boys will be alright?" Wanda asked worriedly. "It's going to be a chilly night. Timmy, you should wish them free!"
"No way! Vicky will know I set them loose and she'll wait till I'm asleep, climb through my window, drag me back out to the graveyard and put ME in that hole!"
"Eh, bold of you to think she'll wait till you're asleep," said Cosmo offhandedly.
"There, you see! Besides, they're mean, poopy-headed jerks."
Francis and his gang had terrorized everybody at school since the 1st Grade. After what they'd done to him and his friends tonight, Timmy found he couldn't have cared less if they spent the night with the worms and/or dead people that wanted to spread their brains on toast like jam. Served them right. He stared at the overflowing wealth of candy.
"How come she gave me some?" Timmy asked softly.
"Hush money," said Cosmo immediately. "So you don't tell anybody about the murder."
"Oh, you stop," Wanda scolded. "There was no murder. Maybe Vicky was just... being nice?"
Timmy and Cosmo burst out laughing. Wanda didn't sound like she believed it either.
"Well, maybe she couldn't carry it all," she offered.
"She carried it to Timmy's house without a problem," said Cosmo, very logically.
"Well... yes, but maybe-"
"Aw, who cares! Let's just dig in!" Timmy interrupted.
He dumped a mountain of candy out on the floor.
"Oooooooh," he and Cosmo chorused together.
Timmy had never seen so much candy. Tootsie Pops. Skittles. M&Ms. Reese's Cups. Smarties. Warheads. He stroked a reverent hand over the pile, feeling all the candy shift and slither. This was more that he'd collected before Francis had shook him down. This was more than he'd ever Trick-or-Treated in a single night! This was more than even the rich kids got at that stupid, crummy mansion!
"Weeeeeee!" Cosmo squealed, diving into the pile. There was a poof of magic and a bright green dragon about the size of a house-cat squatted over the pile with its wings spread.
"My teeth are swords! My claws are... er, pointy!"
Timmy giggled and poked the miniature dragon in the side as fumes of gold sparkles and colored green smoke trickled from it's nostrils. Cosmo bared his teeth.
"No, how dare you! I am death! I am terror! I am Wanda's husband!"
Wanda tapped the candy with her shoe. On one wand, this was larceny and, quite possibly, accessory to assault. On the other, there was a delightfully Robin Hood kind of element to it. Stealing from people who deserved it. Even if Vicky had technically done the stealing. Wanda pursed her lips, trying to find something wrong with the situation, because surely something was wrong. Maybe Vicky planned on turning them in to the human police, and with a sack of candy as evidence-
Cosmo threw his wings out, scattering candy across the bedroom and pelting them with loose gumballs. Timmy ducked. Wanda ducked. Then they all laughed. Timmy set several packets of M&Ms aside.
"Don't eat those," he said. "Chester likes those, and... AJ likes Skittles. Better save some of everything for the guys! Oh wow, are those Jolly Ranchers?! Where'd Francis get Jolly Ranchers?"
Wanda smiled quietly to herself. Maybe it wasn't so bad. It made her boys happy, after all.
"Don't eat too much!" she warned. "You'll both get tummy-aches! Cosmo, spit it out! You know you're allergic to peanut butter!"
"But it's sooooo good!" Cosmo whined, looking at the Reese's Cup he'd been about to sink his teeth into.
"Do you remember what happened last Halloween?"
"Er... I got dressed up like a cat, and things got really, really, really out of hand, and I ended up yowling on top of a trash can in New York with a tattoo of a shamrock on my bum, because I'd actually been sworn into the Leprechaun mafia-"
"No, dear. The other thing."
"...My tongue turned into a big beautiful sausage?"
"Yes."
"But you said you liked my sausage!"
"Cosmo!"
"Have a KitKat, Wanda!" said Timmy, holding one out to her.
"Ooooh, are those dark chocolate?! GIVE!"
The devoured that beautiful, bonanza of candy until they were full to bursting, and then they ate some more. Timmy fell asleep on the floor without brushing his teeth. His fairies were far more dignified. They fell asleep in the candy. Outside, a chill gust of wind rippled through the trees. The lightest of autumn rain began to fall, turning the ghouls and pumpkins soggy, beads of water dripping from plastic fingers, stumpy teeth, and cheesecloth shrouds. Somewhere in the distance, Vicky's cackling lingered like the ghost of an echo.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!