Part 11 (2/2)
He grabbed up one of the three bowls of candy and strode off to the kitchen with ita”despite the pain the motion and speed caused in his neck and in the joints of his hips. He pulled honey from one of the cabinets and poured it over the candy. He took a plastic container of white glue and squirted it over the honey. Once again the refrigerator door opened of its own accord. He smeared a large dollop of mayonnaise over the honey, then broke open the largest of the five eggs on the top. He stirred the contents of the shallow dish with the blade of a rusting knife. The buzzer still buzzed. The Devil still chanted ”Trick or Treat” and stamped his feet on the porch in a nauseating rhythm.
”I have candy,” Killup said with grim glee as he opened the door.
”Goblin candy.”
The Devil cringed backward, but Killup grabbed the edge of his bag and spilled the mixture into the sack over the Devil's other loot. Killup laughed as the Devil stalked off into the night.
”Tell your friends!” Killup called after.
Evidently the Devil did warn the other trick-or-treaters, for the buzzer didn't sound again. Killup watched sitcoms and didn't laugh. Killup watched a movie made for television that was about a disease he'd never heard of and fell asleep before any of the actors died of it.
The door buzzer jerked him awake.
”Eleven-thirty,” he complained, looking at his watch.
”d.a.m.n kids.”
He listened for the buzzer to repeat. It didn't. The television showed only static. He changed the channel but couldn't find a picture. He turned off the set and lit a cigarette.
He inhaled deeply. The buzzer sounded again.
Even stiffer than usual with sleep, Killup rose from the chair and went cautiously to the window. The buzzer sounded again. He pried open the slats of the blinds and peered out.
The porch light was on, though he was certain he'd turned it off. Dull red oak leaves blew down the length of the porch.
The hanging swing rattled on its chains. But no trick-or treater was therea”neither Rabbit, nor lurid Clown, nor painted Devil.
”Good,” he said, turning away. The blinds snapped back into place.
The buzzer sounded again.
”Tricks,” Killup breathed in anger as he stalked toward the entrance way. A chill October wind blew open the front door just as he reached for the k.n.o.b.
”Trick or treat,” said the Goblin. It wore a belted, hooded robe. The toes of its shoes turned up and were belled.
Its mask was dark, elongated, and furrowed. The eyes behind it were tiny, black, and twinkling. A stiff taila”operated by batter, Killup surmiseda”swished right and left behind the Goblin. Swished the way a cat's tail sometimes swishes, in leisurely contempt.
”No,” said Killup. ”You're not getting any candy. It's too late. I don't have any left. I gave it all away.
Never had any to begin with.”
He slammed the door and shot the bolt in the lock. ”Trick or treat,” sounded the Goblin from outside.
The k.n.o.b turned, the door jarred against the bolt. The Goblin was trying to get in.
”Trick or treat.”
”Go away!” Killup cried. ”It's almost midnight!”
”No!”
Killup went to the door, turned the bolt, and flung the door wide. ”It's too late to be out trick-or-treating!” he cried.
He looked down the length of the porch.
No Goblin.
The Goblin was obviously hiding in the dark bushes beyond the railing.
As soon as he shut the door again, the Goblin would return.
”It's nearly midnight,” Killup called into the darkness.
”Go home! Tell your mother I said you were a wicked child.”
He waited a moment. Silence. Stillness. He waited another moment.
Still nothing.
He slowly pushed the door shut. He slowly shot the bolt into the lock.
The Goblin kicked open the door.
Sere leaves and a cold wind blew in on Killup.
”Trick or treat,” said the Goblin, and, holding his bag of coa.r.s.e burlap open before him, took two deliberate steps into Killup's house.
In the light of the hallway the trick-or-treater's mask seemed a very fine piece of the modeler's work.
The furrows deepened when the Goblin spoke. The flesh around the black, twinkling eyes creased when the Goblin grinned at Killup.
The Goblin's gloves were on a par with the mask, eight inch fingers, gnarled skin, scales and ridges that bent and stretched as the Goblin delicately plucked a single candy from one of the dishes on the table.
The Goblin delicately dropped the wrapped candy into his burlap bag.
He reached for another.
Killup grabbed at the Goblin's hand angrily, in order to pull off the glove and expose the childish hand beneath.
But the Goblin was quick, twisting its hand so that it s.n.a.t.c.hed not another piece of wrapped candy but Killup's wrist.w.a.tch, nearly pulling it over his wrist, over his palm, sliding it past his fingers.
Terrified and incensed by this intrusion, Killup grabbed the Goblin by the shoulders and tried to push him out the door.
The Goblin slipped out of his grasp and fell backward on the floor. Before Killup could react, the Goblin turned the neatest of neat backward somersaults and was upright upon the threshold.
Then, with hardly a bending of the knees, the Goblin leapt up and backward, neatly balancing on the rotten porch rail. It was not something Killup could have done as a child. It was not something he had ever seen anyone do.
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