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# Long Night in the Valley — A Clifton Heights Halloween Story

## By Kevin Lucia

"Kevin Lucia is this generation's answer to Charles L. Grant." — Horror Grandmaster, Brian Keene

"This is Death of a Salesman written for the horror market. The stories are flawless and original, avoiding the usual, hackneyed tropes, with no weak links between them. A thoroughly enjoyable read for the longer autumnal nights." — Horror Addicts, on Things You Need

"Kevin Lucia writes my favorite kind of horror, the kind not enough folks are writing anymore." — Bram Stoker Award Winning Author, Kealan Patrick Burke

"Kevin Lucia's writing is both scary and smart, a lethal cocktail that makes for mesmerizing storytelling." — Tosca Lee, New York Times Bestselling Author of Demon: A Memoir

"Lucia is a true craftsman of the horror story, with a fine sense of the genre's best traditions." —Norman Prentiss, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of Invisible Fences and The Fleshless Man

"Lucia writes tales that stick with you, that are memorable. And believe me, they are the best kind." — Bram Stoker Award Winning Author, USA Today Bestseller Tom Monteleone

"Kevin Lucia is a major new voice in the horror genre." — Jonathan Janz, author of The Nightmare Girl

# Copyright 2018 - Kevin Lucia

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This is a FREE ebook. Please share with everyone who might be interested. For more free ebooks, please join my newsletter by sending an email to kevinblucia@gmail.com, subject line: Newsletter/Free Ebooks.

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# Let me tell you a story.

I promise it'll be worth your time. I dare say you'll be better for the listening. You only live one life, and, as I once heard someone much wiser than me say, stories allow us to live countless lives in addition to our own. So please allow me to share a tale with you of a life, and in the telling, allow you to step out of your life and into another.

That's how stories teach us. They let us peer vicariously into the lives of people both near and far away. They allow us to be, for just a short time, those people. In that moment, transference of experience occurs, the kind which cannot be replicated by anything else. The best of stories leave us changed fundamentally by our exposure to struggles either very different from or terribly alike our own. If the least of these stories merely allow us to peek at an imagined reality that's different from our own, so be it. Even through the least of stories, we are changed.

There's a reason why ancient peoples taught lessons through stories. There's a reason why Jesus (whether you believe in him historically, spiritually, or not at all) taught his greatest lessons through parables, and there's a reason why any self-respecting parent will gladly heed their child's nightly requests for a bedtime tale. The narrative of Story, in the best hands, is a reflection of life. In that mirror, we see who we truly are, who we want to be, or who we need to be.

And, Dear Listener, it's Halloween. All Hallow's Eve. The only other night perhaps more ripe for storytelling is Christmas Eve, (when the British indulge in their annual tales of ghosts and Gothic mysteries), so it's the perfect night to be regaled by a tale of the fantastic.

Strangeness wafts in the air. An otherworldly essence permeates everything. The Veil between this world and the next grows thin. Halloween is the best time for a tale such as this, and it begins with a very simple question which I believe makes all of us cringe with muted fear.

When does life become too much?

At what point does a man or woman break? We all have different thresholds which cannot be crossed without our breaking down. For some, this break comes quickly and under the slightest provocation, with the fury of a thermonuclear explosion, and their dissolution is apparent to all.

For others, it comes quietly and slowly. After years of small disappointments, failures or betrayals. Over time, these erode the walls between a person and their despair, as assuredly as a constant stream of water erodes even the hardest minerals. When the end of their rope comes, it will either come violently, or, as T. S. Eliot once said, "not with bang, but a whimper." Either way, no one will have seen it coming.

Of course, not everyone gives in when they reach their breaking point (and, Dear Listener, it's not a question of if we reach our breaking points, but more a question of when). Some, in the face of pain unimaginable, discover who they want to be. They discover how much they're willing to sacrifice.

My story tonight is about a man who has reached his breaking point, at last. He has come to it quietly, and those around him would be shocked and dismayed to know how badly the walls holding back his despair have eroded. His life has not turned out how he'd imagined, but to all outward appearances, he has made do. He has married, he works, he lives quietly, and seems at peace.

Running through him, however, is a constant stream of regret and guilt. Those waters — which have flowed quietly yet daily for the past twenty-eight years — have eroded his walls, leaving very little to hold back the blackness inside.

Our story begins in a small bar right here, in our humble town of Clifton Heights, where local sports fanatic Jimmy Malfi is lamenting his poor choices in the world of sports betting, as he pounds the bar of The Stumble Inn and says with frustration...

# 1.

"What the hell's wrong with you guys? Get your asses in gear!"

Jimmy Malfi rapped the pitted mahogany bar in muted anger. He was a short man with narrow shoulders, arthritic knuckles and a scruffy, weathered face. A fixture at The Stumble Inn, he was the kind of avid sports fan who hadn't played a single game of any kind in his life. Even so, he held strong opinions about how every sport should be played, regardless. His years of viewing games vicariously from the sidelines had made Jimmy, in his own mind, a veritable expert. Because of this, not only was he a fixture at the bar, but also at every Clifton Heights home sporting event.

Despite his self-proclaimed sports genius, however, Jimmy was essentially harmless. Folks viewed him with tolerant good humor. And oddly enough, over the years, his presence at sporting events became talismanic. Jimmy's attendance most likely meant victory, but his absence brought ill tidings of doom for the home team.

At the moment, Jimmy's main concern was professional basketball. He rapped the bar again. "Damn it. Got money on this game. The Knicks're playing like a bunch of know-nothing piss-ants in junior high. Running around like chickens with their heads cut off!"

He waved at the small television mounted on the wall, at the end of the bar. "Down twenty-five. Twenty-five. So much for this 'championship' season the papers've been talking about."

Jimmy scowled at the five harried blue figures racing around five white figures who appeared confident and poised. One of the Knicks' guards (a blue figure) launched an awkward, off-balance three-point shot. Jimmy tracked it hopefully, squeezing his hand into a fist...

The basketball ricocheted off the rim.

Tinny applause roared from the television as a player in white grabbed the rebound and dribbled up the court.

Jimmy pounded the bar. "Damn! Last year, the Knicks averaged nearly a hundred points a game," he complained to the bartender, Gus Ambrose, who was watching the game with him from the other side of the bar. "It's the middle of the third quarter and they've barely cracked sixty. What the hell?"

Gus shrugged broad shoulders. "It's a pre-season game, Jimmy," he said as he wiped down the bar absentmindedly. "Why in the world would you bet on a pre-season game?"

"Because Buster had a line on these guys. Said they were going to wipe floor with the Spurs tonight; that all those trades they got over the off-season made them contenders this year!"

Another distant roar from the television as the home crowd — San Antonio — voiced their appreciation. Jimmy scowled and waved again. "This sure ain't the look of a championship contender, I'll tell you that!"

Gus flipped the towel onto his left shoulder and hung it there, crossed his arms and shrugged. "Guess maybe Buster should stick with running his cab business instead of trying to be a bookie."

Jimmy grabbed his nearly empty mug of beer. "Ain't that the God's honest truth." He tossed back his drink, thumped it back down on the bar and slid it toward Gus. Without taking his eyes off the television, Gus grabbed the mug. He took it over to the Saranack Black & Tan tap, and began filling it. "It's Halloween, Jimmy. Shouldn't you be out trick or treating with the grandkids, or something?"

"Ah, their grandmother's takin em out with my daughter. She loves that stuff. Me? After workin all day at the quarry? No thanks. Besides," he gestured with one hand at the television as he accepted his refilled beer with the other, "this is enough of a horror show, for Pete's sake." Another burst of applause. "C'mon! Stop throwin away the damn ball!"

Sitting on the opposite end of the bar, Micah Cassidy stared into the mirror behind rows of liquor glasses, nursing his beer. He was trying to ignore the conversation between Jimmy and Gus, though it was nearly impossible, as they were the only ones there. Also, they were talking basketball, a subject Micah couldn't ignore, even if a nuclear war raged around him.

Which didn't make sense, of course. After everything that had happened, you'd think he'd hate the game, and would avoid it like the plague. To be fair, he didn't watch it on television anymore, and didn't read the sports page every day, like he used to. However, despite his best intentions, when basketball was mentioned within hearing, his ears always pricked up. Though he rarely joined the conversation, he couldn't help but follow it.

Micah sighed as his gaze traveled the length of the bar. As Gus had said, it was Halloween night, part of the reason why The Inn was so empty. Most of the after-work regulars were either out trick-or-treating with their kids, or standing watch over their homes in their annual vain attempt to ward off legions of Clifton Heights teens armed with eggs, soap and toilet paper.

He and Amy had no kids, and he didn't care much what the teens did tonight. He'd just clean it up tomorrow. Besides, they didn't see many teens where they lived, out on Gato Road. Not even on Halloween night. Too far out of town. Worst they'd suffered last year was a few squashed jack o'lanterns.

Gus had made half-hearted attempt to decorate for the season. He'd strung orange lights around the mirror behind the bar. Stting at regular intervals among the liquor bottles were plastic, electric light-up Jack o'Lanterns. Probably everyone's favorite decoration was the life-sized cardboard cutout of Elvira mounted to the wall next to the men's room. It always gathered several jokes and comments, and even one or two drunken marriage proposals, every October.

"Dammit," Jimmy spat, apparently disgusted by another Knicks mistake. "Haven't you guys ever heard of ball movement? Work the ball around the perimeter, for God's sake! At least try to find the open man!"

Micah grunted, knowing he should keep quiet and take the path of least resistance, as he always did. It's what he'd done for the past twenty-eight years, after all. It was how he'd managed to survive, emotionally. Keep quiet, stay out of the conversation, except when he felt moved to speak.

Which he did tonight. Because of course, even though he didn't read the sports page nearly as much as he used to...that also didn't mean he never read it.

"It's San Antonio's man-to-man defense," he said, not looking up, but staring into the plastic leer of a jack o-lantern on the other side of the bar. "They've perfected their switches and hedges to the point most teams can't get two or three passes before they turn the ball over. Also forces run and gun teams to play a half-court offense and use up the whole shot clock. Slows them down, forcing them out of their fast break."

Micah could almost feel Jimmy turning a skeptical gaze on him, but he didn't look up, just continued to stare into the plastic jack o'lantern's black, triangle eyes. "The Knicks are a fast break team. Half-court offense isn't their strength. So San Antonio tightens the screws of their half-court defense, hedging or switching on almost every screen or pick and roll, which forces the Knicks to grind out the clock, which they don't like to do. They like to score quick and hard, usually off the second pass, to keep other teams' defense off-balance. The more half-court offense they're forced to play, the more they have to pass the ball around, the sloppier they get."

Cheers again exploded from the television. Jimmy thumped his fist again on the bar. "Sumbitch. Another turnover, and San Antonio scores again."

Micah looked up and met Jimmy's rueful grimace. "Looks like you're right," Jimmy growled. "Knicks can't make more than three passes before they cough up the damn ball."

Micah shrugged, offering Jimmy only a small smile, nothing more. He shouldn't have spoken. If he stopped now and didn't say anything more, maybe the old guy would forget about him and go back to the game, instead of...

"This guy knows his ball," Jimmy said to Gus Ambrose. "He play somewhere?"

Too late.

Gus smiled as he picked up a glass mug and started toweling it off. He was primed to tell the story, like always. Micah looked down into his beer and cursed silently. He didn't blame Gus. He meant well. It was his fault. He should've kept quiet.

"C'mon, Jimmy. I'm disappointed in you. You've never heard of Micah Cassidy, from Old Forge High?"

Jimmy shook his head. "I'm a loyal Clifton Heights fan, Gus. You know that. If it ain't happenin in the 'Heights, it ain't happenin."

"Well then." Gus waved in his direction. "This is Micah Cassidy. He's...oh, hell. Micah, do you mind if..?"

To his credit, Gus looked abashed at nearly rambling into his story without asking permission first. Micah supposed if he'd stopped Gus the first time he'd told his tale to a Stumble Inn patron, the talkative bartender wouldn't have kept repeating it all these years. It was too late now. Besides, Micah knew if he did say something, Gus would feel bad for a night or two, then retell the whole story to someone else without hesitation another time. He waved, giving Gus permission to continue.

Besides, if things went the way he was planning tonight, it would be the last time Micah had to hear it.

"This is Micah Cassidy," Gus continued, "one of the best ball players ever to play in Webb County. Four-year varsity starter at Old Forge High. Scored over 3,000 points in his high school career. Twenty-eight years later he still holds the number one spot in most points scored in Section Two, Class C. Division one scouts from all over were calling him. Lots of scouts thought he could go pro. If not the NBA, then overseas in Europe."

Micah looked away, back into those black triangle eyes on the other side of the bar, feeling Jimmy Malfi giving him the eye, like everyone did when Gus spun his tale. "DI or pro ball, huh? Don't look like much. Not very tall, is he?" A pause, then, directed at him, "No offense, course."

Micah shrugged as Gus defended Micah's size, like he'd done so many times before. "Maybe not, but Micah here was lightning fast. Quick as a jackrabbit. He dribbled the basketball like it was a yo-yo on a string. Was a hawk on defense. Led the conference in steals two years running. And his jump shot, friend. Man alive. Like a machine. Perfect mechanics, every single time."

Micah was still turned away, but in his mind, he saw Gus shaking his head, amazement etched into his features, as if he'd just watched Micah drop thirty points. "He still holds the record for highest career field-goal percentage, and I swear he shot better the harder defenses played against him. Plus, he could jump outta the gym. Like you say, wouldn't believe it to look at him, but I can't count how many times I saw him drive the lane and dunk over players twice his size. Micah here landed a full-ride to Syracuse. He would've blown it up there, I know it."

Micah's cue. He knew it well. Much as he hated the attention, he couldn't blow off Gus. The guy would be crushed, in his own way, because then he wouldn't be able to vigorously defend Micah's greatness. "C'mon, Gus," he protested weakly. "Lot of great players on Syracuse's squad that year." He looked away from the plastic jack o'lantern and offered Gus and Jimmy a weak grin. "I would've been lucky to play twenty minutes a game."

Gus waved, beaming; obviously delighted Micah was playing along. "No way. You would've been exactly what they needed. A marksman from beyond the three-point arc who was also a playmaker off the dribble. You would've started freshman year. I'm sure of it."

Micah gave in and shrugged; playing the role Gus wanted him to. He knew from experience that if he did, the whole spiel would end sooner. "Doesn't matter now, anyway."

Gus folded his arms, somber expression darkening his face as he gazed out the front window. "Yeah. Damn shame."

He said nothing for several seconds. Staring into the middle distance, blithely ignoring Jimmy, who in turn was staring at Gus, eyes wide and curious. No two ways about it, Gus lied to put on a show. He'd keep staring out the front window, not saying a word until...

"Well?" Jimmy blurted, face drawn tight in anticipation. "Are you gonna finish the story, or ain't ya?"

Gus nodded slowly. Smiling a little now, satisfied in the suspense he'd created. "That young man," Gus said as he pointed at Micah, "sacrificed his career - busted up his knee - trying to save a boy's life."

This part Micah hated. For some reason, tonight it felt worse than usual, as a black pit opened inside him. He turned away and mumbled, "But I didn't save him, Gus."

Usually, he feigned speechlessness to get things over with. Tonight, however, fresh guilt stabbed his guts anew.

"Don't matter," Gus said, voice full of pride. Which should've been one consolation, at least. Gus retold the story because he was proud of him. Micah tried to take comfort from that...

But he couldn't.

Because it was a lie.

All of it.

And tonight, he was going to put an end to it, one way or another.

"C'mon now," Jimmy said, the Knicks/San Antonio game forgotten. "You ain't any closer to telling me the story. If you're gonna tell it, let's get on with it."

"Well, it's a helluva story. Happened at Black Foot Valley Sports Camp, twenty years ago. After Micah's senior year," he nodded at him. "Micah's future was signed and sealed, but he sacrificed it trying to save a kid's life."

Jimmy frowned. "Blackfoot Valley. That's outside town somewhere, right?"

"Yep. Up on Kipp Hill Road. A big complex for all sorts of summer sports camps. Basketball, football, baseball, soccer, and cheerleading. Though what the hell they did at cheerleading camp is beyond me. Maybe pom-pom waving drills."

Gus continued. "They had two sports fields and a dozen outdoor asphalt basketball courts, with twenty cabins for the kids to sleep in. Some of Webb County's best basketball players - hell, some of the best in Northern New York - cut their teeth as campers and when they got older, as counselors. The counselors kept order in the cabins, refereed the games, sometimes coached."

"But it ain't running no more, is it?"

Gus shook his head. "Not for a while. Folks these days hire personal trainers because everyone's kid is a superstar and deserves individual training, right? Going to a camp where they whip your ass into shape ain't the 'in' thing these days, so Blackfoot Valley had been hurtin for a while. But," Gus sighed, "I'd be lying if I said what happened with Micah didn't hurt the camp's rep some."

Jimmy motioned with his hand, an impatient let's get on with it gesture. "So what happened? I heard somethin happened out there, just not what."

"There's a deep gorge in the woods behind the camp. Blackfoot Valley itself. One of the kids went wandering into the woods at night. A kid from Micah's cabin. Now, Micah was on rounds when he checked his cabin and found the kid gone. He searched all over the camp. Couldn't find the kid, so he ducked into the woods behind the camp, finally spotted this kid lying at the bottom of the gorge. Micah tried to reach him, thinking it wasn't that far down...when he slipped. Rolled halfway down and tore ligaments and cartridge, cracked the kneecap, tore up some muscle...wrecked the whole knee."

"Hell," Jimmy breathed. He looked Micah up and down. Micah saw his gaze linger on the metal-hinged brace he wore over his pants on his right knee.

Jimmy's eyes widened. "Damn. Lucky you can walk at all."

Micah swallowed and managed a reply. "I couldn't for a while. It took a few surgeries and lots of therapy. I still have to wear this brace, though. I get around okay, but..."

"Damn," Jimmy said again, shaking his head. To Gus: "Parents probably screamed holy hell."

"Sure enough. Luckily another counselor noticed Micah missing after a while, so he went to the caretaker's house to raise the alarm. They found Micah and the kid - think his last name was Phelps, now - out there in the gorge. The shit hit the fan the next day. Not sure if the camp ever got sued, but I know the whole thing hurt its image, bad."

Like he always did, as if he'd memorized every step in a carefully choreographed dance, Gus nodded somberly at Micah. "Helluva thing Micah did. With a big future waiting for him, college education paid for...him sacrificing everything to try and save that kid.

Guilt soured the beer in Micah's stomach, as the past whispered to him, as it always did at this part...

_don't be a hero, Micah_

_you're no hero_

_you're a special kind of stupid_

_that's what you are_

With great effort, he pushed the ghostly words away. "I didn't do anything. Never got near to saving him." Micah choked down a surge of self-loathing as he mumbled into his beer, "I'm no hero."

"Hell you ain't. You coulda been playing poker or hoops like the other counselors, but you were doing your job. If you'd been slacking off like the others, nobody would've found Phelps until it was too late. Makes you a hero in my book."

A hot flash pulsed through Micah, unexpected in its intensity. He was supposed keep his peace. Maybe mumble another feeble protest, against which Gus would once again insist his hero-status, but for some reason he couldn't do it. He knew deviating from the script meant attracting unwanted attention, and a part of him wanted to do as usual: Stay quiet. Avoid making waves.

But tonight he couldn't play the role of the small-town hero in Gus' little passion-play, no matter how good the bartender's intentions. He snapped his head up and pinned Gus with a hot stare. The bartender paused, mouth gaping at this unexpected deviation.

"What happened to Phelps, Gus? Tony Phelps. Know what happened to him? Do you?"

Gus stared at him, hands lying limp on the bar, unable to cope with Micah's sudden digression from their well-practiced script. Micah focused on Jimmy instead. "Want to know what happened to this kid I 'saved?' The kid I threw away my basketball career for? Huh?"

Without waiting for an answer, Micah plunged ahead. "He broke his skull. Bled all over his brain. Never woke up. He died a week later. So, yeah. I 'saved' him. So he could lie in the hospital like a vegetable for a week before croaking. That's what I sacrificed my career for. One more week of breathing for a vegetable."

An oppressive silence fell over the bar, broken only by the tinny screams from the small television mounted on the wall, long forgotten. Micah covered his face with a hand and rubbed his temples with his fingertips at the sudden ache there.

He felt ashamed. Gus never meant any harm in telling his story. In his own way, the amiable bartender was proud of Micah. But for some reason, Micah couldn't handle the same old story tonight. He didn't know why.

"Ah, hell. I'm sorry, Gus. I didn't mean..." He rubbed his face and waved his hand limply. "It's not you. Not feeling so good tonight."

A few more minutes of silence. When Gus spoke, his voice was gruff yet apologetic. "S'all right, Micah. I...I tell the damn story too much, anyway. I should've given it a rest for once."

Micah waved again, feeling tired. "It's okay, Gus. Don't know what my problem is."

"Well, maybe this'll make you feel better. Heard tell Nuemann Development is tearing down Blackfoot Valley. Gonna bulldoze it under tomorrow. Close the final chapter in that wretched book, finally."

Shock rippled through Micah. He looked up and stared at Gus. "They're tearing it down? For real?"

Gus shrugged. "So I hear. Nuemann Development found a buyer for the land, so they're pulling the whole thing down."

A cold sensation blossomed in Micah's chest. He stood abruptly. "I...I gotta go. See ya, Gus."

Sensing both men's stares, Micah limped out of the bar, hinge on his knee brace clicking.

# 2.

Despite the strange, hysterical compulsion which had driven him out of The Stumble Inn, Micah found himself stuck on the sidewalk, unable to take another step. Across the street, his pickup truck waited in the lot bar patrons used for parking. However, though his mind urged him to cross the street, get into his truck and drive away, he couldn't make himself do it.

_tearing down Blackfoot Valley_

_gonna bulldoze it under_

Micah closed his eyes and rubbed his face with hands aching from handling scrap metal all day. Conflicting thoughts raged in his head. Cross the street to his truck and drive home to Amy. Go back inside and apologize to Gus for being an ass.

Drive to edge of the town, and finally use what was in his left jacket pocket.

He didn't know what to do. What he should do, or even what he wanted to do.

_tearing down Blackfoot Valley_

_gonna bulldoze it under_

Hoots and jubilant cries from across the street startled him, and he dropped his hands and 0pened his eyes to see five teens stalking along the road, going in the opposite direction. They wore street clothes, but in the spirit of the season, all wore masks or had their faces painted. Two of them — a young man and woman — walked hand in hand, their painted Calaveras skull-masks gleaming white under the streetlamps, grinning death-head grins. Their cohorts loped ahead of them on the sidewalk. They wore cheap plastic masks. Frankenstein's monster, a Jason Vorhees hockey mask, and Michael Myers. The latter was surprisingly unsettling.

They continued on their way. The three ahead shouted and hollered in glee. The grinning-skull couple brought up the rear casually. Completely at ease, like the king and queen of Halloween, following their capricious court jesters.

They paid him no mind.

Not even the slightest glance in his direction as they passed.

Of course, why should they? Halloween was for the young, or, at the very least, young at heart. He was neither.

Micah stood on the sidewalk, watching the troupe as they stopped at the far corner of Ford and Main. He wondered what he'd been doing on Halloween as a teenager, twenty years ago. More than likely he'd been shooting endless jump shots in a gym somewhere, perfecting his form and mechanics while other kids his age caused mischief and had fun. Or, maybe he'd been engaging in the other activity which had taken up his senior year besides basketball, the activity which had led to...

His thoughts trailed off.

The group of fright-faced teenagers still congregated at the corner; the three youths in monster masks gesticulating animatedly, apparently conflicted over where they should go next. The couple had separated. The girl stood with her back to him, hands stuffed into her pockets. The young man cupped a cigarette to his mouth, flicked a lighter...

And stared.

At him.

The young man — looking like a painted Day of the Dead James Dean, sporting a styled pompadour above his skull-face — lit his cigarette, and with a practiced flick of the wrist, snapped the lighter shut. He stuffed the lighter into his pants pocket. Took a deep drag. And, staring at him with deep, bottomless skull eyes, casually blew out smoke, as if he hadn't a care in the world.

The King of Halloween.

A ridiculous thought, but a notion Micah couldn't seem to shake. The young man smoking and staring at him with his painted skull-black eyes was the King of Halloween, touring the night with his Queen and their loyal subjects. Micah hadn't been a great student (too busy breaking records and doing other things he didn't want to think about right now), but he thought his old high school English teacher at Webb County High, Mr. Slocum, might be impressed with the metaphor. The young tough guy smoking and staring at him was cruising Halloween night with his girl (king and queen) accompanied by a few younger punks eager to earn their stripes, desperate to impress their "king." They were probably deciding which part of Clifton Heights to terrorize next.

Of course, "terrorize" wasn't really the correct word. Sheriff Baker didn't mess around on Halloween night. All the cops would be patrolling, especially along the residential streets, where most kids would be trick-or-treating. Worst these guys would get up to was most likely a few smashed pumpkins, nothing more.

Even so, the King (as Micah's mind kept referring to him), stared at him, smoking, and despite how ridiculous it seemed, the longer he stared, the more uneasy Micah felt. It was the optical effect of the black paint around the young man's eyes, of course. Painted up to look like eye sockets, they looked bottomless, spilling out a blackness which seemed to seep deep into Micah's bones.

The young man took another drag on his cigarette.

Blew out smoke.

Raised his other hand and offered Micah a solemn two fingered salute.

Cold, unreasoning fear curdled Micah's thoughts. He turned, and instead of crossing the street to his truck, he limped down the sidewalk, trying to put as much distance between him and the youths on the corner. He had no destination in mind, and though he knew his sudden fear of the young man was irrational, he heeded it anyway.

### * * *

His iPhone rang. At the corner of Main and Acer, Micah stopped on the sidewalk, pulled it out of his pocket and saw his home number flashing. He tapped the pulsing green icon and held it up to his ear. "Hey."

"Hey," came Amy's soft, unassuming voice. "Hate to nag, but you still at The Inn?"

"Yeah," Micah lied, the weight in his left jacket pocket accusing him, "but I'm about to head home."

"Okay. Could you swing by the Mobilmart on the way? I'm out of eggs for breakfast tomorrow."

"Sure. No problem."

"Thanks." A pause, then, "You okay?"

Micah licked his lips. Amy was perceptive by nature. Naturally empathetic, she could sense anyone's emotional state instantly. She always knew his mood.

Amy was a good woman. A loving wife and a gentle soul. She alone had made the last twenty-eight years passable. Even happy, on occasion.

She, of course, hadn't been his girlfriend when he'd lost everything. His girlfriend then had been Stacy Pollamus. A cheerleader with spritz-frozen hair, painted-on face and breasts the size of soccer balls. She didn't stick around long after everything happened. She'd wanted to date a Division I basketball player at Syracuse University, not a truck driver for Green's Scrap Metal who limped around on a bad knee.

He'd Amy met at Greene's. She'd worked as a cashier when he'd first been hired. Now she worked in the main office, handling Greene's business accounts. She'd grown from a shy, slightly withdrawn young girl into a quietly strong, enduring, kind woman. Amy had made his life worth living.

But she hadn't made the guilt go away.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Tired is all."

"Knee hurting? Long day on the road today."

Unconsciously, Micah gingerly flexed his knee, the metal hinges clicking. He'd only been standing still for a few minutes, and stiffness was already creeping into the joint. She was right. Today's gig had run long. Greene's had been hired to clean out a series of old storage units over in Woodgate. He'd left work at 8:00 AM this morning with Tommy Greely, a friendly guy with biceps the size of Micah's head. After driving two hours out to the middle of nowhere, he'd helped Tom (what little he could manage with his knee) until they'd filled the truck's oversized bed with scrap metal. They'd returned to Greene's, weighed and dumped their load, drove back to Woodgate, filled up again and returned. Though he'd only helped carry small pieces, his right knee now throbbed.

"It's a little sore," he lied again, reaching down and gently massaging his swollen kneecap through his jeans. "Think I need to see Dr. Martin. This brace is getting loose. Need a new one."

At least that last part was true.

Of course, if Amy knew he'd helped Tommy load the truck by carrying anything heavier than an alternator, she'd give him hell. In her quiet, unassuming way. He was only supposed to be driving truck, not helping load.

He'd always felt grateful to Greene's for hiring him. Never mind all the other drivers being in their mid-fifties. Never mind Micah knowing full well he'd kept this job this long only because Amy was Old Man Greene's favorite niece, and Old Man Greene was a rabid basketball fan.

Never mind it all. He was thankful for a job he could manage despite his knee, an occasionally interesting job always driving to different places to pick up different kinds of scrap. A decently paying job, offering solid benefits. He was thankful for everything. Thankful he could occasionally relieve the boredom of the road by helping load the truck, even if he wasn't supposed to.

But still, Amy wasn't stupid. "You also helped Tommy load the truck today, didn't you?"

He sighed. "A little. Maybe."

"Tommy's got arms the size of tree trunks. Can do it himself just fine."

"I know. It's just that, long trips get boring, sitting in the truck the whole time. And Tommy's not invincible, y'know? Needs help like the rest of us."

"Sure he does. I bet you bribed him with a round of free drinks to let you help without him tattling to me."

Despite the sourness in his belly, despite the weird compulsion which had driven him out of The Inn and the lingering unease he still felt over Skull Face's stare, Micah laughed outright. "You got me. Don't be too hard on Tommy. It took a bribe of drinks and wings, this time. Poor guy's too nice to say no."

The phone crackled with Amy's chuckle. "I bet." She sobered slightly, however, adding, "Seriously, Micah. I don't mean to nag. You know your limits best. But you also know how much you pay for it the next day. You need to be careful. Okay?"

"I know. Be home soon."

_liar_

"Kay. Love you."

"You too."

She hung up. Micah switched his phone off and put it away. He should go home. Swallow the past like he always did. Go home, go to sleep next to his waiting wife, pull her warm soft body close to him for comfort, and hope he didn't wake up screaming — again — from nightmares of his last night at Blackfoot Valley Sports Camp.

And his plans?

Any real man, any good man, would dismiss them, without hesitation. But the weight in his left jacket pocket wouldn't go away, like the weight hanging over his soul. He didn't know how to make it go away, unless he...

Hell with this.

He pivoted, about to head back to his truck, when another ridiculous thought occurred to him: What if Skull Face and his entourage still lingered on the corner of Main and Ford? What if he still stood there, smoking casually while his crew argued where to go next, his girl looking on; still smoking, still staring?

So what?

He lived in Clifton Heights. The Adirondacks. Not New York City, or Syracuse, or even Utica. No gangs roamed its streets, with thugs prone to mugging people on Main Street at night. It wasn't as if Skull Face and his crew had baseball bats and switchblades at the ready. They were bored teenagers stuck in a boring town on Halloween night, out to smash some pumpkins, and that's all.

Even so, like outside The Inn, he felt frozen, half-turned on the corner of Acer and Main, afraid to look over his shoulder. Skull Face might still be there, smoking and staring at him. Or even worse, standing behind him. Sure, his eye sockets had been painted black. However, standing under the street lamp, his eyes had looked black, and that blackness had dug into him, boring into deep, secret parts inside...

A bell jingled, down Acer Street.

A door opened.

Micah looked around the corner down Acer Street and caught a door closing. The bell jingled as it did. Bright yellow light shone on the sidewalk; light from a store still open, or perhaps just closed. Either way, if he could get to the store, he'd be safe, protected from...

Protected?

From what?

A bunch of high school kids?

Almost in response, his knee throbbed. A reality he hadn't wanted to think about occurred to him. If those punks, impossibly enough, wanted to make trouble, he'd be ill-equipped to stop them, even with the heavy thing in his left jacket pocket. He was outnumbered. His knee would hinder any escape. In fact, just the right blow to his knee would effectively cripple him, and then he'd be at their mercy...

Which would be for the best, maybe. Then you wouldn't have to use what's in your pocket.

Micah closed his eyes and rubbed his face, hating the rare feeling of helplessness churning in his belly. It took him back to the days right after the accident and the blinding pain which had made walking seem like a dim fantasy. Then the surgeries and therapy stopped because his mother's money ran out, and insurance wouldn't cover the costs anymore...

Stop it.

He took a breath and wiped his face once more, opened his eyes, and limped to the door which had just closed, bright light still spilling from it onto the sidewalk.

At the door, he raised a hand to knock, but was arrested by a sign in the window, gold letters on a maroon background reading:

Handy's Pawn and Thrift

We Have

Things You Need

He stood still for several seconds, hand raised in the air, repeating the last two lines in his head: we have, things you need. A catchy phrase to draw customers inside, for sure. Especially considering that it was a junk shop. Based on what he glimpsed through the windows, it most likely didn't have anything anyone needed. Unless they needed old toys, rusty tools, moldy books, and other useless odds and ends.

For some reason, however, the last three words — things you need — seemed important. He reacted to them, on a deep, primal level. Something inside hummed in resonance with their implications.

_things you need_

He shook off the feeling and knocked on the door. No one answered, so he knocked again.

The door opened.

Apparently, it hadn't been latched tightly. His knocking must've opened it. That didn't seem quite right; however, for he was sure he'd heard the door close before he approached it. Of course, he remembered how, growing up, the latch would never catch when he closed the screen door on their trailer, how he'd always sworn to his mother he'd closed it, but ten minutes later it'd be wide open. Of course, that was a battered screen door on a trailer, and this was a solid wooden door on a store. You'd think it would close better, but Micah supposed if the latch on a trailer screen door could go bad, it could go bad on door like this one, too.

Right?

He pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Hello? Anyone here?"

No answer.

Micah reached behind him, compelled for some reason to push the door closed and hold it there until it latched. Once he'd done so, he wandered up the store's middle aisle, looking around and taking in its wares. Like he'd thought, Handy's was nothing more than the local thrift junk store. There'd been two in Old Forge when he was kid. He'd never been in this particular store, but it didn't look much different. Aisles full of everything. Fifty-year old ice skates, old tools, lamps, sewing machines, broken toys, yellowed boxes of board games, and rows of old fashioned soda bottles.

Things you need.

_Sure._

_Like I need anything in here._

"Hello! I'm so sorry I didn't hear you. Was out back sorting through some recent acquisitions."

Micah turned to the voice, slightly startled, but for some reason, not really scared. Something in that voice set him at ease. Made him feel comfortable. Safe.

Protected.

From what?

A tall man with white, closely trimmed hair and a beard stood behind the sales counter in the rear of the store, seemingly materialized out of nowhere. Micah couldn't tell how old the man was, really. The white hair and beard indicated at least ten years past middle age, but the man's face bore no lines or wrinkles, past faint crow's feet at the corner of his eyes. His eyes, however, burned a bright blue, which spoke of a youthful exuberance.

A sudden thought occurred to him, as sudden as his intuition about Skull Face: The tall, trim but sturdy-looking shopkeeper standing behind the sales counter was ageless. He'd always looked that way, and would always look that way.

It was a ridiculous notion, as ridiculous as that of Skull Face, the King of Halloween. Micah brushed it off, though with some difficulty, and a faint sense of unease.

The shopkeeper offered him a congenial smile. "Anything in particular you're looking for?"

"No. I'm good," Micah said, trying his best to sound casual, maybe even bored. "Was at The Inn having a few beers after work, and now I'm..."

_running away from a teenage Skull Face who might be the King of Halloween_

"...just killing some time before going home, is all."

"Ah. Indeed." The shopkeeper's eyes twinkled as he placed his hands flat on the sales counter and leaned over, slightly. "Such an odd expression, when you think about it. 'Killing time.' As if Time were a mere animal which could be hunted down and killed."

Micah shrugged, his gaze wandering cluttered shelves filled with the kinds of things left over after a garage sale had ended.

"In reality, Time, I think, is something which can't be killed. It's always happening, it's all one thing. You know, there are some who believe there's no past, no present, and no future. Just an eternally overlapping now. Like a sphere, on which linear progression is merely an illusion."

Micah stopped, turned and actually smiled at the shopkeeper. "Okay. I don't know anything about all that stuff. But I watch a lot of movies. Doc Brown from Back to the Future, right? When he told Marty time was like an orange, and the past and present were together at the same time? That if we only understood how, we could travel in any direction on the skin of that orange?"

The shopkeeper held up a finger. "Yes! A fine film. And Christopher Lloyd's performance as Doctor Emmett Brown is completely unsung, in my humble opinion. Should've won an Oscar for it. BUT, it's also an old spiritualist belief. Buddhist or something, I can't exactly remember. But the gist is this: The past, present and future all occur at the same time. To travel either to the past or future, one needs only the right cosmic conditions, and it all depends on how badly they want to, or how badly they need to."

Micah shook his head, his amusement evaporating, suddenly ill at ease with the conversation's direction. "Yeah. I suppose."

The shopkeeper chuckled. "Well, I'm sure that's enough metaphysical rambling for one night. Though it's Halloween, of course. The perfect night for such matters, when the Veil between worlds is thin. The right cosmic conditions, if you will."

Micah shrugged again, examining the sales counter the shopkeeper stood behind. To the right stood several jewelry cases, the kind which spun on its base. To the left, he saw a seasonal display of Halloween decorations. Plastic pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns, jack-o-lantern flashlights, (like the kind Micah remembered having as a kid, before basketball became his life, effectively ending his time as a kid). Foam tombstones and skulls, plastic skeletons which could be hung from the ceiling. A small bin of plastic masks, and several organized racks of almost new-looking costumes.

"If you're here at this hour, I take it you're not married, or don't have children?"

Micah approached the sales counter, unsure as to why he was lingering. Surely Skull Face and his crew had gone on their way by now. Even so, he didn't quite want to leave yet. He felt another stab of helplessness, but he shoved the feeling down.

"It's the second, actually. Amy — my wife — and I have tried several times, but no luck so far."

The shopkeeper's face fell, and he looked genuinely sorry. "That's a shame. I apologize if I dredged up some painful memories with such an insensitive question."

Micah waved and shook his head. "No worries. We've taken all the tests. Doctors can't find anything wrong with either of us. We just can't get pregnant. Just weren't meant to, I guess..."

His gaze had been meandering to his right, toward the jewelry boxes, when he saw it. Sitting on a wire shelf attached to the front counter, a shelf filled with old footballs, soccer balls, a few baseballs, and in the middle, nestled among them...

A blue and gold basketball.

With Blackfoot Valley emblazoned on it.

Micah's throat tightened. He had to swallow down hard to open it up again. Even so, he had difficulty breathing. Ridiculously enough, he also felt faint. His fists clenched, fingernails digging in his palms. His heart started pounding so hard, he swore the shopkeeper must be able to hear it.

The shopkeeper must've sensed the change in his demeanor, but also must've mistaken it as excitement, because he smiled wider. "An official Blackfoot Valley Sports Camp basketball. When the camp was in its heyday, every basketball player in Webb County dribbled one down their sidewalk or shoot one in their driveways, or they desperately wanted to. A cheap rubber basketball mass-produced for use at Blackfoot Valley Basketball Camp, given to every camper at the camp's end. Owning one meant you'd trained at the Adirondacks' premier sports camp."

Micah licked his lips and said nothing, staring at the basketball. It looked brand-new. Straight from the box, its blue and gold vibrant and fresh. It looked almost wet, as if it had just been colored. At one time, Micah had owned several of these. No longer, of course. He'd gotten rid of them — along with all his plaques, trophies, and his scrapbook — after he'd ruined his knee.

The shopkeeper continued talking, either not noticing Micah's discomfort, or ignoring it, for some reason. "These basketballs were so coveted, in the brief overlap of the camp's existence and the internet age, Blackfoot Valley sold them online, so you no longer had to attend camp to own one." He sobered, frowning slightly. "Unfortunately, many saw that as a marketing ploy to make up for the camp's declining enrollment at the time."

Micah swallowed once more, cracked his neck and flexed his fingers, trying to force himself to relax. First, his strange anger at Gus' routine story. Then, the startling news that Blackfoot Valley was scheduled for bull-dozing tomorrow. Skull Face and his Halloween Gang. Now this?

What the hell was going on?

_it's Halloween, of course_

_the perfect night for such matters_

"Did you play basketball in high school? Watch it on television, much?"

Micah cleared his throat and smiled, dragging his eyes away from the basketball to meet the shopkeeper's kindly gaze. "No," he lied. "Not at all."

The shopkeeper looked like he was about to reply, but Micah finally shook off his paralysis. "Thanks for letting me come in and warm up. Think it's time to get going. My wife'll wonder if I got kidnapped, or something."

The shopkeeper nodded. "Of course. As I said, it is Halloween, after all. Spirits are abounding tonight, looking for lost souls to carry off. Or so various legends say, anyway. Before you leave, however...a parting gift."

The shopkeeper reached under the counter and pulled out a small orange gift bag with a black, cheerfully smiling jack-o-lantern on it. "Sadly, I haven't had many trick-or-treaters out this way for many years, though I'm always prepared for them. In any case, I'm going to have a lot of these left over at the night's end, and though I love giving out candy, I'm not much of a candy eater, myself."

Micah instinctively reached for the proffered bag, but an odd wariness checked his hand. Urban legends of poison-laced chocolate bars and apples rigged with razor blades flitted through his mind. That, and for some reason, he couldn't help conjuring up the classic scene from Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, of the old woman offering Snow White her poisoned apple.

However, some common sense came to the rescue. He'd only moved here when he'd married Amy, but she'd lived in Clifton Heights her entire life, as had her family, and extended family. If the shopkeeper of the town pawnshop was a psycho suspected of handing out bags of poisoned candy, someone would know about it, or least, would've spread rumors of such.

Micah shoved his paranoia aside and accepted the bag. He quickly peered into it, glimpsing the usual Halloween fare: mini Milky Way and Three Musketeers bars, a single Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, a package of Smarties, a small box of Milk Duds, and several other treats.

He held the bag up. "Thanks. Not much of a candy eater, either, but my wife likes chocolate, so she'll be happy."

The shopkeeper inclined his head. "Well, I'm sure you're familiar with the old saying, 'Happy wife; happy life.' Words to live by."

Micah felt a genuine smile. "That's the truth. Are you married?"

The shopkeeper shook his head regretfully. "I was, but she passed a long time ago."

"My condolences." Micah found that he meant it. The shopkeeper seemed a little aloof and odd, maybe even eccentric, but essentially harmless, with a kind air.

"Appreciated, but it was a long time ago. I've made my peace with it."

"Right. Anyway. Thanks again."

He turned to leave, made it as far as the door, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob when the shopkeeper said, "Mr. Cassidy?"

Micah faced him. "Yeah?"

"Clifton Heights is a small-town, filled mostly with good-natured folks. The 'big, scary city' it is not. However, it's also Halloween night. A night on which some folks simply...do not act themselves." The shopkeeper folded his hands on the sales counter, smiling slightly. "Legend says that's because the walls between realms are thin, allowing beings from beyond to penetrate into our world and roam, looking for lost souls to devour. Myself? I believe over the years, Halloween has simply become synonymous with 'mischief,' and sometimes that mischief is more consequential than egged cars or smashed pumpkins. I trust you're going straight home?"

Micah paused, thought about his left jacket pocket, and then lied for the second time in twenty minutes. "Yes."

The shopkeeper's smile spread. "Then a happy All Hallow's Eve to you. I hope Amy enjoys the candy."

Micah nodded, turned the doorknob and pushed out into the night.

# 3.

As Micah's truck idled at intersection of Levingston and Main, waiting for the red light to turn green, (which seemed to take an oddly long time) he reached into the Halloween bag the shopkeeper had given him. He didn't really like chocolate all that much, but he had seen a package of Smarties sweet'n tart candies in there, and he wouldn't mind those.

As he rifled through the bag, keeping one eye on the red light, his mind worked over something which had been bugging him since he'd walked back to his truck. He hadn't been able to put his finger on it, but it was something the shopkeeper had said...

_Cassidy_

_Mr. Cassidy_

That was it. The shopkeeper (whose name he'd never managed to get; not that he cared to know it) had called him Mr. Cassidy right before Micah left. The shopkeeper had known who he was.

How?

Micah glanced down at the breast of his work shirt, but he wasn't wearing the one with his name stitched on it. Even if he had been, it only had his first name, not his last. That only left one possibility, of course: The shopkeeper had known who Micah was, the whole time.

Any sense of goodwill Micah had felt toward the shopkeeper evaporated. His left jacket pocket seemed to grow heavier in response. The questions he'd asked Micah about playing or watching basketball seemed manipulative, now. Even a little cruel. If he'd known who Micah really was, he would've also known what happened to his career, and what happened to his knee. That the shopkeeper had never once mentioned Micah's knee-brace or the way he limped didn't matter. He'd been playing Micah the whole time.

Any taste Micah had for candy soured. He pulled his hand out of the bag. As he did so, his fingers brushed against something cold and metallic. Not a razor blade, but something textured with what felt like a design of some kind. As he worked his fingers through the candy, he thought maybe he felt links in a chain...

Micah withdrew his hand from the bag and saw he'd been correct: it was a necklace of some sort, with an odd-looking charm on it.

Micah stared at the charm, not sure what to think. Had the shopkeeper put it inside his bag on purpose? He couldn't have. Micah hadn't been watching him that closely, but the shopkeeper had reached under the counter, pulled out the orange candy bag, and handed it to him. Maybe he'd had the necklace already in his hand, and slipped it into the bag when he reached under the counter. That would imply, however, that he'd been prepared to do so.

Why?

Maybe the shopkeeper had put something in every bag? A cheap item from his shelves, for free? That made more sense. It certainly didn't look very valuable. It was probably cheap pewter; the kind carnival jewelry was made from.

Micah shook his head and stuffed the charm and its necklace into his right pocket (away from what was in his left pocket, of course). Oddly, he felt a weird sense of peace. He no longer felt so bad about the shopkeeper knowing his name, or that he might've been playing a cruel game with him. Having the necklace in his pocket made him feel good, for some reason. Almost good enough to forget about what was in his left jacket pocket.

Almost.

Micah looked up and was about to check the traffic signal when bright light filled his truck's cab, almost blinding him. He squinted and glanced into his rear-view mirror.

A car behind him, its headlights on high. Micah shielded his eyes and looked again. The car looked low to the ground, probably a sports car of some kind. Hard to tell, with its blazing headlights filling the cab.

Whoever sat behind the car's steering wheel gunned the engine once, twice, then a third time. Micah wasn't a car expert, but itdidn't sound a like a newer sports car. More like an older car, restored and maybe even souped up.

The driver gunned the engine again.

Micah looked closer. He thought several people rode in the car behind him. Immediately, unbidden, the image came of Skull Face smoking on the corner of Main and Ford, staring at him before offering a causal, almost knowing two-fingered salute.

see you around

There was no reason in the world for Micah to think Skull Face — the King of Halloween — drove the car behind him. None at all. Yet the thought wouldn't go away.

Ridiculous.

Imagination.

Micah looked forward, into the night. His hands tightened on the steering wheel and his heart pounded, his rationalizations empty and meaningless.

The driver gunned his engine again, this time adding a double-tap on the horn. The sound startled Micah out of his daze. When he glanced up, he saw the light had changed to green.

Micah released the brake, stepped on the gas, and slowly drove through the intersection. When he glanced in the rear-view, he saw the car sitting there at the light, motionless. Even though its headlights dwindled and then disappeared when Micah turned into a curve, Micah still felt uneasy.

Micah shook it off, wondering just what the hell he was doing and why he wasn't heading home. Of course, in his heart, he knew exactly where he was headed. He knew what he was intending to do with the thing in his left jacket pocket. He refused to admit it, however, as he drove on into the night.

### * * *

Ten minutes later, Micah parked his truck in the front drive of Blackfoot Valley Sports Camp. In his headlights, on a chain-link fence running across the drive, a white sign read: "Nuemann Development."

So it was true. He hadn't thought Gus was lying, but some part of Micah had wildly hoped maybe Gus was mistaken, he'd heard wrong, or...

_close a chapter, finally_

On scrap runs for Greene's, he did his best to avoid Kipp Hill. When he couldn't, he drove past Blackfoot Valley, staring straight ahead in white-knuckled silence.

He should feel happy.

Someone was finally tearing it down. Even so, he didn't know how to feel.

Which scared him.

He sat there, staring at the white sign glaring in his headlights. He couldn't see much in the dark past it, but with a little effort he could imagine the asphalt drive winding away from the road to the front parking lot. Directly beyond sat the dining hall. To the right, set in a knoll was the recreation building...

_This is stupid._

_Go home. Go home to Amy, forget about this, and let them bulldoze the fucking place down._

_Forget about it._

Micah grunted. He grabbed his heavy flashlight off the passenger seat and shut the truck's engine off. He opened the door and swung his legs out, wincing at the ever-present pain arcing across his kneecap as he eased himself down onto the asphalt drive of what remained of Blackfoot Valley Sports Camp.

### * * *

Under the headlights and from the road, the asphalt path leading from Kipp Hill to the camp itself looked smooth and new. Under Micah's flashlight, however, the asphalt was heaved and cracked in places where the ground had settled over the years. The grass and weeds were slowly but inevitably working to reclaim its dominance.

Micah moved slowly, worried about his knee buckling as he navigated his way up the path to the fence blocking the camp's entrance. The fence looked about six or seven feet high and it stretched past the reach of his flashlight's beam in either direction. He assumed it ran around the camp's perimeter and through the woodland area behind.

As he limped toward it, pain throbbed in his knee to the tune of his heartbeat. He wondered what the hell he was doing. He found no answer. No rational reason for coming here, so late at night, on Halloween, no less. No explanation for the sudden urge to visit the place where his life changed so drastically. He simply had no good reason to be here.

Yet he couldn't deny the pull in his gut toward Blackfoot Valley. If he were honest with himself, he'd felt it since the moment Gus said it was being torn down.

Micah came to a stop at the gate.

A sliver of doubt blunted his compulsion. It was padlocked shut, so he couldn't get in. Which was a good thing. He could go home to Amy and forget this crazy idea of wandering all over the camp's ruins, which would be for the best. He didn't need to hurt his knee any worse than it already was.

As he thought this, however, he stepped closer to the gate, shining his flashlight on the chains looped around its latch. He grabbed the fence and tugged experimentally. He was rewarded with the sight of the chains loosening.

He bent over and examined the chains closer. Sure enough, maybe because of the camp's scheduled destruction the next day, it wasn't padlocked after all. It was merely looped around the latch in several lazy passes, secured with a standard hardware store spring-loaded clasp. One finger-flick and the clasp unhooked.

Micah pulled the chain free. It fell into a pile on the cracked asphalt, ringing against the night. It lay in his flashlight's beam. For a moment, Micah couldn't repress the macabre notion it was entrails or a freshly killed snake piled at his feet.

He shook off the weird image, pushing the gate open. It gaped smoothly and silently, as if freshly oiled. Micah briefly thought about getting back into his truck and driving it into the parking lot, but panning his flashlight back and forth, he saw several downed trees also blocking the way. He'd be able to step over them, but not drive over them.

He paused, thinking one last time about going home.

Then, without further hesitation, Micah entered Blackfoot Valley Sports Camp, one last time.

# 4.

After slowly skirting the felled trees, Micah proceeded up the path, his knee brace clicking in the quiet. The camp appeared eerily preserved in the shadows. Directly ahead sat the L-shaped dinning hall. The long side housed the dining area, the short side the kitchen and pantry. He remembered slipping into it with other counselors late at night to snack on leftover desserts.

Good times.

Full of promise and potential. Moments now gone forever.

Careful, he told himself as his mind skittered around memories, careful.

Directly ahead and to the left he saw the two-story house which had served as the main office. Also, the home of the camp's year-round caretaker, Sam Bagely. Or 'Bags,' as everyone had called him. Micah remembered him dimly. A short, stocky but athletic-looking young man in his twenties with a perpetually smiling face and twinkling blue eyes, framed by a head of tight brown curls.

Only, he hadn't been smiling the morning after, when he'd been talking to the cops. No, he hadn't smiled at all. His eyes hadn't twinkled, either. More like glittered with an icy, furious gleam.

_Careful._

Looking around, Micah felt as if something was missing. He couldn't exactly put his finger on what, so he continued between the dining hall and the main house. Up closer he saw the evidence of decay. All the windows on both buildings were boarded up. It was hard to tell for sure under the pale gleam of his flashlight. Both buildings looked faded, the paint sun-bleached, peeling and cracked. On the main house's leaning front porch, someone had heaped formless piles of trash. Its roof sagged in several places. One of its peeked gables had collapsed. Swinging his flashlight ahead, he again noticed how heaved the pavement was. The lawn had gone to weed long ago.

He shined the flashlight behind the main house and saw greater evidence of ruin in the coaches' dorms, which housed rooms on each side of a shotgun hallway leading to a lounge out back. During his last summer at Blackfoot Valley, (the week before everything changed) Micah coached during the Junior High All Stars week. He and other guys his age bunked in the coaches' dorms instead of babysitting the campers. Now, its roof sagged in the middle.

Micah aimed his flashlight up the hill to his right, his resolve faltering. The asphalt pathway looked worse ahead, split and cracked by time. If he tripped on a rut and twisted his knee, how would he explain missing work to Old Man Greene? Or to Amy? Worse, if he twisted his knee so badly he couldn't make it back to his truck...what then? If he needed to call 911, how would he explain his presence here?

_This is stupid._

_Why am I here?_

He panned his flashlight along the row of cabins along the left side of the path. In them, the wages of the years appeared most evident. The cabins had fallen apart, far worse than the other buildings. No one had bothered boarding up these windows. As his flashlight's beam passed, shards of broken glass glittered. All the cabins (the ones he could see, anyway) had caved in, the roofs long ago succumbing to years of snow build-up over heavy Adirondack winters. Several cabins had collapsed entirely, leaving nothing but standing shells.

Bunk beds had been dragged outside, and they either leaned upright against the cabins or lay tipped over onto their sides. Several of the upright bunk beds still possessed lumpy, stained mattresses looking oddly bloated, like weird egg sacs ready to burst. A few mattresses lay in the grass; white islands in a sea of weeds.

The cabins were most likely trashed inside. Micah figured his imagination would have to do, because he'd no plans of investigating them; for fear of brushing a door-frame and bringing a whole cabin down on him. So he conjured up images of them cluttered with beer cans and bottles, campfire remains, bunk beds tipped over onto each other, mattresses stacked on the floors or leaning against the walls and piles of old clothes on heaving concrete floors. He'd heard enough rumors over the years of kids sneaking onto the grounds to party after dark for the images to be believable.

Micah stood still, panning his flashlight back and forth up the hill. Night in the Adirondacks always fell like a thick woolen blanket, but tonight, this far from town in the countryside, the darkness seemed absolute. Outside his flashlight's beam he could hardly see anything. The air felt dense. It was oddly quiet, also.

_Why am I here?_

_Careful._

Micah turned in frustration, panning his flashlight back toward the entrance. From his new angle he realized what was missing.

The Recreation Hall.

A two-story building formerly set into the sloping hill alongside the dining hall. The Rec Hall had been where most of the campers spent their non-basketball hours. On the first floor was the snack bar/lounge area, with a ping-pong and a pool table, and several arcade games. In the lounge's corner had been a circle of old recliners. As a counselor, he and others played countless rounds of penny poker there into the early morning hours.

The second floor offered an open area which had been used to show movies. During the day, instructional videos on playing man defense, shooting free throws or rebounding. During the evening, for entertainment. He remembered watching Karate Kid II on the second floor his first summer here, after his seventh grade year.

The Rec Hall was completely gone. He couldn't tell for sure from where he stood, but timbers jutting skyward from a crumbled foundation looked charred black in his flashlight's beam. A fire, maybe, though he didn't remember hearing about one.

Micah stared at the Rec Hall's ruins. Confusion pounded in his head. With each passing moment, a sensation of foreboding built inside. Something was wrong. His compulsion to wander around these ruins didn't make any sense. In a way, he could understand the urge to drive by. Admittedly, after twenty years, the news of its impending destruction had given him an unexpected shock. So he could see driving by, slowly letting his headlights play over the buildings nearest to the road, and then driving home after coming to his senses.

Tramping through the old camp? Risking an injury to his already ruined knee, or getting busted for trespassing? It made no sense.

Even so, he couldn't make himself leave.

Frustrated, Micah turned up the trail winding through camp. As his flashlight's beam swung along the ground, he idly noted graffiti spray-painted on the cracked asphalt path. Standard slogans, the usual. Call Jenny T for a good time. Lynn rox my sox. Bobby T sux ass. Also pentagrams, and other odd designs, including one which looked somewhat like the strange pewter medallion the shopkeeper had, for whatever reason, slipped into the orange bag of Halloween candy he'd given Micah.

A noise interrupted his thoughts. Something scraping against asphalt, like perhaps a footsteps; or tires rolling over gravel...

The entrance.

Micah turned awkwardly, pain flashing through his knee's joint, some instinct telling him to switch the flashlight off as he turned. Facing the parking lot, he saw his instinct had been correct. Under the moonlight a car was pulling up next to his truck, headlights scanning the parking lot like prison searchlights tracking would-be escapees.

Skull-Face and his troupe.

The King of Halloween and his court.

Micah had no way of telling for sure because he couldn't see who rode in the car (which looked like a Trans-Am from the late eighties). He felt the truth of it, however, deep in his gut. Skull-Face was driving, lady-friend by his side, the court jesters piled in the backseat, jittering and ready to sow chaos. Though he had no way of knowing this, either, he felt sure they had sat behind him at the light, and it had been Skull Face at the wheel, gunning the engine.

It didn't mean anything, of course. In fact, the ruins of Blackfoot Valley seemed the most likely place to visit on Halloween night. If Gus Ambrose knew the camp was scheduled for demolition, it seemed likely many others knew, also.

Micah could imagine it, easily enough. The Halloween Jesters, (as he now thought of them), arguing about where to go next. Should they smash pumpkins out on McDonough Avenue? Stalk menacingly along more residential areas and spook little kids until the cops showed up? Maybe go to All Saints Church, First Methodist, or Clifton Heights Baptist and spray paint some pentagrams and upside-down crosses on welcome signs and all over the parking lots? Go out to Bassler House and see if anyone's throwing a kegger?

And then Skull Face would say, very quietly, face barely lit by the glow of his cigarette tip: "I hear they're finally tearin down Blackfoot Valley. Could have some fun there, before it's gone."

They weren't here for him. It was a ridiculous coincidence, was all...

_like that basketball on the shelf?_

...a coincidence on a night of ridiculous coincidences. Skull Face and his troupe were not hunting him. They weren't.

But he couldn't banish the memory of Skull Face staring at him, smoking leisurely, then offering him a casual two-fingered salute, as if to say: See you soon.

Unbidden, the shopkeeper's last words, before Micah left his store, came back to him.

the walls between realms are thin

allowing beings from beyond to penetrate into our world

A sharp report — not unlike a muffled gun shot — made him jump. A dark, lithe form stood next to the car, having just shut its driver side door. Several other reports followed, as the passengers disembarked and clustered behind the driver.

It had to be his imagination, he was too far away, but Micah swear he heard the click of a lighter flicking open before a small flame illuminated the driver's face as he lit another cigarette. In the brief flare, Micah couldn't see much, but he saw enough.

Painted white face.

The corner of a likewise painted death-head grin.

Black, bottomless eye sockets.

Another click and the flame disappeared, leaving only the orange tip of the cigarette. Even though Micah could no longer see, especially because Skull Face and his crew were standing behind the car's headlights, he knew, he felt they were looking straight at him. He could imagine the jesters whispering to their king, Where is he? He's here somewhere, I know it...

Micah turned and limped up the path into the darkness, away from Skull Face and his crew. Whatever they were up to, it was no good, and Micah knew he wouldn't want to run across them here, out in the ruins of Blackfoot Valley, alone. Again, he chided himself: this wasn't the big city, and these certainly weren't hardened criminals. They were most likely interested in mischief only, nothing more. They wouldn't do anything violent to him, they wouldn't hurt him, like...

Like the Longtrees had.

Flushed with adrenaline at the memory, Micah moved faster despite the pain blossoming under his kneecap. He was dreadfully aware of his brace clicking, and his boots scraping asphalt, sure the sounds would draw attention as he limped up the moon-splashed the path ahead...

He saw a white sneaker flash around the far corner of the bathroom, a rectangular concrete building in the middle of the courtyard.

A breathless panic gripped his heart. Micah stumbled, as he felt something twist inside his head. Vertigo struck him; and he wobbled, his bad knee buckling, almost giving out as he got dizzier...

Despite the threat of pursuit, Micah stopped, closed his eyes, and breathed deep.

The throbbing in his knee subsided.

The dizziness passed, quickly replaced by a hot annoyance. Some damn kid was messing around after lights out. Playing hide and seek, manhunt, or some other damn thing. Or maybe his bunk-mates had dared him to sneak out and try to dodge the counselors for as long as he could.

Micah opened his eyes (wondering what the hell had just happened), grunted and marched up the path toward the bathrooms. His knee twinged slightly (must've strained it playing with the other counselors last night), but he brushed the slight pain aside. A camper fucking around after lights out was the last thing he wanted to deal with tonight. He'd more important things to worry about. Like the Longtrees, and what they were going to do to him for screwing up.

As he marched up the path toward the bath area, a weird visual quirk made it look like the path was covered in spray-painted graffiti. He blinked and saw nothing but smooth black asphalt. His tired eyes were obviously playing tricks on him.

Approaching the bath area, he thought it odd his knee wasn't hurting, especially considering how fast he was walking uphill. However, that was an odd notion itself. There wasn't anything wrong with his knee. Sure, it was sore from weeks of playing basketball on asphalt, but there wasn't anything wrong with his knee.

Was there?

Rounding the corner of the bath area, he dismissed the thought, thinking he had to get this shit wrapped up, fast. The camp director, Jerry Rueben, was gone for the night. Bags (the caretaker) hated being disturbed after lights out, because he was usually "entertaining" whichever attractive college girl happened to be the athletic trainer for the summer. No way they wanted to piss Bags off by intruding on his action. There'd be hell to pay when it was time to clean up Friday afternoon, after all the campers left.

Finding nothing around the corner of the bath area, Micah slammed the door open, hoping to scare whomever was hiding inside. "Hey! Better not be anyone in here! Or we're gonna be doing some midnight sprints."

Nothing but silence in the thick darkness, which seemed odd. The counselors always left the bathroom lights on overnight. Couldn't have little ten year olds stumbling around in the dark at two in the morning. This convinced Micah someone had hidden themselves inside, probably in one of the stalls. Pissed off even more, he reached out to flick the lights on.

Nothing.

An empty click, and darkness.

Why should there be any lights? Blackfoot Valley had been shut down for twenty years. It was scheduled to be demolished tomorrow morning. No electricity would be running here. Why would he think there would be? More importantly, why would he try and turn on the lights when he was trying to hide from Skull Face and his crew?

The damndest thing was, after limping up the hill so fast, his knee should be throbbing in pain. Yet, it wasn't. It felt a little sore, and that was all.

A dream-like haze settled over Micah. It made no sense that his knee didn't hurt after dragging himself frantically up a cracked, heaved asphalt path. Of course, it made about as much sense as his coming out here tonight, on Halloween, or Skull Face and his crew following him here.

There it was, right out in the open, no use denying it any longer. Skull Face and his crew had followed him. Why, he had no idea. But that's why they were here. Him.

Paralyzed by uncertainty, he panned his flashlight around the bath area. His nostrils twitched at the clinging stench of stagnant water. As his flashlight passed over rows of toilet stalls against the far wall (some doors gone or hanging on one hinge) the smell seemed to intensify. He gagged.

He turned to leave, his flashlight panning the wall of sinks and mirrors. Most of the mirrors were broken into pieces. Several sinks had been ripped out, leaving nothing but pipes sticking up from cracked cement. Like hands, reaching for an uncaring god.

On some of the mirrors he saw more graffiti and symbols. One in particular, a circle with spiral hooks in the center. Next to it, on the walls: The Yellow King Rulz.

Micah released a heavy breath. Confusion, and, yes, fear muddied his thoughts. He didn't understand why he'd come here, or why Skull Face and his crew...

_the King of Halloween and his court_

...had come here, or why — even though it was insane — he felt sure they were after him, why he'd limped up here to hide, for God's sake.

It didn't feel real. More like a nightmare, or the kind of hallucination that comes with a high fever, or...

"It's not a fever, bucko. That I can tell you for sure."

# 5.

Micah looked over his shoulder in the direction of the voice, back toward the bathroom stalls. Cold fingers strummed his spine, and his guts ached and clenched, his heart trip-hammering against his rib-cage.

"It's real," the voice said, sounding casual, as if pronouncing the weather in matter of fact tones.

Then, Micah heard it.

The recognizable metallic click of a lighter and, though he had to be imaging it, the faint hiss and crackle of a cigarette tip crisping in a flame.

Another click, and the lighter flicked shut.

"But I can tell you this," the voice paused, as its owner took a quick puff and release, "you're definitely in a nightmare. No two ways about that. And the more you keep running, the worse it's going to get."

Micah swallowed down a tight throat. All the years since his knee injury, he'd done his best to never allow himself to feel helpless, or crippled. He could either crawl in a hole and die, or continue living as best he'd could. He'd chosen the latter, found his job at Greene's, met Amy, and survived.

Now, knowing he couldn't run away, that the best he'd managed if he tried was a lame shamble as Skull Face approached, smoking casually, staring at him like a hawk does a rodent...

He trembled with fear. He hated it, but couldn't deny it.

"What..." his voice rasped, caught in his throat, and he had to cough to dislodge it. "What do you want? Why are you following me?"

Skull Face smiled. Took an exaggerated puff of his cigarette, and exhaled. Making a show of inspecting the fingernails of his free hand, flicking ash off his cigarette, Skull Face said in a quiet, almost contemplative voice, "I don't know if I'd say I...followed you, really."

He looked up at Micah, black hole eyes burning into him. "Saw you outside that bar, of course. But I felt you, first. More like smelled, really. Tasted. Your sadness. Regret. Despair."

Skull Face, smiled, his painted skull-grin looking impossibly wide. "It's what I like best, actually."

Micah gripped the flashlight so hard his knuckles ached. He raised it slightly, thinking maybe, if he could swing it hard enough, he might be able to knock Skull Face down long enough for him to hobble away, but a crushing sense of futility descended upon him. Even if he could knock Skull Face down — which, for some reason, he didn't believe he could — he wouldn't get far. Then it dawned upon him: how had Skull Face gotten here first? When he'd just seen him down in the parking lot?

His shoulders sagged, and he dropped the flashlight to his side. "Who...who are you?" Before he even knew what he was saying, "What are you?"

Skull Face took another drag, the end of his cigarette glowing. He exhaled, and said, "I'm a thing that needs what you have. And I can't have you getting rid of that thing, can I?"

Micah shook his head. "I don't understand."

Skull Face took a step closer, grin fading, and as he drew near, Micah thought he saw something glimmering, finally — a dim red light — at the back those cave-black eye sockets. "Well, this is where it happened, right? Where you lost everything? And that's why you're here, tonight. Yes?"

Micah tried but couldn't speak. The longer he stared into Skull Face's pitch-black eye sockets, the less he felt, as a creeping, icy numbness spread through him.

Skull Face shook his head in what looked like pity, as if he were a patient, yet slightly exasperated adult and Micah were a clueless child. "You have no idea, do you? What kind of town you live in? What's special about this place, this one in particular," he gestured around the bathroom, and out to the camp at large, "and on All Hallow's Eve, no less? You have no idea why you wanted to come here, do you? Not even the slightest."

Skull Face raised his cigarette to his lips, grinning. "You're a special kind of stupid, Micah..."

_you're a special kind of stupid_

_that's what you are_

Anger pulsed through Micah, hot and burning. He clenched his hand around the flashlight tightly again, the muscles in his forearm and bicep trembling.

"...and I'd say you got what you deserved, and so did that little pissant, Tony Phelps."

At the mention of Tony's name, anger exploded inside Micah. He swung the flashlight at Skull Face's head, hard as he could. The impact felt immensely satisfying, shivering all the way up his arm to his shoulder, and, unbelievably enough, Skull Face did go down, though he toppled sideways without a sound, not even the slightest grunt.

Micah didn't stop to wonder why. He turned, and ignoring the sudden fiery pain blossoming beneath his kneecap, lurched toward the bathroom door. He slammed his shoulder against it, pushed it open...

Then he was back outside in the warm summer night. The bathroom was a bust. No kid hiding in there. Which meant the little pissant was hiding somewhere outside. He glanced at the patio area outside the dome, which covered two indoor courts. Picnic tables were empty, no one hiding underneath them. Seeing the soda machines there made him a little thirsty. He'd get a Pepsi later. He wasn't playing ball with the other counselors tonight, so he could use the caffeine for a little extra pep.

Because he didn't use the product. A strict rule he adhered to, and the Longtrees demanded of all their associates. Never use the product.

Yellow-orange light spilled from the dome's entrance, along with the sounds of feet scuffing asphalt, a basketball banging off the rim and guys yelling _ball, play d and helpside!_ There wasn't anywhere for Tony to hide in the dome. Nothing in there but one wide-open space, full of counselors playing and waiting for the next game.

Even so, he should check. Maybe Tony stopped in there long enough to get chased back to the cabins by one of the counselors, while he'd been exploring the bathroom.

The instant Micah lurched into what remained on the dome, the musty odor of age and disuse hit him. Not as powerful as the stench in the old bath area, this musk was worse in its own way. The air smelled thick with dust. His nostrils twitched, and the back of his throat itched as he panted, out of breath from fleeing Skull Face. He felt two minutes away from a coughing fit.

Micah shined his flashlight around, looking in vain, he knew, for somewhere to hide. The court on which he'd once spent hours honing his skills was now littered with beer bottles, cans and old campfires. The wooden benches, which had lined the court, were rotten and decayed. He saw mounds of clothes and blankets. Also, a few mattresses obviously pulled from cabins.

He limped forward, panning the flashlight around the court's perimeter, knee throbbing, brace clicking. Only one basket remained of the six he remembered. On the far end, and it was sagging down to about seven feet, its rim bent and dangling. Micah saw benches under the rim and imagined kids jumping off them, dunking, then hanging and swinging on the rim. The other baskets had been torn from the walls or had fallen down on their own. They lay in heaps around the court.

Despite the near panic swelling inside about Skull Face, a deep sadness rose inside him. It was all gone. Destroyed by time, torn down by vandals caring no more for the game than a rat cares for art. All the hours he'd spent in the dome over the summer, pushing himself through conditioning and ball-handling and shooting drills? All gone, ground into dust, as his dreams where.

He was to blame. Maybe, whatever Skull Face and his friends had planned for him...maybe he deserved it.

Limping to the far exit, he scuttled to a hitching, clicking stop as Skull Face's queen stepped into the gym, blocking his way.

# 6.

Pain exploded in his knee and radiated down through his shin, clenching the muscles there, and he gasped.

Skull Face's Queen sauntered demurely toward him, hands in her pockets, elfin face — painted in a much more feminine skull-mask — inquisitive, curious. "How are you doing that? Slipping back and forth? You shouldn't be able to do that."

Micah had no idea what she was talking about, and was about to say so, but before he could speak, he heard over his shoulder, "It's that damn shopkeeper, I bet. He's always interfering in these things."

Micah cast a terrified glance over his shoulder to see Skull Face striding purposefully after him, casual cigarette smoking demeanor gone now, and all business. Skull Face's temple was torn up where he'd struck it with his flashlight. Through the bloodless, gaping wound, white skull-bone gleamed.

Desperate fear thrumming in his heart, Micah turned and swung the heavy flashlight with his right hand at Skull Face's queen, who had closed the distance between them faster than seemed possible. She blocked the flashlight with her forearm. Even though Micah swore he heard something crack, her painted-on skull face remained blank and impassive. Her right hand darted in like a snake and grabbed his neck, squeezing it in an icy, vice-like grip.

Micah gasped but came up dry, his airway cruelly cut off. He tried to swing the flashlight again, much weaker this time, and the queen laughed, painted death-head grin snarling as she batted away the heavy flashlight, as if it were wiffle-ball bat.

She squeezed tighter.

He clawed weakly at her unrelenting grip, to no avail.

With a heave, she lifted him high into the air, and as he hung, dangling, darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. He barely heard, over the pounding of his heart in his ears, Skull Face say, "Easy, love. Not quite finished with him yet, are we? Still need to feed the boys, too."

_still need to feed the boys_

White-hot panic surged through him. He flailed and kicked harder, but the queen just squeezed tighter, laughing in manic delight, her eyes bright and mad at the back of her black eye sockets, as a numbing fog crept over his mind...

His pocket.

In his left jacket pocket.

With a desperate burst of energy, Micah stuck his left hand into his jacket pocket, pulled out the .38 he'd meant to kill himself with, pointed it in the queen's face and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. Her face exploded into a spray of parchment-like tatters and bone fragments — not blood or tissue — though she didn't cry out in pain, more like howled in in rage.

She did stagger back and drop him.

When Micah fell, somehow he absorbed most of the impact with his good leg and kept his footing, though his knee screamed in agony. He ignored it, however, and limped as fast he could toward the dome's exit and then outside, even as he heard things scrabbling on asphalt — things made of bone — after him.

White flashed into the darkness of the courts outside the dome, near the camp's edge. Micah left behind the guys waiting for next game. Sam Greene, Cory Thorton, Gavin Patchett and Kevin Ellison hadn't seen any campers in the dome, so Micah figured his target must've ducked around the side of the dome/ Maybe he was heading for the far courts, or the cabins behind the courts.

Micah wasn't having any of it. If it was Tony Phelps? Kid needed to face what was coming to him. Micah would make damn sure of it, except...

Micah slowed and stopped. He looked around, gripped by a strange sensation. Something felt wrong. Out of place. Like he'd forgotten something he desperately needed to remember; something his life depended on, and not only that...

He felt like someone was chasing him.

He looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but the yellow-orange rectangle of the door leading back into the dome, and the darting figures of the guys currently playing. He turned away from the dome and panned this flashlight in a full circle.

In addition to the court under the dome, Blackfoot Valley had nine asphalt outdoor basketball courts. The three on the far right were smooth and green courts used for tennis during tennis camp. The three ahead were regular parking lot asphalt. That's where Phelps most likely went, because the green courts were encircled by high chain link fencing that got padlocked every night. Made it more likely the kid was heading for the newer cabins up on the hill.

As Micah turned in that direction, a flash of white disappeared off the farthest court into the tree line, confirming his suspicions. A few years ago, Blackfoot Valley built three new cabins - with bathrooms and showers included - up the short hillside behind the camp. This week, attendance was low, so the hillside cabins were empty. The kid (most likely Phelps) was obviously planning on hiding out there, hoping to dodge tonight's gig.

No way that was happening. Phelps had practically begged to be dealt in with the Longtrees on the first night of camp. Micah didn't know how Phelps had known he was running for the Longtrees; but somehow he had, and had begged Micah for a piece of the action right from the start. Well, he'd gotten his piece of action, all right. No way Micah was letting Phelps back out now. Especially considering Micah was already in dutch with the Longtrees himself.

Micah took a step toward the tree-line, but once again a nagging sensation that he'd forgotten something vitally important checked him. It was like a sliver stuck under his fingernail. Not really all that painful, but when he moved just right, he noticed it, and it bothered him.

Determined, Micah shoved the feeling aside and strode across the basketball courts (ignoring the fact that it felt like he was running away from something) to the treeline, where he was pretty sure he'd seen Phelps disappear. He didn't get the kid to man-up and do his part; Micah would have more important things to worry about than a weird feeling.

In retrospect, he should've seen the signs. Should've known Phelps would get cold feet. Kid may've been high as a kite (literally) over the prospect of selling product under Micah for the Longtrees, but by Tuesday he could barely look Micah in the eye. He shouldn't be surprised Phelps was waffling.

Micah's ass was on the line. He'd been dealing (discreetly of course, never during basketball season) for the Longtrees about two years. Normally he was careful and didn't take chances. Most importantly, he didn't use himself. The extra cash helped pay for individualized college conditioning programs in the off-season. The kind usually reserved for athletes of rich families. Not to mention it helped put food on the table and pay his own car insurance, so Mom could work fewer hours and actually spend a few nights at home.

However, he'd made a few uncharacteristic mistakes this summer. Misjudged other kids, like he'd apparently misjudged Phelps. One kid — Benny Thompson from Indian Lake - went home after camp, first week of July, and OD'd on the product he was supposed to be selling in his town. Afraid of the Longtrees himself, Thompson lied, saying he got the stuff from guys working out of Utica. Nobody came sniffing around Micah or camp then, but he could tell the Longtrees hadn't been pleased.

Next came Lonny Sanders, who'd gotten strung out three weeks ago, last week of July. Again, on product he was supposed to take back to his hometown of Eagle Bay and sell. His fellow cabin-mates pulled Micah from a game in the dome. By the time Micah got to the kid's cabin, Sanders was rolling around in his bunk singing New Kids On the Block songs. Micah sat up with him all night, keeping him locked down.

The next day, he managed to pass off Lonny as sick, so he didn't have to play any games or run drills. Another close call, and even though the Sanders kid was able to pay for the product he used, Micah could tell the Longtrees hadn't been happy about that little adventure at all.

Now Phelps was playing games, running around camp, hiding from Micah. If he didn't get shit locked down now, and the Longtrees arrived to another fuck up, Micah would be finished. Yes, he'd nabbed a full ride to Syracuse, but there were other expenses to consider: books, general supplies, clothes, parking permit, meal plans and spending cash. Micah held no illusions about his place at SU next year. He may've gotten a full scholarship, but he was no program changer. He wouldn't be pampered by the SU coaches like the big horses would. Every Division I team was allotted a certain number of full athletic scholarships every year. He'd been the fifth - and last - player to sign with Syracuse. He'd seen the other four guys on one of his recruitment visits. They'd been bigger, stronger, faster...program changers. He'd been signed (full ride regardless) to fill a hole on the roster, beef up numbers at practice, and that was about it.

Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing. A good future lay ahead of him, an excellent chance at carving out playing time down the road. Hell, maybe a starting position by his junior or senior year. He simply understood his role. At the college level, he'd someday be a dependable, key role player who could make an impact. He'd never be one of the golden boys who would have everything he needed taken care of, which meant he had to take care of himself off the court.

With the number of kids at SU who'd want to score what he was selling, he needed to stay in good with the Longtrees. He wasn't about to let this Phelps kid fuck it up. Kid said he wanted to come on board and start selling product for the Longtrees, and dammit, that's what he was going to do.

Micah crossed the final court at a limping-run, plunged through the tree line and scrambled up the moon-lit path to the cabins on the hillside behind the old courts, dragging his bad knee behind him, adrenaline-laced fear barely canceling out the searing pain. The path wasn't gravel anymore, grass and moss long since grown over, but a narrow dirt track still remained. As ridiculous as it sounded (like something out of an Outer Limits episode) he felt as if he'd crossed a threshold somewhere before coming out to Blackfoot Valley, as if he'd made some of indefinable choice, and was now paying the price for it. If he'd called off his plan and ditched the .38, he'd could've gone home and his life would've resumed its normal course, as normal as he knew it to be.

He could've gone home to Amy.

Confessed everything to her.

Confessed his deepening depression over the past year. His worsening nightmares, his increasing feelings of futility and

hopelessness. He could've told her the truth about what happened at Blackfoot Valley, and the belief she'd better off without a failure — a lying, crippled failure, at that — in her life. Maybe he could've even confessed his plans completely, shown her the .38, tell her what he'd planned on doing.

She would've been Amy, as always. She would've consoled him, comforted him, maybe even gently berated him, but she would've loved him. They would've made love, and maybe after he would've slept a full night without nightmares for the first time in years, and the next morning get up and go to work at Greene's Metal Salvage. He could've enjoyed a nice long drive with Tommy Greely tomorrow to Sherburne-Earlville to clean out a barn. Forever after, he could've been comforted by the fact that Blackfoot Valley Sports Camp had been demolished, and was gone forever.

However, tonight he'd somehow crossed a line, and now he was hobbling across the ruins of Blackfoot Valley, pursued by young punks from town...

_not punks_

_the King and Queen of Halloween, and their court_

...who inexplicably wanted to hurt him, somehow...

_still need to feed the boys_

A grim determination filled him as he crested the path leading up to the cabins on the hill behind the courts. He wasn't going to let this pissant Phelps get cold feet and maybe sink the whole deal. Phelps wanted to be dealt in with the Longtrees; Micah had dealt him in, so now he was going to sing the song and dance the dance he'd signed up for.

Or else.

Of course, Micah didn't know what "or else" meant. He'd never fought anyone his entire life, never laid a hand on anyone, or threatened anyone, ever. Of course, he didn't think he'd need to in this kid's case. Maybe all Micah needed to do was lean on him a bit, threaten the kid more with the Longtrees than himself, and he'd come around. Once he did what he was supposed to and they met with the Longtrees, Phelps would be dealt in on his own and would sell product in his hometown and deal with the Longtrees directly, and Micah would be out of it. In turn the Longtrees would think favorably of him for opening a new line of revenue, hopefully forgiving him for the messes with Benny and Lonny. If not, however, if Phelps backed out and Micah was left hanging for a third time...

Micah pushed his concerns aside, as well as the continuing sensation something beyond his understanding was chasing him. He left the path and unceremoniously slammed the door open in the nearest cabin, the one in the middle. Phelps would play ball and everything would be fine.

Weird feeling be damned.

"Hey! Kid! Phelps! I know it's you. Get your ass out here, right now. No way you're backing out on me."

A pause.

Micah panned his flashlight back and forth across the empty cabin (for a weird moment it looked trashed, with graffiti covering the walls), then toward the bathroom in back, where he heard a squeak, which sounded like someone hiding behind a door...

Micah whirled clumsily on his bad knee, but it was too late. The bathroom door slammed open and one of the King's court jesters — the one in the terrifyingly blank Michael Myers mask — leaped toward him, hooting and hollering at the top of his lungs, in manic glee.

# 7.

Micah tried to run, but his bad knee twisted and buckled. He stumbled, left foot catching over the right. He crashed to one shoulder, crying out.

Mike Myers dove for him, hands outstretched, still cackling shrilly. Micah flung himself onto his back, raised the .38, and shot Myers three times in the chest, to no effect this time, save exaggerated, pantomimed twitches with each bullet, as if the jester were a cartoon character struck by imaginary bullets, nothing more.

Micah pulled the trigger again, only to hear the gun click.

The jester in the Mike Myers mask threw his hands into the air and screamed triumphantly. "Yeah, man! Fuck yeah! You're one hardcore motherfucker, Cassidy!"

With a sweeping backhand, Mike Myers knocked the .38 out of Micah's hand, sending it clattering into the shadows. Even though the .38 was empty and therefore useless, the dismissive blow only made Micah feel even more helpless, and he screamed, in rage and fear. He swung his flashlight as the jester descended upon him. It struck Myers in the temple even harder than he'd hit Skull Face. Something cracked loudly as the jester's head flopped onto his right shoulder, leaving nothing but a cracked, dry and bloodless stump poking up from between his shoulders.

"Hey. Hey! You motherfucker!" Myers fell to one knee, his hands, his white hands...

_of gleaming bone_

...grappling with his head, which now dangled by the thinnest shred of tissue.

It was a grotesquely comic sight. Mike Myers kneeling and frantically trying to jam his head back into place on his stump of a neck, cursing all the while. Micah tore his gaze away, rolled over, scrambled to his feet and lurched toward the cabin's door, barely able to put any weight on his bad knee at all.

When he stepped outside, Micah closed his eyes and sighed, wondering where the hell Phelps was. The cabin was empty, which meant Phelps was either hiding in one of the other two cabins behind the courts, or he'd gone down the trail winding off into the woods to his right, toward Blackfoot Valley itself. Kid would probably kill himself, and wouldn't that end up in a nice little shit show?

To make matters worse, Micah felt lightheaded and dizzy. A dull headache had started up behind his eyes, and he was having trouble seeing. Everything seemed out of focus, warped, like he was looking through a pair of glasses with the wrong prescription. That, and, oddly enough, his right knee really bothered him.

He pinched his nose and rubbed it, whispering, "Dammit. What the hell is wrong with me?"

A soft squeak sent shivers up his spine, and he heard someone whisper, "Micah?"

Micah opened his eyes and looked toward the direction of the voice, to the far cabin on the left. The door had opened, and stepping out from behind it was a shivering, lanky kid in a white-shirt, yellow shorts and white sneakers.

An annoyed relief filled Micah. Phelps had led Micah all over camp, wasting his time, and the Longtrees were going to be here any minute, expecting cash from Phelps' deal. Micah wasn't normally violent, but right now he felt like he could smack the shit out of Phelps, who obviously didn't have a clue how deep in trouble he was.

"Get the hell over here," he rasped. "What do you think you're doing? Running all over camp? Lucky I saw your ass. The Longtrees are gonna be here any minute. You do the deal?"

Tony Phelps, a junior from Booneville, approached Micah, hands wringing like an old lady's, looking like he was about to burst into tears. He was skinny and shaking like a junkie desperate for a fix. His face glowed in Micah's flashlight beam, eyes wide and trembling

"I said," Micah repeated through gritted teeth, "did you deal to Cabin 2 like you were supposed to?"

Phelps licked his lips and swallowed. "Uh...no. I can't, Micah. I can't. It's...man. I don't wanna get busted, and..."

Uncharacteristic anger surged through Micah. His hand snapped out and grabbed a fistful of Phelp's white t-shirt. Phelps yelped like a dog being kicked. Micah felt sure if he checked, he'd smell piss all over the kid.

He yanked Phelps's face inches from his own. "Listen to me very carefully. You begged to be let into this. Begged. And you sure enjoyed the sample you got Sunday night. Said it made you play Michael Fucking Jordan. Couldn't miss a shot, could you? But you haven't done jack-shit since. It's Thursday night. Camp ends tomorrow. Everyone's going home. You were supposed to have dealt to those assholes in Cabin 2 by tonight. Why the hell hasn't that happened?"

He shook Phelps. The kid's head bobbled back and forth on his skinny neck. "Why?"

"I don't wanna get busted, Micah. I just...thought I could do it, but...I can't. What if they didn't want to buy, or... or said something, told on me, or called someone and told them I was selling..."

Micah closed his eyes for a second, forcing himself not to smack Phelps between the eyes. When he felt more under control, he opened his eyes and pinned Phelps with a hot glare. "Those assholes in Cabin 2 are from Livingston Manor. They fucking eat smack for breakfast and wash it down with Old English. They wouldn't squeal. Selling to them should've been easy; they're pros. They'd cut their grandmothers' throats for a hit."

"I...I can't do it, man. I can't. What if I get caught, or..."

Micah shook him again, bobbling the kids' head some more. "So you weren't gonna say anything? Just cut and run on me and the Longtrees? Those boys don't like that." Not to mention, of course, the shit Micah would've been in had the Longtrees showed up to find Phelps missing.

A blubbering sob burst past Phelps' lips. Tears leaked down his face. "S-shit, man. What am I gonna do?"

"I'll tell you what you're gonna do. You're gonna suck it up, stop bawling and hustle your ass down to Cabin 2 to deal before the Longtrees get here. Because it's not only your ass on the line. You begged me, and stupid-fucking me, I felt bad for you and backed you up. Now it's gonna fall on me for you not coming through. These guys like their baseball bats, Phelps. Thing is, they don't exactly like baseball. Get me?"

Phelps wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sucking in deep gasps of air in an effort not to cry, nodding so hard Micah wouldn't be surprised if his head bobbled off at the neck. "O-okay. I'll t-try."

"No, you'll do. The Longtrees'll be here soon. They're gonna want their cash. They don't get it; things are going bad for both of us."

He released Phelps' shirt, smoothed it down, like he was arranging a little kid's Sunday School clothes. On inspiration, he slid his hand under the necklace he'd noticed under Phelps' shirt and drew it out. He held up his flashlight and examined the silver pendent. A triangle made up of interweaving threads with no end and no beginning.

"Cool necklace. What is it?"

Calmer, Phelps sniffled and said, "My Uncle Ian sent it to me from Ireland last year. Supposed to be a Celtic infinity knot."

"Infinity knot, huh? Cool."

An idea struck him. The pendant's chain felt delicate, easy to break. Without warning he yanked, jerking Phelps' head forward. The kid yelped, but Micah was rewarded with the barely audible snap of the chain breaking.

"Ow!" Phelps' face screwed up, as if he was about to cry again. Rubbing the back of his neck, he muttered, "What the hell, man?"

Micah ignored Phelps' complaints and held the chain up, dangling the pendent before him.

"Here's the deal. I'm going to hold onto this until you get down to Cabin 2 and deal. Once you do what you're supposed to, you get this back. Sound fair?"

"My Uncle gave it to me for my birthday, man."

"Well, now you got some more motivation - in addition to the Longtrees coming to kick your ass if the job ain't done - to do what you gotta. Let's go, Nancy."

He gestured toward the cabin's door with his flashlight. Again, a weird optical illusion teased his eyes of graffiti-covered walls, there one instant and gone the next. Phelps slouched forward, shoulders sagging, feet shuffling, as if he was walking the last green mile to the electric chair. The kid was acting like he was heading toward his own funeral, (which wasn't far from the truth, if the Longtrees didn't get paid), but Micah didn't care. If they hustled, maybe the dumbass could deal before the Longtrees showed up, and save them both a beating.

His relief fled, however, when he saw the Longtrees standing in the path leading back down to the courts, waiting for them, baseball bats in hand.

# 8.

Micah slid to a halt, his flashlight suddenly heavy in his hand as a deep sense of pointlessness washed over him. There, standing in the middle of the path leading down to the ruins of Blackfoot Valley Sports Camp was Skull Face. Next to him, his queen, her skul face pieced back together into a hideous jig-saw puzzle. Jason Vorhees and Frankenstein's monster stood behind them.

A bone-cold hand grabbed the back of his neck and jerked his head back. Mike Myers — holding him by the neck, other hand holding his own head in place — peered over his shoulder. "What the hell man? You keep slipping back and forth, trying to hide from us and shit. How are you doing that? It's against the rules!"

The Myers jester shook him, like someone shaking a small dog by the scruff of the neck. Micah had nothing to say; couldn't form a coherent thought. From the moment he'd seen Skull Face and his crew roll into the ruined parking lot of Blackfoot Valley, he'd operated on instinct and fear-laced adrenaline. Now that adrenaline had faded, his instinct telling him this mad chase had neared its conclusion.

"It's gotta be the shopkeeper," said a gruff voice Micah hadn't heard yet; he saw Frankenstein's monster gesturing, and assumed it was him. "Like Sam said, that guy's always messin with our shit."

Skull Face — apparently Sam — grinned his death-head grin as he climbed the path leisurely. "The funny thing is, I don't think Micah even knows what he's doing, or how. He's just running scared. Like a rabbit or squirrel dodging blindly through bushes, until it pops out into a clearing, and bam!" Skull Face snapped his fingers. "A hawk swoops down and bites its head off."

Skull Face stopped within five feet of Micah and jammed one hand into his jeans pocket, his queen by his side, Jason Vorhees and Frankenstein's monster bringing up the rear. "Poor Micah," Skull Face said with a reasonable facsimile of genuine sympathy, "I don't think you even knew tonight was the night; the night you were gonna..."

Skull pointed his finger at his ruined temple, miming a gun and pulling the trigger. "Blammo. You knew it deep down, though. That's why you had the gun on you, but you didn't want to know. Did you?"

Micah swallowed, sour defeat churning in his stomach. All he could do was shake his head, what little Mike Myers would allow, with his icy grip still clamped to his neck.

"Sad thing is, I could've been the answer to it all." Skull Face took another step closer, and now, Micah could definitely see red glimmering in the back of those black eye sockets. "I wasn't planning on harvesting you tonight, in particular. But like I said, I smelled you, Micah, the second you left that bar. Don't know why I've never smelled you before. Maybe you just weren't quite ready."

He held up a finger, like a teacher lecturing a disobedient student. "But tonight? I smelled it on you. And was ready to make it quick and painless. But you reneged. And yeah, the shopkeeper had to have something to do with it. There's no way you could've dodged all over this place without his help. But that wouldn't have worked unless you wanted that help."

Skull Face stepped closer. His forehead gash was still bloodless, but under the moonlight, Micah saw white things squirming there. A foul odor — of damp decay and rot — washed over him. He tried to twist away, but Michael Myers squeezed the back of his neck and held him fast.

"You called to me, Micah. Whether you know it or not; whether you want to admit it, or not. You did. And I heard it. Smelled it. And I came for you. At the stoplight, I came for you, and you were supposed to have come with me. But you didn't."

Skull Face took one more step, bringing them almost nose to nose, and only abject fear kept Micah from gagging openly at the awful stench wafting over him. "I let it go. Figured you needed some time. Figured we'd catch up here, and then you'd be ready."

Skull Face snarled. "But you ran. And kept running. You struck me. Which of course didn't actually do anything, but it's the principle of the thing. No one strikes me. No one."

Skull Face stepped back, a distant calm settling over him. He withdrew his other hand from his pockets, and cracked his knuckles. "We were prepared to make this easy. It's not going to be easy now, Micah. It's going to hurt. A lot. And we're going to enjoy every minute of it."

# 9.

"We were prepared to make this easy. It's not going to be easy now, Micah. It's going to hurt. A lot."

Micah started at Bobby and Billy Longtree. Both of them were tall and skinny, their greasy hair pulled back into ponytails, their narrow and thin faces blank. Black eyes glittered in the moonlight, reminding him, as always, of cold-blooded reptiles. As he'd warned Tony, both of them brandished baseball bats, each holding theirs loosely by their sides.

For a moment, Micah experienced a weird kind of double-vision, imagining both of them wearing masks, for some reason.

His stomach surging, he shook the mirage off. They were too late to seal the deal. They were fucked.

Royally.

He squeezed the infinity pendant he'd taken from Phelps. Its points dug into the flesh of his palm, and it felt oddly warm against his skin.

"Bobby. Billy," he said. "Little early, aren't you?"

_no they're not_

_they're dead_

_have been for years_

_killed by cops in a shootout_

Micah frowned at the strange thoughts flitting through his head. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he losing it?

Bobby Longtree (on the right) smiled; revealing stained yellow teeth. "Late? You must not be wearing a watch, Micah. It's past midnight. Course, maybe you lost track of time. Looks like you been busy," he raised and pointed his bat at Phelps, "chasing down strays."

Billy, nearly identical to Bobby, except for a craggier face, added in a soft voice belying the menace of the bat in his large hands, "Hope there hasn't been any trouble, Micah. Especially after the last few...incidents. We just want to collect our investment and be on our way. Got a few more stops after this."

Micah did his best not to cringe at the Longtrees' desire to avoid "trouble." He'd seen them use their bats all too gleefully in the past.

He squeezed the pendent harder. Strangely enough, it felt warmer, to the point of being hot, now.

_they're dead_

_not here_

_can't be_

Which didn't make any sense, of course. The Longtrees were obviously here. How could they be dead? Both of them were only in their early twenties.

_dead and gone, both of them_

_what's happening?_

He swallowed and pushed aside his swirling, confused thoughts...

_they're dead_

...faking an ease he didn't feel. "No problem. Tony here was having some...confidence issues." He gestured over his shoulder. Didn't dare look away from the Longtrees, as if it signaled weakness. "We've got things sorted out. Maybe you could head over to your other jobs, swing back here in an hour or two? Things'll be settled by then."

Bobby shook his head, sick smile spreading wider. Again, maybe it was a trick of the light, or his fearful mind hiccupping, but Bobby's face looked like a skull, his smile a death-head grin. He twirled his bat by its handle and slapped its head into his open palm with a loud smack. "Nope. Other jobs are out in Eagle Bay, and we're spending the night there. Don't wanna come back this way tonight."

The pendant burned in his hand.

_they're dead_

_they're not here they're dead_

_what's happening to me?_

He licked his lips, desperation cracking his already weak facade. "Listen. Maybe you could head into town. Have a few drinks, then come back. This won't take long, I promise."

Billy shook his head sadly, like a parent reluctant to discipline a wayward child. Micah knew his reluctance was feigned. Billy would be all too happy to administer his efficient brand of discipline when the time came. "I'm disappointed in you, Micah. This is strike three, man. We were hoping you'd make things right after those last two clusterfucks."

"C'mon," Micah protested weakly, the pendant burning his skin...

_they're dead_

_they can't be here_

_this already happened_

...but for some reason he couldn't let it go. "The kid's inexperienced. A little jumpy is all. I talked him off the ledge, and we're heading down to Cabin 2 right now."

Billy shook his head slowly. "Too late. We checked on the way up. Saw you hadn't hit it and did our own deal. We did your job, Micah. And you know how we feel about that."

Micah's mouth went dry, and - alarmingly enough - his bladder twitched. Also, a strange heaviness throbbed in his right knee, though he didn't know why. It ached with a strange, phantom pain. "Guys. We can figure something out. I've had shitty luck this summer, but we've worked together for a while now. We've got a solid thing. Let's not throw it away."

Bobby stepped forward, smiling, slapping the bat in his hand. "Had a solid thing, Micah. Had. Like Billy said, this is strike three. Your little buddy was desperate to get into the action. Wanted to work with us. Be a big man. But here's something we know you don't. Little fucker there, who begged you to hook him up? He split the shit we gave him to the kids in his cabin, first night of camp. One of his buddies went and squealed to Bags. Bags called us. All on your watch, Micah. Which makes you responsible for another mess."

Angry shock rippled through Micah. He glared over his shoulder at Phelps, who stood wide-eyed and pale in the night, oddly still, like a department store mannequin. "You fucking son of a bitch."

Phelps didn't respond or move.

_because he's already dead_

Micah was hard pressed to tell if Phelps was breathing. He looked frozen, as if stuck in a bubble where time didn't exist.

"So we gotta take care of this, see? It looks bad. Not only did you bring us someone who ain't got the stones to deal, you brought us someone who screwed us over and stole from us. A serious lapse in judgment, Micah. Another one." Billy shook his head. "Sloppy. You've gotten fucking sloppy. Must be that scholarship's gone to your head."

Micah faced the Longtrees, the pendent blazing in his hand.

_I'm dreaming_

_this isn't real_

_having a breakdown_

_they're dead, can't hurt me_

_can they?_

"Listen. We can still fix this. We can roll the kids he gave it to, get cash from them. We can come up with the money, somehow. He can come up with the money. And how's this gonna look, tomorrow? Us beat up? Gonna bring some serious attention down on you guys. Won't be able to deal here for a long while. Maybe never again."

Bobby stepped closer, bat resting on his shoulder, like he was waiting his turn to swing in the batter's box. "Well, you see, it's a shame. Probably will cause a little scuffle when Phelps is found at the bottom of the valley, all smashed up. He shouldn't have gone wandering around at night, huh? But when they find dope in his blood, they'll figure he was a junkie who got high and took off into the woods. You, however..."

He lifted the bat from his shoulder and pointed it at Micah. "You'll be a hero. Getting hurt falling down Blackfoot Valley, trying to save the kid." He paused, and then added, "If you don't want to get hurt worse, that is."

Micah stumbled back several steps, (his knee hurting now even worse now, for some reason, the pendant burning into his palm), bumping into Phelps. "Baseball bat. Doc Jeffers'll be able to tell it was a baseball bat did the damage on us, not rocks."

This time Billy grinned, his yellow teeth gleaming in the night and Micah's flashlight...

_his heavy flashlight_

_which he'd taken out of his truck_

_truck?_

_what truck?_

...and it was a horrible thing to see, making Micah's knees go weak. "Yeah. Doc Jeffers would be able to tell. But we got a nice working relationship with him, see? He gets to buy product for some of his more under the table patients at a discounted price, so long as he...ignores certain things."

"Here's the thing," Bobby said quietly. "Yeah, you've run into some shitty luck. Sometimes you just can't read a person right. Sometimes things go sideways in ways you don't expect."

"Exactly." Micah pointed at Billy...

who was dead

dead in a drug bust ten years ago

_can't be here_

...the pendant burning his skin so badly, he imagined there'd be a brand to mark its outline in his skin. "Things have gone sideways, all summer. You gotta see that."

"Problem is," Billy continued, "there are still consequences which must be dealt. Regardless."

"So step away. Take your consequences like you got a pair," said Bobby, "and maybe we've still got a solid thing. You don't step away..."

Bobby Longtree took his bat off his shoulder and swished a practice swing through the night air, his meaning all too clear. "Take your consequences. Let Billy deal with the little shit who fucked this up for you."

At this, Phelps broke. He whirled and ran away, past the cabins and back into the woods, along the path toward Blackfoot Valley and its dangerous drop. Billy Longtree walked up the path, past Micah, and followed Tony, smiling, his gait relaxed and business-like as he leisurely twirled his bat.

Micah stood still, gaze darting from the receding Billy to Bobby...

_they're dead_

_how can they be here they're dead_

...every muscle in his body pulled tight. Those bats would do serious damage, he knew. Phelps was done for. He'd make it through alive, but Micah knew, instinctively, what the "consequences" would be. A star quarterback for Indian Lake once crossed the Longtrees. Over the summer between his junior and senior year he "fell" hiking up Blue Face Mountain. Broke his leg in three places. It eventually healed...

_why does my knee hurt?_

...but his football career ended the day of his "accident." Micah knew exactly what his "consequence" would be.

But he was in great shape. Both the Longtrees were strong and mean, but he was faster. He'd wait until Bobby came in for a swing, juke and dodge around him, then run hard as hell for the parking lot. He could get in his car and get the hell out of here. Who cared if he didn't get paid for working this week? Who cared if he never worked here again? He'd rather escape intact. Phelps was fucked, but maybe Micah could...

His thoughts trailed off.

He'd already done this, hadn't he?

He didn't how he knew this, but it rang in his head with absolute clarity. He'd already tried running. It hadn't worked. Bobby had caught him anyway.

The thought didn't make any sense. He didn't know where it came from, but there it was. Ringing in his head as he gripped the pendant tighter. He'd tried to run once and had gotten nothing but pain in return.

His knee ached with a phantom pain.

And he realized - feeling old, for some reason, much older than eighteen - there was no way to avoid his fate, physically. But maybe something could be done about his spirit.

Whatever the hell that meant.

Micah tensed, digging his feet in. Bobby's eyes lit up as he sensed Micah's intent. "Don't be a hero, Micah," Bobby said softly. "You're no hero. You're a special kind of stupid. That's what you are."

The Celtic infinity knot which he'd taken from Phelps...

_found in the bag the shopkeeper gave him_

_what shopkeeper?_

...burned against his palm.

Micah wasn't sure when he'd done it, or even how, but at some point during Skull Face's monologue, he'd slipped his hand into his right pocket. Now he clenched that weird pendent he'd found in the orange bag of Halloween candy the shopkeeper had given him.

Celtic infinity knot.

It felt warm against his skin; and it was growing warmer by the second.

Skull Face scowled and stepped close to Micah again. "You just did it, didn't you? Slipped back and forth. I saw you shimmer, just for a second. Not-here, and then here. How are you doing that? What did the shopkeeper do to you?"

A strange determination burned through Micah. For some reason, he no longer felt helpless or defeated. His spine stiff, his shoulders squared, Micah glared at Skull Face. "You can't just take me, can you? You need my permission. That's how this works. That's why you've had to chase me all over camp, why you didn't just take me and do whatever it is you're going to do. You need me to give up. To let you. There are like...rules to this."

Skull Face stood very still, hands clenched at his sides. Red glowed in his eye sockets, minutes crept by, until he rasped in a voice which didn't sound as if it came from a human throat, "But I can do whatever it takes to make you give up."

Skull Face leaned in close. His grave breath hissed in Micah's face. "Whatever. It. Takes."

With the speed of a snake, Skull Face drove a fist of hard bone into Micah's gut. Micah gasped but couldn't bend over, because Michael Myers jerked him back by the neck, forcing him upright. His abdominal muscles screamed in pain.

Skull Face grabbed him by the shoulder, pulled him close, and whispered into Micah's ear, "You know the best thing about pain? It's like marinade. Soak a soul in pain and fear..."

Through slitted eyes, Micah saw Skull Face's nostrils twitch, as he sniffed. "Boy-howdy. That's a fine meal."

Skull Face pistoned his arm back again and plunged his bony fist into Micah's guts. Into. Through cloth and flesh. Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt exploded in waves from his belly, as Micah felt Skull Face's fingers digging and twisting in his intestines.

But he felt no blood.

When he looked down, Skull Face's fist had disappeared into his belly, up to the wrist...but he saw no torn flesh, no wound. It looked as if his belly was water, and Skull Face had plunged his fist into it.

"Is this real, Micah? Are my fingers playing with your guts, right now? Or is it an illusion? A glamour? If I grab a fistful of the squishy things in your belly and yank my fist out, would I have nothing...or a handful of your guts? Or..."

Micah gasped, unable to speak, mind blanked out not only by the pain but also the alien sensation of a hand closing around his...

"What if I grab hold of your spine, Micah? Rip it out and beat you with it?"

Electric pain blazed through him. Micah threw his head back and screamed.

In a grotesquely gentle gesture, Skull Face pulled Micah even closer, cradling his head against Skull Face's shoulder. "I can make it go away, Micah. Or make it last forever. Now that I've got a hold of you, whatever mojo the shopkeeper gave you to slip away won't work. I've got you, in this moment, and I can keep in this moment, forever. So what's it going to be? I can make it all go away, if you want. It all depends on how badly you want it, how badly you need it."

Micah gagged on the blood slicking the back of his throat.

_the right cosmic conditions_

_it all depends on how badly they want to_

_or how badly they need to_

Pain.

Blazing all through him, as Skull Face's cold fingers impossibly clutched his spine. Pain, but now, something else, as Micah squeezed the Celtic infinity knot so hard the edges cut into his flesh. As he felt the blood flow in his hand over the pendant, he felt something else.

Anger.

Rage.

# 10.

When does life become too much?

At what point does a man break? When that man breaks, will he whimper quietly, or will he roar with the force of a thermonuclear explosion? When a man reaches his breaking point, in the face of pain unimaginable, will he discover who he really is, or who he wants to be? Will he discover how much he's willing to sacrifice?

What does a man think of, when he's about to break?

For Micah, as Skull Face squeezed his spine, he could only think of Amy. Amy, whom he had loved, perhaps only after a dutiful fashion, but whom he had loved, regardless. She'd been good to him and had loved him, even when he hadn't been easy to love. She'd kept him sane, all these years, warding off the darkness, preventing it from overwhelming him completely.

Even though he now had to face the truth — in the midst of burning, white-hot pain — that he'd been ready to leave Amy and everything else for good, he found that he wasn't ready to go. He wouldn't leave Amy, and he would not be taken from her.

As he squeezed the Celtic infinity knot, he felt a different kind of pain as the pendant's points cut deeper into his palm: a clear, bracing pain. He felt more blood flow over the pendant, and it no longer just felt warm, now. It blazed with heat that burned all the way up his arm.

"What's it gonna be, Micah?" Skull Face's whisper in his ear was tender, almost a caress. "Are you ready to call it a night...or do I have to start playing mortician?"

Micah forced himself to look up, into Skull Face's eyes. "Go to hell," he rasped, and before Skull Face could respond, he closed his hand into a fist around the pendant, and, with every ounce of strength remaining in his body, swung his hand at Skull Face's head and slammed the pendant point-first into the wound in Skull Face's head, among the white things squirming there.

Skull Face jerked back. Light exploded from his eyes and his mouth, as it did from his lackeys and his queen. They jerked and shivered as an unearthly, howling shriek came from nowhere and everywhere at once. The King of Halloween, his Queen, and his court fractured into pieces of blazing glass...

Light exploded everywhere, accompanied by a gigantic clap of sound, as...

# 11.

...Micah tensed, digging his feet in. Bobby's eyes lit up as he sensed Micah's intent. "Don't be a hero, Micah," Bobby said softly. "You're no hero. You're a special kind of stupid. That's what you are."

Micah said nothing, clenching and unclenching his hands. Bobby choked up on his baseball bat, but somehow Micah knew he'd be a fraction of a second too late to stop him, too confident in his assumption of Micah's compliance, which Micah somehow knew was not only expected...

...it had happened. In some deep, primal place, Micah knew this had already happened. He'd let Bobby come over, begging him for a second chance, and Bobby had administered the blows to his knee which had changed his life forever. He had stood there like a lamb waiting for slaughter.

Not this time.

Micah's sudden pivot caught Bobby off guard as he turned and sprinted after Billy Longtree and Phelps, instead of waiting for his punishment.

He was faster and quicker than the Longtrees, Billy in particular. In several breathless minutes Micah closed in on the drug dealer as Billy was arcing his bat down toward the cowering Phelps, who'd tripped and fallen at the edge of Blackfoot Valley.

Micah had no clear idea what he was doing. Bobby was surely bringing up the rear, but Micah wasn't thinking. He was merely acting on the instinct that somehow, things must be done differently this time, that he must do something else besides protect his own ass.

He lowered his shoulder and threw himself forward.

Before the bat could connect with Phelp's head, Micah plowed into Billy's back, shoulder-first. Billy gasped and his bat sailed off to the side. Micah's momentum flung them forward, pitching them into the air. Micah's foot, however, caught on a rock outcropping and arrested his fall, wrenching his left knee painfully...

_his left knee_

_not his right knee_

...but as he cried out in pain, a strange relief rushed through him, because tripping on the rock arrested his forward plunge. He twisted as he crashed to the slope, turning his face away from rocks, and his knee screamed as he did so.

Billy himself screamed - loud and shrill - as he plunged headfirst into the jagged depths below. His shrillness snapped off with a sickening thud and a crack.

Silence.

Save Phelps' asthmatic whimpering as he lay on the ground on Blackfoot Valley's edge, somewhere out of sight. Micah rolled onto his side, trying in between hot blasts of pain rippling across his left kneecap...

_not his right_

...to crawl back over the valley's edge. In jerking efforts, knee spasming in pain, he finally threw himself over onto level ground where he collapsed. Moaning, he clasped his ruined knee to his chest with both hands, realizing in a dim corner of his mind he'd dropped the pendant he'd been holding so tightly, the pendant he'd taken from Phelps...

from the orange bag of Halloween candy

But he didn't have time to worry about the pendent. He needed to get up. Needed to get Phelps moving and down to camp or away into the woods, because Bobby was coming with his bat. Soon as he'd seen what happened to Billy...what Micah had done to Billy...

With a titanic effort, Micah lurched forward to a small tree. He rested his shoulder against it for a few seconds, to gather his bearings

"C'mon...Phelps," he rasped. "Let's get going. He's coming. Bobby's coming, and he..."

He gasped, braced against the tree, levering his weight onto his good knee, and inched his way to a standing position. He grasped the cracked trunk with both hands; because of course he'd lost the pendant, the Celtic infinity knot...

His knee throbbed with pain.

His left knee, not his right.

He only had a minute to wonder about that, however, before he heard Bobby Longtree scream in rage, and felt the worse kind of of pain imaginable explode against the base of his spine.

# 12.

Micah cried out and lost his hold on the tree. He crashed to the ground on his side, and cried out again as Bobby kicked him in the same place he'd just struck Micah with the bat. Micah wheezed, the pain squeezing his lungs so tightly he couldn't scream in pain, or even whimper.

"You piece of shit! Where's my brother? Where's Billy?"

A faint whoosh of air, the bat swinging, a blast of pain exploding along his spine, and also...

A crack.

A dreadful, sharp crack, which brought with it a terrible sense of finality. All Micah could think of was Skull Face's hand wrapped around his spine, twisting mercilessly until it snapped like a twig in his bony hand.

_who's Skull Face?_

He tried to move his legs in a feeble attempt to crawl away, but he couldn't. He felt maybe a faint twitch in his thighs, nothing more. All he could do was flop onto his back. Bobby loomed above, bat held high, poised to deliver one last blow.

Micah blinked, had time for one odd thought....

_Amy_

_I'm sorry_

...and he laid there, waiting for the end

Longtree reared back, face twisting...

A different scream of rage split the night, one high and shrill, coming from someone much younger. It struck Micah like a thunderbolt.

The other bat, which Billy had dropped.

Tony Phelps, whom both Micah and Bobby Longtree had forgotten.

Startled, Bobby swiveled his head and looked directly into the path of the bat swung by a hysterical Tony Phelps. Phelps was a fraction of Bobby's size and not nearly as strong, but the swing caught Bobby unprepared, and because he looked directly into it, the bat smashed full-force into his forehead. Bobby shivered once, and crumpled to the ground like a sack of wet meat.

Phelps, looking suddenly dazed and confused, dropped the bat, hands dangling at his sides. He stared at Micah for several seconds, eyes unfocused, as if unsure of where he was, or what he'd just done.

A fresh wave of pain hit Micah, and he cried out. This seemed to bring Tony back to his senses. His eyes focused, and he paled, as if just noticing Micah lying on the ground. "Micah! Holy...are you okay?"

Micah tried to say something, but, impossibly, more pain exploded all throughout his body, directionless, not coming from one place but coming from everywhere, all at once. That, and a strange bright light blossomed all around, filling the forest as a high-pitched ringing sound droned in his ears and drowned out Phelps' voice as the youth knelt beside him but disappeared into the bright white light which...

# 13.

...filled his truck's cab, almost blinding him.

Micah squinted and glanced into his rear-view mirror. A car sat behind him, its headlights on high. Micah shielded his eyes and looked again. The car looked low to the ground, but that's all he could tell, with its blazing headlights filling the cab.

A siren whooped, and, in concert, blue and red lights on top of the car flickered to life.

"Great," Micah whispered. He couldn't imagine why one of Clifton Heights' finest had pulled up behind him. He hadn't been speeding. He'd also only had the one beer at The Inn, so he hadn't been driving erratically, either. Maybe a taillight had gone out? No turn signal? Whatever it was wouldn't likely amount to much more than an annoyance, but it was an annoyance he didn't feel like dealing with tonight.

The police cruiser's door thumped closed, and boots scraped on asphalt toward him. Micah sighed and rolled down the window with one hand, other hand reaching for the glove compartment, which held his registration and insurance cards.

The officer reached his window and shined his flash light inside (courteously keeping the glare on the dashboard, away from Micah's eyes), but instead of asking for his license and registration, he said, "Micah? Are you okay?"

A strange sense of relief filled Micah as he turned and smiled at Sheriff Deputy Tony Phelps standing at his window. If you had to get pulled over by the police, and it wasn't Sheriff Baker, Tony Phelps was the best card to draw.

"Hey, Tony. Yeah, I'm...I'm okay."

And he realized, with an odd feeling of satisfaction, that he was telling the truth.

Tony nodded, smiling, looking amused but still a little concerned. "How long you been sitting here? I just pulled up, of course, but the light was green, and you weren't moving. Just wanted to see if everything was okay."

"Yeah, I..." Micah shook his head, his thoughts feeling muddled and distant, for some reason. "I was just thinking about some things. Got caught up, I guess." A thought occurred to him. "You don't seem too surprised it's me. Actually...you said my name right away. How did you know it was me?"

Tony shrugged, looking embarrassed and very young, reminding Micah of the sixteen year old he'd known a long time ago. "Listen, don't be mad. Amy called. Said you were late coming home, and that she was worried. Mentioned you'd been at The Inn. So I stopped there, and Gus said he'd told you how the Valley was getting plowed tomorrow, how you freaked out and left. He felt bad, by the way. You know Gus. Big mouth, but big heart, too."

Micah nodded. Gus meant well, and everyone knew it, and he felt ashamed for his odd irritation at Gus retelling the story of how he'd saved Tony from Billy Longtree, and how Tony had in turn saved him from Bobby, Billy dead from falling into the valley after Micah pushed him, Bobby doing time in Utica.

"Anyway. Took a guess and headed this way, out toward the Valley...and here you are." A pause, and then Tony asked carefully, "Were you headed there? To the Valley?"

Micah opened his mouth, but he paused. Unformed thoughts flickered on the edge of his mind, but he couldn't bring them into focus, no matter how hard he tried. Finally, he admitted, "Maybe. I'm not sure. Hearing they were tearing the place down, after all these years...it just shook me. I wasn't consciously heading there. Just driving around."

Tony offered a small, tight smile. "Believe me, I know how you feel about that place, about what happened there. More than anyone else, I know how you feel like everything that happened there, that last night, was your fault."

"It was my fault," Micah whispered, voice rough with emotion, nearly overcome with an abrupt swelling of guilt inside. "If it hadn't been for me, it wouldn't have happened."

Tony shrugged. His smile faded, face now somber and reflective. "I don't know about that. I was in a bad place back then, Micah. If you hadn't been dealing for the Longtrees, I probably still would've found my way onto their radar."

"But I put us in that situation," Micah insisted, though for some reason his self-loathing felt impotent and powerless, like a shadowy memory of regret, and nothing more. "Me. I made it happen. I brought you in."

"And then you saved my life. You could've stood there and let the Longtrees have their way with me, or you could've run away. But you didn't. And now look."

Tony patted his deputy's badge. "I'm not a perfect guy. I've made lots of mistakes, even after cleaning myself up. I'm not sure how good a person I am and honestly, I'm only an okay cop. I'm lucky Sheriff Baker is so laid-back. I'd get my chops busted a lot more under someone stricter."

He met Micah's gaze, his eyes bright and alive. "But I'm clean. I have purpose. I'm doing something, because of you. Because of what you sacrificed, which was...almost everything. I'm the one who should feel guilty, not you."

Micah shook his head. "But you saved me. You could've run, too. If you had..."

A quick vision of Bobby Longtree standing above him, bat raised high, made him shiver. "It was too late for me. You throw in with folks like the Longtrees, you can pretty much guarantee losing in the long run. I was going to lose everything anyway, Tony. At least I lost trying to balance the scales, in what little way I could."

"You balanced the scales, Micah. In my book, at least. You balanced the scales."

He paused. "Micah. You sure everything's okay? Everything okay at home, and with Sammy? I know the adoption process can be grueling."

Micah opened his mouth, planning on giving Tony a nice-sounding answer, but he said nothing at first, realizing he was okay, indeed. Not great, not super-fabulous, not leaping for joy. Life was still the same as it always had been, and tomorrow he'd go back to the same okay job doing the same okay things.

But he was okay. The thirteen year old boy they were adopting — a foster teen who'd been left homeless when his junkie parents had died in a meth lab explosion — had become part of their family over the past two years. The adoption had become more of a formality than anything else. "Adoption's going fine. Smoother than we thought, actually. It helps that Sammy's been such a good fit. Honestly, this whole adoption thing is like an afterthought. Soon as he started living with us, it felt...right. Like it was meant to be."

Micah smiled. "And he's going to be a helluva basketball player someday, too. Kid's a natural."

Tony chuckled. "Well, he couldn't ask for a better Dad to teach him, that's for sure."

"I don't know about that. I'm not what I once was."

"Who is? Besides. Not only are you still the all-time leading scorer in Section 3, Class C history, you've also been the leading scorer in your adult league the last two years running. And I've seen those games, Micah. It's gotta be harder shooting from your wheelchair, but you still never miss, ever."

"I suppose." Micah took a deep breath, still distracted by the notion that something indefinable lingered just beyond his thoughts. "Y'know, I can't even tell you why Gus' story bothered me so much tonight, or why I bolted so quickly when he told me about the Valley. I was actually having a pretty good time with him and Jimmy, watching the Knicks get roasted by the Spurs. Then he said something about the Valley getting torn down, and..."

Tony gripped his shoulder and squeezed. "Bad memories do that. They come up when you least expect them to. But tomorrow, Nuemann Construction is going to bulldoze the Valley into the ground. It'll be less than a memory, my friend. You go home and get some rest." He thumped the truck's door, waved and turned back to his cruiser.

Micah nodded, smiling. He put his truck into gear but grabbed the brake lever, a sudden idea bubbling up, from where he didn't know. "Hey, Tony," he called out the window, "you ever find your necklace? The one I...well, the one I took from you? The Celtic infinity knot?"

Tony cocked his head, surprise written on his features. "Huh. I haven't thought about that in forever. Lost it that night. It probably fell into the valley. I never went hunting for it, that's for sure." He smiled, puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

Briefly, Micah thought of telling Tony about the weird pendant he'd found in the orange bag of Halloween candy the shopkeeper had given him, how it looked just like the one Micah had taken from Tony that night. The moment passed, however, and he shook his head. "No reason. Just a weird thought."

Tony chuckled. "Well, it's Halloween. The perfect night for weird thoughts, right?"

Micah was about to respond, but a low throbbing engine interrupted him, as well as the sound a whining guitar riff. He looked up and saw, on the opposite side of the road, passing through the traffic light (which had flickered from green to red and back to green during their talk), a gleaming white, restored Trans Am from the nineties.

From the open window poured the thundering guitars and drums of Motley Crue's "Shout at the Devil." As the car rolled leisurely under one of the street lamps and past them, Micah's heart sped up slightly. He glimpsed a face done up in white makeup. Like a skull. The orange glow of a cigarette tip blazed against the dark inside the car.

Though it was probably his imagination, Micah thought he saw the driver give him a leisurely two-fingered salute as he drove by, after which the car sped up, turned right and drove away into the night.

Travis looked back at Micah and shrugged. "Like I said. It's Halloween. The night for weird thoughts, and even weirder sights." He pointed at Micah. "Now get out of here. Amy and Sammy are waiting for you at home." He waved once more, then turned and walked to his cruiser.

Micah waved, disengaged the brake lever, flicked the turn signal on and executed a u-turn, away from Blackfoot Valley and toward home. As he put distance between him and the ruins of the basketball camp, and apparent distance between him and the direction the Trans Am had taken (why it should bother him so much, he didn't understand) he relaxed and felt better. He would go home to his okay life, which was getting more okay by the day.

As he took the left turn which would send him home, he was struck by the notion that there should be a depressing heaviness in his left jacket pocket. However, when he stuck his hand in there, he found nothing but the strange necklace from the orange bag of Halloween candy (which was strange; hadn't he put the necklace in his right pocket?). A clean feeling of relief surged so powerfully through him, Micah thought he might weep, though he didn't understand why.

# 14.

There's just a little bit left to this tale, if you'll only tarry a while longer and indulge me. And yes, before you ask, this is the part of the story when the principal character tries, in his or her own way, to make sense of what's happened to them, to look for answers, even if they don't realize that's what they're doing.

Indeed, Micah Cassidy will receive some answers, though of course, he won't get them all, nor will he necessarily get the specific answers he seeks. Of course, that is an important way in which Art imitates life. We rarely receive answers to our deepest questions. We simply have to accept the answers we receive and move on from there.

Besides.

I'd like to think our lives would be far more boring if we had the answers to everything. Safer, yes. Predictable and more manageable, undoubtedly. But better?

Perhaps.

Or perhaps not.

### * * *

When Micah entered my store the next day, he navigated his wheelchair down the main aisle toward the sales counter expertly, as if he'd used a wheelchair most of his adult life. And of course, as far as he's concerned, he has.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Cassidy," I said to him as he rolled to a stop at the sales-counter. "A Happy All-Souls Day to you. I trust you weathered Mischief Night last night without suffering too much...mischief?"

Micah smiled, but something flitted in his eyes hinting at more than just smashed pumpkins or egged cars. "Did okay. Nothing that took more than ten minutes to clean up."

"Excellent. I'm glad to hear it. What can I do for you today?"

That light flashed in Micah's eyes again as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew the necklace and pendent I'd included with his Halloween candy the night before. He held the charm up by its chain and said, "Well, I found this in that bag of candy you gave me last night. I'm not sure how much it's worth, but I figured you'd dropped in the bag by accident, so I brought it back."

I smiled indulgently and waved. "Oh, by no means. Please keep it. I put similar trinkets in my Halloween bags every year. Regarding its value, monetarily speaking, I wouldn't have charged more than five dollars for it anyway."

Micah laid the charm in his open hand. Looking at it, he said, "Kind of a strange thing to put in a bag of Halloween candy for kids."

"Ah. Yes. As I said last night, we rarely have visitors on Halloween night anymore, but I still make bags for both children and adults. The children's bags have trinkets of a more plastic and juvenile nature, I assure you."

Micah nodded, his gaze — still focused on the charm lying in his palm — looking distant, unfocused. "What is it, exactly?"

"It's a very interesting piece, even if this pendent itself isn't worth much," I said, as always, warming to the role of pseudo-museum curator. "It's a Celtic infinity knot. Dates back to antiquity. Scholars believe it's supposed to represent the allness of time. That the past, present and future exist as one seamless thing, rather than points on a linear progression. A rather sophisticated thought for ancient times, to be sure."

Micah grunted. He touched the charm and traced it with his fingertip. "Like the skin of an orange," he said softly, "the past and present together at the same time."

I smiled. "Indeed. I see you remember our conversation from last night."

Micah nodded slowly, though he kept looking at the infinity knot. "What else did we talk about? I honestly can't remember."

"This and that. I talked a bit about Blackfoot Valley Basketball camp, because you seemed to take an interest in the Blackfoot Valley official basketball we had here last night. I'm sorry to say someone bought it this afternoon. A collector from out of town, specializing in sports memorabilia."

This, of course, was true. Handy's Pawn and Thrift is a special, one-of-a-kind store...but we do have to rent to pay, such as it is.

Micah looked up at me, his gaze piercing. "You called me 'Mr. Cassidy' when I came in. Same when I left last night. Do you know who I am?"

I must admit, Dear Listener, that even though I'm rarely surprised, I occasional get a little too comfortable — perhaps even over-confident — and slip up just the slightest bit, which I had done in this case. "I apologize, Mr. Cassidy. Yes, I do know who you are."

"And you know my background with Blackfoot Valley. And you asked me about basketball last night. If I played, or watched it."

I tried to project an apologetic air, which was easy to do, because I genuinely was sorry. "Yes. I suppose in retrospect that was a cruel thing to do. To be fair, I was hoping to get you to talk about it. You seemed very much burdened last night, and I suppose I fancy myself as offering more than just trinkets and odds and ends. I sincerely apologize if I overstepped."

He shook his head, still looking distracted. "It's fine. To be honest, I'm not even sure why it bothered me. It certainly doesn't bother me now. I've...I've made peace with that, I think."

"But you still seem...troubled about something. Maybe not troubled. More like...distracted."

Micah nodded. "Yeah. Listen, this might sound strange...but did you help me get into my truck last night? I have a lift in the bed for my wheelchair, but when I'm alone, I need someone to put the wheelchair in the lift after I get into the truck. Usually when I go to the Inn, Jimmy Malfi does it for me, but I stormed out last night because I got upset at something random...and I came into here, talked to you..."

He looked at me, brow knitted together with confusion, and maybe, lingering just below that, in the minutest of amounts...

Fear.

"Did you help me last night?"

I nodded. "Indeed I did. You were a little embarrassed because, as you said, you left The Inn by yourself rather abruptly, without thinking. In fact, I think that's probably why you came in here last night to begin with, in hopes of finding someone to help you, though it took you a while to ask."

That turned the trick. The confusion — and that smidgen of fear - disappeared as Micah smiled sheepishly. "Yeah. Amy's always busting me about that. I have a hard time asking for help, no doubt there."

It's always a delicate balance, of course. Getting someone like Micah past that moment of confusion and fear, and the trigger to that is different for everyone. In Micah's case, gently pointing out his difficulty in asking for help did the job nicely.

Of course, I wasn't lying. I did help him get into his truck last night. At least, as far as he's concerned, and now that it's been cemented into his memory, it's the only strand from last night he'll remember.

Me, however?

I'm not so lucky.

I remember all the strands. From all the nights. It can get confusing, at times. And headache inducing.

Looking much more at ease, Micah smiled. "Okay. Sorry to bother you. Lot on my mind lately. I heard they're tearing down Blackfoot Valley today. If you know my story, then you know...I've got history with that place."

I nodded. "Indeed."

"Anyway. Thanks." He put his hands on his wheels, ready to turn around, but he paused and held up the Celtic infinity knot by its chain. "Do you want this back, or..?"

I held up a hand, keeping the expression on my face kindly and benign, seeking to mask the muted fear I felt; fear for Micah, of course, and not me. "Oh, no. It's a gift, a treat given on All Hallow's Eve. In many cultures, it's quite bad luck to return such a gift."

Micah nodded slowly, a sliver of fear passing over his face one last time, there one minute and gone the next, without him knowing, I think. Then, he smiled once more. "Okay. Sure. I'll see if Amy wants to wear it. I'm not much of a necklace person, honestly."

"That sounds like a fine idea."

"Okay then. Have a good one."

"You as well."

And with that, Micah Cassidy expertly turned his wheelchair around, wheeled down the aisle, and left my store.

### * * *

Micah Cassidy must still have the Celtic infinity knot, because if he'd gotten rid of it or had lost it, I would've known. His strand would've unraveled and gone back to the way it was before. Don't ask me the particulars; the metaphysics and quantum mechanics of it are quite convoluted. Suffice to say, it's happened in other cases, and I sincerely hope it won't happen to Micah. If so, I won't be able to help him a second time.

What of Skull Face, the King of Halloween, his queen and his court? He, of course, isn't pleased. He's already visited my humble store, swearing his eternal vengeance, and that he'll get even. The same empty threats he delivers every time I best him.

It's tiresome at this point. We both have roles to play in this cosmic dance, and there's a balance to be kept. Last year, I snatched a poor soul from his grasp. This year, most likely I won't be nearly as fortunate. The scales will balance out, as they always do. To be honest, Lord Samhain has gotten a bit like a cranky landlord in his old age, his threats more akin to "Get off my lawn!" than the eternal damnation they used to be. But that's the way of things. We all grow old, in our own way. Even cosmic beings.

In any case, Dear Listener, I offer thanks for your time and patience. Though it probably sounds macabre (and fear not; your eternal soul is in no danger from me), your attention is the sustenance I seek. As it is for all natural born storytellers.

In any case, peace be with you on this Halloween night. I hope you are at peace, and things are well with you in this world. Because if not? Lord Samhain is hungry this year — extra hungry, seeing as how I cheated him last year — and I believe I saw his gleaming white and rumbling Trans Am (so much better than that old horse he used to ride), parked just around the corner...

# Other Clifton Heights Tales

_Things Slip Through_ — short story collection

_Devourer of Souls_ — novella duet

_Through A Mirror, Darkly_ — novella quartet

_A Night at Old Webb_ — novella

_Strange Days_ — short fiction, nonfiction, poetry

_Things You Need_ — short story collection

# About the Author

Kevin Lucia is the Review Editor for Cemetery Dance Online. His short fiction has appeared in several anthologies, most notably alongside Peter Straub, Neil Gaiman, Ramsey Campbell, Cliver Barker, Bentley Little, David Morrell and Robery McCammon. He teaches high school English and lives in Castle Creek, New York with his wife and children. He's currently working on his first novel. Visit him online at kevinlucia.blogspot.com.

# Long Night in the Valley

  1. Long Night in the Valley — A Clifton Heights Halloween Story
  2. Copyright 2018 - Kevin Lucia
  3. Let me tell you a story.
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  18. Other Clifton Heights Tales
  19. About the Author

  1. Cover

