Shiver : 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror

I walk a few blocks east before popping into my second favorite pizzeria. Kids in costumes zoom around me, collecting candy from a bowl on the counter and then rushing back out to street. I forget that New York City children don’t really have an opportunity to go door-to-door begging for sweet morsels of tradition.

When I was a kid back in Austin, we had a system. My two brothers and I would circle the neighborhood in cheesy Halloween masks, recycled from year to year. I think I wore the mask of Hulk Hogan a dozen times before high school. After our first trip out, we would empty our bags, switch our masks, and then go with our own set of friends. Later at night, we would combine our candy and have enough to last until Christmas.

“Can I get two slices?” I ask.

The pizza guy slides two congealed slices in the oven and preps a to-go box. “Six bucks.”

Goddamn, that’s robbery. I place money on the counter and snag a Milky Way from a candy bowl. He gives me a dirty look — like I’m literally taking candy from babies.

With my steamy pizza box and paper sack from the bodega, I make my way a few more blocks to my building. A police car slows to a stop near a gang of teenagers in dark hoodies. They do look a little squirrely, but this is just one of those nights when everything seems odd. I wave at the cops and the teenagers run off.

Arriving at my building, my doorman, Declan, opens the lobby door. “Evening, Mr. Brooks.”

“Nice tie,” I say.

He holds up the pumpkin tie and shrugs. “Eh, just having some fun.”

A few boys I recognize from my building congregate in the lobby, shouting and making a scene. They seem to be teasing a kid on crutches dressed as Obi Wan Kenobi. I approach them calmly and ask, “What’s the deal?”

The one dressed as a skeleton turns to face me, his canvas bag of candy swinging into my leg. “Gimpy is slowing us down. We can’t take the elevator to every single floor.”

I turn to the kid on crutches and ask, “What happened to your leg?”

“Oh, football,” he says quietly.

His friends run to the stairs, turning once to give us the middle finger and laugh.

“Little jerks,” I yell after them. “What’s your name, kid?” I ask the one on crutches.

“I’m Trent. Halloween is like my favorite holiday, after Christmas.”

“I hear ya, Trent. And dude, your friends seem like turds.”

Trent laughs as he shifts his weight on his crutches. “Yeah, but they’ll have three times as much candy as me. I can’t hobble and hold my bag at the same time.”

“I can’t let that happen.” Facing the front desk, I shout, “Declan, keep an eye on Trent until I get back.”

Declan nods apathetically and waves me off.

“Trent, give me an hour. And your candy bag.”

He reluctantly passes me his bag and then plops down on one of the sofas. “Whatever, man.”

I hurry to my apartment, remove my suit jacket and tie, throw my pizza and brown paper bag on the kitchen island, remove the bag of shitty Lifesavers, and then begin my quest to collect more candy than those dipshit kids.

In the hall, I pass by my neighbors, the Hansons. Luckily, they placed a basket filled with Twizzlers and full-size Hershey bars outside their door. I survey the hallway — no one. Without hesitating, I pour the contents of the entire basket in Trent’s bag. I then refill the bowl with my bag of peppermint Lifesavers.

First mission: Accomplished.

I take out my phone and the business card from Lena. Continuing down the hall, I text her.

ME: What’s your address?

Her reply is instant.

LENA: 5611 Lexington

I place the phone back in my pocket and then knock on the next door. A nice-looking woman I recognize from the mail center opens the door with a smile, but then her face changes.

“Trick o’ treat,” I say charmingly. She looks behind my shoulder and then at my bag. “I’m not sure we’ve met, I’m Chris Brooks and I live a few doors down.”

Puzzled, she says, “Okay.”

“I know this looks really weird, but I’m actually helping out a boy in our building. He’s on crutches and his friends ditched him.”

She narrows her eyes and asks, “Do you want candy?”

Why would she assume anything else?

“Yes, please.”

I watch as she takes a wicker basket from a small table near the door. She faces me, still thoroughly confused. I open my bag and smile — hopefully that will give her a clue. She drops in two snack-sized Twix. This is going to be tough.

“Poor little guy — Halloween’s his favorite holiday.” She smiles awkwardly, and then places another small Twix inside the bag. “He’s all dressed up in a Star Wars costume and sitting in the lobby. Twix candy bars are his favorite.” Not sure how to perceive me, and probably a little frightened, the woman places two handfuls of Twix in my bag. Holding a now empty basket, she closes the door.

The adjacent apartment door is decorated with cobwebs and dozens of plastic spiders. As I knock on the door, a loud scream wails through a small speaker at the top of the doorframe. The door creaks open, revealing a witch drinking from a goblet. In character, she cackles, “What do you want?”

Playing along, I answer, “Trick o’ treat.”

“Where’s your costume?” she asks, moving her fingers in front of my chest like she’s clawing for air.

I smirk and lean against the doorframe. “Give me candy, you wench.”

She laughs as she tosses packages of M&M’s in my bag. At least a dozen make their way in before she turns to open another candy bag. Her voice returns to what I assume is her normal tone as she teases, “Good one, Chris. It’s me, Libby Sanders-Dunlap!”

Ah, Libby. She recently got divorced. Need I say more?

“I didn’t know we lived on the same floor,” I lie. “I also didn’t know you were into the black magic.”

Her painted green hand grazes my arm as she giggles. “Do you want to come in?”

I shake my head and lift my bag. “I can’t tonight. I’m on a candy mission.”

Libby appears insulted. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“I am. But hey, let’s get a beer sometime,” I casually add.

She nods sadly and then closes the door. To be honest, Libby’s not my type. When I moved here eight months ago, she brought me a “welcome” basket of wine and cheese. I want a girl who welcomes me with beer and porn.

The last door on my floor is opened slightly and reeks of burnt popcorn. I knock once before a man in his late fifties swings it open. “Yeah?” he grunts.

“Uh, never mind.”

Climbing the stairs, I look at my watch and hurry my pace. I have enough time to attack one more floor before I need to leave to meet Lena. The apartment door closest to the stairs has a doorbell the size of golf ball. I press the large buzzer and inadvertently summon church bells of Gothic proportions.

“Coming,” a shaky voice beckons from behind the door. “Almost there,” she crackles. The door opens and the cutest little old lady extends her arms. “Scotty! Give Me Maw a hug.”

Not sure what to do, I lean forward and accept her embrace. “Trick o’ treat,” I say into her poof of silver hair.

Pinching my waist, she rattles, “You’re as thin as a rail, Scotty! Come in, we’ll have some crab dip and watch Jeopardy.”

“Uh, okay,” I agree. She scoots through the entryway wearing leopard-print slippers and Christmas socks. I should turn around and leave, but the apartment is exactly like my real Me Maw’s house in Nacogdoches! Picture frames everywhere, and little bowls of those nasty orange peanuts stashed on every table. There’s even an identical lamp to my Me Maw’s antique from New Orleans — the one with a carriage as the base and red fringe hanging from the shade. This is trippy.

Unaware of her mental state, I quietly say, “Me Maw, I can only stay for a few minutes.”

She sits on a velvet love seat and passes me a tray of crackers. “Crab dip is your favorite, Scotty!”