Halloween Haunts: Halloween Lost by Kenneth W.Cain

My daughter told me she no longer wishes to go out on Halloween night. This worried me, the thought that our children would never know Halloween night the way prior generations have.

For me, Halloween was a day of empowerment. A day when you could be any superhero you wanted. When you could scare the girls by donning a wolf mask or some fangs and fake blood, and not end up getting scolded by your mother. It was a night you could run around the neighborhood unbridled, ransacking candy buckets and playing tricks without worry.

Alas, times have changed. And sure, maybe it’s somewhat warranted. Still, each year when I stand at my door gazing out on all the Halloweeners, I see the flashing police and fire vehicle lights and think, “This is so safe.” And as a parent that makes you more relaxed. But still it saddens me.

Few older children choose to participate these days. And yet some of my most notable nights were those very years. I could cover more ground and fill up an entire pillowcase before the night ended. I’d sell the extra candy to other kids so I had the extra coin to buy baseball cards or a pop. But none were so memorable as the fall of 1977.

Many younger boys and teens had disappeared in the suburbs of Chicago around that time. If you know your history, you know why. We had a curfew that few adhered to, as it was a more fearless time. And I couldn’t wait to get started that night, but sat on my front porch and waited for my friends to arrive.

The prior year my friend Brian had gone as a vampire. Brian always had the best costumes. I remember thinking how much his costume made him look like Bela Lugosi. And I’d wanted to replicate his costume the following year. But my parents didn’t have money to waste on a black suit or a cape with the red linen on the inside or even the makeup.

My attempt wasn’t quite as successful. I had to use a tattered navy blanket for a cape. Instead of a black suit, I wore Toughskin jeans with steal-belted patches sewn into the knees and a Hulk sweatshirt. With no white paint I was forced to rely on talcum powder. And my blood wasn’t the sort you bought in a store. I used corn syrup and red dye. Regardless of how hideous my costume appeared, it did the trick as far as anyone else was concerned, and that was good enough for me.

Halloween always had a certain air about it and this year was no different. It reminded me of a pumpkin patch with a hint of candy corns. A dense fog lay across the school grounds, swirling around the legs of the slide and swing sets. A single ghoul burst out of the fog, startling me until I realized who was behind the mask.

I met Bill at the edge of my driveway and we waited for Brian. And there he was, Kiss’ Starchild striding right down the street with his black starred eye and alien looking outfit. Platform shoes covered in tin foil and wavy black Rock’n Roll hair.

Brian asked if we’d heard about Mr. Wilkinson. Of course we had. Every year Mr. Wilkinson refused to follow the rules. He left his porch light on, but never handed out candy. As such, it had become a sort of right of passage to play a trick on his house. And most often that trick was to steal the bulb out of his porch light.

But there was more to Mr. Wilkinson than met the eye. No one ever saw the old man during the summer, or any other time for that matter. Rumor had it the guy had murdered his family. His house was always dark and you rarely caught a glimpse of him through the front window. When you did, you’d swear his silhouette was standing there just staring at you. God knew what powers he had, what darkness he could spread, and yet we couldn’t keep ourselves away.

Down the street walked the zombie, the Starchild, and my best attempt at being a vampire. Who cared about candy when you had such a great trick in mind? Who did? We did.

We hit every house on the way and even went up the street past Mr. Wilkinson’s house. We had our sacks a quarter of the way full by the time we finally turned our attention to the old man’s place. We stood at the end of his driveway for a very long time, trying to muster up some nerve.

The older kids didn’t bother with Mr. Wilkinson anymore. They tended to focus more on terrorizing the younger kids, trying to scare them and steal their candy. For the most part, we were lucky enough to avoid them this year. But a few had taken the time to further delay our cause by offering up unwanted details of the legend of Mr. Wilkinson. And few had taken a handful of candy as reward. I swear the old man’s shadow loomed in that window the entire time we were there.

We waited until the street was silent before heading up the driveway. We took it slow, a joint step, one at a time. I can’t speak for the others, but my legs felt like Slinky’s, forced to move, but ever so springy in their step. This was the furthest we’d ever gotten and my heart pounded away so loud, I worried my friends might tease me if they heard it. I swallowed hard in an attempt to ease my nerves, but I’m certain I was not alone in my terror.

Our combined weight made each wooden step groan. The creaks were loud, causing me to jolt each and every time. Even once we’d made it to the porch I couldn’t help but worry about the trip back and having to hear those creaks again. At least then we’d be on the run and they’d come quick.

We stood under that light, trying to figure out how to steal the bulb. I remember wishing we’d planned ahead. I took in all I could see: the chipped paint of the wooden siding, the rusty screen door, the years of algae in every corner of the glass windows, the lichens gathering in the corners of the porch. Eventually we dropped our bags, and Bill and Brian lifted me until I could reach the light.

The light seared away at my eyes as I reached up into the housing of the light. A bright green circle blinded much of my vision and although I tried to focus on the task at hand, it grew ever more difficult. I worried what would come after I took the bulb, or maybe during. Would I fall if my legs kept shaking this much? Would they be able to hold me up? Or keep me from falling? What if Mr. Wilkinson came out?

The light burned my fingertips and I yanked them away. This time I licked them, cooling them long enough to loosen the bulb a turn or two. But there was another noise that alerted me, the sound of the door popping open.

My eyes turned to the door and although that white haze blocked out much of everything, I saw the door opening and startled. And the hands that held me up faltered to the point we became a wobbling mass that moved as one away from the door.

We spilled down those stairs hard. I took the brunt of the fall, landing on the cement walkway, but kids are resilient. Within a fraction of a second we were up and running, stopping only for a moment at the end of the driveway to see if Mr. Wilkinson had started after us. But when we did look, we couldn’t help but notice how the door remained shut.

Had we imagined all of this? Even if we had, it certainly changed our minds as to whether we had it in us to take the old man’s light bulb. No way could we return. At least not until next year. But there was a greater concern. One that meant we’d be returning to that porch sooner than we anticipated. The three of us stared up at the three pillowcases resting on the stoop.

There is a process to settle ones nerves in such cases. And kids have that process down. First, you laugh, and the harder the better. Laughing allows you to hide all the shaking. Makes it easier to bear. We did so with little reservation.

Afterward, you speak of how brave you were to begin with. How you’d almost succeeded. And you take turns complimenting each other’s bravery. But compliments turn to jest, and then to blame. And the arguing over whom was most at fault eventually gives way to concern. Especially where three pillow cases of candy are concerned.

Still shaky, we headed back up toward the porch. The travel was no easier, but somehow it seemed to take less time to reach the porch. Even the creak of each step sounded less intrusive and startling. All we cared about was getting those sacks and getting on our way. And when we reached those sacks, we seized them with eager hands.

The porch went dark. Together, we all took a step back, dragging the pillowcases along with us. The door flung open and a single figure stood in the darkness beyond. And although we ran, we’d discuss that night for years to come, brag about it to other kids who would maybe take to the dare themselves someday. We’d collectively swear the old man had looked as evil as anything we’d seen on late night television.

Thinking back on it, Mr. Wilkinson could’ve been smiling. And maybe he’d even been holding something in his hand, perhaps a bucket of some sort. Or maybe what we saw that fateful night had been real. Maybe he’d looked angry and had been holding a knife. Maybe he did have fangs. The truth remains hidden in childhood dreams of Halloween night.

I’ve been afforded a lifetime of stories thanks to the Halloween of old. Stories that sometimes make me laugh and at other times question the thin fabric of reality. I often wonder what we’ve sacrificed in creating such a safe Halloween. Or maybe it isn’t so much that we’ve transformed the night into something harmless so much as we feel an inherent need for protection from the unknown on such haunting nights. But at what cost to the children? What stories of Halloween night will they have to share if we continue to whittle away at the experience?

TODAY’S GIVEAWAYS: Kenneth W. Cain is offering one print copy each of The Saga of I: Complete Collection, Six Guns Straight from Hell 2, Enter At Your Own Risk: The End Is the Beginning, and Of Devils and Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror. Comment below to enter or e-mai membership@horror.org with “HH Entry” in the subject line.

KENNETH W. CAIN is the author of the SAGA OF I (THESE TRESPASSES, GRAVE REVELATIONS, RECKONING), THE DEAD CIVIL WAR,  the acclaimed short story collection THESE OLD TALES, and his latest short story collection FRESH CUT TALES. He lives with his wife and children in Eastern Pennsylvania.

Website: http://kennethwcain.com

Amazon: http://amazon.com/author/kennethcain

To celebrate the upcoming audio release of my collection Fresh Cut Tales: A Collection of Dark Fiction I’ve selected to include an entire story. Recently, Nelson W. Pyles read this story over at his Podcast, The Wicked Library, where you can also listen to this story free of charge. Nelson will be doing the narration for the collection.

PERFECT LITTLE HANDS

Illustration © Kuco | Dreamstime.com

Dallas avoided looking at Erin’s face because it would unravel him. He chose to focus on her flawless hands. They were the only thing that still looked anything like the girl he remembered. But something—something—was missing.

His eyes strained over her nails, her knuckles and her pale skin. He was glad the mortician had taken care in cleaning them, removing the residual red dust from beneath her nails.

“Dal?” Henry said from behind, startling him. “I’m so sorry for your loss, son.”

He cleared his throat as if to speak, then nodded. He didn’t have it in him. Her hands still held his attention, bothered by the fact that something was wrong.

His neighbor drifted away into the crowd of people, most of whom Dallas hadn’t seen in a long time. Amongst them, he glimpsed Erin’s mother, Anne. She no longer looked like the woman he’d married. Losing a child had a way of doing that. Anne’s face was pallid and streaked with mascara; to him she looked almost inhuman.

His heart twisted in knots for her. She vanished, hidden by the crowd of drifting mourners.

Many of them prayed, asking for God to grant Erin an easy journey. When they were done, they made an invisible cross over their chests and left.

He preferred those mourners who were satisfied with grim silence, keeping to themselves and then departing. Leaving him alone ensured they wouldn’t deepen his grief.

Then Alec entered the room.

Erin’s biological father crossed to Anne and put a consoling hand lightly upon her shoulder. People parted, leaving Dallas a better view. Although he didn’t want to watch, he couldn’t keep himself from it. His temperature rose as Anne stood and embraced her ex-husband with fervor. Dallas should have been the one to pacify her anguish.

He retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead. How dare he? Alec hadn’t been half the father he was, but for some reason Erin kept him in her life.

Even when he stopped contacting her, she sought him out. Although Alec had let her down time and time again, she always let him back in. Who’d been there to pick up the pieces?

Me, that’s who.

He despised the man, funeral or not. What infuriated him most was the way Alec always wore a phony smile on his face. How can he smile at a time like this?

He’d seen that smile too often, usually in the presence of the little girl who idolized the man. Why should she think so highly of the man who abandoned her? What about my feelings? Why couldn’t she smile around me?

Tiny digits tickled his fingers, seizing his hand and pulling him out of his thoughts. Callie reminded him so much of a younger Erin, the girl who would laugh when he said something funny. Callie lived down the street and, like Erin, she’d only been a baby when her father left.

He could sympathize with her situation and kept a close eye on Callie and her mother because of it, an act Erin had often referred to as creepy.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Davies,” Callie said.

He wanted to smile for her, wanted to say something nice, but nothing appealed to him. Once more, he nodded.

Callie lifted herself on tiptoes and studied the inside of the coffin. “She looks happy,” she said, and then vanished into the crowd.

She’s off to see her mother…

Because of what Callie said, Dallas took his first long, hard look at Erin’s face. The mortician had done his best, but her head was ever so slightly misshapen. No one would notice unless they got very close, but there were also several abrasions among the large gashes that had been sewn shut and filled with putty before being lightly brushed with makeup. In those deepest areas, the putty had begun to settle due to the room’s warm air. From this angle the slight indentations made her look old. Dallas forced his eyes to Erin’s lips, not wanting to linger upon the wounds that pained him so.

Yes, he supposed Callie was right. In spite of everything he knew and could visualize, the slashes and the sinking putty, Erin did look happy. Dallas’s heart wrenched more than it had upon seeing Anne.

He wished things hadn’t ended as they had between them, with her being so distant. He had this gut feeling that Erin had confided things in Alec. Especially how she felt about her stepfather. Perhaps even going so far to detail the many ways in which he creeped her out.

Is that why she wanted to live with Alec?

Seeing the man, and the way he grinned so much made Dallas nauseous. Alec remained by Anne’s side, with an occasional hug or rub of her shoulder in consolation. Anne appeared grateful and that further incensed Dallas.

How is that not creepy?

He looked away, had to look away, and turned back to Erin.

She was frowning now.

Dallas leaned closer, brow furrowed. The bright-red lipstick the mortician had used was far too much for her age, different from the subtle color he’d picked out.

As he watched, her lips parted and, with a wheeze of air, he heard her whisper, “Creep.”

Dallas cast his eyes about the room, wondering if anyone else had heard or seen this. Convinced they hadn’t, he thought his imagination was getting the best of him and returned his eyes to her hands, trying to remember better times between them.

The only memory that came to him was her birthday, which they celebrated a few days prior to her death. After all the painstaking efforts he’d gone through to make her day special, she’d been happiest with the ring Alec had given her. She hadn’t even bothered with the watch Dallas had picked out for her.

Goddamn that bastard. He ruined everything.

And then he knew what it was—the thing that had been missing.

The watch. The watch he had insisted be there, wasn’t. Erin’s wrist was bare.

He wanted to scream. Fury rose in his throat and he struggled to maintain his composure. He stormed toward the mortician, but Father Marietta intercepted his path.

“How are you doing, Dallas?” the priest asked.

He regarded the vicar, nodding as he had with everyone this day. Why should so many people expect me to talk? Go bother someone else or say a damn prayer.

“God must have a very special place for her.” The priest cleared his throat and coughed up some phlegm, drew a handkerchief and wiped it away. “I guess he needed her more than us.”

His words bothered Dallas. What did this priest know of his needs? Had he been there late at night, all those times when Dallas was Erin’s shoulder to cry on? Had he been there when Erin’s first boyfriend made a move on her, forcing Dallas to pick her up at the theater and keep it all a secret from her mother? That was need. A thing this priest knew nothing about. And neither did Alec.

The priest made a cross over his chest. “You okay, Dallas? You seem a bit…bothered.”

Dallas forced a smile, resenting that he had. He patted the priest on the shoulder. The odd sensation of the grin sickened him. He let his breath out slow. “No, Father. I’m as fine as I can be on a day like this.”

The priest nodded, sympathizing. Before he could say anything more, Dallas pushed past him, intent on speaking with the mortician. “Will you excuse me, Father?”

He didn’t wait for a response. He hurried through the crowd. “Mr. Jacobs?” Dallas gestured for the man, feeling his teeth grinding together. “Mr. Jacobs?”

The mortician’s slender, weathered face met his. He looked as though he’d been dangling from a thread for quite some time. It was a thread Dallas yearned to pull.

“Yes, Mr. Davies. How may I help you?”

His ignorant smile irritated Dallas. Of course he would be tickled on a day like this. Payday for good old Mr. Jacobs. Never mind the fact that a young girl had died, suffered at the hands of—

He quickly shook the thought away. “The watch.” He tried to ease the clenching of his teeth, but could not. “You forgot the watch.”

The mortician’s grin faded to understanding. “Sir, I spoke with your wife specifically about the problems we had attaching the watch.”

A wrinkle formed above his eyes, “Problems? What problems?”

“Yes, Mr. Davies. We went to place the watch on her wrist, but we encountered…uh…some technical difficulties.”

Technical difficulties. How the hell do you have technical difficulties with a watch? He strained to keep his voice low. “What do you mean?”

“When we tried to secure the band, her arm…it moved.”

“Moved?” Dallas stared back at the coffin, seeing a hint of the girl inside. “She moved?”

“Yes, sir.” He paused, as if to convince himself of something he couldn’t fathom. “Maybe it was nerves or rigor mortis or any of several inexplicable possibilities, but I’m not going to lie, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

She is dead, though, isn’t she? His mistrusting eyes went from Erin to the mortician and then back again, considering what he thought he’d heard from her lips moments earlier. His pulse quickened, eyes welling with tears as he dared her to move. She didn’t. Couldn’t. She’s dead. I made sure of it.

“For whatever reason, the resulting action damaged the clasp.”

A sigh escaped his lips louder than he’d hoped, frustration overwhelming him. Dallas wasn’t sure how to respond or what to ask next. He hadn’t expected this. Why hadn’t Anne warned him?

Because she’s hurt. Think of her feelings. Still, she knew how important this was to him. Now more than ever, his jealousy was getting the best of him.

“Not to worry, Mr. Davies. Your wife said you would be okay with us placing the watch in Erin’s coffin, as long as it was buried with her.” He paused, and then thought to clarify. “This is what we’ve done at Mrs. Davies’ request.”

It was a relief that Anne, even in her present state, had taken care of this matter. If nothing else, a piece of him would be buried with Erin, keeping her company for the rest of eternity.

They would be together forever, and there was nothing Alec could do to prevent that now. This was the one thing Alec couldn’t take away from him.

“Is this okay, Mr. Davies?”

Dallas found himself nodding a lot today, and he did so now.

The mortician returned the gesture before continuing his conversation with Erin’s teacher.

When Dallas turned back to Erin, he was appalled to find Alec by her side. In his absence the man had taken his spot. As people approached, Alec greeted them with a warm smile, shook their hand, and even hugged them.

What is he doing? That’s my job.

His eyes searched Anne, wishing she would intervene. She sat slack in the pew, like a bag of potatoes having been thrown there. The drugs she’d been spoon-fed by her sisters forced her to complacency. She wouldn’t be of any use to him, not here, not now.

An awful thought came to him, Perhaps never again.

Heavy footsteps sped him to the coffin where he stood next to Alec. He wanted nothing more than to slug the man or shove him out of the way. If he could manage that, he would triumphantly take the spot he’d earned in the time Alec had disregarded his daughter.

Alec greeted Dallas with that smile, sliding his arm around him and pulling him in close. “How you doing there, pal?”

Pal? He seethed, feeling his molars grinding. He wavered in Alec’s arm. There were many things he’d practiced saying to this man, had wanted to express for so long. He should have told him to stop interfering years ago; stay out of their business and keep away from Erin. For most of her life he hadn’t needed to convince the man of these last two requests, as he did so with blatant disregard.

Why would a man who had everything going for him in California pack up and move back to the Midwest, anyway? And why had he chosen a home so close to theirs? Finding himself likened to a ragdoll under the weight of Alec’s overly enthusiastic arm, he could question nothing.

He broke into tears, having held them back as long as he could. Before he knew what was happening, Alec had embraced him and was whispering in his ear, telling him everything would be okay. Alec patted him on the back, soothing him.

“You don’t understand—” Dallas mumbled through tears.

Alec hushed him. “Who does? No one knows why it had to be her.”

Forcing himself quiet, he tried to regain control of his emotions. After a brief moment, he pulled away from Alec with a look of disgust. He couldn’t draw his gaze away from Alec’s smile, though. Then he remembered Erin’s hands, her bare wrist, the watch, and did.

He abandoned the discomfort of being near Alec for that of the coffin. Scanning the items beside Erin, he identified drawings, a book, some colorful ribbons, many letters, some poetry, but there was no sign of the watch. It occurred to him the mortician might have been lying. In his search for the watch, he rediscovered Erin’s face and—

Is she smiling?

Yes, he was certain of it. It was that same mocking smile that Alec wore with such negligence. Dallas maneuvered closer, examining every detail of her face, thinking how different she appeared.

Have some of her wounds healed? Maybe she isn’t as bad off as I remember.

Reconsidering Callie’s words, he wondered if Erin had been smiling all along instead of that reproachful frown he recalled glimpsing earlier.

“Do you see this?” Dallas mumbled, not fully understanding he’d said it aloud or whom he was addressing it to.

“See what?” Alec said.

He glanced sideways, irritated by the man’s response. “She’s smiling.”

“Of course she is, Dallas. She’s in a better place now.” A concerned hand found its way to his back, patting once more.

“No,” Dallas said, “she’s really smiling.”

Was she coming back to life? Was it even possible to cheat death like that? He worried about what she might tell her dad or Anne if that were to happen.

But she can’t. He’d been positive.

“Take it easy, Dallas.” Alec tugged at his arm. “Come on, take a seat. You’ve been through a lot today.”

He started to follow with reluctance, coming face to face with Alec’s smile. Never had he been so close to striking a man in all his life. Fists clenched, nails digging into his palms, he wanted nothing more than to escape.

Not here, not now, he reminded himself. It was seeing the watch that allowed some of his tension to slip away.

Sticking out from Erin’s clenched fist was the blue leather of the strap. Seeing it brought him instant relief. The mortician had followed through with Anne’s instructions, and that was all he could ask. The man had even gone so far to put it in her perfect little hands, and that was—

His eyes narrowed on the band. From this distance the clasp looked fully functional. What could he gain by saying it was broken when clearly it isn’t? The only reason he could come up with was that someone had told him to. Someone like—

Dallas pulled away from Alec. He went back to the coffin and took Erin’s hands. If, for whatever reason the mortician couldn’t manage the clasp, then he would.

He wriggled his fingers into hers and pried. One of her hands fell away to her side. Nervous fingers worked at the one that held tight to the watch, but Erin’s grip was firm.

What did he do, glue it there?

He forced one finger up. It’s rigor mortis, he told himself.

He grabbed the watchband and yanked hard. Erin’s body rocked inside the coffin. A few nearby grievers glanced his way, and a nervous smile formed on his lips.

He pulled again, once more disrupting her corpse. Her hair came undone, a large tuft of it fanning across her face. He let go of the watch, went to her face and brushed the stray strands aside.

He’d revealed one of the wounds in doing so, showing the horrible stitching beneath the putty. This was a terrible reminder of what he’d done.

And then he saw her smile had grown, the hints of black thread showing behind her lips. He stumbled back a step. She’s smiling because she knows what I’ve done. She’s already told Alec and now she’ll tell Anne.

No. She brought this on herself when she decided to go live with that ass. She broke my heart and her mother’s too. She deserved it all.

In his angst, he tried to smooth over the putty with a finger, his fingertip grazing her torn, dead flesh. It sickened him, caused him to gag. Turning his head, he coughed. Again, he took a step back and assessed his effort, trying to convince himself he’d done well.

Who am I kidding? She looks awful.

One whole half of her hair remained undone from the bun. A couple of the wounds were now fully exposed and the horrifying scars quite visible. One eye was agape, as if winking. The makeup was smeared. Worst yet, she was smiling through it all, and he was certain her beaming grin had grown.

No, it can’t be.

There was also the matter of the watch, still clutched in her remaining fingers. It was then Dallas noticed the ring. He rolled her hand in his, examining the jewelry, seeing how very plain it was.

This is what she chose over my watch? Had the ring even been there before?

Eyes burning, he leered at Alec. He wondered if Alec might have taken it upon himself to slip the ring on Erin’s finger when he wasn’t looking. Again, he was nodding. Of course, this was exactly what the prick had done. Alec wanted the same thing, to have a token of himself buried with Erin. Once again, Alec was ruining everything.

Dallas was already moving, his annoyance speeding his step. His dress shirt had come undone, cool air finding the small of his back.

“Why’d you do it?” He huffed into Alec’s face. “Damn you, why?”

Alec raised a hand. “Whoa, Dallas. What are you talking about, friend?”

“I’m not your friend!” He took Alec’s collar in his fists and dragged him to the coffin. He forced the useless man to look down at Erin, at what he’d done. He pointed at her finger. “Where did that come from?”

Alec gasped, no doubt beholding the state in which Dallas had left Erin. His smile faded, replaced by teary eyes. “Okay, I get it. I miss her too, okay? Are you happy?”

But he wasn’t. Dallas was confused. One by one, he took in the uncomfortable faces of friends and neighbors. And when Alec staggered away, Dallas remained by the coffin, wondering why the man hadn’t commented about Erin’s appearance, how Dallas had—

No. It isn’t possible.

Erin was no longer disheveled. There was no watch, no ring, no smile.

But how?

He glanced at Alec, watching the man find a pew. Had this man done something?

No, he couldn’t have.

His eyes found the mortician, wondering if it was possible to fix matters in the short time it had taken to confront Alec. His answer came when he returned his gaze to Erin. Clutched within her fist was the watch, and the ring had once more returned to her finger.

Infuriated by this, he seized the watchband and tugged. Her corpse rocked, the wounds reopening faster this time. Her half-open eye glared at him. Her smile was wide, black threads crisscrossing from lip to lip amid the darkness inside. That grin was growing, expanding, whispering to him.

“You’re a creep, Dallas. You’ve always been a creep.”

Crying, Dallas pulled the watch.

“Why?” he yelled. “Why did it have to be this way?”

He pulled again, ignoring the condemning faces witnessing what he was doing.

“I could have been your dad, if you’d just let me!”

He was pulling so hard that the coffin slid. He didn’t care. She would wear this watch.

“But all you ever thought was how creepy I was! Such a creepy man! A creepy dad!” He sneered. “I am not a creep!”

Dallas jerked so hard that the coffin teetered. Behind him people quickly advanced.

Thinking not to, he did anyway; yanking so hard that the coffin toppled to the floor with a loud crack. A single fist was left exposed, still clutching the watch. His fingers continued to fight to free it from her grasp as he fell to his knees, cursing.

Women gasped. Some even fainted. No doubt Anne would be one of them. Someone was at his shoulders, pulling him away. Then another. Dallas resisted, intent on finishing this task. Alec took him under the armpits and tried to force him away.

“No!” Dallas cried. “Stop! You’re taking her from me!”

He kept yanking at the watch. He almost had it—

Over his shoulder, he yelled at Alec, “Why do you think this happened? You’re the one that made me do it!”

Another finger came loose and he pulled, exposing the upper half of Erin’s limp body from under the fallen casket. Her eyes found him accusingly.

Her mouth was in full grin.

The cracks in her face—the deep wounds—visualized the truth of what he’d done to her. But none of it mattered anymore. He went to pry the last digit away, feeling his elation grow as her palm opened, his heart speeding.

But, upon liberating the finger, he saw there was no watch, no ring. He stared into her empty palm, then to her face. Her smile reminded him of the night she disclosed she would be moving in with Alec.

He remembered sneaking out one night after Anne had passed out early, the effects of one too many glasses of wine. Of course, Dallas had been encouraging her drinking, refilling her glass as fast as she could drink it. A few ground up muscle relaxers helped matters along.

Stalking the streets near Alec’s place, he found her, trailed her until they were all alone in the city streets.

He caught up with her, and the arguing ensued. Not with words, but with him slamming her head against the wall of a nearby building. With her dizzied, he dragged her down an abandoned alley, finding a place bums often frequented. Amongst their waste, and scraps of a poor existence surrounding them, he yelled at her.

She couldn’t answer, still too dazed. And because she didn’t, his anger had intensified. Before he could stop himself, he was slamming her against another red brick wall, until she could no longer stand.

Dallas remembered the sick feeling in his stomach as he watched her breathe in deeply, waiting for her to exhale. When it came, it had been final. He remembered circling her body, seconds ticking away like minutes, fretting and having no idea what to do.

Digging in her pockets, he’d taken any identification, her phone and her purse. He’d rushed them to the river where he threw them in and watched as her purse drifted away in the water before finally sinking. Anne hadn’t suspected a thing, still passed out by the time he returned home and showered, letting the water unsuccessfully wash away the pain.

There, on his knees, her corpse now stared up at him. He crumbled in her gleeful gaze. What have I done?

And poor Erin seemed to laugh in response to his suffering.

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Kenneth W. Cain first became interested in writing while attending grade school, after hearing the strange tale of Baba Yaga. His passion for fiction grew by listening to his grandfather spin tales about the Old West throughout much of his childhood. He is the author of four novels, two collections, several short stories and articles. An avid sports fan and art enthusiast, he lives in Chester County, Pennsylvania with his wife and two children, where he awaits the inevitable apocalypse. You can find out more about Ken and his work on his website http://kennethwcain.com, on Twitter, or on Facebook.