A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre: Halloween Is Going to Be Jealous

FAMILY MAN

by John Bruni

A stiff wind blows chills through my tightening skin, and the ground crunches beneath my feet. Laughter drifts through the streets, and the sweet scent of candy tickles the inside of my nose.

A small hand slips into my own, and I look down to see Dracula. Underneath the makeup and blood, my son smiles up at me, showing off his plastic fangs. His fingers are cold and sticky, which means he’s been sneaking into his trick-or-treat bag. I think I should say something, but the moment is too precious. Let his mother chide him later. Now is the time to enjoy the crisp autumn night.

My eyes meet with Suzette’s over Duane’s widow-peaked head. We rarely get to enjoy time together with our son these days because of work, and it’s good to see her eyes bubbling over with joy. Perhaps it’s the cool breeze that brings tears to her cheeks, but I doubt it.

We approach our house, and Duane stops to play with the skeleton in our front yard. The neighbors like our decorations. They believe we’re in the spirit of the season. We win local awards on a yearly basis.

Suzette pauses to keep an eye on our son, probably because she has noticed his shiny fingertips, and I clomp up the porch steps, fiddling in my pocket for the keys.

The first thing I notice is the candy dish. It has been overturned, and there are no treats on the deck. The sign, “Help yourself! Happy Halloween!” remains, and I can see a tiny sneaker-print on it.

Then I see the door, and my guts freeze as if the frigid air has managed to penetrate my skin.

There is a bloody handprint on the door, and it shows only four fingers. I know what has happened.

With a casual smile, I ease down the steps and approach Suzette. “Hey, baby.” I peck her on the cheek. “Why don’t you take Duane to Mrs. Starkey’s place for a while? You know how he likes her hot chocolate.”

She glances sidelong at me. “Are you all right, Sid?”

I try not to look behind me at the door. “Sure. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?” This time, she kisses me on the cheek. I barely register it as she leads Duane away; I am too focused on the open door, on the crimson handprint.

When I’m sure Suzette and Duane are gone, I take the penknife from my pocket. The blade is not very long, but it is sharper than a box cutter.

Gingerly, I push the door all the way open, and I glance down at the carpet. There are spots of blood no larger than pinpricks. Anyone who isn’t looking would miss them.

I touch a red dot, and my finger comes away smudged with crimson.

Fresh.

I follow the miniscule trail until I realize that it leads to the kitchen. Here, the drops are more plentiful. Just before I reach the threshold, I see long slashes of blood, as if something had been dragged through here.

I stoop down and peer into the kitchen at knee-height. It is probably an unnecessary precaution, but it always pays to be prepared.

“Brother Sid! Careful as ever, I see! What’s up, man?”

I stand and step over the blood. The man in my kitchen is almost a reflection of me. We are identical in all ways except two: he is more muscular than me, and he sports a mustache. My twin brother, Stan, believes this makes him look macho. I believe it makes him look like Groucho Marx, and judging from the rest of our family, my opinion is the more popular one.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

He waves a dismissive hand at me. It is covered with blood and is missing its pinkie finger. A childhood accident. He shouldn’t have been playing with Dad’s favorite hunting knife.

“You could have called,” I say.

“Sorry. This ain’t the kind of thing you talk about over the phone.”

“Are you in trouble?”

He shrugs. “In a way. Not with the law, though. Check it out.”

Stan steps aside and gestures with his hand, a game-show host revealing a prize, at the kitchen table, where the corpse of a young woman rests, eviscerated.

“Why have you brought her here?” I ask.

“I need your help.”

The answer is immediate, without consideration. “No.”

“Come on, man! I need you back in the game!”

“You’re on your own,” I say. “Take this body out of here before my wife and son get home.”

Stan’s lower lip quivers. “I can’t do this without you, bro. You were always the brains of the operation. I’m screwing everything up without you. This broad’s the mayor’s daughter, and I didn’t figure that out until it was too late.”

I sigh. “Why do you think I stopped working with you? You took too many chances. I can’t bail you out of everything.”

Stan grins, and the mustache slithers beneath his nose. “Bro, get real. The thrill comes from taking chances, not from being careful all the time. That’s why I need you, Sid. You’re the yin to my yang. Together, we’re like…like the dynamic duo, or something.”

“I think you need to get real. Weren’t you listening to anything Dad taught us? We have urges, Brother Stan, just like Dad and Grandpa. They always told us to be careful. Look what your thrills have gotten you.” I point to the mayor’s daughter.

Stan sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand. I don’t know if he is aware of doing this, but it is something he has always done when he wasn’t getting his way.

“Dad always liked you best,” he says.

“That’s because I always listened to him when he was trying to teach us something,” I say.

“I’m willing to learn now.” He shows me his palms, both blood-red, as if he expects a hug. “Whatever you say, we’ll do, Brother Sid. Deal?”

I shake my head. “I’m a family man now. I have to think of Suzette and Duane.”

He smiles, but his teeth don’t show. His head starts bobbing up and down, a nervous tick that Dad used to have when he was frustrated. “I knew you’d say that. How about this? If you don’t partner up with me like in the old days, I’ll kill your precious family.” He produces a large hunting knife from behind the corpse. It is red, and it is Dad’s. It’s the same blade that took Stan’s finger when we were kids.

“Come on, Brother Stan. You don’t mean that.”

“I do, Brother Sidney. I was at least paying attention to one of Dad’s sermons. ‘Always stick with your brother. No one else is going to understand what you need to do.’ Remember?”

I do, but something tells me Dad never saw this moment coming. Anger burns the chilly night air from my skin, and I say, “What if I just kill you?”

Stan laughs. “You couldn’t do that. You like me too much.”

Which is true. The anger dissipates, and I look away from my twin brother’s eyes.

I open my mouth to apologize when I hear a feminine voice say, “I would. I don’t like you at all.”

I look up from my feet, and there is Suzette, holding her own knife, which she has just drawn across Stan’s throat. I had not heard her come in, and judging from Stan’s wide eyes and open windpipe, he had not either.

I’d taught her well.

Stan flails around for a while, but all he can breathe at this point is his own blood, so it doesn’t take long for him to drop to the floor. Suzette steps around him and hugs me.

“I thought I told you to stop hanging out with your loser brother.” She talks into my flannelled chest, so her words are muffled. But I’ve heard this before.

“I didn’t invite him,” I say. “He just stopped over, looking for help.”

“I heard what he’d said about me and Duane.”

I look at Stan’s dribbling throat. “I kind of figured.”

She pulls away, then stands on tip-toes to kiss me. “I’m sorry I killed your brother, Sid, but he was too dangerous.”

I kiss her back. “I know.”

“Mom! Dad! Look at me!”

We turn toward our son. Duane has cut his uncle’s nose and mustache off, and he’s taped them to his glasses as if it is a phony Groucho get-up. He waves his grandpa’s knife around as he laughs. “I’m Uncle Stan!”

Suzette exchanges a glance with me, and I raise an eyebrow. The hint of a smile dances on her lips. We’ve taught Duane a lot, but he still has a long way to go.

“All right, kiddo,” she says. “You’ve had enough fun for one night. It’s bedtime. Take your uncle’s face off.”

“But Mom!”

She forces him upstairs, and I open his trick-or-treat bag next to the mayor’s daughter on the kitchen table. A clump of body parts comes out, and I start counting the fingers, ears, eyeballs, and noses. When I’m done, Suzette walks in.

“Not a bad haul,” I say.

Suzette ignores me. She looks at the two bodies and grimaces, her hands on her hips. “What are we going to do about this?”

I hug her from behind and kiss her on the neck. “Don’t worry about it. I’m the brains of the operation.”