Toil & Trouble Read online

  Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure

  By Hannah Johnson

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2014 by Hannah Johnson

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication: For my Know Not Why readers, some of whom asked for more Howie & Co. Your readership is truly one of the great joys of my life. Thank you, thank you, thank you! You all rule.

  +

  The world has descended into chaos.

  Foggy, shrieky, hideous chaos.

  And so Howie does a thing he never thought he would do. He grabs his reindeer antlers out from under the counter, and he puts them on his goddamn head.

  That’s right.

  Howie the Reindeer strikes back.

  It has come to this.

  “Kristy,” he says, tugging on her sleeve. Well, her white bandage. It has become suddenly, abundantly clear that it is not in the realm of human decency to ask someone to dress up as a sexy mummy. “What are we gonna do? We—we gotta fix this, right?”

  “I told you,” Kristy says faintly. “I told you this would happen.”

  One of the kids starts screaming extra hysterically. Howie raises his voice over that oh-so-delightful sound and tries to throw in some devil-may-care cheer, all like, Ha ha ha, what a hilarious happenstance we have stumbled into! All like, This is definitely a charming misadventure, and not the lowest moment that has ever happened in these four walls. “Well, it’s not too late, buddy! If you want to just—you know, bust out that sparkly blue number—”

  But instead of listening, she just turns and disappears in the direction of the kitchen, leaving him to this pit of misery.

  Okay.

  That’s okay.

  It’s fine if this is the first time in history that Kristy Quincy, Actual Disney Princess, has denied help to a friend in need. Definitely not a sign that THE APOCALYPSE IS UPON THEM or anything.

  Although if the apocalypse was upon them, well, it would probably look a lot like this. What was once a perfectly boring arts ‘n crafts store has turned into a hell pit. The lights are all off, save for a strobe light aggressively flashing on and off. (Why did they decide the strobe light was a good idea again?) Dry ice has cast a malevolent fog all over the place.

  Kids are crying and screaming.

  Probably because Frankenstein’s monster just burst in from outside mere seconds ago, the erratic light illuminating and obscuring its nasty, stitched-up face (and extremely shiny hair).

  Cora, who is currently covered in like forty pounds of werewolf suit, leaps over to Frankenstein, and that sets off a whole new round of screaming from bystanders.

  Hobo Ghost Arthur wanders around the room strumming his guitar (tonight’s soundtrack consists exclusively of Taylor Swift ditties in creepy minor keys) and then looks really freaked out whenever a kid bumps into him.

  It is just not good.

  And then Howie feels a hand on his shoulder, and there’s Amber beside him: a much-more-terrifying-than-usual Amber, what with her zombie face and her bloody white nightgown and her incredible rat’s nest of angry feminist hair, but at least it’s Amber. Amber, he has always suspected, knows how to fix anything.

  And then he realizes all at once just what the solution is.

  He and Amber are the only ones who can diffuse this crapfest with an act of Halloween spirit so benign that it couldn’t even scare the world’s timidest toddler. Now that Kristy’s gone, they’re the only ones who can end this.

  “We have to do it,” he mutters numbly, even though he’d rather chop off his own antlers. You know. If they were real antlers, rather than just headband antlers. He thinks that really speaks to the gravity of the situation. A guy doesn’t just willingly part with his own antlers, right?? (These thoughts, he registers dimly, do not make a whole lot of sense.) The point is: he would rather do anything than this.

  And yet he knows. It’s the only option.

  Amber looks at him with the bittersweet but wise resolve of Galadriel. She nods, a slow and wistful nod, and reaches over to take his hand.

  “Arthur,” Howie calls, with the gravitas of ... some other Lord of the Rings person. Sean Bean, let’s say. Not actually a bad choice, since, like a Sean Bean character, Howie Jenkins is probably fated to die.

  Of humiliation, but still. Like death by axe or arrow, it won’t be pretty.

  As Arthur takes in the sight of Howie and Amber, the comprehension dawns on his face. He abandons his awkwardly macabre cover of “We Are Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together” and crosses the room. Once he reaches the stereo, he gives Howie one last solemn look ... and he presses play.

  Howie takes Amber’s hand in his.

  Here we fucking go.

  TWENTY-FIVE DAYS EARLIER

  It’s not really a huge surprise that Cora Caldwell is bonkers for Halloween.

  But Howie does not anticipate just how bonkers.

  No one could anticipate just how bonkers.

  He and Arthur show up to work a little late one morning. The longer the store lives on like some ungodly and unkillable demon, the more relaxed Arthur becomes about his policy on arriving to work two hours before they open.

  Especially when there’s more important stuff to do at home.

  Like, say, in the bedroom.

  And the shower.

  And then the bedroom again.

  And then, briefly, the kitchen, before Arthur’s ‘We eat at this table’ prudery kicked in.

  What a nerd.

  They’re teetering dangerously close to late when they show up at the store. But at least they’re both in a good mood.

  Turns out, crazy things happen when you leave arts ‘n crafts stores unsupervised.

  They step inside to find that Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N Crafts has been transformed into an orange-and-black shrine to jack-o’-lanterns, cobwebs, and life-sized plastic skeletons posed in various jaunty positions.

  “Hey look,” Howie says. “Tim Burton broke in and puked his soul all over.”

  “A very reasonable explanation,” Arthur says.

  Cora shimmies out from between the shelves, dressed in a peppy orange cardigan and one of those scraggly black witch dresses from the Halloween aisle of the grocery store. Her knee high socks are covered in smiley bats. She’s holding a bag of cottony cobwebs, and at their arrival, she throws a handful into the air in celebration. Some lands on Arthur’s head. He looks frankly dashing.

  “You’re early,” Arthur says, uncomprehending. Howie cannot blame the dude for his bafflement.

  “It’s Halloween, bitches!” Cora announces gloriously.

  She does a little The Sound of Music spin, like this is her own personal nun mountain.

  (Or whatever. Howie has never actually fully grasped the complexities of The Sound of Music.)

  “It’s Halloween in thirty days,” Arthur says.

  “If it’s October, it’s Halloween. This month we’re playing by my rules, boys.”

  “Why?” Arthur asks blankly.

  “Can’t you just let me have this?” Cora pleads. “I already fucking lost my dream role.”

  It’s true: Cora’s theatre group is putting on an all-female production of Frankenstein, featuring an original script adapted by none other than Amber. Cora had her heart set on playing the creature; unfortunately, Heath
er Grimsby showed up to auditions and blew everybody away with her ability to convincingly channel a horrifying monstrous life-ruiner. (Secretly, Howie wasn’t really surprised by that news.)

  Now Cora’s stuck playing Dr. Frankenstein, which is apparently tantamount to having all your hopes and dreams shattered.

  Even Arthur’s capable of some sympathy over that one.

  “Please?” Cora says.

  Arthur glances around. His eyes land on a skeleton propped up in the corner in a pose that can only be called bootilicious.

  Or maybe rumpishly eager.

  “Is that really necessary?” Arthur frowns.

  “He’s twerking,” Cora says defensively.

  “Again, I ask: why?”

  “Fine.” Cora stomps over and readjusts the skeleton into a less saucy position. “There. Happy?”

  Arthur considers it for a moment. Then: “Halloween it is.”

  “Aw yeah!” Cora shimmies triumphantly over to the stereo.

  The strains of a familiar eerie ditty fill the air.

  Howie is immediately catapulted back to not-exactly-proud memories of scampering around Amber’s family’s living room.

  “What is this?” Arthur asks, bewildered.

  “What is this?” Cora repeats, aghast. “Blasphemer!”

  “You haven’t heard The Monster Mash?” Howie says.

  “You have?”

  “Oh yeah. Amber made me choreograph a dance routine to it when we were eight. And not to brag or anything, but I was good.”

  Arthur grins. “Can I request a repeat performance?”

  “I immediately regret telling you about it,” Howie realizes aloud.

  Arthur asks, “What move does the choreography call for ... right now?”

  It’s sad that Howie doesn’t even have to think about the answer. “Zombie twirl.”

  “What’s a zombie twirl?” Arthur asks way too delightedly.

  “Yeah, you’re never finding out.”

  “We’ll find out,” Cora says, slinging an arm around Arthur’s shoulder.

  “I expect so,” Arthur agrees, pleased.

  “That is never happening,” Howie informs them sternly.

  His sternness does not work on Cora at all. “Whatevs. Happy Halloween, zombie dancer.”

  She reaches a hand down her top and pulls out—why, look at that!—two tiny bags of candy corn. She tosses one to Howie and one to Arthur.

  “Maybe straight guys are onto something,” Howie marvels. “Go, boobs.”

  Cora winks at him.

  “I don’t think I’m comfortable with eating bra candy corn,” Arthur says, staring down at the little packet in his hand. “It’s warm.”

  “Sucks to be you, man,” Howie says, and pours a handful of candy corn goodness into his mouth.

  +

  Some customers deign to come in a few hours later: a pair of thirty-something ladies that show up every once in awhile to rifle through the discount stuff.

  Howie and Cora are forced to pretend they aren’t having a lively debate over a Buzzfeed quiz that tells you what kind of hipster cat you are.

  It’s tough, but duty calls.

  “This is cute,” one of the women says halfheartedly, pointing at a fake raven perched over their discount bin. The raven is wearing a little wizard’s hat.

  “You know,” the other woman says, turning to acknowledge Howie and Cora, “over at Holly’s they have a perfect life-sized replica of a Hansel and Gretel candy cottage. There’s actually candy in the walls that the kids can pull out and eat. It’s incredible.”

  “Totally incredible,” agrees her friend.

  “Is there by any chance a giant oven inside this candy cottage?” Howie asks nonchalantly.

  “There is. It’s vintage. So adorable.”

  “So, uh, how far are they planning to take this thing?” Howie says. “Are they gonna go full Modest Proposal?”

  “What?”

  “You know ... eating babies ... that whole jam ... Jonathan Swift ... kids today call him JSwizzle ... maybe?”

  All he gets is a lot of blank staring.

  It’s possible his hip references aren’t always as hip as he thinks they are.

  “Anyway,” one of the ladies says, giving him some serious Slow down, weirdo eye, “the kids love it over there. One of the employees dressed up as an ugly old witch – like, ugly, like, there are warts involved – and she chases the kids around. They get such a kick out of it.”

  “So they’re down with ... being hunted?” Howie says.

  “Kids love a good scare. And Annie Fabray was all over it on her blog. She gave it five out of five pincushions.”

  “Right,” Howie says, pretending to know what that means. “Awesome.”

  “So cool,” Cora says flatly.

  “It is so cool! But, um, this is cute, too.” The woman pokes at the wizard raven.

  Cora’s face is starting to display a rage that Howie can only dub Xena-esque in its fearsomeness.

  It is up to Howie, then, to dispel the tension.

  Charmingly, he asks, “Would a twerking skeleton by any chance convince you that ours is the superior arts ‘n craftsin’ Halloween display?”

  “What?” both women ask blankly.

  “Nothing,” mumbles Howie.

  +

  The next night, they all gather at Kristy’s place for an Octobery celebration. The theme is basically pumpkins, Hocus Pocus, and simmering resentment.

  “But your Halloween decorations were amazing!” says Kristy, who stopped by at lunch to lovingly photograph the shit out of the whole fine establishment. Cutting back her hours at the store to be a part-time elementary school aide has, if anything, only heightened her devotion to everybody’s (or, to be accurate, almost nobody’s) favorite crafts store. “There’s no way the ones at Holly’s are better.”

  “They’re definitely better,” Cora says flatly. “I stopped by after work. It was like stepping into a haunted fairytale forest. They had trees. Motherfucking trees. I wanted to kick everyone out and turn it into my permanent residence. It was the edible witch lair of my dreams.” She sighs mournfully.

  “They’re glorifying the eating of children,” Arthur says. “Surely somebody’s going to make a fuss about that sooner or later.”

  Cora reaches into her bag and pulls out the most amazing lollipop Howie has ever seen. Nay—ever even imagined. It’s roughly the diameter of a baseball, and its red, pink, and yellow swirls are so hypnotic that Howie knows he would be witch bait for sure if he found that sticking out of some wall in the woods. Like, no question.

  “I pulled this off of the candy house,” Cora reports.