"It means you're a freak," he said.
"It means that you're about as important to me as a cardboard box," I said. "You're just a thing—a piece of garbage that no one's thrown away yet. Is that what you want me to say?"
"Shut up," said Rob. He was still acting tough, but I could see his bluster was starting to fail—he didn't know what to say.
"The thing about boxes," I said, "is that you can open them up. Even though they're completely boring on the outside, there might be something interesting inside. So while you're saying all of these stupid, boring things, I'm imagining what it would be like to cut you open and see what you've got in there."
I paused, staring at him, and he stared back. He was scared.
I let him hang on that fear for a moment longer, then spoke again.
"The thing is, Rob, I don't want to cut you open. That's not who I want to be. So I made a rule for myself: anytime I want to cut someone open, I say something nice to them instead.
That is why I say, Rob Anders of 232 Carnation Street, that you are a great guy."
Rob's mouth hung open like he was about to talk, then he closed it and backed away. He sat down on a chair, still looking at me, then got up again and left the room. I watched him all the way out.
"I. . ." said Brooke. I'd forgotten she was there. "That was an interesting way to get him off your back."
I didn't know what to say—she shouldn't have heard that. Why was I such an idiot?
"Just stuff," I said quickly, " I . . . heard that in a movie, I think. Who'd have thought it would scare him so much?"
"Yeah," said Brooke. "I have to ... it was nice talking to you, John." She smiled uncertainly, and walked away.
"Dude, that was awesome," said Max.
I turned around in surprise. "When did you get here?"
"I was here for most of it," he said, corning around the side of the refreshment table, "and it was awesome. Anders practically crapped his pants."
"So did Brooke," I said, looking in the direction she had gone. All I saw was a mass of people in the darkness.
"That was hilarious!" said Max, scooping up some punch. "And after she was so into you, too."
"Into me?" . '''
"You—you missed that? You're blind, man. She was so going to ask you to dance."
"Why would she ask me to dance?"
"Because we're at a dance," said Max, "and because you're a raging furnace of hot clown lovin'. I'd be surprised if she ever talks to you again, though; that was awesome."
The next night Max and I went trick-or-treating with his little sister Audrey. We did his neighborhood first, his mom following us nervously with a flashlight and a thing of pepper spray.
When we finished there, she drove us to my neighborhood, and Mr. Crowley shook his head when we visited their house.
"You shouldn't be out this late," he said, frowning. "It's not safe with that killer out there."
"All the street lights are on," I said, "and the porch lights, and we've got an adult with us. They even said on the news that they put out some extra police. We're probably safer tonight than most others."
Mr. Crowley ducked behind his door to cough loudly, then earned back to us. "Don't be out too long, you hear me?"
"We'll be careful," I said, and Mr. Crowley handed out the candy.
"I don't want this town to live in fear," he said sadly, "it used to be so happy here." He coughed again and closed the door.
Things that had seemed silly in the light of day—fake blood and prosthetic limbs—seemed more ominous now in the darkness of night. More terrifying. The killer was back on everyone's mind, and they were nervous—all the store-bought, goofy Halloween scares were replaced with true, life-and-death terror.
It was the best Halloween ever.
6
"This is Ted Rask with a Five Live News exclusive report from Clayton, a peaceful town in the grip of an escalating crisis some call the Clayton Killer. Many people here are afraid to leave their homes at night, and some are even afraid during the light of day. In spite of diis pervading sense of fear, however, there is hope.
The police and FBI have made an astonishing breakthrough in their investigation."
It was six o'clock at night, and I was watching the news. Mom said it was weird for a fifteen-year-old to be so interested in the news, but since we didn't get Court TV, the local news was usually the only thing that interested me. Besides, the serial killer was still a hot topic, and Ted Rask's ongoing coverage had become the most popular show in town—despite, or perhaps because of, its breathless sense of melodrama.