Page 281 - TheRedSon_PrintInterior_430pp_5.5x8.5_9-22-2019_v1

a relaxing lightness, a playfulness that mocked the death
spilling out around me. Someone whispered into my ear,
“To be all triangles and crooked smiles, candle-wax betwixt
your ears, little lamps of fire that hop and skip . . . fake faces
over masks over veils . . . how many masks deep are your
clicking cogs, little Peeping Tom?” I froze. The whisperer
was crouched beside me. I could smell Halloween on his
breath—candy, cold rain, dead leaves. I knew precisely who
was whispering to me.
Jack Lantern continued, purring, “It’s almost time for us
to bury all the machines, little Tommy Peeper. And now, out
of the blue, comes one who would break all our shovels.
Can’t have that, can we? But don’t you worry, I’ll have him
smiling through rows of rectangles in no time.” Then he
was gone—vanished from my side, brown leaves spinning
in his stead.
In the next moment, Jack was standing among a collection
of smoking sprigs, staring up at the lumbering monster. He
wore a crude jack-o’-lantern mask, and a ripped-up black
scarf wrapped around his neck, flapping in the stolen
September breeze. The Autumn City Madman was unusually
tall, thin, and cheerful, giggling under that ridiculous mask.
As he whipped out two huge carving knives, I knew he was
going straight to work.
The guy moved so fast it was hard to keep track of all
his slashing, cleaving, and leaping. Honestly, he was just a
marvel to watch. I found my mouth agape more than a few
times. The monster swung and kicked and roared, but never
once connected.
The once killer of killers was clearly getting killed by
Jack, weakening second by second, slash by stab. Yet just
as before, when the monster began to lose, the strange dead
trees began to sway. Something fat and monstrous moved
behind them, the sky turned green, and I knew it was
about to rain lightning again. Or was it? Just when the sky
looked like it might crack open, the fall breeze cranked up
284 | Mark Anzalone