Trick or Treat | 15 November 2022
“How come these little idiots don’t understand if the porch light is off, don’t ring the doorbell?!” Molly was tired from a long day in meetings and handing out Halloween candy was by no means how she planned on spending this evening. But what she encountered at the door was not your typical ‘Trick or Treat’ inquiry but something way more intriguing.
BNR Response
Molly extended her left arm, remote in-hand, to mute her movie and shuffled to the front room, back hunched with fatigue. She pulled her crisscross sweater around her scrubs as she opened the front door. There stood a cloaked figure, replete with Italian plague mask and gloves. Patrick. “Wow, was your party a bust?” Molly reflexively unlocked and opened the storm door, placing her hand in the flat spot between Patrick’s shoulder blades as he brought the cold in with him like a veil. “I’m in the den tonight, trying to keep the house dark so I can hide from the critters.” Molly lead the way past him into the darkened room. The lights from the TV reflected off the large de Goya painting over the couch, creating an appropriately eerie glow.
“I’m sorry your night fell flat, but I’m not really in the mood for talking,” Molly squinted as she brought an extra wine goblet in from the kitchen, filling it with Petite Syrah from the bottle on the coffee table. She kept her film on mute, betraying her own request for quiet, and began to talk at length about her week. As she vented about trouble at the hospital with all the bureaucracy, her unrelenting inability to sleep after the “incident”, and her loathsome journey back into online dating, Patrick sat stone-like and upright next to her on the overstuffed sofa. He nodded, managed to drink his wine through the breathing hole in the mask, and inched a bit closer, creating a sense of increased intimacy between them.
Molly sighed, leaning into Patrick’s right shoulder. She was glad he was here. Lately she didn’t feel safe in the company of any cis males, and she was pleasantly surprised to see her bestie when she had planned for him to be dancing the night away at Bimbo’s. Patrick got up and went down to the basement to retrieve a second bottle from the abundant wine rack. The balmy, orange afternoon had faded into a foggy, brisk evening. Molly had left the windows open, and the wind was now traveling the length of the house bringing the sounds of the street with it. The shrieks of hobgoblins and superheroes echoed and bounced in her empty house, tethered to the increasing gale, and created an unsettling tableau. Turning the volume up once again on The Fog, she rose and walked into the pitch living room, leaning the whole of her slight body into the old sash window to bring it as close to shut as possible. The windows in her 1930’s home never formed a tight seal, and she was constantly battling whining drafts and condensation. Satisfied with its closure, Molly turned to shut the window in her bedroom before returning to the den. She heard Patrick first closing the heavy storm door in the basement, then the backdoor to the porch. That would help with the breeze coming up from the yard. That reminded her, she couldn’t put off calling the locksmith another day. Having secured the window and pulled the blinds in her bedroom, she turned to find Patrick lurking blankly in the doorway. She jumped, not having heard him come up the noisy cellar stairway. “Patrick! You scared the piss out of me! What are you trying to do?”
Silent, Molly socked him in the arm and he snickered as they returned to the den and sunk back into the couch. Patrick opened the second bottle of wine and poured them both generous refills. A loud bang started Molly again as the den sash window dropped, unassisted, violently shut, rattled loose by the incoming storm. She clutched her breast as if trying to anchor her breath deeper in her chest, down towards her diaphragm.
They sat and gazed, glazed over at the TV set as the fog crept up Antonio Bay and terrorized the locals. The film’s soundtrack had a chilling effect, rendering Molly jumpy and ill at ease. “You know, I don’t think I had better watch this after all,” said Molly, “I’m having enough trouble sleeping as it is.”
“What’s keeping you up these days?” Patrick murmured from behind his mask.
“What? You know, it was tolerable at first but now the whole mask bit just isn’t cute anymore. And will you take your cloak off? You’re making me antsy.” She drank deeply, nose buried in her glass.
The cloak was removed to reveal a black blazer and black turtleneck over black tuxedo pants. The mask remained.
“Patrick, you know, maybe you had better leave, I’m really not in the mood for games,” Molly hissed, hurt by his insensitivity to her requests, especially in light of all she had recently been through. Outside the streets had grown still and silent in the advanced evening.
Without warning, Patrick moved quickly beside Molly, leaving no room between them on the couch. “Patrick! Wha—,“ Molly stammered, noting the smell of damp and grass and the unfamiliar color of his stubble. “I’m not kidding, Patrick, I want you out—,“ Molly raised herself with a grunt and was swiftly pulled down by calloused, unforgiving hands. She lurched towards him in an attempt to free herself, at once confused and terrified by this strange behavior. They struggled against each other and Molly clawed at the air in desperation. She swiped her hand across his face, grabbing and finally removing the persistent mask. Bare face revealed, Molly was horrified. Her face dropped as she acknowledged that she had done it. She had let the wrong one in again. “You’re not Patrick.”