Happy Halloween! 3: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Unreliable Narrator

Through the city streets the car screeched and roared, surpassed only by Jonathan’s petrified shouts with each whipped corner and evaded adversary.  He had been an absentminded driver ever since he had obtained his license (and he had failed his driving test six times before an instructor finally had mercy on his soul), but he had never been a fast driver.  Now he was speeding down the road at Pumpkin’s behest, agreeing with the squash’s logic that the townspeople and law enforcement would be too preoccupied with the undead to worry about an old orange jalopy.  Apo had released his resurrection/goodness to blight compound into the atmosphere just a few moments ago, and already the entire region seemed to be overrun.  This is why he was away several days at a time, the boy realized.  He was rigging the storm drains and sewers with the potion, and he decided not to release it until now.  But that can’t be the only thing he accomplished this year.  What other surprises do we have to look forward to?

The sunlight buffeted POW weakly, having journeyed a short distance from its zenith behind the clouds; the day was still young, and the professor had ample time to do as he pleased.  It occurred to Jonathan that he and his friends were the only ones who knew that Apo was responsible for the assault.  He had not considered that it might be wise to tell his parents, or wiser still to inform the cops.   But knowing his parents, his mother would tell him to stop joshing her (to which he would reply that his name was Jonathan, not Josh), and his father would call him a witless ninny.  And what would the cops do, really? Would they incarcerate the man and stave off his schemes for a few decades? Would they recognize that he was too dangerous to be left alive and gun him down, only to see him resurface years later when another hidden potion was released? How could a man of such intelligence and natural ability be defeated, especially after he had been granted a year to conspire? It seemed that any attempt to stop him would ultimately prove fruitless.

As they drew nearer to the northeastern side of town, the number of rogue jack-o'-lanterns and turkeys increased exponentially.  Two of Pumpkin’s kin made a beeline for POW and smashed into the passenger door, denting it; then they latched onto the cracked side mirror and proceeded to bang on Pumpkin’s window.  The squash let out a conflicted sigh and drew his sword.  He rolled down his window and struck at the stemmy arms of his foes until he cut them clean through.  They splatted against the pavement but were immediately replaced by a swarm of turkeys.

“Oh, this is lovely!” said Pumpkin sourly, removing his seatbelt.  “It’s Melonir all over again.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Jonathan.  “You get to be a passenger in POW, the sexiest thing on wheels.  Most squashes don't have that luxury.”

Pumpkin jumped up onto the car’s windowsill and brandished his blade at one of the flying fiends.  “More like the most dangerous thing on wheels.  Jonathan, this car is a death trap!  Besides, I’d take Gourdo over a station wagon any day.”

“What about Gourdo in a station wagon?”

“Just focus on driving, Jonathan.”

He swerved away from a herd of the undead that were approaching on the left, then veered onto a long, quiet street that lacked décor.  There was not a soul in sight.  Gone were the cloth ghosts, Styrofoam headstones, and papier-mâché characters that were frequently seen in other parts of town.  He did not behold even the smallest plastic spider.  The trees of that neighborhood were undressed with fake webs, and the patios were unadorned with the playful or scary garnishments to which he was accustomed.  Every few houses, there was a sign that read, “Fruitvale Road will not be participating in Halloween 2006 due to the annual theft of Old Man Linus’s rocking chair.  Every year we buy him a new one, and every year it’s stolen.  Once the thief has recompensed Old Man Linus in the amount of seven (7) rocking chairs, or the equivalent in cash, Halloween will again smile upon this street.”

“What kind of place is this?” Jonathan wondered aloud.  “Not a single decoration? This is a travesty!”

“A travesty for you, maybe,” replied Pumpkin, sheathing his sword and sitting down in the passenger seat.  “I for one am grateful to have some rest from all the death—er, undeath.  I forgot how much those damnable turkey talons hurt.”

The boy drummed on his steering wheel and tried to ignore the bland front lawns in his periphery.  “So I have to ask: how is the Man With the Green Toe going to help us? Do you remember him doing anything useful? Anything at all?”

“He makes a great omelet,” offered the squash, attempting a smirk, “though I know that’s not what you mean.  Remember when he called the Halloween Friends into his upper room and we met you for the first time?”

“Awww,” gushed Jonathan.  “Are you getting sentimental on me, Pumpkin? Should we hug and watch a chick flick? You’re such a sweetheart.”

“No, I am not getting sentimental on you,” his friend assured him without a hint of a laugh.  “Do you remember anything that Cornelius told you up in the mansion? Anything at all? He was the one who gave you all the intel you needed on Apo in the first place.  He must know something that can help us.”

Jonathan was not convinced.  “Mr. Cornelius is an author, but I don’t think he knows everything.  He knew that Apo’s lab was somewhere in the Vaca Mountains, but he never told me the exact location.  And he was clueless about M.D.  She was the one who told me about Mr. Cornelius in the first place.  Oh, and she told me on Melonir that she had wanted me to kill Apo, but I didn’t understand why until now.  It was so that he could come back to life, more powerful than before.  I’m pretty sure Mr. Cornelius didn’t plan any of that.”

“Well, I’m curious as to what his plan was, from the very beginning.  Was it M.D.’s summons that brought you there, or Cornelius’s summons? Were you his original plan, or did he just go with you out of convenience?”

“Out of convenience?” Wow, that hurt.  Is he saying I’m expendable? That I’m unnecessary? “What are you getting at?” He betrayed his offense by the tone of his response.

“Jonathan, don’t take it personally.  I’m thinking out loud.  What was Cornelius’s original plan with Apo? How was the story supposed to go from the beginning?”

The boy gritted his teeth.  “I’m sixteen, Pumpkin! You’re hurting my adolescent brain. How am I supposed to know what would have happened?”

“I guess you wouldn’t,” said the squash.  “The creation doesn’t always know the mind of its creator.  I'm just saying, Cornelius wrote us.  He wrote Apo.  He must have had some sort of conclusion in mind for all of this.”

“I don’t know,” said Jonathan, “but I guess we’ll get all the answers we need once we talk to him.  Now get ready! I see more of our buddies up ahead.”

He took a left at the end of the street and skirted a huddle of carved pumpkins that were harassing someone’s pet poodle.  Ahead of them was a long stretch of country road leading to the northern hills, where Rudolph had liberated Jonathan from Santa’s bag, and where the corrupted gift-giver had realized that the Pharmacists were not a family to be trifled with.  The boy sped past several groups of roaming creatures and hugged the right side of the road to avoid a cavalcade of vehicles covered with violent Christmas trees and wilted shrubs.  Then all was silent again, and great swathes of grass—still patched with yellow after a dry summer, and hedged in by watchful oak trees—extended uninterrupted to the west.  Far beyond them the Vaca Mountains stood, their foliage a distinct deep olive color even while overshadowed by the thick clouds.  The province seemed dark and cold, and with the wind that was tossing the leaves of the oaks here and there, Jonathan wondered if rain would soon cascade from the skies.

A street appeared to the right, climbing steadily into the hills.  Jonathan took it.  He had only been up this way once, and that was a year ago; at that time, he had relied on his feet alone to bear him to his destination.  He recalled estimating that the journey must have been twenty-seven miles in distance due to its arduous nature—and the fact that it had taken him twenty-seven hours to complete.  But he had been an idle youth, sauntering along at the slowest possible pace, zigzagging here and there without the slightest hint as to the correct direction, and distracted by the smallest butterfly or fungus.  The mansion was no more than three miles from his house.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into, he reflected.  What if I had just decided to stay at home, play with Ms. Unicorn, continue my ballet classes, and build the terrarium that I had promised to my pet lizard Steve? I could be living a normal life right now!

But he realized that a life without holidays was no normal life, at all.  Every holiday stood for something.  Some holidays, such as Halloween, had lost their original essence—and that was for the best.  It had become Americanized and sapped of its pagan roots, remaining as a day set apart for the mingling of communities and the consumption of sugary treats.  No longer was it used to support the conjoining of earth-dwellers and denizens of the underworld, and because it was most commonly enjoyed by the young, it encouraged childlike wonder.  Other holidays, such as Thanksgiving, surely enabled those who were gluttonous and did little to dissuade the worship of one’s cravings; but it was also a day that many set aside to recall everything for which they should be thankful.  Christmas had devolved into a holiday of materialism and overexpenditure, but those who had been spiritually quickened recognized that the gift-giving was an iteration—albeit a poor one—of the perfect Gift that had been offered for man nearly two thousand years ago.  In a word, holidays were a way for people to remember and celebrate.

Jonathan pulled to the side of the road as a fleet of firetrucks blazed down the hill.  Despite the temptation, he dared not look in the rear-view mirror and behold the condition of the town, lest he be overwhelmed by Apo’s effective plan and resign in his quest out of despair.  Once the trucks passed, he continued on for another minute and came to a dead end at the base of a grassy slope.  He and Pumpkin looked up between the trees.  Neither road nor path led to the mansion that crested the tallest hill in the area; high above them it stood, seeming a world away.  Jonathan asked himself, not for the first time, if the trek would be worth it.  I hope he can bring order to the chaos, he thought as he parked near the slope, before an intricate gate and next to the community’s mailboxes.  If he can’t do that…I hope he can at least save our family and friends.

Pumpkin stepped out of the car and struck down an undead crow.  “Listen, Jonathan, I know kids these days hate gym and all, but I’m going to need you to hustle up this hill.”

“You don’t have to tell me that,” said the boy with a roll of his eyes.  “And you don’t have to call me a kid.  It’s condescending.”

“You are a kid,” Pumpkin reminded him.  “You have ponies on the shelves in your room.  If you had your way, your weapon of choice would be a unicorn.  Your mom still packs your lunchbox for school.”

“Dude, what’s got your stems in a bunch lately?” Jonathan’s face felt hot.  “You’re being a jerk.  And not just to me, either! Your outburst with Witch earlier? Oh, and you’ve had zero patience with Ghost the past few weeks.  I know he has some issues with denial, but you’ve been harping on him more than usual.  What’s going on?”

The squash coaxed him up the base of the slope.  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I’m always this charming.  The other day, Witch told me I’m the finest talking gourd she has ever known.  Do you know how old that woman is, Jonathan? Do you know how many gourds she has encountered over the years?”

“Pumpkin, squashes don’t talk! You are literally one of two squashes that have ever had the privilege of speaking, and I don’t think she really knew your cousin too well.  You don’t have much competition.” He lifted his leg over a small fence that separated the side of the road from the hills.  “And no, you have been acting different.  You threatened to cut off Apo’s limbs and remove his tongue! Who talks like that? Serial killers do, Pumpkin.  Serial killers!” He began to cry a little.  “You’re supposed to be my friend, not Norman Bates!”

“Firstly, I don’t know any ‘Norman Bates,’” grumbled Pumpkin.  “Secondly, stop crying like a baby and let’s get this over with.  We have a mission to complete.”

Jonathan did not appreciate being called a baby, and he really did not appreciate Pumpkin’s ignorance of cinema.  But he decided to drop the subject and turn his attention to the way ahead.  The tall grass was a faint yellow that was transforming into green as the year was exposed to an increasing amount of rain.  Boulders, dark gray and pockmarked as if they had been long cradled within a volcano, were scattered across the slope.  Trees, mostly oaks near the base and pines closer to the peak, were more common.  The occasional resurrected bird would fly up from town to pester the two companions, but Pumpkin’s sword would find it with flashing speed.  Jonathan was surprised to see groups of indifferent cows along the way; he presumed that Apo had refrained from distributing his potion in the open country.  This came as a relief, as he could only imagine the impossibility of trying to ascend the hill while hounded by newly undead nests of mice, swarms of bees, colonies of ants, and bands of coyotes.

The wind grew colder with each step, it seemed, and the clouds grew less inviting.  Jonathan continued to avoid looking over his shoulder, but he could not keep his mind off his anxieties.  Sometimes he would alternate his ponderous march with a labored and brief dash through the windblown tendrils of grass; it did nothing to drive away the thoughts.  Is Awana going to be OK? he asked himself again and again.  Did Apo open up the floor and drop our friends down into that chamber? Are Mom and Dad safe? What about Stanley and his family? Mr. And Mrs. Humphfree? Old man Linus? Pumpkin is being such a buttface, and I think he needs to change his stupid attitude! Will I ever have a normal Halloween, Thanksgiving, or Christmas ever again? I hope Dad cooks the turkey next month.  I should have eaten more than just a muffin today.  Too bad Ms. Unicorn isn’t here to give me guidance and comfort.

He gazed at the mansion, which looked to be only a couple hundred feet away.  Then his eyes fell to his orange companion, who was trudging ahead of him with many grunts and groans.  He began to recount the past ten months to see if he could discover what had caused the squash to develop such a sour mood.  Was it New Year’s? Awana’s parents had invited the entire gang over to their house to watch “Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve.”  They played poker, Bat got drunk, Witch cycled through a series of chants to “ward off Ghost’s less-than-savory relatives,” and Cat warmed everyone’s hearts by trying to hunt her own tail.  Was it Valentine’s Day? Jonathan and Awana went to the horse races and followed with a dinner of bison medallions at a steakhouse in Iowa, Frankenstein’s monster and Witch attempted a date but subsequently realized that they felt more like brother and sister, and the others joined Mr. Cornelius for an omelet buffet in the mansion.  Was it my birthday? The group went to the public pool and took swimming lessons, but decided to ignore their instructor and actually have fun.  Jonathan accepted Ghost’s challenge to see who could swim more laps (Jonathan won at a total of twelve); Awana moved through the pool with finesse like an emaciated—but fully clothed—mermaid; Pumpkin treaded water while wearing floaties branded with the cutest yellow ducks you have ever seen; Witch floated around on her broom, screaming that she was melting at her mere proximity to the water; Frankenstein’s monster demonstrated proper cannon ball technique for three hours until Bat finally managed to pull one off; Cat took a nap.  They had enjoyed every holiday of 2006 thus far, and had experienced a delightful spring and summer.  What could it possibly be?

He started panting and sat on one of the charcoal rocks.  “Pumpkin, I’m sorry, my legs hurt.  I need to take a break.”

“You sound a whole lot like a certain ghostly friend of ours right now,” the squash replied irritably.  “We’ve only gone...what, a stone’s throw?”

Jonathan’s eyes widened.  “How far are you throwing stones these days?”

Pumpkin ignored that.

“I’m just having the hardest time believing that he’s back,” said the boy, wincing as he heard thunder above.  “Do you—do you think he sent that potion to the North Pole after he was resurrected? Do you think he knows what I did to M.D.?”

Pumpkin placed a hand on the pommel of his sword.  “With his resources, I don’t doubt that the answer to both questions is ‘yes.’” He turned toward the town and paced.  “What I don’t understand is why he’s delayed our deaths.  He could have gotten us out of the way much sooner.”

Jonathan shrugged.  “I’ve been thinking about that, too.  I guess there’s something poetic about killing us on the same day we killed him—just a year later.”

“Well, that’s going to be one lousy poem when he and his undead army fail for the second time.” The squash wobbled over to the edge of a boulder and gazed west.  “You know, Jonathan, I’m getting tired of defending this town.”

“What’s wrong with this town? I’ve always liked it here.  I mean, there’s clearly one too many cows, but—”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” said Pumpkin, his voice morose.  “Nothing at all.”

Jonathan stared at him for some time.  “Is that what’s bothering you? You’re tired of having to save everyone?”

“No,” answered the squash, “that isn’t what’s bothering me.  I want to save people, and I like making a difference.  It’s just….”

“What? You can tell me.”

“I have told you, quite some time ago, and I don’t really feel like repeating it at the moment.”

“Oh….” Jonathan nodded, and sympathy washed over his face.  “Oh, I get it.  It’s that time of the month for you, isn’t it?”

“What? That time of the month? You know that pumpkins don’t go through that, right?”

“Of course they do! It’s the time of the month when you realize you’re not getting any younger; you find a new wrinkle that doesn’t belong there; the gray hairs start showing up in hordes; things sag that should never sag; before you know it, your 20-20 vision is like…half of that.  It’s like 10-10 vision.” He rubbed his chin.  “OK, you know, I guess that doesn’t apply to pumpkins.  I have no idea what you’re going through.”

Pumpkin actually laughed.  “No, you really don’t, Jonathan.  But I do appreciate you trying.”

The boy frowned.  “If it makes you feel better, I won’t eat any more pumpkin muffins.  I’ll ask my dad to make…bran muffins from now on.”

“No one likes bran muffins.  If someone tells you they do, they’re just getting bran muffins confused with poppy seed muffins.  Besides, I’m starting to think that they don’t use real pumpkin in those things.”

“Then why do you get so mad at Ghost when he tries to eat them?”

“It’s the principle of the matter.” Pumpkin turned toward the mansion once again.  “I’m sorry I’ve been so moody lately.  You’ve never wronged me, so I shouldn’t be taking my frustration out on you.  It’s been a very long year.”

“It’s fine, my faithful sidekick!” declared Jonathan, hopping to his feet.  “It’s water under the house.”

“I believe the expression is ‘water under the bridge.’  What kind of maniac would want water under his house?”

“I have no idea!” said the boy.  “Thank you for clearing that up! That’s been bothering me since I was five.”

“Any time, my friend.” It may not have been possible, but it appeared as if Pumpkin’s smile widened.  He turned to Jonathan and beckoned.  “Now come on.  I’m a jack-o’-lantern.  If I don't move soon, I'm going to rot.”

The outside of the mansion was exactly as Jonathan remembered it.  It was nearly thirty feet tall, with a small wedge of roof separating the two stories.  The front door was actually two doors that, when shut, resembled the gate of a castle; as a single unit, it was a semi-oval of dark, thick wood with iron door knockers.  There were two huge windows on the wall that faced west, set with perfect symmetry on either side of the door.  Lines of Doric columns bore the eaves overhangs on the northern and southern sides of the house.  Beneath the eaves on the west side was a large “S” cut into the wood and glowing with red, stained glass.  On the second story, also facing west, were three windows from which a viewer could survey the entire town and its outlying country.  Once the companions had approached within one hundred feet of the mansion, a dirt road had emerged ahead of them; it led directly to the front door.  Jonathan recalled that the place had not appeared much more welcoming his last time there, but the clouds now seemed darker, and already drops of rain were beginning to drum against their bodies.

He knocked on one of the doors and almost expected no one to answer; after all, Mr. Cornelius had not so much as invited him back since their last conversation a year ago, so he often wondered if his friends were just inventing stories about the man.  But only a second passed before both doors swung wide open—revealing no one at all.

“Dang Scooby-Doo doors,” he grumbled.  “They always open by themselves!”

Pumpkin shook his head—er, body—mournfully.

They entered together, shutting the doors silently behind them, and found themselves in a spacious living room.  It was comfortably furnished but lacked extravagance, and it appeared that the couches and chairs had been untouched for some time.  The lights, placed in fixtures in the ceiling, were on—but they shone dully.  The sun was obscured by the clouds, therefore providing minimal illumination through the grand windows (and also projecting a faint crimson “S,” filtered through the stain glass, onto the floor).  There were side tables topped with dusty books, notepads full of old sketches, flameless candles, and a lone desk littered with papers.

“Gloomy as ever,” Pumpkin remarked.  “This is one of the reasons I moved out.”

“Yeah, but I’m glad I’m not here by myself like last time,” Jonathan told him tenderly.  “I saw some weird stuff that I still can’t explain.”

“We’re in the home of the Man With the Green Toe.  ‘Weird’ is his middle name.”

“I thought it was ‘Michael,’” said the boy, confused.

“Not now, Jonathan.”

The living room bottlenecked into a hallway lined with doors of many different colors.  Here was a brown door with a black circle etched into it; there was a red door with the familiar “S” engraved into its surface; here was a blue door marked with a strange, conical emblem that seemed to be glowing with a faint green light; there was a black door that bore the image of a pendant, chain and all; here was an orange door with a pumpkin chiseled into its wood; there was a pink door branded with a rearing unicorn.  Without a word, Jonathan gestured toward the last door and pressed it open.  Beyond it was a dark room with a twirling staircase that led to the second floor.

“Why do I remember this staircase going on forever?” he asked.

“Because kids always exaggerate things in their minds,” said his companion.

“What did I say about calling me a kid?”

“You were fifteen last time you were here.”

“These words are true.”

When they had reached the top of the staircase, Jonathan pressed open a solitary door that was almost impossible to see in the poorly-illumined stairwell.  They stepped into the room, which was more of a study; there were rows of bookshelves standing library-style in the middle of the floor, note-riddled chalkboards on the walls, tables covered with open novels and drawings, and several desks crowned with a desktops or laptops.  The three windows that the companions had seen outside were on the opposite side of the room, providing the only source of light.  Or that was how it appeared to them, at first.  As their eyes adjusted, they noticed a single flame flickering in the corner.  Beside it Mr. Cornelius was sitting in a cushioned chair, hunched over a desk and facing the wall.  A computer screen stretched across the entirety of the desk and even beyond its borders.  There was nothing to be seen on that screen but a blank document and a blinking cursor.  No, not the tiniest word or letter graced the page.  The only movement was from the ever-flickering candle, and from wisps of steam that rose from the mug of coffee that sat within the man’s reach.

Jonathan went to the nearest table and observed a sketch of a pumpkin with a cape; beneath it were the words “Super Pumpkin.” This page was partially covering a drawing of a rotund, red-garbed figured with a billowing white beard and long claws protruding from his fingertips.  Another sheet of paper nearby displayed a crazed turkey soaring across the heavens.  He moved to the next table and found a numbered list: 1. The Prophecy; 11. White Fox; 15. The Pendant; 20. The Tale of Ceith; and so on.  Pumpkin followed but did not seem the least interested in examining the artwork or writings.  In fact, he was clinging to Jonathan’s leg and attempting to remain in the shadows for as long as possible.

The boy ended up standing before the central window.  It was raining lightly outside the mansion, but far below, smoke was rising here and there from the dry town.  This smoke did not issue from chimneys as the product of comfy fires in people’s homes; rather, the orchards, fields, and some of the houses were burning, likely as a result of the Apo’s undead brood.  Blue and red police lights were ubiquitous, and Jonathan thought he could faintly make out the sirens that accompanied them.  Along the street at the base of the hill, he noticed several men dressed in camo, toting rifles and stopping every so often to take down any wicked creature within view.

“It’s not so beautiful now, is it?” asked a voice, heavy with weariness.

Jonathan turned toward the sound and beheld the man, his creator, lethargically making his way to the center of the room—but something was different.  Everything inside the house seems different than last time, he realized.  It all looked so tidy before; now there are papers and dust everywhere.  Most of the house seems abandoned.  And the Man With the Green Toe now needs a cane to walk.  He looked down at his own hands and remembered being in this same spot a year ago, and swiveling toward the man with a bazooka in hand.  That bazooka is gone.  Ms. Unicorn is gone.  I drive now.  Awana is my girlfriend, not just my friend.  Everything is different.

“Are you talking about the town, or that wrinkled mug of yours?” Pumpkin responded.

Jonathan smacked the squash.  “That was really mean!”

“You don’t have to defend me, Jonathan,” said the man.  “I deserved that, and I deserve far worse.”

“Yes, you do,” said Pumpkin without remorse.  “I don’t even want to be here right now, but I figured you’re the only one in the world who can help us with our current predicament.  As much as I hate to admit that.”

“Pumpkin!” Jonathan mumbled.  “Show him a little respect.  He created you!”

The man stopped a few feet away from them and leaned on his cane.  “If my memory doesn’t fail me, I recall a certain boy barging in to my room and saying to me, ‘Screw you, old man, screw you,’ after attempting to kill me with a couple of rockets.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kory Labarga,” said Jonathan, pouting.  “I was a child.  An angry, confused, semi-pubescent child.”

“But now your mustache is coming in nicely, I see,” the man remarked.  “And have you been doing a few curls?”

The boy blushed.  “Yeah, maybe one or two.”

Pumpkin hopped forward and swung a frustrated arm.  “Listen here, old man! Have you even looked down at Vacaville in the past hour? Do you know what kinds of evil your creation has wrought?”

Mr. Cornelius gazed over his shoulder and sighed.  “Yes, I’ve looked.  It’s absolutely terrible; I have never seen such horror so close to home.  And truthfully, I feared it was because of me.  So what was it? What happened?”

“What do you mean. ‘what happened’?” Pumpkin got closer to him, as if he might strike. “We’re here because of you.  Apo is back because of you!”

“Oh no,” said Mr. Cornelius, placing a hand on his forehead.  “This is all the professor’s doing? I was concerned that would happen.  I thought that you had defeated him too easily last time, and was worried that he might come back.”

“Stop playing dumb, Cornelius!” the squash demanded.  “What’s your angle, here? You’re the author.  What’s your story?”

“You give me too much credit, Pumpkin,” replied the man.  “God alone is omnipresent, omnipotent, and omniscient.  I don’t control everything.”

“But you made us, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you made Apo and M.D., didn’t you?”

“I didn’t realize that M.D. had materialized on earth until a bit later, but yes, I created her.”

“Then you’re the one writing this story,” said Pumpkin.  “You’re the one behind it all.  And that means you’re the true villain.”

Jonathan stepped forward and patted his friend.  “Pumpkin, maybe we should give him a chance to explain before we jump to conclusions.  Please.”

Mr. Cornelius responded with a small smile and motioned toward the nearest table.  The two companions pulled up some chairs and looked out at the rain and dark sky.  The man stood before the window, opting to lean on his cane rather than sit.  He stared at each of them in turn, his face inscrutable.  Thunder, sounding too close for comfort, rumbled outside.

“May I offer you some coffee?” the man asked Jonathan.

“No thank you,” replied the boy.  “And not just because I think it tastes like tar.  Mr. Labarga, people are in serious danger out there.  I don’t think you really know how bad it is; we don’t have time to sit down, have a nice long chat, and drink coffee.  We need help.”

Mr. Cornelius nodded slowly and said nothing for several seconds.  Then he turned his back to them and looked again at the smoking town below.  “Professor Aponowatsomidichloron is evil to the core, my children.  He was that way from the very beginning.  It was eleven years ago that he leapt off the pages of a certain story I was writing, and immediately he engaged in his wicked acts...but at that time he was not your enemy, Jonathan.  He was the enemy of Pumpkin and the Halloween Friends.”

Pumpkin shook his body vigorously.  “I don’t think so, Cornelius.  I’m pretty sure we all would have remembered that.”

“We used to live in the town below, remember, Pumpkin?” asked the man.  “Before I bought this mansion, and before you knew Jonathan? It was only six years ago, and not long after you materialized here from Armenor, so I know you haven’t forgotten.  You and your five friends were getting ready to go trick-or-treating, but were attacked in broad daylight by some fierce creature.  It knocked most of you unconscious and took you to a cave, but Ghost escaped and managed to rescue you.  At that time, the cave was the professor’s lab in its earliest stages.”

Pumpkin fidgeted, clearly feeling uneasy.  “That creature was a bear.  Are you saying Apo used to be a bear?”

Cornelius laughed.  “Wow, now that would be a plot twist! But no, my dearest squash.  After the professor leapt from the pages of my story, he had half a decade to develop a variety of potions and contraptions.  Those were his early years.  He created a corrupting tonic—one that served as a prototype to his ‘goodness to blight’ potion, I believe—and somehow got a brown bear in the Vaca Mountains to drink it.  My guess is that he sent the brown bear not to maul me, but to go after you as a way to make me feel powerless over my own creation.  After you escaped the cave, you ended up in our next-door neighbor’s house, and our neighbor locked you inside.  You didn’t get a good look at our neighbor back then...but do you care to venture a guess as to who that was?”

The squash slammed his arm-stem on the table.  “Confound it all! That was Apo? He was the one who nearly ruined our Halloween back in 2000?”

“Yes, that’s right,” the man explained.  “And contrary to your belief, even though I authored him, and you...I am not in control of your actions.  I know you better than you know yourselves, and I can somewhat predict what you’re going to do or say, but I haven’t been some sort of ‘man behind the curtain.’ As I said, I’m not God.  I can’t decree everything that has yet to pass.  Therefore, I had to do quite a bit of investigating before I figured out where the professor’s lab was, and what were his sinister intentions.”

“But you’re not powerless, Mr. Cornelius,” said Jonathan.  “It was your hand that penned Apo into existence, wasn’t it? Can’t your hand pen him out of existence? Can’t you unwrite him?”

The old author’s face appeared to be stricken with shame, or perhaps it was great sorrow.  “Technically, Jonathan, the answer is yes.  I could write him out of existence, theoretically.  But....” He chewed on his lip, then seized the nearest chair.  Scooting close to the table, opposite of his two guests, he placed both elbows on the surface and cradled his head in his hands.  “Oh, I am so flawed.  So very flawed, my children.  I’m glad that you came here today, so I can apologize for my failures.”

“What failures, sir?” asked Jonathan.  “If you have no control over your creation, that’s not your fault.”

“But it is my fault that Professor Aponowatsomidichloron is back, and not wiped from this plane of existence,” the man informed him.  “The truth is that my mind is as scattered as the papers in this room.  I haven’t written anything substantial in a long time.  I pore over these pages—my notes, my old sketches, completed stories, books written by other authors—but the inspiration never comes.  I can’t stop the professor.  I’ve tried, over and over and over again.” Tears rose to his eyes, and one splashed onto the table.  “I feel as if I have lost my power, my God-given abilities.  I know they can never be rescinded, but they are hidden—no more than a candle flickering in the dark.  I’m ashamed to admit that at the present moment, I’m powerless to destroy my creation.  And he knows it.”

Pumpkin sifted through some of the papers on the table before him, but he kept his eyes on his creator.  “What’s the problem, old man? What’s so hard about it? I don’t understand.  Just write.”

“He can’t,” said Jonathan, furrowing his brow.  “Writer’s block is a pain in the tookus, let me tell you.”

“So this world is going to be destroyed because its only potential savior has a bad case of writer’s block? That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I agree, I am pathetic,” acceded Mr. Cornelius, “but I’m not the only potential savior.  There is someone else who can stop that madman.”

Jonathan and Pumpkin looked at each other; then Pumpkin turned his attention back to the man.  “You’re talking about me, aren’t you?”

“No,” answered the man.  “The professor would turn you to pie.”

The squash sulked.

“Please tell us, Mr. Cornelius,” Jonathan pleaded.  “Apo imprisoned us in his cellar, and our friends are down there right now, stuck in place because of some stasis potion he used.  The town is in complete chaos.  I’m worried about my parents.  And Awana....”

“Awana,” muttered the old author.  “Young Jonathan’s romantic interest.  The woman he wants to marry some day.  The girl who hopes to bear his children.”

“Uh...yeah, her!”

Mr. Cornelius smiled again.  “Of course.  You struggle with fully expressing how you feel about her, don’t you? Even after all this time.” The man interlocked his fingers, his elbows still on the table.  “Jonathan, you’re the only one who can stop the professor.  It has to be you.”

“It has to be me?” The boy was flummoxed and annoyed.  He remembered Apo slipping on Ms. Unicorn and falling into the cauldron, then becoming nothing more than ashes.  But now he was back.  “What in Ghost’s name do you mean? That man is unstoppable.  I failed last time, and I’ll just fail again.  You sent me there a year ago to do a job, and look! The man is still here and stronger than ever.  What am I supposed to do?”

“Listen, son.  Last year, I honestly believed that you wouldn’t just undo everyone’s forgetfulness of Halloween, but that you would also stop the professor for good.  And that was my oversight and failure, not yours—especially since I always had this nagging suspicion that he wasn’t really gone.  If you and your friends resort to the same tactics to defeat him, you’ll never actually win.  I made him too intelligent to be so easily outwitted...but I think you’ve already figured that out.”

“I have,” said Jonathan, frowning.  “But you said I can stop him.  How?”

“I’ll answer your question with a question.  What is your gift?”

“My gift?” The boy twirled his fingers around his long beard.  “I don’t know.  Awana says I’m really funny.  I might be able to do standup comedy some day.”

“You would be terrible at it.  No, my child, you are a writer.  I specifically created you to be a writer.  You used to take pride in that; in fact, I remember Bat flying into the room one day and excitedly telling me that you’re an author, just like me.  You told the Halloween Friends about your gifting, don’t you remember? During your first journey to the Vaca Mountains?” He leaned back in the chair and chuckled.  “Oh, goodness, Jonathan.  Of all my many characters, you are by far the weakest and most seemingly insignificant.  You never were special or much to look at; you sort of began as a gag character, really—a joke.  But did you know that you were the first of my characters to come to life? Even before the professor leapt off my pages, you were here.  So of course, I had to create parents for you, and your love interest.  They leapt off my pages, as well.

“But of all my characters, Jonathan—of those who have materialized here and those who never materialized—I liked you the least.  And that was unfair, since I created you.  The ironic thing is that of the one hundred thousand people who live in town, you were the only one unaffected by the professor’s original holiday potion.  And even more shocking to me is the fact that, of all those who have come to life by my hand, you’re the only one who can save the world.  Because you’re a writer, my boy.  That singular gift of yours, which mirrors my own, is the only quality that can help us at this time.  You’re the only one who can stop Professor Aponowatsomidichloron permanently—and this is something I did not discover until I sat down and seriously considered the possibility that he might return.  He has returned, Jonathan, and it just so happens that good old St. Nick gave you a very important gift for Christmas last year.  You need to use it...to write the professor out of existence.”

Jonathan’s heart catapulted against his chest.  How was any of this possible? He had come to terms with the fact that he was a product of Kory’s imagination, but had he really been penned into existence even before his nemesis? Did he really have access to the same power as the man who had authored him—the ability to create or destroy, to bring life or death? He recalled his youth, when he would read one book after another; then he would hurry over to the nearest notepad and fill it with tales.  As he had grown older and received his first computer (and absurdly huge monitor), he had typed up novellas and short stories.  The words had always burst from his hands like meteors across the sky, barraging every page until each story was complete.  But then something had happened.  Once he had reached fifteen, and busied himself with other distractions (including saving the world every month), he had not been as prolific a writer.  The digital pages on his computer had remained blank; the physical pages, kept in one drawer of his dresser, had been untouched.  He figured that writing had just been a hobby of his that faded with age, but now that his creator mentioned it, he recognized once again the gift with which he had been blessed.  Writing is a blessing, Santa had told him, its power none can see.  This power was granted to him, Jonathan Legcheese, in a unique way, and it was something to which he still had access.  He had only to take up his pencil and write!

“I’ll do it, Kory Labarga!” he shouted, leaping from his chair.  “I’ll write! I’ll stop Apo for good this time, or my name isn’t Colonel Sanders!”

“It isn’t,” the old author reminded him.

“It’s a simile.”

“It’s really not.  Do none of you know what a simile is? Do you even know the basics of the English language? You guys have been doing this since the first story.  I need to sit all of you down and give you an English lesson.”

The boy pretended not to hear him.  “So I just have to drive home, get that notebook from my room, and write Apo and all of his potions out of existence.  That’s not too bad! Piece of cake!”

Mr. Cornelius tapped on the table.  “One thing I’ve learned in my long life, and in my storywriting, is that things rarely go as smoothly as you hope them to.  Our growth often comes through adversity.  Be confident, of course, but don’t be surprised if you come across a couple of bumps in the road along the way.  You face a powerful enemy who can kill you quickly if he chooses to.  Just as I am powerless to write the professor out of existence, I may never be able to write you back into existence if you perish.  So please, take care.”

“I will, Mr. Cornelius.  Thank you.”

The man grinned.  “You’re welcome, Jonathan.  I believe in you; truly, I do.  I can’t guarantee your success, but I can tell you this: in an age when people rejoice in darkness and ambiguity, when the villain wins the hearts of man and heroes seem all but non-existent, there still are happy endings.  Ultimately, evil will be defeated; it must be.  Good will take the final victory.  Remember that.”

Jonathan nodded and, eager to get back to his house and to his notebook, made a dash toward the door.  I can do this, he thought.  This is what I’m meant to do.  No more ruined holidays ever again.  It’s all going to be over...finally. But when he did not hear the pitter-patter of stemmy legs behind him, he halted and turned back toward the room.  The squash had not left his seat, but was sitting silently across from his creator.  Rain continued to fall, moving with the wind and pelting the windows.  The heavens flashed with lightning.

“Pumpkin!” the boy called out.  “Are you coming?”

“I’ll be there in a few seconds,” replied the squash.  “Please shut the door and give me a brief moment with Cornelius.”

Jonathan, perplexed, did as his friend asked.  He stood in the dark on the other side of the door, feeling left out of the loop; for a moment he could only hear the rolling thunder and sound of raindrops on the shingles of the roof.  But when he pressed his ear to the door, he was able to make out the faint voices of creature and creator.

“We’ve been here for years, now,” said Pumpkin.  “It was your hand that snatched us up out of our world and brought us here.  Now you need to send us back home.”

The man’s voice was hesitant.  “I--I can’t, Pumpkin.  I just can’t do it.”

“Because of writer’s block?” There was a loud bang.  “You didn’t have writer’s block before, but you still kept us around.  What excuse do you have for that?”

“I’m so sorry.” The man’s voice was deeply distressed.  “Even if I was able to write, I don’t know if I could ever let go of you.  You, Ghost, Frankenstein’s monster, Witch, Bat, Cat....You’re my family.  Don’t you understand that? I can’t let you go.”

“I do understand, Cornelius,” said Pumpkin.  “I understand that you’re selfish.  I understand that you never let me bury my cousin; you never let me bury Gourdo.  But now it’s time to let us go back to Armenor.  You owe us that much.”

The man sighed.  “I can’t do what you wish, my child.  I’m sorry.  As I told you, I’m flawed.  I wish I could change this...but I just can’t.  I hope you can learn to be content with that.”

Jonathan moved toward the stairs as he heard footsteps drawing near.  Mr. Cornelius opened the door, and Pumpkin left the room without a word to either of them.  The squash proceeded to descend the stairs slowly and sorrowfully.

“He’ll learn to forgive you, in time,” Jonathan said to the man.  “Just let him go through...well, whatever he needs to go through.”

Mr. Cornelius extended his hand and shook Jonathan’s.  “I hope you’re right, my boy.  I really do.  And trust me, I wish we had hours to chat about this topic and get all emotional…but time is of the essence.  Every second counts.  You have a critical mission ahead of you, understand?”

“Right,” Jonathan agreed.  “Save the world.  Thank you.  Thank you for reminding me of my gift.  Thank for everything!  Bye, Kory Labarga!”

Mr. Cornelius released his hand and watched as the boy disappeared down the stairs.  Tears welled in his eyes once again.  “Goodbye, you silly goose.”