Tales Around the Jack O'Lantern

Tales
Around
the Jack
O
’
Lantern

A MARY O’REILLY SERIES SHORT STORY

by

Terri Reid

Tales
Around
the Jack
O’Lantern
– A Mary O’Reilly Series Short Story

by

Terri Reid

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Terri Reid

Tales
Around
the Jack
O’Lantern
– A Mary O’Reilly Series Short Story

Copyright © 2014 by Terri Reid

All rights reserved. Without
limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of
both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of
various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used
without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized,
associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This
ebook
is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This
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may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share
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copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

The author would like to thank all
those who have contributed to the creation of this novelette:
Richard
Reid, Sarah Powers, Andrew Reid, Jennie Ellefson, Katie Solomon, Denise
Carpenter, Juliette Wilson, Maureen
Marella
, and Jenny
Bates.
 
Also, special thanks to Jon
Powers for his excellent work on the cover image.
 

Happy Halloween!!!

(Ten years ago)

The candles in the jack-o-lanterns on the front porch were
already burning low and the candy dish sitting on the hallway table in the
O’Reilly’s Chicago home had been refilled three times.
 
The street lights were glowing brightly and
most of the neighborhood goblins, ghouls and princesses had finished their
Halloween ritual and were either tucked securely in their beds dreaming of
candy corn and miniature-sized candy bars or actually sorting through their
bounty from a successful rampage of trick-or-treating.

Mary O’Reilly, the youngest of the O’Reilly clan, had
graduated from college at the end of the summer and was now enrolled in the
Police Academy eagerly anticipating becoming a police officer in the Chicago
Police Department like most of the other members of her family.
 
She sat back in her favorite chair in their
living
room,
an afghan tucked around her legs on the
cool October night, and turned to the rest of her family. “Okay, it’s time to
get started,” she announced.

Her brother Art, one of the twenty-three year-old twins,
grabbed a handful of candy from the bowl and headed towards the couch.

“Arthur Patrick O’Reilly,” Mary’s mother, Margaret, scolded.
“You leave that candy for the trick-or-treaters.”

“Ma, it’s already after nine,” he argued, popping a piece in
his mouth. “They should be home by now, not prowling the streets.”

“It’s only the teenagers out now, Ma,” Sean O’Reilly, the
oldest sibling in the group added, taking a few pieces from the bowl too. “And
they shouldn’t be knocking on doors anyway.
 
They’re too old.”

Timothy O’Reilly, the large, bear of a man who was the
father of the clan, chuckled, “I seem to recall the three of you eager and
willing to take your little sister out door to door in hopes of getting some
candy for yourselves when you were teenagers.”

Tom, the other half of the twins, grinned. “Well, it was
better than stealing candy away from Mary,” he laughed, taking a seat next to
Art and swiping some of his candy. “And besides, it was a public service. The
neighbors didn’t want to be left with all that extra candy.”

“You’re no better now than you were then,” Margaret teased
gently.

“Except now we help buy the candy,” Sean replied.

“Okay, enough about candy,” Mary said. “We have some serious
business here.
 
The annual O’Reilly ghost
story night is about to begin.
 
Everyone
needs to settle in.”

Sean walked over to the doorway and dimmed the lights while Timothy
lit the candle in the large jack-o-lantern sitting on the coffee table between
them.
 
They all took their seats in the
living room, the light from the candle flickering wildly around on the
walls.
 
Margaret carried in a tray filled
with cups of hot apple cider and plates of pumpkin bars and placed it next to
the jack-o-lantern. While her family helped themselves, she took her place in
the old rocking chair and took a deep breath. “Well, I believe it’s my turn to
start the story telling,” she began. “I’ve been thinking about what I’d share
for a while now.
 
And, with Mary in the
Police Academy, I thought it was time I shared a story your father and I both
experienced that I haven’t mentioned before.”

She was silent for a moment.
 
The house was also silent; the only sound to be heard was the slight
tick-tock of the clock in the hallway.
 
The candle now burned brightly, only wavering slightly, filling the room
with a soft glow. The eyes of all of the members of the O’Reilly family turned
to the shadowed face of their mother.
 
And she began her story.

It was a night like many others in the life of the wife of a
police officer, alone and worried.
 
Margaret O’Reilly had done the dishes, put her daughter Mary to bed and
even read her a story.
 
But throughout
the evening she’d been bothered by a nagging fear.
 
It was the kind of fear that eats at your
heart and digs at your nerves.
 
 
Most nights she was able to chalk it up to an
overactive imagination, but this night she jumped every time a car drove by and
stared at the phone for minutes on end, waiting for it to ring.
 
Waiting for
that
message from the captain, offering
his sincerest regrets.

She put in another load of laundry and took the last one out
of the dryer.
 
Folding towels was
mindless enough that she could do it and not think about it.
 
But even from the laundry room off the
kitchen, she kept glancing to the phone on the wall, waiting for it to ring,
praying it would not.

She kept calling herself a fool.
 
Kept telling herself that
he was fine.
But, she knew in her heart of hearts, that something really
was wrong.

Finally, she finished the laundry and started pacing in the
kitchen.
 
She glanced up at the clock and
the panic increased.
 
He should have been
home by now.
 
Or, he should have called
to tell her he was going to be late.
 
That was the rule.
 
The only rule.
 
If he
was fine, but was going to be late, he had to call.
 
Had to stop her from worrying.

Walking over to the phone, she put her hand on the receiver.
She didn’t really want to call, didn’t want to make it look like she was
checking up on him.
 
But she had to know.

“Margie?”

The voice from the other side of the room startled her and
she jumped, sending the receiver crashing to the ground.
 
Breathing a sigh of relief, she saw it was
John
Polichek
,
 
Tim’s
partner, standing in the kitchen
doorway. “Johnny,” she said, and then she realized it was just John and not Tim
and the fear that had been weaving through her gut froze solid. “Timmy?”

“Hey, sorry, don’t worry,” John said. “Tim’s fine. I
promise.”

A wave of overwhelming relief washed over her. She swallowed
twice before she could speak.
“Really?”
He’s fine?”
she stammered.

John smiled at her and nodded. “Yeah, we walked into a
little trouble down on the East side, but Tim’s fine,” he said. “They sent him
to the hospital, to get a couple of stitches. But, he’s good.
 
I just wanted to stop by here, ‘
cause
I knew you would be worried.”

Exhaling slowly, she leaned against the wall, trying to
control the flood of emotions and the tears. “Thank you, Johnny,” she said,
picking up a kitchen towel from the counter and wiping her eyes. “You’re right,
I was worried.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. “You’re a good
wife.
 
And Tim’s the best partner a guy
could ever have.”

She smiled. “I won’t tell him you said that,” she said,
surprised that she could tease him. “We wouldn’t want it to go to his head.”

Johnny smiled and nodded. “Yeah, well, just this time you
can let him know what I said,” he replied.

She kicked against the receiver on the floor and shook her
head. “I guess I’d better pick this up in case he decides to call,” she bent
down and turned to place the phone back on the hook. “Would you like some
coffee…
”

She turned, but Johnny was no longer near the kitchen door.
“Johnny?” she called out.

Walking through the kitchen and into the hall, she saw that
the bathroom door was open, so he hadn’t gone in there.
 
Maybe he had to get back to the station.
 
Maybe he mentioned it, but she didn’t hear
him when she was turned away to get the phone.
 
She hurried to the door to look for his car, but no one was on the
street.
 
Shrugging, she went back to the
kitchen, her heart lightened and waited for Timmy to get home.

As soon as his car turned down the street, she was out of
her chair and hurrying for the door.
 
When he opened it, his arm wrapped in a cast and a bandage over his
forehead, she moved forward into his arms.
 
He didn’t say a word, just held her against him, each seeking and giving
the comfort they needed.
 
After a few
moments, she leaned back, running her hands gently up to his shoulders.
 
“How are you?” she asked.

He placed a kiss on her forehead. “I’m good,” he said
softly. “I’m fine. I got hurt and had to go to the hospital.”

She nodded. “I know,” she said, leaning into his arms again.

“You know?” he asked. “I told them not to call you.
 
I told them you’d be worried sick.”

She shook her head. “No, no one called,” she explained, her
head nestled against his chest. “Johnny stopped by and told me that you were
okay.
 
He said he knew I’d worry, so he
wanted to tell me himself.”
 
She smiled.
“He also said that you are the best partner a guy could have.”

She heard the sharp intake of breath and she felt him
stiffen beneath her.
 
Pulling away, she
looked up into his eyes and saw the tears. “What?” she asked frantically.
“What?”

“Johnny,” he replied haltingly. “Johnny didn’t…”

“Did something happen to him on the way back to the
station?” she demanded. “He was just here…”

He shook his head and placed his forehead against hers.
“Johnny was with me when we walked into the ambush,” he explained hoarsely. “He
was the first guy in. He…he didn’t make it.”

There was silence once again in the living room when
Margaret finished and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “He was a good man,” she
said.

Tim nodded. “Aye, he was,” he replied. “And knew what it was
to be a good partner. Sometimes I still feel him watching over me.”

“Do you think that’s possible?” Mary asked.
“Ghosts watching over people?
 
Ghosts being here on the
earth?”

Tim took a deep breath and nodded. “I do, yes,” he said.
“And, actually, when I was a young lad growing up in Chicago I had an
experience that caused me never to doubt that there is a world out there that
few understand. And, since I believe it’s my turn, I’ll share the story with
the rest of you.”

The day had finally arrived, twelve year-old Timmy O’Reilly
was old enough to have his own paper route.
 
How he’d envied those other boys with their pockets filled with change,
buying the latest comics books or stopping for a treat at the ice cream
parlor.
 
He was at last, a working
man.
 

He had thought of nothing else that day in school.
 
He got his knuckles rapped twice by his
teacher, a nun with a very sour disposition, for not paying attention to the
board work.
 
But all he could think about
was the stack of papers that would be waiting for him when he got home that
afternoon.

He ran all the way, crisp autumn leaves crunching beneath
his shoes, the crisp wind turning his cheeks pinks and blowing his hair off his
face.
 
Taking the front steps two at a
time, he dashed through the front door calling to his mother, “Are they here
yet?”

Coming from the back of the house, his mother smiled at her
eager son. “Yes, Timmy, they are,” she said. “Now, why don’t you take a moment
and study your route, then we can fold the papers and pack them in your bag.”

Timmy shook his head. “No, we have to fold them right away,”
he replied. “The circulation manager told me that I had to be real quick. So,
let’s fold them and I can learn the route on the way.”

Shaking her head, but allowing her son to lead the way in
his new business venture, Mrs. O’Reilly sat on the living room floor and began
to fold the papers and pack them neatly in the large canvas bag with the
paper’s name emblazoned on the side.
 
With both of them working, side by side, the bag was soon filled and
Timmy was ready to go.
 
With the canvas
bag handle looped around his shoulders and the bag resting on his back fender,
he straddled his bike, route addresses in hand and started off. “Bye Mom,” he
called, his face glowing with excitement. “I’ll be home for supper.” He only
said that because it was something his father had said and it made him feel like
a real working man.

“Good-bye dear,” she replied, biting back a smile. “Good
luck with your route and remember
,
you are
representing the paper.”

Pushing off and pedaling into the street, he thought about
his mother’s last words.
 
He was
representing the paper now.
 
He wasn’t
just Timmy O’Reilly; he was part of the Chicago Beacon.
 
He needed to be sure he remembered that.

He biked the four blocks to his first street.
 
It was like all of the streets in his
neighborhood, tree-lined and residential, with neat little Chicago bungalows
lining the street.
 
The porches already
had decorations in place for the celebration of Halloween at the end of the
week.
 
The jack-o-lanterns were carved
and stared at him with dark, vacant eyes and smiles, awaiting the candles that
would light them up.
 
Ghosts, scarecrows
and witches also shared the porches with the carved pumpkins, awaiting the
ghouls and goblins with the bags for trick or treating.
 
Timmy already had his costume planned; he was
going as a policeman, the only costume he ever wore.

Slowing at the porch of the first customer, he realized it
was the home of a classmate.
 
Jenny
Callahan, one of the cutest girls in the seventh grade.
 
She stood next to the railing and watched
him.
 
He felt sweat pool between his
shoulders and his hand got a little clammy.
 
If he messed this one up, the whole school would know about it.
 
Taking a deep breath, he reached for a paper
and threw it on the porch.
 
He’d been
practicing his throw for several weeks, and it paid off when the paper hit the
porch and slid to land next to the welcome mat near the front door. “Cool,” he
said, his grin broadening. “This is going to be great.”

Jenny smiled at him, then bent and picked up the paper. “Wait,
Timmy,” she called, walking into her house.
 
Confused, he waited.
 
Did he do
something wrong?
 
A moment later she
walked out and came down the stairs. She handed him a shiny dime. “My mom
always tips our newspaper boys,” she said.

Timmy smiled back at her and stuffed the dime in his pocket.
“Wow, thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”

Yeah, this was going
to be a great job
, Timmy thought as he pedaled away from Jenny’s
house.
 
He continued down the street,
each paper landing precisely where he wanted it to go.
 
And as he continued his route, the sky darkened,
the streets became less occupied and he could tell that night was settling
in.
 
The final street on his route was a
dead-end, so he decided he would deliver to one side of the street, then the
house at the end of the cul-de-sac, finish with the other side of the street
and finally go home.

The trees on this particular street were spaced closer to
each other and their overhanging branches formed a tunnel down the middle of
the narrow street.
 
The sidewalks were in
disrepair and often leaned to the side or were crumbled in the middle.
 
He rode his bike carefully, not wanting to
fall over.
 
Timmy glanced quickly down
the
sidewalk,
he couldn’t remember ever coming down
this street before.

As he approached the first porch, he picked up the next
paper, waited until the next porch came into range and fired it off.
 
Slap.
Slide.
Perfect hit.
 
Even in
the dimming light, he had good aim.
 
He
continued with the next six houses and then came to last house at the dead
end.
 
The sidewalk here was nearly
non-existent and the house was set away from the street, so he couldn’t see the
porch.
 
He laid his bike against the
tall, black wrought-iron fence at the edge of the property.
 
Weeds, bushes and dried chrysanthemums
encased the fence and nearly swallowed Timmy’s bike.
 
Pulling a paper out of the bag, he walked to
the tall gate, pushed it open and froze.
 

The old house reminded him of the sidewalk, leaning and
dilapidated.
 
The windows were dark and
what was left of the porch was leaning dangerously in the opposite direction of
the rest of the house.
 
He started to
step back, away from the gate and back to his bike.
 
But then he remembered his mother’s
words.
 
He was a representative of the
paper and it was his job to deliver the news.

Swallowing his fears, he took a deep breath and walked
forward towards the house.
 
The leaves
under his feet crunched with such noise he wondered if they were really corn
flakes instead of leaves.
 
The air around
him seemed to be still and heavy.
 
It was
harder to breathe, but that could have been because his heart was beating so
quickly.

As he placed his foot on the first step he heard a rustling
sound in the overgrowth next to the house and he nearly stepped back.
 
Then he looked down at the paper in his hand,
and placed his next foot on the step.
 
Looking around the porch, he tried to find a safe place to put the
paper.
 
But where the porch was not rotted
away, it was covered with spider webs or thick vines.
 
He had no other choice than to deliver it in
person.

The wooden screen door lay haphazardly against its frame,
the screening hanging loosely down the side.
 
He put this hand through the hole and knocked on the old front
door.
 
A dim glow appeared in the windows
next to the door and Timmy breathed a sigh of relief.
 
Good!
 
Someone was home.

Timmy counted to sixty three times before the knob on the
other side of the door rattled and the door slowly opened.
 
A thin, wrinkled face peeked out from the
narrow space between the door and frame. “Hello?” the parched voice whispered.
“What do you want?”

Clearing his throat several times to get rid of the panic,
Timmy took his cap off his head to be polite and finally said, “I’m here with
your paper.”
Lifting the said object up for the thin man to
see.

Eyes almost too wide for their sockets followed the
movement. “Paper?” he croaked.

Nodding eagerly, Timmy handed it to him. “Yes, it’s today’s
copy of the Chicago Beacon,” he replied. “I’m your new paperboy.”

A long, thin hand reached out and grasped the paper, slowly
pulling it back into the house, but at the last moment, the paper slipped from
his grasp and tumbled to the floor.
 
Dropping his hat, Timmy dove for the paper and caught it before it disappeared
into one of the holes in the porch. “Here you are,” he said, offering the paper
again.

The old face stared at him for a moment longer and then
nearly cracked in half with a wide smile. “Thank you, boy,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome, sir,” Timmy replied. “Um, have a nice
evening.”

The old man nodded slowly and then closed the door.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Timmy walked down the stairs and
stepped onto the sidewalk.
 
The rustling
in the overgrown lawn intensified and all he could imagine were big, hairy rats
waiting to grab hold of him and pull him under.
 
Tossing caution to the wind, he ran down the sidewalk and pushed the
gate closed firmly behind him.

Pulling his bike from the bushes, he hopped back on it and
hurried down the street, delivering the rest of the papers.
 
When he got to the very last house on his
route, he reached in the bag and, to his surprise, found no more papers.

There had to be a mistake.
 
He had enough papers for every house on his route.

Pedaling his bike next to a streetlight, he pulled out the
paper with the route.
 
He counted the
addresses on the street; there was one less subscriber than houses on the
street.
 
Studying it, he realized the old
house with the iron fence had not been a subscriber.
 
He’d given them a free paper.
 
He thought for a moment about going back
there, but only for a moment.
 
There was
no way he was going back through that yard in the dark.
 
But, it was his
fault,
he hadn’t checked his route before.

He dug into his pants pocket and pulled out the shiny
dime.
 
He knew what he had to do.
 
He rode out of the dead end street and over a
block to a metal newspaper box on the corner, inserted his dime and pulled out
the paper he needed.
 
In a few minutes,
the paper was delivered and he was on his way back home.

“Hey, Mom, I’m home,” he said, walking through the front
door.

“How’d it go?” she asked, looking up from setting the dining
room table for dinner.

“Good,” he replied. “But there’s a lot to this newspaper
business.”

She smiled at him. “I’m sure there is,” she agreed, and then
she paused and looked at him. “Where’s your hat?”

He moaned and closed his eyes. He knew exactly where he’d
lost it, on the rickety porch when he’d dived to catch the paper. “I left it at
one of the houses on my route,” he confessed. “I’ll leave early for school in
the morning and get it.”

Maybe the house wouldn’t be as scary in the daytime.

The following morning, Timmy rode his bike back down the
route from the night before.
 
It does make a difference coming during the
daytime
,
he
thought as he pedaled down the dead-end street,
things look a lot less scary with sunshine on them.

Although, he had to admit, the fence at the end of the
street didn’t look a whole lot better.
 
He leaned his bike against the fence again, as he had done the night
before and walked over to the gate.
 
But
this time he saw something he’d missed the night before. A large sign was
attached to the middle of the gate. “Condemned – Do Not Enter”

How did he miss that?

He hated to ignore the sign, but his hat was in there and,
besides, it really hadn’t been all that bad last night.

He pushed the gate as far as he could, this time there was a
chain around the gate and the post, and he slipped through.
 
He walked a couple of steps and froze. The
house was gone.
 
All that was left was
charred remains.
 
The porch was lying on
the ground in pieces.
 
What few windows
that were left were shattered and there was no roof, only a burnt and gaping
hole.