Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure

Toil & Trouble: A
Know Not Why
Halloween (Mis)adventure

By Hannah Johnson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Hannah Johnson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal
enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to
other people. If you would like to share this book with another
person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If
you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not
purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com
and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.

Dedication:
For my
Know Not Why
readers, some of whom asked for more Howie & Co. Your
readership is truly one of the great joys of my life. Thank you,
thank you, thank you! You all rule.

+

The world has descended into chaos.

Foggy, shrieky, hideous chaos.

And so Howie does a thing he never thought he would
do. He grabs his reindeer antlers out from under the counter, and
he puts them on his goddamn head.

That’s right.

Howie the Reindeer strikes back.

It has come to this.

“Kristy,” he says, tugging on her sleeve. Well, her
white bandage. It has become suddenly, abundantly clear that it is
not in the realm of human decency to ask someone to dress up as a
sexy mummy. “What are we gonna do? We—we gotta fix this,
right?”

“I told you,” Kristy says faintly. “I told you this
would happen.”

One of the kids starts screaming extra hysterically.
Howie raises his voice over that oh-so-delightful sound and tries
to throw in some devil-may-care cheer, all like,
Ha ha ha, what
a hilarious happenstance we have stumbled into!
All like,
This is definitely a charming misadventure, and not the lowest
moment that has ever happened in these four walls.
“Well, it’s
not too late, buddy! If you want to just—you know, bust out that
sparkly blue number—”

But instead of listening, she just turns and
disappears in the direction of the kitchen, leaving him to this pit
of misery.

Okay.

That’s okay.

It’s fine if this is the first time in history that
Kristy Quincy, Actual Disney Princess, has denied help to a friend
in need. Definitely not a sign that THE APOCALYPSE IS UPON THEM or
anything.

Although if the apocalypse
was
upon them,
well, it would probably look a lot like this. What was once a
perfectly boring arts ‘n crafts store has turned into a hell pit.
The lights are all off, save for a strobe light aggressively
flashing on and off. (Why did they decide the strobe light was a
good idea again?) Dry ice has cast a malevolent fog all over the
place.

Kids are crying and screaming.

Probably because Frankenstein’s monster just burst in
from outside mere seconds ago, the erratic light illuminating and
obscuring its nasty, stitched-up face (and extremely shiny
hair).

Cora, who is currently covered in like forty pounds
of werewolf suit, leaps over to Frankenstein, and that sets off a
whole new round of screaming from bystanders.

Hobo Ghost Arthur wanders around the room strumming
his guitar (tonight’s soundtrack consists exclusively of Taylor
Swift ditties in creepy minor keys) and then looks really freaked
out whenever a kid bumps into him.

It is just not good.

And then Howie feels a hand on his shoulder, and
there’s Amber beside him: a much-more-terrifying-than-usual Amber,
what with her zombie face and her bloody white nightgown and her
incredible rat’s nest of angry feminist hair, but at least it’s
Amber. Amber, he has always suspected, knows how to fix
anything.

And then he realizes all at once just what the
solution is.

He and Amber are the only ones who can diffuse this
crapfest with an act of Halloween spirit so benign that it couldn’t
even scare the world’s timidest toddler. Now that Kristy’s gone,
they’re the only ones who can end this.

“We have to do it,” he mutters numbly, even though
he’d rather chop off his own antlers. You know. If they were real
antlers, rather than just headband antlers. He thinks that really
speaks to the gravity of the situation. A guy doesn’t just
willingly part with his own antlers, right?? (These thoughts, he
registers dimly, do not make a whole lot of sense.) The point is:
he would rather do anything than this.

And yet he
knows
. It’s the only option.

Amber looks at him with the bittersweet but wise
resolve of Galadriel. She nods, a slow and wistful nod, and reaches
over to take his hand.

“Arthur,” Howie calls, with the gravitas of ... some
other Lord of the Rings person. Sean Bean, let’s say. Not actually
a bad choice, since, like a Sean Bean character, Howie Jenkins is
probably fated to die.

Of humiliation, but still. Like death by axe or
arrow, it won’t be pretty.

As Arthur takes in the sight of Howie and Amber, the
comprehension dawns on his face. He abandons his awkwardly macabre
cover of “We Are Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together” and crosses
the room. Once he reaches the stereo, he gives Howie one last
solemn look ... and he presses play.

Howie takes Amber’s hand in his.

Here we fucking go.

TWENTY-FIVE DAYS EARLIER

It’s not really a huge surprise that Cora Caldwell is
bonkers for Halloween.

But Howie does not anticipate just how bonkers.

No one could anticipate just how bonkers.

He and Arthur show up to work a little late one
morning. The longer the store lives on like some ungodly and
unkillable demon, the more relaxed Arthur becomes about his policy
on arriving to work two hours before they open.

Especially when there’s more important stuff to do at
home.

Like, say, in the bedroom.

And the shower.

And then the bedroom again.

And then, briefly, the kitchen, before Arthur’s ‘We
eat
at this
table
’ prudery kicked in.

What a nerd.

They’re teetering dangerously close to late when they
show up at the store. But at least they’re both in a good mood.

Turns out, crazy things happen when you leave arts ‘n
crafts stores unsupervised.

They step inside to find that Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N
Crafts has been transformed into an orange-and-black shrine to
jack-o’-lanterns, cobwebs, and life-sized plastic skeletons posed
in various jaunty positions.

“Hey look,” Howie says. “Tim Burton broke in and
puked his soul all over.”

“A very reasonable explanation,” Arthur says.

Cora shimmies out from between the shelves, dressed
in a peppy orange cardigan and one of those scraggly black witch
dresses from the Halloween aisle of the grocery store. Her knee
high socks are covered in smiley bats. She’s holding a bag of
cottony cobwebs, and at their arrival, she throws a handful into
the air in celebration. Some lands on Arthur’s head. He looks
frankly dashing.

“You’re early,” Arthur says, uncomprehending. Howie
cannot blame the dude for his bafflement.

“It’s Halloween, bitches!” Cora announces
gloriously.

She does a little The Sound of Music spin, like this
is her own personal nun mountain.

(Or whatever. Howie has never actually fully grasped
the complexities of The Sound of Music.)

“It’s Halloween in thirty days,” Arthur says.

“If it’s October, it’s Halloween. This month we’re
playing by my rules, boys.”

“Why?” Arthur asks blankly.

“Can’t you just let me have this?” Cora pleads. “I
already fucking lost my dream role.”

It’s true: Cora’s theatre group is putting on an
all-female production of Frankenstein, featuring an original script
adapted by none other than Amber. Cora had her heart set on playing
the creature; unfortunately, Heather Grimsby showed up to auditions
and blew everybody away with her ability to convincingly channel a
horrifying monstrous life-ruiner. (Secretly, Howie wasn’t really
surprised by
that
news.)

Now Cora’s stuck playing Dr. Frankenstein, which is
apparently tantamount to having all your hopes and dreams
shattered.

Even Arthur’s capable of some sympathy over that
one.

“Please?” Cora says.

Arthur glances around. His eyes land on a skeleton
propped up in the corner in a pose that can only be called
bootilicious.

Or maybe rumpishly eager.

“Is that really necessary?” Arthur frowns.

“He’s twerking,” Cora says defensively.

“Again, I ask:
why
?”

“Fine.” Cora stomps over and readjusts the skeleton
into a less saucy position. “There. Happy?”

Arthur considers it for a moment. Then: “Halloween it
is.”

“Aw yeah!” Cora shimmies triumphantly over to the
stereo.

The strains of a familiar eerie ditty fill the
air.

Howie is immediately catapulted back to
not-exactly-proud memories of scampering around Amber’s family’s
living room.

“What is this?” Arthur asks, bewildered.

“What
is
this?” Cora repeats, aghast.
“Blasphemer!”

“You haven’t heard The Monster Mash?” Howie says.

“You have?”

“Oh yeah. Amber made me choreograph a dance routine
to it when we were eight. And not to brag or anything, but
I was
good.
”

Arthur grins. “Can I request a repeat
performance?”

“I immediately regret telling you about it,” Howie
realizes aloud.

Arthur asks, “What move does the choreography call
for ... right now?”

It’s sad that Howie doesn’t even have to think about
the answer. “Zombie twirl.”

“What’s a zombie twirl?” Arthur asks way too
delightedly.

“Yeah, you’re never finding out.”

“We’ll find out,” Cora says, slinging an arm around
Arthur’s shoulder.

“I expect so,” Arthur agrees, pleased.

“That is never happening,” Howie informs them
sternly.

His sternness does not work on Cora at all. “Whatevs.
Happy Halloween, zombie dancer.”

She reaches a hand down her top and pulls out—why,
look at that!—two tiny bags of candy corn. She tosses one to Howie
and one to Arthur.

“Maybe straight guys
are
onto something,”
Howie marvels. “Go, boobs.”

Cora winks at him.

“I don’t think I’m comfortable with eating bra candy
corn,” Arthur says, staring down at the little packet in his hand.
“It’s
warm
.”

“Sucks to be you, man,” Howie says, and pours a
handful of candy corn goodness into his mouth.

+

Some customers deign to come in a few hours later: a
pair of thirty-something ladies that show up every once in awhile
to rifle through the discount stuff.

Howie and Cora are forced to pretend they aren’t
having a lively debate over a Buzzfeed quiz that tells you what
kind of hipster cat you are.

It’s tough, but duty calls.

“This is cute,” one of the women says halfheartedly,
pointing at a fake raven perched over their discount bin. The raven
is wearing a little wizard’s hat.

“You know,” the other woman says, turning to
acknowledge Howie and Cora, “over at Holly’s they have a perfect
life-sized replica of a Hansel and Gretel candy cottage. There’s
actually candy
in the walls
that the kids can pull out and
eat. It’s incredible.”

“Totally incredible,” agrees her friend.

“Is there by any chance a giant oven inside this
candy cottage?” Howie asks nonchalantly.

“There is. It’s vintage. So adorable.”