Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure (3 page)

“It has to be family friendly.”

“You think I can’t put together a cute-as-shit family
friendly haunted house that still has touches of elegant horror?
Mr. Kraft, you wound me.”

“I’m just saying,” Arthur replies, “that your taste
is a little ... eclectic.”

“I can tone it down for the mainstream Halloween
crowd,” Cora promises.

“Speaking of mainstream,” Kristy says excitedly, “we
should totally do—”

“No,” says Arthur.

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say!”

“I know what you were going to say. You’ve been
talking about it nonstop for the past several months. And I just
don’t see what a magical snow princess movie has to do with
Halloween.”

“She’s a snow
queen
,” Kristy corrects. “And I
promise, it will be a hit. It’s totally every kid’s favorite thing
right now!”

“And yours,” Howie points out.

“And mine,” Kristy agrees, smiling. “And I already
have the Halloween costume!”

“What are you envisioning here, exactly?” Arthur
says. “An ice castle haunted house sounds a little too
elaborate.”

“Not necessarily!”

And then it dawns on Howie. “I’m not dressing up like
a reindeer again. No fucking way.”

“But you’re such a good reindeer!” Kristy protests,
genuinely aghast that he’s not super keen on the idea of ever again
returning to a lifestyle of festive reindeering. “The antlers are
still under the cash register counter, waiting for you!”

“I’ll consider it,” Arthur says wryly, “if it means
Howie has to be a reindeer again.”

“Gothic ice castle madness,” Cora rhapsodizes.

And just like that, the world is bright with infinite
possibilities.

+

Howie adds a little blurb about the haunted house on
the store’s Facebook page, which until this week had a grand total
of 17 followers. Including himself, Arthur, Kristy, Cora, Mitch,
Amber, and Howie’s mom. So ... 11 who actually count.

When he checks back in an hour, his status update has
78 likes.

And comments. Comments!

None of them are even verbally abusive.

Well, except the one that says ‘you sold me a shitty
halloween gingerbread house kit last year and i will never forgive
your abysmal service, even if they break 1000 kids arms i will
still shop at hollys.’

But there’s always one weirdo, right?

And everything else—it’s all praise and
excitement!

“Magic,” Howie mutters to himself, dazed.

+

The next day, the universe decides to have its
revenge.

Howie is just chillin’ at the cash register,
scrolling absently through Facebook on his phone (they’re up to 148
likes now, what what!), when he looks up and—

It’s her.

He blinks.

She’s still there.

The customer of his nightmares.

On his first day of working, she’d more or less
verbally eviscerated him. Over glitter glue. So at least, you know,
it was something really important.

NOT.

The plus side, he has always figured since, is that
he pissed her off so much that she’d never come back. Like, she’d
promised never to come back. Really profanely.

But here she is, all deceptively pleasant-of-look,
with short dark hair and Tina Fey style glasses. She’s also wearing
a scarf with brightly colored umbrellas all over it.

He knows better now. He is weary and jaded by the
horrors he’s seen.

Never trust an umbrella scarf.

She breezes up to the counter, and Howie realizes,
with great despair, that running and hiding will definitely look
conspicuous.

He’ll just have to ... tough this one out.

Awesome.

“My name is Annie Fabray,” she says when she reaches
him.

“My name is Howie Jenkins?” Okay. Probably shouldn’t
have ended that as a question.

“I don’t care,” she says smoothly. Ouch. Then, behind
the Tina Fey glasses of unexpected doom, she narrows her eyes. “I
remember you. You’re the shopboy who wouldn’t help me with the
glitter glue.”

And you’re the woman who haunts my worst arts ‘n
crafts nightmares!
Howie does not answer. It just doesn’t seem
to pack the right kinda punch. Instead, he grins broadly and says,
“Thaaaat’s me!”

Yep. Definitely the right choice, based on her
vaguely-nauseous-with-disdain expression.

She stares at him for an awkwardly long time. He
tries to stare back with the innocence of a woods-wandering fawn.
Or some other creature that doesn’t deserve to die for its past
glitter glue sins.

“I heard that you’re going to be hosting a haunted
house here,” she says at last.

“Uh, that’s right.”
Please don’t kill me!
the
voice in his head squeaks manfully.

“I’d like to speak to your manager about it.”

“Um,” Howie says, “sure. Just a second. I’ll go grab
him.”

He leaves Annie Fabray staring disdainfully at the
wizard raven. She huffs.

You just say FUCK THE HATERS, little bird,
Howie thinks as he heads up the stairs.

+

Arthur is trying to convince Kristy that an ice
palace haunted house is an inherently flawed plan—surely ten year
old boys don’t want a princess-inspired Halloween party?—when the
door bursts open.

In comes Howie, whose eyes are wide with the kind of
fright that either means a) imminent doom is upon them, or b) he
has run out of Poptarts.

“Some lady wants to see you about the haunted house,”
Howie reports. “Annie Fabray. Or as I like to call her: Lizzie
Borden And Voldemort’s Love Child, Probably.”

“Annie Fabray? Like, Angelica Fabray?” Kristy
says.

“Um,” Howie says, “I guess?”

Kristy gasps. “She runs The Yarn Yarn!”

Arthur and Howie stare at her, lost.

“Did you just have a stroke?” Howie finally asks.

“No, it’s, like, a pun! Yarn like knitting and yarn
like stories—”

“Weaksauce,” Howie declares.

“Seriously weaksauce,” Arthur agrees.

They fist bump.

(Arthur has reconciled himself to the art of fist
bumping.)

“It’s an arts ‘n crafts blog!” Kristy explains.
“She’s like the most popular blogger in town!”

“Is that really saying much?” Arthur has to ask.

“And really, she’s only the most popular
non-anonymous
blogger in town,” Howie says. “My mom’s
romance novelist blog is a real people pleaser. ‘The Do’s and
Don’ts of Describing Nipples’ got mad hits, yo.”

“And that’s awesome, Howie,” Kristy says impatiently,
“but this could be really big for us! It’s amazing that she even
came
in
here, after ...”

“After what?” Arthur asks. Dread stirs in his
soul.

“After ... the review she gave us,” Kristy says. She
looks down at the floor and squeaks, “It was not great.”

“We have reviews?” Arthur says.

“We have one review,” Kristy says. Howie moves toward
the computer on Arthur’s desk. “Don’t look it up, Howie! It will
just make you cry.”

“Cry?” Howie snorts, and does not heed Kristy’s
warning.

Arthur suspects he might regret that.

While Howie is Googling away, Kristy keeps talking.
“But you see, this is an amazing opportunity. Like,
amazing
.
The entire local arts ‘n crafts scene follows her lead! If the
accident at Holly’s makes her decide to switch stores, people are
going to listen!”

“You mean we could steal Holly’s customers?” Arthur
is suddenly overcome with a feeling he can only describe as
Macbethian.

“If she likes you,” Kristy replies significantly.

There’s an aghast little cry from the computer
area.

Arthur and Kristy turn to see Howie staring at the
screen with a look of quiet agony. Arthur hasn’t seen him that
troubled since they watched the finale of Battlestar Galactica.

“I didn’t know it was possible for one sentence to
hold so much cruelty,” Howie says, sounding a little choked up.
“And I’ve read A Clockwork Orange. Multiple times!”

“I told you,” Kristy says.

“You are wise and I should always listen to you,”
Howie concedes.

Kristy beams at him. Then she turns her attention
back to Arthur, and her expression becomes so serious that it’s a
bit unsettling.

“You can do this,” she says, placing a hand on each
of Arthur’s shoulders. “Just be direct, and confident, and give her
a reason to respect you. And be sure to mention that we are totally
capable of having a haunted ice palace with adorable snowman
ghosts.”

“Kristy, no one’s going to want a haunted ice
pala—”

“Just
trust me
,” Kristy interrupts. Arthur’s
not sure if he’s ever heard her sound so solemn before.

“I trust you,” he says, perhaps not quite
truthfully.

“Good,” Kristy says. “We’ll leave you to her. Come
on, Howie.”

Howie stops for a moment and puts his hands on
Arthur’s shoulders. It’s a bit more charged than when Kristy did
it.

“If she eviscerates you and devours your innards,” he
says solemnly, “know that I will always love you, and that you
should have just rolled with the sex-on-the-table thing while you
still had innards. And outards.”

“We eat there,” Arthur says staunchly.

Howie wriggles his eyebrows. “You say that
now
.”

“What does that even mean?” Arthur asks.

Howie shrugs. “I don’t know, man. I’m still kinda
freaked out from reencountering my nemesis.”

“‘Nemesis’ might be a little strong a word—”

“Good luck and Godspeed, my best beloved.” Howie
kisses him, the sort of kiss that you give a sweetheart who’s
headed off to war.

That’s encouraging.

When they break apart, Arthur says, “Maybe you could
stay with m—”

“Yeah, no, you got this. Peace out, boo.” Howie flees
the room.

Arthur sighs.

+

“Mrs. Fabray,” Arthur says five minutes later,
sitting behind his desk and hoping to exude professionalism and
quiet authority. “My name is Arthur Kraft. It’s a pleasure to meet
you.”

“I’m sure,” the formidable Annie Fabray says.

Perhaps sitting at his desk had been a bad idea. He
tries very hard not to glance at the blog entry reviewing the
store, which Howie left up on the computer screen. The headline
‘ARTIE KRAFT’S ARTS ‘N CRAFTS? MORE LIKE ARTIE KRAFT’S PIT OF GOOEY
INCOMPETENCE’ insists on shoving itself into his eyeballs.

That’s just ... not helpful.

“My associate tells me that you’d like to discuss the
haunted house event we’ll be throwing at the end of the month,”
Arthur says.

“Yes. I’d like my son to attend, if we can come to
the right arrangements beforehand. You see, it’s his tenth
birthday, and I think this event may have the makings of a suitable
birthday party.”

“Absolutely,” Arthur says. “We’d love to—”

“I’d like you to meet with Tyler later this week. At
the meeting, he’ll explain to you his specific wishes for the
event. I’d like you to follow his specifications exactly.”

“Um,” Arthur says.

“Unless that’s too challenging for you,” she adds,
“and you plan to have the event be more of the same generic
frippery and nonsense as the decorations downstairs.”

“Oh no,” Arthur says after a moment. “Certainly
not.”

“Good,” she says crisply.

They stare at one another.

“It goes without saying,” Annie Fabray says then,
graciously, “that I’ll mention the event on The Yarn Yarn.”

Arthur has to admire her moxy. She doesn’t even
explain what The Yarn Yarn is. For a brief and near-irresistable
instant, he almost follows in Howie’s footsteps and asks,
‘Did
you just have a stroke?’

He fights the urge.

Howie really is a dangerous influence.

“I assure you,” Arthur says, “we are all too happy to
meet whatever specifications your son provides.”

Annie Fabray smiles. “I thought so.”

+

Arthur meets with Tyler Fabray a few days later. He’d
expected a quick chat, but instead Annie Fabray marches her son
upstairs, sits him down in the chair opposite Arthur’s desk, and
orders, “Make sure not to leave until you’ve struck a satisfactory
bargain.”

“Okay, Mom,” Tyler says agreeably, like he’s used to
striking satisfactory bargains with confused adults.