First Prize by James C. Clar

First Prize by James C. Clar

It had been three years, 1,095 days exactly. Stan remembered it like it was yesterday. The young hospice nurse looked on with sympathy and more than a little impatience. It had been Halloween, after all, and she probably had a date. Stan had bent over and kissed Alice for the last time before closing her eyes.

Alice’s funeral had been a blur. He recalled the shaking of hands, the quiet platitudes and, sometimes, the quick pecks on the cheek. Most of their friends had passed already, of course, and his family itself had been little comfort. Truth be told, he’d been glad when they left to return to their own homes in the far-flung places they had settled to work and raise their own families. Iris was the only one of his children who had remained in Truman. Even so, he saw very little of her. She was always busy or had an appointment or was being sent out of town for her job. Predictably, she had stopped in briefly today to “see how he was doing.” Always the pragmatist, she had left two bowls full of assorted candy bars just in case the doorbell rang, and Stan felt up to answering.

The years since Alice’s death had passed almost imperceptibly. The loneliness had receded a bit to become a dull ache. It was similar to the physical pain he felt in his back on damp days, a reminder of an old wound from his tour in ‘Nam. He drank too much, didn’t go out other than when necessary and had few, if any, hobbies. Mostly he sat in his chair and watched the shadows lengthen in the living room and move across the faded Persian carpet Alice had loved so much. When it got dark, he’d turn on the TV. He seldom even knew what he was watching.

Most evenings now he didn’t bother climbing the stairs to their bedroom. He’d pass the night sleeping fitfully in his chair. He certainly didn’t need Halloween to remind him of the existence of ghosts and things that “went bump in the night.” Over the past three years, Stan’s dreams and memories had been full of such things. Not even the drink could banish them.

Tonight, though, was always the worst. Not only did he have to endure the youngsters in their costumes; costumes which as more and more time passed were unrecognizable to him. The worst, however, were the adults who embraced Halloween with absolute abandon. Stan recalled reading something in the paper about Halloween spending equaling – or maybe surpassing – the spending done by Americans at Christmas. What nonsense! And, to top it off, Truman’s town council wholeheartedly endorsed the madness; arguing, he assumed, that the whole thing was “good for local businesses.”

Each year on Halloween, in fact, the town granted a permit for revelers to have a “witches coven” on the grounds of the municipal cemetery across from Stan’s home. Entire families would gather to build a giant bonfire and, attired in all manner ghoulish costumes and make-up, have what amounted to a giant, macabre block party in the cemetery. After this they would roam the town in packs and vote on the best Halloween decorations. The town always sponsored gift cards and discounts to local restaurants and businesses as prizes for the winners in various categories. Evenings lately were difficult enough. This one in particular was bound to be an absolute nightmare.

Surely enough, a few hours later as it started to get dark, the flames of a massive bonfire could be seen reflecting off the windows on the front of Stan’s house. The leaves and limbs of the ancient oaks in the cemetery were illuminated garishly against the darkening autumn sky. The sounds of music and laughter carried on the crisp late October breeze.

One of the partiers, Bill Carruthers, a local insurance agent, had gotten a head start on his friends. His team at the office had an impromptu Happy Hour before closing for the day. He moved away from the group in order to relieve himself (noisily) behind one of the tombstones. As he zipped up his Batman costume, he noticed the ladder against the massive tree off to his right. He moved closer to get a look.

“Damn,” he said, more or less aloud, as he looked up at a figure swinging from a noose looped over one of the tree’s limbs. The bulging eyes, the bloated face, the odd angle of the head and the dangling, lifeless limbs were remarkably realistic. “Whoever put that up there,” he thought, “did a great job. Dude deserves ‘first prize’ in my book.” Before heading back to rejoin his friends, Bill snapped a picture with his fancy new phone. Damn thing took great pictures, even in the dark!

Meanwhile, across the street at Stan’s house, a rowdy group of trick or treaters ascended his front steps. The fact that no lights were on in the home didn’t’ deter them. They rang his bell repeatedly, each time with increasing frustration and insistence. The sound of the chimes echoed eerily through the empty house. Finally, they gave up and moved off to the next house. One member of the group, a teenager dressed in the garb of some character from the latest video game, muttered to himself as he stomped toward the street, “Old guy could at least answer his door. It’s Halloween. Maybe I’ll come back later and toilet-paper his fence. Would serve him right!”

* * * * The End * * *
Copyright James C. Clar 2024