A Second Chance

   By Brian W. Keen

Artwork by Marcia Borell

   How could she have let it happen? Nancy asked herself that very question every day, every hour, every second. The people of the neighborhood also asked it in hushed voices, in barely audible tones when she walked into the store, the mini-mall, or the church. Even her best friend Jaclyn, whom she no longer spoke to, had made comments, shared gossip. Her own husband James, thought her mad. She could see it in his empty, glazed eyes each time he looked at her. Every day he seemed older than the day before. His hair began to thin. Bags formed under his eyes. His weight plummeted. He built a protective wall shielding him from the hurt of the outside world. But the hurt on the inside was worse, transforming what was once a strong, high-spirited man into a shell, an echo of what once was. He was selfish with his words, speaking only when he had to. Some days he didn’t speak to her at all.

   The reality that these things happen was forced upon Nancy. The events that most people read about, or hear about, things like Cancer, suicide, disappearance, sudden death, where people stand around shaking their heads, praying to God to never let it be their family, their spouse, their kid. Such tragedies were as a much a part of life as wedding days, birthdays, graduations, and first kisses. She learned this early on in life as a kid, but apparently fate was not confident the lesson had completely sunk in. So it felt it must reiterate. And it did, taking away God’s most precious gift, a child, an only child at that. After such a tragedy---- depending on spirituality, beliefs, personal strength, and how much they have already endured---- some would go on, recuperate, and possibly even live somewhat normal lives, always remembering the moment it came to a screeching halt, but allowing it to fade. Nancy herself had done this once, and to ask her to endeavor it a second time and carry on any semblance of a good life was well, impractical.

   But life would go on their preacher lectured them. God had a plan and though the death of a loved one, especially a child would test their faith, they had to believe and trust in him. No matter how difficult it would be, James and Nancy vowed they would persist. But the days dragged unmercifully and life didn’t go on. Only time went on. With time the marriage dissipated into pity, sorrow, even denial as they pretended not to feel what was inside them, or in Nancy’s case what wasn’t inside, as she found herself completely blank, void of words and emotions, all the tools in which one expresses oneself. But ultimately all the sadness and despair preventing James from being able to even look in his wife’s eyes poured out of him, emptying his soul as he climatically broke down at the steps of the courthouse moments after their divorce. “How could you let him die?” James questioned, sobbing profusely. “How could you let our baby die?”

   After their divorce Nancy’s days consisted of early morning coffee, scotch by noon, sometimes something harder, an afternoon of cleaning and television, waiting for the phone to ring, for someone to fill her emptiness, sometimes a walk---though the walks involved too much thought provoking scenery and had most recently been reduced ---watching the sunset on the front porch, cars still speeding by, and eventually waiting for the day to be done. And the nights were no better, lying in the bed awake for hours, praying for sleep, for rest that will not come with thoughts of their baby, her baby, manipulating her mind as she tossed in the bed until before she knew it, it was day again.

   Some days were worse than others. She would have mood swings, one minute believing her life could go on and the next on the verge of suicide. As the days and months passed, her sanity weakened. A neighbor found her on the street one day, whiskey bottle still in hand, though emptied, crying out to no one in particular, perhaps God. “I want my baby back. Please just give me my baby.”

   He was just a baby, only three, their little Steven. She still remembered him dressed in his little Spiderman costume. He was a perfect kid, so full of joy and love. Mama’s little angel. Daddy’s pride and joy. The Spiderman costume was the last one on the rack at Wal-Mart the day before Halloween. He begged to wear it as soon as they left the store. “Please mommy please” As was always the case, mommy couldn’t say no. He didn’t ask for much. “Alright.” she said watching him tear at the packaging. He slept in it that night and refused to remove it Halloween morning. He pretended to climb the walls. “I will save you mommy.” he squealed bursting with exhilaration. About every hour Steven would ask “Is it time yet?” “Not yet dear.” Nancy would answer. With much protest, she was able to convince him to take a nap.

   She watched him sleep, his soft blond hair so thick for such a young boy. She couldn’t help but gently kiss his forehead, being sure not to wake him from what was sure to be a short nap. He mumbled something quietly in his sleep and his lips curled into a small smile. When he woke it was time to go. “Go with us Daddy, go with us.” He beckoned to James. But James remained at the house to hand out candy to all the ghosts and goblins while Nancy, equipped with flashlight, mace on key chain, Steven’s little rain jacket in case of rain (though the weather channel predicted clear skies with very little chance of precipitation), set out to do some trick or treating. James would forever question his decision to stay home and always replay the question no one could answer, What if?

   Steven skipped down the sidewalk taking notice of all the different costumes. He vowed to be a wolf man the next year. Nearly all the houses in the neighborhood were dressed in full Halloween attire. Steven stopped to marvel at each one, the one with the wooden witch planted in the yard, the one with the paper pumpkin plastered on the door, the other with the white-sheeted ghost dangling from a tree limb. They all tickled his imagination. He looked up at his mother, his eyes gleaming. “Did you see that Mom?”

   “I sure did sweetheart. How spooooooooky!” she answered covering her face.

   “How spooooooooky!” he said shielding his own face, giggling all the while.

   The Jones’ house especially captured Steven’s eye. “Wow.” he exclaimed taking in all the sights. There was a mock grave, marked with the letters RIP. Over top the grave a full size Styrofoam mummy covered in worn cloth stood stiffly. Across the yard a mannequin witch with the pointy witch’s hat cackled with the help of sound effects from a cassette player attached to her back. On the porch the glowing Jack O’ Lantern smiled despite having no chompers. A merry Mrs. Jones answered the door and clapped her hands together. “He’s so adorable.” she commented filling his bag with suckers and chocolate.

   “Tell her thank you.” Nancy directed Steven. “Tank you.” He repeated. “You’re more than welcome. You all be careful,” she requested. “Bye.” The door shut and they headed down the walkway as a forceful wind shook the trees, waking the leaves in the yard and nearly bowling them over.

   “Take mommy’s hand.” Nancy said reaching out. But Steven didn’t respond. He stared across the street, transfixed, his face lacking expression. Nancy looked over to see what he was looking at. A shadowy figure shaped like a man, but unmistakably different, smiled at them from across the street. It’s teeth were a blinding white, glowing in a sea of darkness. Nancy took the flashlight from her pocket, turned it on to get a better look. It wore a dark hood, overtop a skeletal face with small red eyes and a long slender frame. The thing waved at Nancy in a decelerated motion. Its arms were extended and lengthy; it’s fingers haggard and nothing but fleshless bone, pearly stems of death slicing through the murky darkness.

   “Steeeeeeeeven…..Steeeeeeeeven….” the thing called out seductively, a few decibels above a whisper.

   Nancy quickly surveyed her surroundings. The city streets were suddenly vacant. Only a moment ago it had been alive with vibrant children accompanied by parents, their voices like a song. Now the silence ruled. She took a deep breath, attempted to exhale but choked on her own fear. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She went to call for help but found she had no voice. She looked back at the Jones’. No one looked back at her. No one was around to help Nancy. No one to subdue her fears. No one to break the paralyzing trance the creature’s bloody stare had launched upon her and her son. Where were the children with their outrageous costumes, carrying their sacks full of goodies? Where were the parents, whose one and only concern was to protect their offspring on a night such as this? Had the whistling wind exhorted everyone to retreat to the safety of their homes, everyone but Nancy and little Steven? And then she recalled. She had seen it before, though only in her dreams. And it all came back to her.

   She was a child, eleven years old. She was in a car accident, a tragic one that took the life of her only brother Raymond, who was driving the car. A tractor-trailer lost control and the rear end swung around catapulting them off the road and over a steep ledge. The car somersaulted over the grassy hill end over end, crushing bones, shattering glass, and shearing flesh, finally coming to a rest at the base of a large oak. Nancy lay in the hospital bed for months. They didn’t know if she would make it, head trauma, internal bleeding. It was touch and go for a while. But she did make it, though physical recovery was slow, and mental recovery was even slower. When Nancy slept the nightmares settled in, the wreck playing over and over. Sweat blanketed her trembling body. Each time a devilish-cloaked monster watched, waiting for her heart to stop, for her mind to shut down. With each dream she felt closer to death, almost voluntarily. She would wake from these dreams screaming. Her mother, and sometimes her father would comfort her, stroking her hair and holding her hand as she rocked back and forth silently, conscious but still lost in the dream. Sometimes she would fall back asleep, other times she laid awake till morning. No matter how hard her parents tried, no form of persuasion could convince Nancy to discuss the dreams.

   “I should be dead,” she told them on more than one occasion.

   Finally with no alternative, Nancy’s parents turned to Mrs. Jamison, a child psychologist. “I want to be your friend Nancy, but you have to trust me in order for that to happen. Let me help you.” Mrs. Jamison’s kind, beckoning words seemed to open a floodgate of emotion. “I was supposed to die in the crash.” Nancy blurted out with tears in her eyes. “It’s waiting for me. It won’t go away, not until I’m dead, just like Raymond.” She jumped into Mrs. Jamison’s arms. The child psychologist had no choice but to embrace her. “It’s OK.” She assured her. “You survived the accident. You have to live Nancy. You have to go on. The demon is not real. It is something your mind created to keep you from moving on, from living your life. You have to say goodbye to the demon. When you dream tonight tell it goodbye Nancy.”

   That night it came to her once again. “Leave me alone. I am alive. I want to live,” she shouted at the evil spirit. The demon was surprised at Nancy’s newfound strength. It bowed its head but promised to return to her life. “I will spare you young one. I will let you live, but for a price. Your first-born will be mine. Always remember this. Your first one will be mine,” it promised. Nancy still had trouble sleeping after that, but the spirit disappeared from her life and was soon enough forgotten. She dismissed the promise as nothing more than fiction derived from a terrified and shell shocked young mind. She placed the memory in the deepest closet of her mind….. Until now.

   Nancy closed her eyes, hoping it was all a mirage, that when she opened them the streets would again be populated with neighbors, friends and children, minus one dark being across the street. She opened her eyes and found no such blessing. Grab Steven and run, her mind commanded her body. But it would not comply, instead remaining still.

Steven had no such dilemma and he began a steady march toward the cloaked fiend still urging him forward. She tried desperately to move, to grab hold of him, to cry out to someone, to anyone, but instead she could only watch helpless. Nancy heard the roar of the 69 Camaro’s engine as it tore up the pavement, heading straight on a collision course with her baby, her only child. Her son continued on, locked in a trance, unaware of his surroundings. The engine revved, gaining speed, smoke pouring from the exhaust. She knew it was Bobby Reynolds behind the wheel. She always screamed at him as he sped by, “Slow down Bobby.” Unfortunately he never listened. And slowly Steven, ushered by the hand of this nocturnal monster, inched closer and closer to the roadway until……………

   The impact was solid, throwing him some twenty feet beyond the screeching death machine. He landed forcefully upon the concrete. Nancy regained control of her body, her legs no longer imprisoned. Impossibly too late, she ran to her son. The devilish beast across the street vanished, it’s prophecy fulfilled. Nancy’s screams were heard for blocks around. And everyone came out of their houses, to see. And the judgmental eyes stared at her. And still she screamed.

                  **********

   It had been exactly one year since that night. Nancy’s life had emptied out drop by drop until only the memory of her son and that horrible night remained. No one wanted to forgive. No one understood. And so she was left all alone to cope with the one-year anniversary of the death of her son, which also happened to be Halloween. She hadn’t been out of the house in over a month. Sometimes she talked out into the open air just to be sure she could still speak and recall the sound of her voice. It sounded foreign, as if from the lips of a stranger. She longed to hear the voice of another, anyone other than the ones from the TV and radio. She couldn’t help but feel a hint of anticipation that maybe James would come by. She tried to deny it, to avoid setting herself up for yet another disappointment, which had become the theme of her life. She found herself drawn to Steven’s room, everything left just as it was when he was living. She felt safe there. But even in her hideaway upstairs she could hear the kids outside laughing, gallivanting around having fun. She stood up from the bed and peeked out the window. A large Jack O’ Lantern with a jagged smile smirked back at her from the neighbor’s porch. The moon seemed small, distant in contrast to the sky. It’s pale face hid, then appeared, then hid again behind a patch of shuffling gray clouds. The leaves in the yard rustled in the wind, gleefully dancing a special Halloween dance.

   “If only Steven were alive,” Nancy whispered to no one. The scene was too much, too memorable. She stepped back from the window. She would have cried but the well was dry, and it took more strength than she could muster; instead she settled back into Steven’s bed, cradled his teddy bear, and rocked herself to sleep by the light of a single candle, the only lighting in the house. The house was still. Not a single trick or treater. It was just as well; she hadn’t bothered with any candy. A little past midnight Nancy woke to the sound of the front door, which she was sure she had locked. She raised upright in the bed, grabbed the candle from the nightstand.

   “James is that you?”

   There was no reply.

   Her heart rapidly pounded at the walls of her chest like a fist. She heard steps, small and slow, creak up the stairway one by one. She felt that familiar fright as it grasped every inch of her and retained her to the confines of the bed. The uninvited visitor finally reached the top of the steps, and pushed open the bedroom door. Nancy squinted her eyes, gasped at the small figure that stood mutely in the doorway. Steven, poor little Steven, his face disfigured, one side caved in and caked with dark dried blood, reached out his decayed arms for his mother. Despite the putrid scent of dead flesh doing its utmost to gag her and her thundering heartbeat threatening to burst through her chest, Nancy managed to speak.

   “Steven?”

   Little Steven forced out a gargled sound similar to Mama from his crimson lips. Nancy stared at him for a moment, only a moment and sprang up from the bed. Behind him in the hall she saw the cloaked devil, it’s red eyes parting the dark. It flashed that familiar smile, but she paid it no mind. Instead Nancy took her son into her arms, withered rotting flesh flaking from his bones, knowing that never again would she let go.