Page 116 of Death is My BFF

There were a few stops along the ride and a few corn mazes to choose from. The cart jerked to a halt at the easiest maze, near the beginning.

“Meet you at the other corn maze?” Marcy asked, offering me a stick of gum as she popped one into her mouth and stood up. “This one’s supposed to be less scary.”

I threw up a peace sign. “Text if you need me.”

“Kay-kay.”

They got off the hayride.

Aunt Sarah laughed. “They’re finding somewhere to hook up, aren’t they?”

“Oh, one hundred percent.”

The hayride trudged up a hill past a shadowy pumpkin patch. I did a double take. In the first cart, ahead of us, Death gave a dramatic yawn and lounged with his long legs up on the barrels of hay beside him, so that he hogged all the seats. It bothered me beyond belief that he was following me around. I knew in a way it shouldn’t, since hehadsaved my life and all, twice, but that didn’t change the fact that the guy was an egotistical a-hole who’d lied to me. He’d made it clear his protection wasn’t offered entirely out of kindness too.

Death lit up a cigarette and took a drag, letting out a lazy puff of smoke, which hit Aunt Sarah and I directly in the face.

“Pretty sure you aren’t supposed to smoke on ahayride, buddy!”

I hollered.

Aunt Sarah smacked my arm. “Stop it,” she hissed. “He could be crazy.”

She had no idea.

Spiderweb-tangled lanterns hung from the branchy trees, casting the path in an eerie light. The hayride passed a sign that hung over us marked in crooked red letters: welcome to hell.

Evil laughter erupted from the trees. The bumpy cart slowed at a graveyard, which smelled of a barbecue, blanketed by a layer of creepy fog. Loud organ music played through static speakers and spasmodic bursts of fire shot out from torches.

“You have met your death!” announced a booming voice. Out came a lanky man dressed as the Grim Reaper. The costume was meant to be serious, but the cloak looked more like a silky spa robe than the cape of an evil entity. In his hand he held a ridiculously small plastic scythe. If it were any smaller, it’d be a gardening tool in one of those mini toy Zen gardens. “Thou shall not pass! I want your soul! Arrrgghh!” The man lifted his skinny arms to the sky and people hidden poorly in camouflage banged garbage can lids for the effect of thunder.

Deep, hearty laughter exploded from the hayride. My eyes darted to Death as he slow clapped. “Fantastic interpretation,” he mocked.

“Such realism. It’s like looking in the mirror!”

The cart wobbled forward. The stereotypical scary music continued, and the tractor rolled to a stop in front of a small stage, cutting its engine. The stage was set up to look like a little girl’s room, with a small bed, a bubblegum-pink comforter and pink-lemonade walls.

Painted a darker shade of pink, a prominent closet door was nestled in a corner of the bedroom.

Lying on the bed was a girl around my age, modeled after a little girl. Her golden-blond hair was up in pigtails with wire that kept them up in a wacky U shape against her pillow. She wore a frilly magenta dress that went to her knees and high socks, and in her hands, she clutched a teddy bear that resembled my own childhood bear, Mr. Wiggles.

As I observed the stage, a solid knock came from the girl’s closet door. “Momma, is that you?” the actress promptly asked. A masculine cackle of a laugh replied. Visibly afraid, the girl squeezed the bear tighter to her chest. “Papa! Papa! Help me! The clown is here again!”

Hell no.

Papa, aka a brawny guy with a beer gut, threw open the girl’s bedroom door.

“What’s the matter this time, Little Sophie!” he bellowed, followed by a belch that made our whole cart laugh.

“The monster is back!” Sophie shouted back, clutching the teddy bear even harder. “It knocked on the door again! I’m not lying, Papa!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever! I’ll check again, if it will get you to finally sleep.” The dad stomped across the stage like a drunk T. rex and threw open the closet door, sticking his head in to look around. “See?

No monster.”

“I heard it knock,” the girl insisted.

The dad walked toward her daughter’s bed, shaking his head theatrically as he placed his hands on his hips. “What am I going to do with you, Sophie?”

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