Page 8 of The Girl on Hallow's Eve

It’s a slightly strange feeling driving slowly down the road along with the winding train of other vehicles heading toward the mall. There are some signs directing future shoppers to the location, but most of the area still looks the same, making it seem like we’ve just joined a very gradual exodus from town into farmland.

To either side of the road, fields are ready for harvest. In some, the combines and workers are already bringing in the crops while others are set up to welcome visitors wanting to engage in the fall tradition of pretending to be farmers. I’m fascinated by the whole idea of pick-your-own fruit and vegetables becoming suddenly popular when fall hits.

Of course, there are other options during the rest of the year. Strawberries and blackberries in spring, peaches and nectarines in summer. Sometimes even a vegetable or two. And there are people who venture out to do all of them. But come September, suddenly everybody is heading out into orchards and fields, feeling the need to yank something right from the earth. You have not properly lived through autumn unless you have a basket full of apples you got from a tree or a pumpkin you had to ride on a hay bale in a trailer out into a field to get. Bonus points if you’re wearing jeans and flannel and smell like cinnamon when you do it.

But the line of cars slithering its way through the fields isn’t carrying people aimed at finding the perfect future jack-o’-lantern to adorn their porch or basket of apples that will soon be a pie on a windowsill. Instead, we’re on our way to the new stretch of road and the pristine black parking lot gleaming in the distance. It feels like there are thousands of us, but I know it’s just that we’re in a tight single file that’s moving slowly along the edges of the farms. The looks we’ve gotten a few times from men in the fields hasn’t helped.

My mind and muscles are taut, waiting for something to happen. I hope it won’t. I hope even the people who have been protesting aggressively since the first announcement of the mall will know better than to get tangled up in a mess involving a group of people of this size. But that hope isn’t quite enough to put me at ease. It’s the fact that I’ve seen plenty of people who are fully willing to get tangled up that way that instills this sense of uneasiness.

I’ve watched more than once as the mind of one person infected those of others and led to tragedy for people who had absolutely nothing to do with them. It’s always a risk. It’s just one I hope stays at the back of my mind and doesn’t get forced to the front.

The radio has been playing advertisements reminding the people of Sherwood of the open house today throughout the entire drive. It’s only been about fifteen minutes, but I feel like I’ve heard it enough that I can recite it with the same inflection and emotion as the voice actor.

“At least we know anyone who has any curiosity about this place knows they can come look at it today,” I say when the ad spot ends yet again.

“Not everybody. Dean said Xavier wanted to come see it, but he’s not driving the four hours just for an open house when he has a new case he’s starting,” Sam tells me.

I give him a surprised, quizzical look. “You’ve been talking to Dean?”

Sam nods. “A bit. When he called a week or so ago and you weren’t home, we got to talking and we’ve talked a couple times since.”

I can’t help but smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”

It hasn’t been the easiest thing in the world for my husband and my cousin to bond. There are times when it looks like things are getting better, only for the tension to skid them off the rails again. This time, though, seems far more optimistic. After the fight they’d gotten into a little while back that finally put everything out in the open, I knew there were only two ways it was going to work out. That had been the final straw, and they were destined to be those family members who never speak and make holiday gatherings miserable, or they’d tear themselves down and were going to start building again. I’m glad it looks like they’ve chosen the latter direction.

Sam makes an affirming noise like he doesn’t want to dwell on it too much. I’m not going to push him. Meddling isn’t going to do anybody any good. I just have to let them do whatever it is they’re going to do and hope for the best.

“He was telling me Xavier heard about the new mall and wanted to come check it out. I’m actually surprised he isn’t bringing him. Usually he doesn’t need any kind of excuse to come this way and he does whatever Xavier wants,” Sam says.

I give him a look and he shrugs. “Alright. Not everything. He does filter out the most ill-advised and dangerous of Xavier’s ideas. But generally speaking, if Xavier wants to do something, Dean is usually right there with him.”

“Dean likes a good adventure. But he has a case and can’t just skip out on it to come see a mall. Besides, they have a new mall not too far from Harlan. I’m sure they’ve been plenty of times,” I say.

“Right. But this is Xavier. He probably wants to make sure that the stores are aligned properly and don’t have conflicting personalities that are going to make shopping awkward for people, or count the speckles in the floor to decipher their hidden message.”

I laugh. “I think that’s just a tinge of exaggeration.”

“Not much of one,” he replies as we finally reach the entrance to the parking lot and pull in.

The developers clearly had high hopes for today’s events because there’s a parking attendant in a bright orange mesh vest standing at the entrance, directing cars which way to go to park. My first instinct is that they shouldn’t have done that. It might be helpful in some ways, but it also creates an image I don’t think they want to portray. It’s grandiose and structured when they should be leaning into the idea of the mall as a safe, comfortable, and convenient place for families. Besides, if people can’t learn to park in this lot this time without having explicit instructions, it’s going to be chaos when it actually opens and there’s just a free-for-all.

We’re directed to the left and drive down a few rows before encountering another attendant who points us toward the building. We end up in a spot not too far from the entrance and climb out. I look around at the almost uncomfortable perfection of the surroundings. Everything is so new and untouched it looks almost otherworldly. Trees planted into open spaces in the sidewalk around the perimeter of the mall are all the same size and even seem to have almost identical numbers of branches. They still have bright green leaves, which means they were raised in a greenhouse in preparation of being purely ornamental.

It won’t take too long in place for the leaves to succumb to the weather and end up on the ground, where I’m confident they’ll be cleaned up promptly. In the winter they’ll get a frosting of twinkle lights and come spring, they’ll burst back into green leaves and likely little flowers.

Along the road encircling the building, the painted direction signs are crisp and untouched by tires or feet. The glass doors and windows are sparkling clean, the sidewalk pale and smooth.

“Do you feel like you’re being lured into a giant gingerbread house right now?” Sam mutters to me as we make our way toward the mall. “Like we’re going to get in there and a witch is going to keep us captive in dressing rooms and force us to consume Orange Julius and soft pretzels while we perform regular fashion shows for her?”

“That is some very specific imagery you’ve got going there, babe. I think Halloween might be getting to you.”

Even as I say it, I know what he means. It’s not that the building is overtly scary. I’m not getting chills or feeling that tug in my stomach that makes it feel like my spine is trying to go back in the other direction when I get the sense that something is truly wrong with a space. It’s more that the building and everything around it is so perfect, so pretty and appealing, that it seems off.

I have a feeling there was some sort of speech or welcome from the developers when the open house first started this morning, but a craving for cinnamon rolls and the traffic buildup got us here a little more than an hour after the doors opened. The crowd streaming in from the parking lot goes right through the glass doors. When it’s our turn, we see that everyone isn’t able to just roam around at our leisure. Instead, we’re being counted off and directed to tour guides. The identically dressed women all smile brightly as anyone approaches.

“Welcome!” a woman with a cloud of inky black corkscrew curls says in a rich, deep voice I wasn’t expecting as Sam and I come toward her. Recognition crosses her eyes. “You’re Emma Griffin.”

I nod, unsure of if she recognizes me from news footage and word of mouth around town, or if I’ve encountered her at some point and just can’t place her in the massive collection of faces that exists in my mind.

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