Page 1 of Don't Be Scared

Chapter1

The pumpkin is excruciatingly heavy.

My fingernails dig into its orange skin as I walk, and I’m barely able to see over the curved, bark-like stem. “Fuck,” I breathe softly, knowing I won’t be able to curse when I enter the cone of my parents’ hearing.

Twenty years old, and my mother still looks offended when I use words likefuckorhellornecrophilia.

Though, I suppose the last one might be reasonable.

I stop on the flat grass, glancing back at the woods that border both the parking lot and one side of the county fairgrounds. A breeze picks up as I do, ruffling my black hair and the leaves in the many trees that form the forest on the north side of town.

It’s a famous forest, for all the wrong reasons. Horror stories and folktales about Hollow Bridge and things that have supposedly happened in the forest are more than just whispers in our town. Though, to be honest, the stories that had lived rent-free in my head as a child and teenager seem far-fetched to me now.

I switch my grip again, arms straining, and start walking toward my parents’ booth again. They’ve been doing this for many years and had the same spot enough times that it’s muscle memory by now to get to where they are, so seeing isn’t as important as it would be in other situations.

When I hear their voices, I switch my grip again, steps picking up so I can get rid of my heavy armful. I pass other tents and booths, but I barely have to glance up to know what they’re selling.

Not only have I been helping my parents with their booth at the Hollow Bridge Halloween Festival, but I’ve also been attending it since before I could walk.

The fairgrounds aren’t huge. And overall, there might be thirty-five or so vendor booths on the fairgrounds. The rides and bigger attractions haven’t been brought in yet, though from the corner of my eye I can see a stage being put together on the other side of the fairgrounds, furthest from the parking lot. I have no idea who the town has gotten to play this year, though I suspect it’ll be someone at least twelve percent of the town has heard of.

My dad spots me before my mom and jogs over to wrestle the pumpkin out of my grip and onto the table. My mom is there already, unloading supplies for the caramel apples that she somehow has perfected until they taste better than any other caramel apple in creation. She makes them fresh, during the festivals, and lets people choose their toppings. What started as a way for the high school choir to make more money has turned into a rather profitable business for my parents. Though, they still make sure most of the money goes right back into the school’s clubs, once my mom has covered what she spent on supplies.

“You should, uh, test to make sure all of your stuff works,” I tell my mom, helping Dad situate the pumpkin on the ground next to the plastic table that will soon be covered with a cheap tablecloth. Last year’s theme was evil fairy tales. This year, from what I can tell, it's a jack-o’-lantern explosion. There’s a plastic knife sticking out of one pumpkin, and the one I’ve just helped Dad move is painted on the front to look like a graveyard. “I’ll taste it to be sure it’s good, of course,” I add, as my mother eyes me with a grin.

“I don’t even have the apples here,” Mom points out. “If you're that desperate, though, I’ll make a batch at home for us.”

“I would die for that,” I tell her soberly, without an outward hint of the teasing sarcasm that runs through my words. I don’t look at her as I talk. The pumpkin is much easier to look at, for one, and I enjoy finding small details in Dad’s painting that I can rest my eyes on while I speak. Mom, of course, doesn’t take that personally. She’d stopped being phased by the whole ‘avoid eye contact’ protocol by the time I turned nine.

“Are there any more pumpkins in the SUV?” Dad grunts, moving one of the other orange decorations that he’d spent the last few nights decorating and carving.

I glance around the booth, cataloging the pumpkins Dad and I had brought over from the car. “The cat one,” I say at last, realizing it isn’t here. “I’ll go get it.” Dad doesn’t need to be carrying it with his back, even though it’s far from the heaviest one we’ve dragged out here today.

Before he can protest, I’m off again. I stay closer to the other vendor booths, even though it takes a few extra minutes to meander back to the parking lot.

Next to Mom and Dad is a knitting booth, their cute crafty setups already lining the tables of the booth. Their actual pieces that are for sale aren’t here yet, but with rain due tonight, that doesn’t shock me. The only people really setting up for the weekend are those who either have water proof configurations, or can throw a tarp over everything and not have to worry about that failing.

Still, Mom’s friend straightens from behind the table, beaming at me as I slide by. “Good morning, Bailey,” she greets, and I hold up a hand in greeting. “It’s been awhile. I don’t see you around the shop as much as I used to.”

That’s because my phase of scrapbooking had come and gone faster than a hurricane, but I don’t tell her that. I smile in her direction, hoping the look is sincere. “Sorry, Mrs. Johnson,” I reply, still walking. “I’ve just been really busy with school lately.” It’s a lie, obviously. I’d graduated with my Associate’s degree in Human Anatomy in the spring, and since I haven’t figured out what I’m doing with my life or if I’m going to go for my bachelor’s, I’m not in school. But thankfully, she doesn’t seem to know that. She says something else that’s more polite than conversational, and I give her one last smile before moving on, wanting to see what other vendors have ended up at the festival this year.

Sure, most of them are the same as always. Hollow Bridge isn’t that big of a town, and it’s always the same people who do the same things year after year. Not that it makes things bad. It feels…classic. Like a tradition, to know what I’ll be running across at the festival. Comfortable predictability.

But there are always a few vendors, from out of town or even out of state who want to come check out the Hollow Bridge Halloween festivities. From festival to parade to concert, we do more than most towns, or even most cities. But then again, most towns and bigger cities don’t have a historybuilton Halloween traditions, witches, and curses.

My eyes fall on one vendor booth I know I’ve never seen. A large, plastic Michael Myers stands to one side of it, plastic knife upraised in a stiff hand. They’re going to regret having him out, unless they have some magical way to weatherproof his blue jumpsuit. I don’t think a tarp will do it, though I’ve definitely been wrong before.

Once or twice.

Two men stand behind the wide table, the bald one’s hands flying along with his lips as he talks, as if he needs the movements to make his point known. When I pass by, they both glance at me, one of them narrowing his eyes as I just keep walking.

Whatever they’re selling or showing, I don’t care enough to stop and let them take whatever their issue is out onme.

They don’t say anything to me as I go by, and minutes later I’m at Dad’s SUV, digging in the back as the last pumpkin eludes my grasp. My fingers wiggle as I lean forward for it, putting myself off balance as I stretch on the tiptoes of one foot, my other leg pointed out behind me as if it’ll give me some kind of advantage or extra length to reach.

Just when my fingers curl around the stem, another car pulls into a spot beside me, the engine cutting as soon as it’s parked. I’m still dragging the pumpkin toward me as the two people, men it sounds like, share a murmured conversation, the hatch opening as one of them leans in for something.

When I finally straighten, they’re done getting whatever it is they were reaching for, and curiously I glance in their direction, seeing them walk to another line of vendor booths. I don’t know them, but that doesn’t exactly matter, nor is it really a surprise.

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