› 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗌 : open [ 4/5 ]
𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 : seven pm , fairgrounds.
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗻 — 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝘂𝗺𝗻 , not the shit you bought in a can. the air had that sticky sweet burn of cinnamon brooms and cheap cider, jack-o’-lanterns drooling wax down porches while some boombox a few houses over blasted “thriller.” vincent price’s voice rolled through the neighborhood like fake fog. chet hated it. all of it. the store-bought masks, the plastic cobwebs, the parents pretending they weren’t miserable. halloween, to him , was just another excuse for people to act like fools and eat too much sugar. the cup in his hand smelled like cider, but the way he swirled it — lazy, careful, a little too practiced — said there was something else mixed in. he wasn’t hammered, though. not yet. shockingly alert, even. his words only slurred at the edges, the way old records hiss when they’re worn down.
“tired?” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like it offended him. the teenager next to the cider table had said it with a yawn when he’d asked how the night was going. chet squinted at him. "from what?” he shot back before the kid could answer. the boy blinked, then fidgeted with his fake vampire cape. chet grunted, muttering mostly to himself. “kids these days. christ.”
he took another sip and turned his gaze back to the street, where ruby mae darted from porch to porch with her little plastic pumpkin bucket swinging. twelve years old, all elbows and determination, dressed as some japanese cartoon girl — sailor mercury, or space angel, or whatever the hell her name was. her mama had sewn her costume: a bright blue sailor getup she’d begged for after seeing a vhs at blockbuster. the pleated skirt bounced with every step, the silver boots a half-size too big. dorky, adorable, and way too much like her mama for his peace of mind.
he spotted her laughing at something, and his shoulders eased — just a little — until he noticed someone stepping a bit too close. some older kid, tall enough to have stubble, standing near the candy bowl and saying something ruby mae didn’t seem to like. chet’s body moved before his brain caught up. the cup was gone — left somewhere on a fence post — and his boots hit the pavement with that heavy, deliberate rhythm that meant trouble was coming. “problem here?” he asked, voice low and even, stepping between ruby mae and the stranger like a wall made of denim. his eyes cut sharp beneath the streetlight.
ruby tugged at his sleeve, voice small beneath the din of monster mash and laughing kids. “daddy, it’s fine.” maybe it was. but “fine” didn’t mean safe, not to chet. his jaw locked up tight enough to ache, that muscle near his temple ticking steady as a metronome. he didn’t blink, didn’t move — not until he’d sized up the stranger and found something he didn’t like. he jerked his chin toward the nearest adult— “ hey. you,” he said, rough as gravel. then his finger swung toward the kid beside them, his voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise. “you know this one? he yours?”
