Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure by Hannah Johnson Page A
Book: Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure by Hannah Johnson
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Authors: Hannah Johnson
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it,” he mutters numbly, even though
he’d rather chop off his own antlers. You know. If they were real
antlers, rather than just headband antlers. He thinks that really
speaks to the gravity of the situation. A guy doesn’t just
willingly part with his own antlers, right?? (These thoughts, he
registers dimly, do not make a whole lot of sense.) The point is:
he would rather do anything than this.
And yet he knows . It’s the only option.
Amber looks at him with the bittersweet but wise
resolve of Galadriel. She nods, a slow and wistful nod, and reaches
over to take his hand.
“Arthur,” Howie calls, with the gravitas of ... some
other Lord of the Rings person. Sean Bean, let’s say. Not actually
a bad choice, since, like a Sean Bean character, Howie Jenkins is
probably fated to die.
Of humiliation, but still. Like death by axe or
arrow, it won’t be pretty.
As Arthur takes in the sight of Howie and Amber, the
comprehension dawns on his face. He abandons his awkwardly macabre
cover of “We Are Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together” and crosses
the room. Once he reaches the stereo, he gives Howie one last
solemn look ... and he presses play.
Howie takes Amber’s hand in his.
Here we fucking go.
TWENTY-FIVE DAYS EARLIER
It’s not really a huge surprise that Cora Caldwell is
bonkers for Halloween.
But Howie does not anticipate just how bonkers.
No one could anticipate just how bonkers.
He and Arthur show up to work a little late one
morning. The longer the store lives on like some ungodly and
unkillable demon, the more relaxed Arthur becomes about his policy
on arriving to work two hours before they open.
Especially when there’s more important stuff to do at
home.
Like, say, in the bedroom.
And the shower.
And then the bedroom again.
And then, briefly, the kitchen, before Arthur’s ‘We eat at this table ’ prudery kicked in.
What a nerd.
They’re teetering dangerously close to late when they
show up at the store. But at least they’re both in a good mood.
Turns out, crazy things happen when you leave arts ‘n
crafts stores unsupervised.
They step inside to find that Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N
Crafts has been transformed into an orange-and-black shrine to
jack-o’-lanterns, cobwebs, and life-sized plastic skeletons posed
in various jaunty positions.
“Hey look,” Howie says. “Tim Burton broke in and
puked his soul all over.”
“A very reasonable explanation,” Arthur says.
Cora shimmies out from between the shelves, dressed
in a peppy orange cardigan and one of those scraggly black witch
dresses from the Halloween aisle of the grocery store. Her knee
high socks are covered in smiley bats. She’s holding a bag of
cottony cobwebs, and at their arrival, she throws a handful into
the air in celebration. Some lands on Arthur’s head. He looks
frankly dashing.
“You’re early,” Arthur says, uncomprehending. Howie
cannot blame the dude for his bafflement.
“It’s Halloween, bitches!” Cora announces
gloriously.
She does a little The Sound of Music spin, like this
is her own personal nun mountain.
(Or whatever. Howie has never actually fully grasped
the complexities of The Sound of Music.)
“It’s Halloween in thirty days,” Arthur says.
“If it’s October, it’s Halloween. This month we’re
playing by my rules, boys.”
“Why?” Arthur asks blankly.
“Can’t you just let me have this?” Cora pleads. “I
already fucking lost my dream role.”
It’s true: Cora’s theatre group is putting on an
all-female production of Frankenstein, featuring an original script
adapted by none other than Amber. Cora had her heart set on playing
the creature; unfortunately, Heather Grimsby showed up to auditions
and blew everybody away with her ability to convincingly channel a
horrifying monstrous life-ruiner. (Secretly, Howie wasn’t
he’d rather chop off his own antlers. You know. If they were real
antlers, rather than just headband antlers. He thinks that really
speaks to the gravity of the situation. A guy doesn’t just
willingly part with his own antlers, right?? (These thoughts, he
registers dimly, do not make a whole lot of sense.) The point is:
he would rather do anything than this.
And yet he knows . It’s the only option.
Amber looks at him with the bittersweet but wise
resolve of Galadriel. She nods, a slow and wistful nod, and reaches
over to take his hand.
“Arthur,” Howie calls, with the gravitas of ... some
other Lord of the Rings person. Sean Bean, let’s say. Not actually
a bad choice, since, like a Sean Bean character, Howie Jenkins is
probably fated to die.
Of humiliation, but still. Like death by axe or
arrow, it won’t be pretty.
As Arthur takes in the sight of Howie and Amber, the
comprehension dawns on his face. He abandons his awkwardly macabre
cover of “We Are Never Ever Ever Getting Back Together” and crosses
the room. Once he reaches the stereo, he gives Howie one last
solemn look ... and he presses play.
Howie takes Amber’s hand in his.
Here we fucking go.
TWENTY-FIVE DAYS EARLIER
It’s not really a huge surprise that Cora Caldwell is
bonkers for Halloween.
But Howie does not anticipate just how bonkers.
No one could anticipate just how bonkers.
He and Arthur show up to work a little late one
morning. The longer the store lives on like some ungodly and
unkillable demon, the more relaxed Arthur becomes about his policy
on arriving to work two hours before they open.
Especially when there’s more important stuff to do at
home.
Like, say, in the bedroom.
And the shower.
And then the bedroom again.
And then, briefly, the kitchen, before Arthur’s ‘We eat at this table ’ prudery kicked in.
What a nerd.
They’re teetering dangerously close to late when they
show up at the store. But at least they’re both in a good mood.
Turns out, crazy things happen when you leave arts ‘n
crafts stores unsupervised.
They step inside to find that Artie Kraft’s Arts ‘N
Crafts has been transformed into an orange-and-black shrine to
jack-o’-lanterns, cobwebs, and life-sized plastic skeletons posed
in various jaunty positions.
“Hey look,” Howie says. “Tim Burton broke in and
puked his soul all over.”
“A very reasonable explanation,” Arthur says.
Cora shimmies out from between the shelves, dressed
in a peppy orange cardigan and one of those scraggly black witch
dresses from the Halloween aisle of the grocery store. Her knee
high socks are covered in smiley bats. She’s holding a bag of
cottony cobwebs, and at their arrival, she throws a handful into
the air in celebration. Some lands on Arthur’s head. He looks
frankly dashing.
“You’re early,” Arthur says, uncomprehending. Howie
cannot blame the dude for his bafflement.
“It’s Halloween, bitches!” Cora announces
gloriously.
She does a little The Sound of Music spin, like this
is her own personal nun mountain.
(Or whatever. Howie has never actually fully grasped
the complexities of The Sound of Music.)
“It’s Halloween in thirty days,” Arthur says.
“If it’s October, it’s Halloween. This month we’re
playing by my rules, boys.”
“Why?” Arthur asks blankly.
“Can’t you just let me have this?” Cora pleads. “I
already fucking lost my dream role.”
It’s true: Cora’s theatre group is putting on an
all-female production of Frankenstein, featuring an original script
adapted by none other than Amber. Cora had her heart set on playing
the creature; unfortunately, Heather Grimsby showed up to auditions
and blew everybody away with her ability to convincingly channel a
horrifying monstrous life-ruiner. (Secretly, Howie wasn’t
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