Meet The Family, Judy Colella [best black authors txt] 📗

Martha hated Halloween. Not disliked, or found distasteful – hated. The idea that evil beings existed in the first place made her laugh. True evil, in her opinion, was no more than a choice made by confused people, those who had been hurt in some significant yet subconscious way. What irked her the most was how innocent children were being indoctrinated into the widespread acceptance of such nonsense as wizards, witches, zombies, werewolves, ghosts, vampires, and an assortment of other undead creatures like mummies. Good grief!

Then there was the greed factor. “I really detest the way children are being encouraged to be greedy, gluttonous little pigs,” she once told a co-worker. “Do their parents honestly think they’re doing their offspring any favors by allowing them to consume unreasonable amounts of candy one night a year?”

“Now, Martha,” the co-worker had replied, “everyone knows kids always stash away a lot of their loot to be enjoyed for as long as possible.”

“Hence the rampant dental and obesity problems among young people, yes?” Martha had pointed out, triumphant.

Every October thirty-first, Martha made a point of not being home from mid-afternoon through midnight so she wouldn’t have to hear her doorbell (which she never answered) ringing almost non-stop. One year, she had placed a bowl of apples and oranges outside her door, the only concession she’d ever made to the so-called holiday, but in the morning, had found her offering scattered and smashed all over the porch and front walk.

So this year, like all the ones preceding, she took off for the afternoon and evening, deciding to get her winter-clothes shopping done early for a change. By the time the stores closed at nine-thirty, she still hadn’t found anything that either fit well or was to her taste. Grumpy, she realized hunger wasn’t helping her mood, so she went to the local all-night diner for a late supper, then sat with one of the romance novels she always kept in her purse, drinking coffee and reading until eleven-thirty.

When she arrived home at midnight, the streets were quiet, devoid of costumed pests. No one had vandalized her house, either – that had been a problem during her first five years there, but no more – so she went in, shut the door, locked it, and flipped the light switch.

Nothing.

“Well, heck,” she murmured, flipping it on and off once more for good measure. “Must be a fuse.”

Near the door was a small table with a single drawer where she kept a flashlight and an extra set of house keys. Dropping her purse on top, she opened the drawer, took out the flashlight, and gave the head a twist, turning on its intense light.

“Much better.” She headed for the kitchen where the fuse box was located next to the cellar door. “I just hope one of the older kids didn’t cut my line.” She shook her head, entering the kitchen, and started to say something else, but stopped. Was something behind her?

Martha whirled about, holding the flashlight like some kind of weapon aimed at whatever might be lurking there, but…nothing. The hallway. That was all she could see through the arched entrance to the kitchen.

“I’m being silly.” Determined to stay in control and not let the dark or the date get to her, she approached the fuse box.

It wouldn’t open. “Oh, for the love of Mike!” She tugged harder. “Great. I’ll need two hands, then.” She turned and set the light on its end on the table so it pointed ceiling-ward, affording a diffuse light to the room. But before she could make another go at the box, the house phone rang and she jumped.

“Martha Kastner, stop it!” She threw her shoulders back, more annoyed now than frightened, and went to the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Martha. Having a nice evening?”

“What? Who is this?”

“Someone who’s been watching you. Every Halloween, in fact.”

She felt a chill shimmer her spine into a small spasm. “I – this is not funny, whoever you are!”

A long, whispery sigh on the other end, then, “No, Martha. This is not funny. Not at all. You have a serious problem.”

“Oh? And what’s that? Crank callers?”

“No, your sad disbelief in things that go ‘bump’ in the night.” A soft chuckle.

“Go away, and don’t call me again!” She slammed the phone back into its wall cradle, picked up the flashlight, and with strength fueled by sudden fear and fury, yanked the fuse box open. The nerve of some people!

After checking the fuses and flipping the breaker, she closed the box and went to the nearest light switch…and voila! There was light. Martha heaved a sigh of huge relief, turned off the flashlight, and went back into the hall to put it away. She was tired, but the call had rattled her quite a bit.

“Maybe some wine,” she mused aloud. “Or…no, hot chocolate, I think.” She went back to the kitchen. Once the milk was put on to heat, she decided to have some toast, too. As she opened the bread box, the phone rang again.

She froze. Really? It kept ringing, but she decided to ignore it, and several rings later, it stopped. She got the tin of chocolate powder and set it next to the stove, took her favorite mug from the closet, and popped two pieces of bread into the toaster.

It occurred to her that no one, other than two of her co-workers and her Aunt Frances in Illinois, knew her house number. Most of the time she used her cell. So who on earth could have called her? It absolutely had to be a crank caller – there was no other explanation.

The toast popped up, she finished pouring the warm milk into her mug, and the phone rang. And rang. And rang. And kept ringing until she couldn’t take it any more. Praying it actually was her Aunt Frances calling with some emergency, she finally picked it up.

“That was rude, Martha,” said the voice that had become familiar in a horrifying way.

“So is not telling me who you are!” She was terrified this time, and her voice shook.

“Then I'll tell you. I represent all the things you say aren’t real. In fact, I think it’s time you met us. All of us. After all, we're like a family, and you don't seem to have one.”

Martha was about to reply, when a realization struck her, one that turned her knees to water. She crumpled to the floor, paralyzed.

What she’d suddenly realized was that the voice – that terrible, soft, deathly voice - had not been speaking into the ear pressed against the phone…

Text: Judith A. Colella
Publication Date: 10-25-2012

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