Trick or Treat?

Part II

Gloom shrouded my surroundings almost instantly. The kitchen's warmth relented while the scrumptious aroma persisted. Overhead, simultaneous conversations babbled as silverware clinked and squawked against crockery. Sheltered beneath the dining table, veiled by the low-hanging tablecloth, I shivered, my sweaty clothes an icy adhesive against my skin.

My breaths and heartbeat steadied as shock yielded to sombre optimism. Despite my treacherous position, the certainty I sought had been predominantly established. While Chef Shelby served the main course, I envisioned crawling back through the opening, slipping across the unoccupied kitchen then retracing my steps to the front door unchallenged.

As I braced for those terrible footfalls, brooding my companions' fate, a repressed sob disturbed my reverie. My muscles tensed and breath hitched. The diners babbled undisturbed. Instinctively, I slipped my phone out of my pocket and cast the screen's feeble glow beside me.

Salvation pierced the gloom. The Damsel raised her eyes from her lifeless phone, cheeks tear-stained, bottom lip quivering, her dress a wilting rhododendron snared among polished shoes and wrappers. No discarded bags explained the wrappers' presence but they had been disturbed by someone other than myself.

The Damsel's features brightened; shame darkened my conscience. I was the one who doubted my companions' loyalty. I was the one who plotted abandonment. I was the one who thought only of myself.

Hungry for redemption, I turned to the glowing salvation I held. I was not alone nor had I ever been. Wit conquering the madness spurring my actions thus far, I straightened the Damsel's tiara before messaging my mother.

MX: Send the cops to 31st Ruseworth Road tell them to ask for me please don't call I'll explain everything later.

Seconds expired...

Typing...

Typing...

Typing...

Mom: Trick or treat?

I stared at that message, utterly bewildered once more. The diners' babbling halted. No longer did silverware clink or squawk against crockery. Past the Damsel and shoe columns stretching toward the lengthy table's head, a chair growled against the floor. Footfalls faded before ancient speakers commenced sputtering: ruppity-ruppity-ruppity-ruppity...

When the footfalls returned, the other chairs growled in unison before every diners' feet thumped rhythmically around the table. Our salvation extinguished.

Ruppity-ruppity-ruppity-ruppity...

Faster and faster the diners' feet thumped, all in sync with the accelerating beat.

Ruppity-ruppity-ruppity-ruppity...

"Now's our chance! Over there! To the opening! With this racket ongoing, they won't hear the wrappers crackle!" I hissed.

Ruppity-ruppity-ruppity-ruppity...

The Damsel shook her golden curls. Despite my tugs, she would not budge. "As long as they circle the table, we'll never sneak past undetected! We must stay put and hope the Superhero rescues us soon!" she whimpered.

Ruppity-ruppity-ruppity-ruppity...

When the Damsel mentioned the Superhero, that ineffable horror paralyzed me anew. I could not return to the kitchen nor could I remain beneath the dining table. Gloved fingers, curling around the tablecloth's hem, stole any chance to cast off my dismay and indecision.

Ruppity-ruppity-ruppity-ruppity...

On sputtered the speakers but the rhythmic thumps fell silent. Slowly, the tablecloth rose. A languid glow invaded the gloom. The Damsel's fingers tensed around my arm, her trembling frame mashed against mine. Still paralyzed, I could only squint at the paper mask peeping beneath the table cloth, a glowering witch's features poorly scrawled with crayon.