“Thanks Kate, I'll see you soon.”

The glare of the sun made the road shimmer upon the horizon. It was shortly after noon in Brimstone, Kansas, and for the umpteenth time Abigail considered where the town got its name from. She wasn't wearing much - nobody did, at this time of day - just a tank top and some shorts. It had to be brimstone, thought Abigail, because of the heat. She thought this every summer; every winter it was the reeking sulphur that made her change her mind. Regardless of the tiny village's namesake, Abigail was one of its unfortunate captives today and she had to make the most out of it. She was headed at a leisurely pace towards the farm, clutching two plastic cups slick with condensation whilst her backpack clunked every time it hit the base of her spine. As she neared the rustling corn field a figure emerged from the heatwave, materialising into a man in full uniform stooped over the side of the road.

“You'd think a guy your age wouldn't have any problems finding pussy, but here we are,” Abigail commented snidely. She held out one of the iced coffees to the first and only deputy of Brimstone, Brooks Lockwood. “I brought sandwiches. Tuna sweet corn. Just in case, y’know...cat might smell it and come home.” With her free hand, Abigail guided the straw into her mouth and slurped noisily.

Brooks felt miserable. The heat glared down on him as he found himself stuck looking for the upteenth pet that had run away. He was sweaty, grimy from all the shrubbery and tall grass he'd be scouring through, and couldn't care less if the next thing he found was a dead, sun boiled, cat. Either everyone in the town decided to start abusing their animals, inviting them to run away, or there was some mass migration that they all collectively agreed upon. Either way the constant stream of calls of worried elderly and miserable adults complaining about their beloved pets running away -forced- the station to at least act like they cared, brooks being the unlucky singular deputy to show everyone that they did in fact at least -try-. 

Waving at Abigail from the distance as she approached him, her comment caused him to stare at her with an incredibly disapproving and frustratingly disheveled, sweat patched look. He was not in the mood. With a deep, chest heaving sigh, Brooks slowly shook his head and gave the field another gaze-over, shaking his head directed at Abigail. “Are you headin’ home?”

Abigail thrust the other iced coffee into Brooks’ palm whilst she sat cross-legged on the dry grass, patting it invitingly with her other hand. She rummaged in her backpack and brought out a Tupperware box. “Not if I can help it,” responded Abigail. “It's 'fright night’ tonight...some sorta hazing ritual for the new kids. I'm going to the abandoned house in a bit to waste time until the others show up.” She started munching on a tuna sweetcorn sandwich thoughtfully. “It could be the sulphur,” she mused. “I remember it fucking reeked of sulphur last year. Maybe we got used to it but it got worse and worse, an’ now all the pets decided they'd rather starve in the wilderness than stay in a flimsy suburban house and have to put up with the stench. Sit down, your sandwich is getting warm.”

Brooks took a long, yearning slurp of the iced coffee and let out a refreshing sigh before seating himself down with a groan. “If they're gone they're gone. They'll either come back to those they actually miss or run to the nearest diners for scraps, bein’ hungry and all.” He looked at the sandwich being offered and gladly accepted it. Sitting there beside her, iced coffee in one hand and sandwich in the other he remained content. “I'll be milling about the station if you need anything, yeah?” He took a mouthful, staring forward as he spoke.

“Mmn,” grunted Abigail. For a while they munched on their sandwiches in silence. “...if I see them, though, I'll grab 'em. You look so grumpy, wandering around the heat on your own.” Another pause. “I heard that uh, dear Scotty Masterson is orchestrating it.” She frowned distastefully. Brooks knew full well what Abigail thought about that. “at least Molly is gonna be there though.”

Brooks took another mouthful, washing it down with another large slurp of his drink, all the while giving Abigail a long pregnant stare. He continued to look at her in silence, as if expecting something. “Who?” He broke the silence, keeping his deadpan stare up for a solid few seconds before cracking a smile. “Yeah, you'll have fun one way or another no doubt.”

Abigail let loose a wheezy chuckle, tucking a few sticky strands of hair behind her ear. “Alright, yeah,” Abigail stood up and dusted her legs off. “Good luck with your-...wild goose chase?” she ventured, squinting out across the corn fields. “I’ll try to be back before midnight.” She stuffed the box into her backpack and wandered down the road once more, headed towards the shade of the forest and the long abandoned house at the end of the street.

Abigail had arrived long, long before the others. She had to admit, the old creaky building gave her the chills, even in broad daylight; but that was why she arrived in the first place. She wanted to get over any residual tremors of fear before anyone else caught on to the fact she was scared. There was, in her humble opinion, only one way to do it; romp around the building, explore every nook and cranny and clamber around the rubble until she felt confident enough to call it home. What followed was the best part of an afternoon getting splinters and scraped knees, peeking through dusty cabinets, accidentally disturbing spider nests and discovering as much about the old building as she possibly could. She hopped past rotted stairs and used the rickety lead piping to reach windowsills of floors that were either inaccessible or too difficult to get to through the narrow corridors. She conquered the kitchen, braved the bathroom and ascended into the attic with ease until the sun hung low over the forest canopy and Abigail thought it best to get down onto the ground before she was stuck in the dark.

That was where they found her, sat cross-legged in the overgrown garden, idly plucking a splinter out from one of her scarred knuckles whilst her scabby knees oozed blood where the wounds split open. Scotty came first. Abigail didn’t say much. He seemed impatient to begin and Abigail carefully watched him inhale beer like a workhorse. Every so often one of his lackeys would ask Abigail what’s up, and she brushed them off with idle excuses like boredom or that blasted splinter that was becoming increasingly difficult to remove in the filtering dusk.

When Molly arrived, Abigail hopped up onto her feet and ran a hand through her hair. “Thank fuck,” she mumbled under her breath when her friend was in hearing range. She folded her arms whilst Molly lit a cigarette with one of the girls’ lighters and rolled her eyes in turn as Molly issued out an empty threat. She had better things to bitch about; giving Molly a little nudge in the ribs, Abigail gestured to the increasingly intoxicated Scotty swaying a few metres ahead of them. “The most exciting part of tonight is seeing whether this sorry fuck gets his stomach pumped,” she whispered into Molly’s ear with a cheeky grin.

Abigail didn’t...really have a job so to say. She was just along for the ride. She didn’t want to take part in the first place; peer pressure goaded her into going out but it couldn’t cross the threshold into making Abigail participate. Instead, she decided to creep around the halls and watch the children from above. She crossed the corner of the house and used some of the crumbling mortar as handholds to shimmy up to the first floor window, entering a decrepit bedroom.

The key was ambiance. Abigail didn’t need to rush, she didn’t even need to be quiet; the house would do the work for her. Her footsteps fell deliberately on warped floorboards, producing slow and lengthy creaks and groans that reverberated through the halls. There were other teens hidden in alcoves and around corners; most of them shot her flighty looks, no doubt a little on edge from her wandering. She just smiled and waved her way past them and their costumes towards the end of a hallway, where she squatted down and peered through the peeling plaster towards the children below.

The turnout was pitiful. Only two kids? It only put the whole night into perspective. It was outdated, abandoned; much like the house, Fright Night was rapidly becoming a dying trend and it made the ones running it look...desperate. Needy. In fact, Abigail was just in the middle of wondering whether or not she should go home or to the station when she realised that she could probably be seen if either of them decided to look up.

And if they did, they’d probably get a real fright by accident; after all, washout kids in monster masks were one kind of scary; a pale, bony thing crouched by a hole in the ceiling, glowering down at you with its bloody shins, its grimy clothes and scarred flesh, the sheet of lank blonde hair partially covering its hollow gaze...that wasn’t something you’d want to spot in a fake house, even if the reality was that it was just another dirty, scraped-up teen who wasn’t actually looking at you but trying to decide where to bail to.