Halloween III - Season of the Witch Read Online Free Page A

straining to see through the downpour.
    He spotted three lighted porches in a row. The one with the yellow insect-proof bulb would be his house. Her house. She had claimed she wanted the colored light, he remembered, for esthetic reasons. But he was sure she simply didn’t want moths congregating outside the door, her door. She had little patience with natural things, things she could not control.
    A gust of wind sprayed the car and the yard outside dissolved. The wind made the oak trees shake like giant fists and bent the shrubbery nearly flat until one bush broke loose and obscured the doorway.
    But wait.
    He rubbed the cold glass again and peered intently.
    It was not a bush that was moving.
    It was the shape of a man.
    He thought, Probably her newest gentleman caller on his way in or out; a nice, warm, cozy dinner for two. Why not? Get out the candles and the wedding silverware; make a good impression no matter what the cost. No matter that I’m on my way here to see my children. It’s only Dan who’s about to drop by (we don’t call him Daddy anymore) and he doesn’t matter. He’ll understand, and if he doesn’t that’s his tough luck. He thought, She’s showing a lot of class, as usual.
    He veered to the curb and cut his lights.
    The shape was no longer there.
    He leaned back into the headrest and did something he had not done for a very long time. He flipped open the glovebox, rummaged for a crumpled pack of cigarettes he’d left there as a reminder of the day he had quit, and fumbled a stale filter tip into his mouth. He pressed the dashboard lighter and straightened the cigarette and waited. But the paper was wet and it crumbled apart in his fingers.
    The glovebox, he realized, was leaking again. One more thing he didn’t have the money to fix. Angrily he threw down the remains of the pack.
    He observed the front of the house and the yard for further sign of movement. There was none. Only the motion of leaves in the latticework of rain.
    Had he seen a man there or not?
    Welcome, he thought, to my nervous breakdown.
    He took another pull from the bottle of Wild Turkey, opened the door, rolled out of the car and entered the sea of falling water.
    He slogged across the grass and mounted the steps. He thumbed the bell and concentrated on his shoes, WELCOME , said the doormat. Automatically he wiped his feet. The mat was soaked; it made no difference.
    A minute passed. Once he believed he heard feet bounding across the living room floor, but it was only the thumping of a branch against the side of the house.
    He tried the doorknob. It was slippery but unlocked.
    “Anybody home?”
    For a second he wondered if he had stumbled into the wrong house.
    Then he recognized a familiar piece of furniture, another, items they had acquired together over the years, the residue of their marriage and now all hers. The front room had been entirely rearranged. It now looked like a model living room from some fashion magazine, but somehow unfinished, off-center.
    She couldn’t wait, he thought, to have me out of here.
    He caught a glimpse of himself in a hall mirror. His water-stained jacket, his puffy eyes, the unshaven whiskers on his face . . . He did not fit in with the decor.
    I was a fool, he thought, to have ever deluded myself into believing I could.
    He swung the door shut.
    From the dining room, the sound of chairs scraping the floor.
    “Daddy!”
    “Daddy’s here! Yea, Daddy!” That was Willie.
    Above the running, the clink of a fork hitting a plate.
    “Children, we leave our food at the table!” That one was Linda.
    The kids came waving spoons.
    “Whadja bring us?”
    Their combined weight struck his legs and almost knocked him off his feet.
    “Lemme see! Whadja bring us? Lemme see!”
    “Hey, take it easy . . .” He hugged them to his sides but watched the archway to the dining room. He actually believed he could feel her coming. Negative ions, he thought. Or is it positive? Anyway, the wrong kind. A