The Occupant (1st Draft)

Hallow Drive is a tough place to live, especially when Seymour Carrol is your next-door neighbor.

Seymour Carrol pressed his pale forehead up against the cool glass of the living room window. The For Sale sign next door was being unearthed from the lime green lawn of its previous owners, the McNally’s. Marty McNally was bringing the last of the duct taped boxes towards the U-Haul truck. Seymour gulped down the rest of his unsweetened iced tea and raced towards the front door. Crunching on an ice cube and spitting out a lemon seed, he wiped his moist palm on his beige trousers and extended it to an apprehensive Marty McNally.

“Hey Mr. McNally, how are you doing? Congratulations! So, you finally ended up selling the place huh?”

“Hey Seymour, yeah, we’re heading to the city. Had some great years here but the kids are off to college and Darlene misses the bright lights.”

This was a lie. Marty McNally was moving to the other side of the country. He wanted to make sure Seymour Carrol would never cross his path again. The McNally’s called 231 Hallow Drive their home for six years. The previous occupants never lasted longer than three. Before the McNally’s, it was the Reagan’s, before them the Castello’s, before them the Kaminski’s, and so on. Seymour had lived next-door his entire life, twenty-two years, and if you asked him, he could name every family that ever lived at 231 Hallow drive and had memorized all their birthdays. Every other house on Hallow Drive was separated a considerable distance from one another but houses 231 and 233 (the Carrols) practically shared a backyard.

Seymour had been raised by his grandmother, Mama Hazel. Hallow drive’s resident pythoness. Mama Hazel was respected because she was feared, and because of that fear, they put up with the Carrols. If anyone mistreated her or Seymour, unfortunate events followed.

When the McNally’s first moved in next-door, Mama Hazel witnessed their son, George, impersonate Seymour in a hateful manner. She took a small amount of dried sage from the kitchen, walked to George, and removed a strand of his long brown hair. She then mixed the sage with George’s hair in her palm and blew the dusty mixture in his direction. Then whenever George attempted to speak, he began coughing uncontrollably, to the point of spewing up bile. This continued for a full month.

The other occupants of Hallow Drive had learned through years of experience to play nice with the Carrols. Anytime Seymour or Mama Hazel was made fun of or disrespected, lawns rotted, bones broke, cars crashed, and people fell ill. Soon they all became shaped into compliant adherents of Mama Hazel’s coven.

Unfortunately, Mama Hazel passed away of old age two months ago, leaving Seymour isolated and alone for the first time in his life. The inhabitants of Hallow drive were hopeful with Mama Hazel dead and gone, the curse would be lifted.

***

Seymour was still shaking Mr. McNally’s hand as he struggled to balance the moving box on his knee. “Well, Mr. McNally, that’s fantastic. You know sometimes Mama Hazel would take me to the city? I can text you next time I visit. We can go to the pancake diner or just see a movie or something. I’ll let you know for sure.”

Mr. McNally had to rip his hand from Seymour’s grasp to catch the teetering box. “Yeah, okay Seymour, sounds good. You take care now.”

Seymour watched the moving trucks disappear down the street. He pulled out his phone and began to text.

Pancakes and a movie soon! Winky face emoji, thumbs up emoji.

After confirming the contact’s name read Marty M. he hit send. Immediately he received an error message. Following up with a call, the number was no longer in service.

***

Seymour Carrol was a kind soul, but most lacked the patience for his enthusiasm. He was different from everyone else. Lost in social situations like a polar bear in the desert. The residents of Hallow Drive would always find him catching them at the worst possible moments— arms full of shopping bags, just getting out of the shower, or simply trying to enjoy a quiet evening. Most saw Seymour as a nosey smile, lacking a sense for boundaries. Seymour never just asks, he lingers. Nothing deterred Seymour from being a kind, caring neighbor, even though the feeling was never reciprocated. Most found him annoying, unbearable, and strange. Undesired kindness had no place on Hallow Drive.

Seymour would visit Gladys Kimble on Sundays and offer to drive her to the grocery store. She’d always respond, “Seymour not now!” Then he’d stop by Mr. Acosta’s general store to see if the newest comic books had been delivered. Mr. Acosta always told him, “Seymour, come back later.” One of Seymour’s favorite things to do was go through the trash and recycling bins on John Tamber’s lawn and separate the contents so they were in their proper receptables. John Tamber would always yell, “Seymour, get the fuck off my lawn!” No matter what you said to Seymour, he’d always respond with, “have a wonderful day, thank you, or I’m sorry.”

Losing his grandmother had caused Seymore to visit his neighbors more often than usual. Many disconnected their doorbells and turned the volume up on their TV’s. Most were used to his antics but acutely aware of his fear of dog’s. Hallow Drive looked like an animal shelter. Every residence had a large canine patrolling the front yard.

***

One Halloween the local hooligans devised a sinister plan. Seymour, who had always loved Halloween was vibrating with excitement in anticipation for the Trick or Treaters. He’d spent the whole night making goodie bags for the neighborhood kids. He sat on the front porch waiting to hand out candy. No one came. He watched as parents spotted him and ushered their kids away from the house. Once 10pm came around, Mama Hazel stepped outside and asked Seymour if he’d like to watch The Nightmare before Christmas. It was a favorite of his. Mama Hazel knew how to redirect his disappointment. She was good like that. Five minutes into the movie, the doorbell rang. Seymour jumped with excitement

“Pause it Mama Hazel! It’s a trick or treater!” Seymour howled.

When he opened the door, he saw a boy on his front lawn. The boy was twenty feet away in a white blood-soaked shirt, laying on his back. Seymour dropped the bag of candy and rushed to the boy’s aid. He realized it was Tanner Wheatly from down the street. Seymour tried to wake Tanner, but he wouldn’t get up. Tears began to pour from Seymour’s eyes. Without warning Tanner sprang up and yelled, “RUN,” in Seymour’s face. To his right, from the shadows, he heard the vicious bark of “Mojo,” Tim Walter’s 130-pound Rottweiler. Tim was holding the beast by his thick leather collar. “Get him boy,” Tim commanded. The dog began racing towards Seymour, foam spilling from the dog’s mouth. Struck with fear, Seymour scrambled up the wooden stairs and slammed the door behind him. Mojo’s paws clawed against the front door. Mama Hazel came running into the foyer to find Seymour shaking on the ground. She held her grandson, stroking his hair for hours, until he finally calmed down. It pained her to know how cruel everyone could be to Seymour. He didn’t leave the house for months after the incident, and shortly after everyone began buying dogs. Mojo however was hit by a car and died later that night. A week later Tim Walter’s and Tanner Wheatly were both hospitalized after suffering violent seizures.

***

A week after the McNally’s left, a moving truck pulled up to the residence. Seymour was shaking in ecstasy to meet the new inhabitants of the quaint home on Hallow Drive. What would they look like? A new friend waiting to be encountered? Seymour watched from the second floor of his home as a young couple exited the U-Haul.

Jackson Bowly wore a black Weezer hoodie and dark rimmed glasses. His eyes were dark brown but shimmered with curiosity. His hair, slightly messy, somewhere between disheveled and endearingly tousled. It was as if he ran his fingers through it while trying to figure out his next move in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign. He might as well have been Rivers Cuomo himself.

Tamera Lawd accompanied him to the front porch. She was undeniably striking, the kind of beauty that had a rubberneck effect on men, and some women too. Her oak brown hair was perfectly styled. Soft and symmetrical facial features, complete with a button nose. Her eyes were a mix of blue, green and purple, like they were created with watercolors. They opened wide and blinked slowly as if they were trying to catch up to the action. Like props in a magic show.

To an observer they might have appeared mismatched, but Seymour didn’t mind— he just wanted new friends. His motivation stemmed from a desire for acceptance, distinct from the unconditional love Mama Hazel had for him. Seymour sought a genuine and organically reciprocated connection.

Curiosity began to sink its teeth into the meaty pink parts of Seymour’s brain. He observed while Jackson did most of the heavy lifting, under Tamera’s firm supervision.

Jackson placed the final moving box in the living room just as a knock sounded at the door, reverberating through the unfurnished home.

He opened the door to find a pale young man wearing a black Weezer T-shirt, tucked into blue basketball shorts.

“Hey mister! My name is Seymour Carrol! I just wanted to welcome you and your wife to the neighborhood. I live right next door! Have for years and will for years to come!

Jackson extended his hand.

“Hey man, I’m Jackson and this is my fiancé Tamera, we’re getting married next summer.”

“Oh wow! That is absolutely fantastic! I love, L-O-V-E Jackson!”

Seymour invited himself in and sat on a moving box. Tamera was trying to get the kitchen in order but felt Seymour’s eyes weigh heavy on her back.

“Hi Tamera! I’m Seymour, your neighbor from next-door! Has anyone ever told you you’re very beautiful Tamera? Beautiful like Mama Hazel!”

Mama Hazel looked like an old fat witch that was born in a gutter. No further clarification needed on that.

Tamera shot Jackson a look, suggesting he get rid of this creepy, nosy neighbor so they’d be able to seamlessly ease into their new dwelling place.

Jackson took Seymour’s arm and led him to the front door.

“Hey bud, we’re tired from the long trip. Why don’t we catch up tomorrow?”

“Okay Mr. Jackson. We can catch up tomorrow! Maybe I can show Tamera the pancake diner downtown?”

“Yeah, okay Seymour. Tomorrow. I like your shirt by the way,” Jackson replied.

Seymour made a sound only to be replicated by the Disney character Goofy when he felt abashed.

“You look just like Buddy Holly Jackson!” Seymour giggled and ran home.

6 a.m. the doorbell rang. Seymour greeted a bleary-eyed Jackson with aspirations to take his fiancé out to the diner.

“Is Ms. Tamera ready to go?” Seymour said, almost salivating.

“Seymour, Tamera is still sleeping. We appreciate you being a good neighbor but please man, you must understand we need our space. We just moved in. We have a lot to unpack and won’t be able to do anything with you until we’re settled.”

Seymour hung his head. “That’s okay, thank you Mr. Jackson. Have a nice day!”

Jackson shut the door, massaging his temples as he returned to the bedroom, praying this wouldn’t become a problem.

***

Two weeks passed without any word from Seymour. There would be the occasional wave from the window as “Say It Ain’t So” blasted from the Carrols residence in the late afternoons, but that was about it.

Jackson was hanging a vintage Jurassic Park movie poster in the hallway. It had been gifted to him by his late grandmother. The sound of the hammering caused Tamera to come out of the bathroom with a half applied avocado green facemask on.

“What the hell did I tell you? I don’t want to see any of these nerdy ass posters up in the house. We’re going modern, sleek, and professional. Jesus Jackson, I’m done with this childish shit.”

Jackson obeyed his fiancé, as he always did, took the poster down and put up a painting of the ocean they found at HomeGoods that he lied about liking.

“See? Much better. That looks great. OK babe, I’m gonna go to the grocery store. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” Tamera took the car keys and left.

After carefully rolling up the Spielberg poster, he glanced out the window and observed Seymour tossing a ball into the air and catching it using a worn baseball mitt. Occasionally he’d miss the ball and look around before he inhaled deeply and tried again. “Poor kid,” Jackson thought to himself. Jackson lifted the lid off one of the moving boxes he hadn’t gotten to yet and pulled out a vintage Rawlings RBG36 Ken Griffey Jr. baseball glove.

Jackson stepped outside, put the glove on and punched the palm of the glove hand with his fist a couple of times. “Hey Piazza, you up for a catch?”

Seymour turned around like a cat when it spots small prey scurrying across the kitchen floor. “Oh yes, Mr. Jackson that would be fantastic!”

There’s something therapeutic about playing catch. An informal therapy for people who might be less likely to open up in traditional talk therapy sessions. Besides a chuckle from Jackson after Seymour put some extra “mustard” on a fastball, neither one spoke during the rhythmic back and forth activity. No forced eye contact. Just the repetitive nature of the five-ounce ball spinning through the air with its 108 dancing red stitches shimmering in the afternoon sun. The snap sound of the mitts, acting like a ticking clock as the battery mates hurled the ball back and forth across the lime green lawn.

After an hour that felt like minutes, Tamera was pulling back into the driveway. Exiting the car, she had the look of a disappointed mother watching Jackson and Seymour. “Babe, can you come help with the bags?”

Seymour threw his glove to the ground and sprinted past Jackson.

“I can help Miss Tamera! I’m strong like Hulk Hogan!” Seymour grabbed too many bags for his twig-like to muster. Eggs, milk, and bread were spilled and crushed on the pavement. Seymour began to frantically clean up his mess, as if he’d ever be able to put the yolks back in the eggshells to make them whole again.

“Fuck! Just stop! Go home Seymour!” Tamera shouted as she slammed her fist on the hood of the car. Seymour scrambled up the stairs to his home and slammed the door.

“It’s okay babe, he was just trying to help. It’s just milk and eggs. We can get more tomorrow,” Jackson said.

Tamera left him with a stomp of her foot, a high-pitched huff, and a mean remark suggesting if there’s no use in crying over spilt milk, Jackson should just spend the night with his new “butt buddy.”

***

Jackson woke up the next morning on the couch. He stepped outside with a fresh cup of coffee, hoping some deep breaths of cool morning air would aid him in making better choices today. He knew Tamera was different from him, but he didn’t care, he loved her. He remembered what his grandmother used to say. “For a relationship to work one person needs to love the other just a little bit more.” If he messed up with Tamera, he was certain he’d die alone. Tamera made him better. No grown man should still be infatuated with dinosaurs and dragons. She was out of his league, and he liked the way other men’s jaws would drop when they saw her wrapped around his arm. Jackson was a nerd that got a dime. The picture of the ocean was growing on him. Or maybe he forced himself to believe so.

As Jackson turned to head back inside, he heard Seymour’s screen door swing open. “Good morning, Jackson! Beautiful day, don’t ya think so?”

“Hey Seymour, yeah nice. I don’t feel too good I’m going to go lay down for a while.”

Seymour raced over to Jackson, “Oh no Jackson, I’m so sorry to hear that. When you feel better let me know. We can play catch some more!”

Jackson wanted to start building a wedge between himself and Seymour for the sake of his own relationship. He feared he had made a grave mistake playing catch and may never be able to get rid of him. Like removing a blood thirsty tick with paper tweezers.

“Yeah, I don’t know about that man. It’s just me and Tamera have a lot of work to do with the house,” said Jackson.

“That’s okay! I understand. I’m sorry about your eggs. I hope you feel better Jackson. I’ll come by later to see how you’re doing!”

Before Jackson could respond, Seymour gasped and rushed inside. A woman approached Jackson from across the street, walking a German Shepard that could have passed for a small horse.

“So, you’re the poor bastard that bought the McNally house huh?”

Jackson made a noise that sounded like something between a yes and a hiccup. “Uh, yes. I’m Jackson.”

“Well, I feel sorry for ya Jackson. I’m Gladys, Gladys Kimble. And this here’s Seabiscuit.”

“Sorry for me? Why?” Jackson replied.

“That boy Seymour is trouble. Always has been, always will. His grandmother was a mean old witch. Thank the good lord she’s gone. They terrorized us for years. Kid’s deathly afraid of dogs, hence Seabiscuit. I’d think about getting a pooch of your own— keeps the kid away.”

Seymour raised an eyebrow at Gladys, “what do you mean? Terrorized you? My fiancé is allergic; we could never get a dog.”

“That’s too bad about your fiancé. Anytime I yelled at that boy to leave me be or ask his grandmother to speak to him about boundaries, weird shit would happen,” said Gladys.

“Like what?” Jackson replied.

“Broken bones, flat tires, floods in the basement. One time I hollered at him real good and I was in bed with a blistering fever for a week. There’s something evil about that boy and his grandmother. But now that the wicked witch is dead, things have been normal around here. Just be careful with him Jackson. I wouldn’t get too close.” Gladys and Seabiscuit left Jackson alone with his thoughts.

Jackson sat on the couch, his chin resting on his knuckles, doubting Seymour’s supposed evilness. While Seymour did not always respect boundaries, labeling him as “evil” seemed presumptive.

Society tends to hastily judge those who deviate from socially acceptable standards. Ultimately, we all seek acceptance and affection. The isolation experienced by a boy who already struggles with social integration, would only be compounded by losing the sole person who had shown him genuine love.

Jackson reflected on instances from his own past— the collection of shiners he’d accumulated from Landon Burt’s fist, the daily taunting from his peers, and eating in solitude beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the cafeteria. Maybe he was wrong to push Seymour away, maybe he could help him.

Tamera had woken up and joined Jackson on the couch. “I’m sorry I got so snippy yesterday. You know how I can be when I’m upset, can we talk about it?”

Jackson kissed the back of Tamera’s hand, “don’t worry about it. I love you.”

Jackson stood up. “I met one of the neighbors this morning. Gladys. She thinks Seymour’s evil. Apparently, his grandmother used to cast spells on people.” Jackson wiggled his fingers in the air while uttering the word “spells.”

Now Tamera stood up. “She’s probably right Jackson! That’s what I want to talk about. That kid creeps me out. He’s always staring out the window. I want nothing to do with him. You’re too nice, you always have been. I don’t want us associating with him anymore.”

Jackson shook his head. Not up and down but side to side, “what are we supposed to do? He lives next-door.”

Tamera’s face was red, like a pimple begging to be popped. “Be a dick for once! Jesus! Tell him to fuck off and leave us alone. This is our house now, defend it, DEFEND ME!”

If Jackson had a tail, it would be between his legs, “we would never be able to get a dog…right?”

The pimple had popped, “what the fuck are you even talking about!? The next time you see that boy you tell him to GO TO HELL!” Tamera slammed the bedroom door.

Jackson’s palms began to glisten as a warm blanket of heat covered his body like a sunburn. His nerves vibrated violently. He pictured a small imaginary version of himself running around the confines of his skull searching for a solution. He skimmed his memory bank to find a note that had the phrase “fuck off” written on it but came up empty. He couldn’t recall ever being hostile to anyone.

Jackson spent the better part of the day racking his brain. Tamera had cooled off; told Jackson she loved him and that she knows this is hard for him, but their lives would be more peaceful without Seymour constantly lurking.

Around 6pm the doorbell rang. “Go get em tiger,” Tamera nudged Jackson’s arm with her elbow.

Seymour appeared in the doorway with chicken noodle soup and a crayon-written card that said, “get well soon Jackson.”

Jackson bit the inside of his cheek hard as he grasped wildly for a response. How was he supposed to tell this troubled good-natured nuisance to go to hell? A thought popped into his head quickly, like the flap of a hummingbird’s wing.

Feeling Tamera’s gaze piercing through his back, he ushered Seymour down the steps and closed the door. “Thanks for the soup and card. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Sure! We can talk about anything Jackson! That’s what friends are for!” Seymour responded.

“Seymour,” Jackson said, “have you ever heard of the friendship spell?”

Seymour’s eyes opened wide, like curtains on a stage. “Oh no Jackson, never! Please tell!”

Jackson paused for a second making sure the lie he was about to tell was wrapped up tight. “OK, listen closely. This is how the friendship spell works. Once a month me and you are going to go to the city to hang out. But if anyone here on Hollow Drive finds out about our friendship, the spell will be broken, and we can never be friends again. This means that Tamera can never find out that me and you are taking trips to together. Do you understand?”

A smile stretched across Seymour’s face like when the Grinch decided he was going to steal Christmas. “Jackson this is an amazing spell!”

Jackson grabbed Seymour’s arm and began walking him towards his house. “Now, Seymour, I need you to listen very carefully because I’m about to cast the spell on you.”

Seymour was convulsing like ingredients thrown into a cocktail shaker.

Jackson grabbed him by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. “First, here are the three rules. You can never ring my doorbell, you can never come to my house, and you can never speak to Tamera, or the spell will be broken. Do you understand?”

Seymour shook his head like a rag doll.

“Okay, now for the spell to take effect I’m going to have to yell at you like I never want to see you again, and you have to run inside and don’t talk to me again, until I come get you, but it’s all pretend, okay?” Jackson said.

“Let me have it!” Seymour giggled.

Jackson took a deep breath in, as if he were a big bad wolf. “Leave us alone, we don’t want to be friends with you, and I better never catch you ringing my doorbell, talking to my fiancé, or gracing us with your presence ever again. And if I see you, there will be consequences. Understand that. Fuck off, go to hell!”

Seymour obeyed and ran inside. Tamera had been watching from the window. Jackson made sure not to pat himself on the back as he made his way back across the lawn. A protruding root caught his foot, which caused him to lose his footing. Jackson regained his balance and added trimming the root to his list of things to do later.

Tamera wrapped her legs around Jackson before he could close the door. “Holy shit! Who are you? And what have you done with my fiancé?”

They had sex for the first time in three weeks. Jackson tried to swallow the golf ball sized lump of anxiety growing in his throat. He was determined to make this work.

***

Months went by. Tamera was pregnant, and Jackson’s double life continued smoothly. He took Seymour to the city the second to last Friday of every month. Tamera had been under the guise that Jackson was going to his monthly poker night with his old Dungeons & Dragons friends. She was happy to see him graduate to a man’s sport and have something to do socially with his free time.

Seymour and Jackson began to develop a deeper bond. Jackson was starting to see past the veil of annoyance everyone else draped Seymour in. He was just a lost soul looking for a friend. He was harmless.

Often, they would catch a movie and grab pancakes at the diner after. The movies were perfect. No talking for two plus hours. Seymour obeyed the rules of the spell and never spoke to Jackson or Tamera otherwise.

It was like having a pet snake. Jackson would feed Seymour a rodent the size of companionship and the snake would sit content for weeks.

After the 5^th or 6^th time they went out, Jackson pulled over to drop Seymour off at the corner as he usually did. Seymour was fiddling his thumbs together while clapping his knees. “I need to tell you something Jackson, but I’m not sure how to say it.”

Jackson placed his hand on Seymour’s shoulder, “whatsup man? You can tell me anything.”

Seymour took a deep breath, dropped his shoulders and stared out the passenger side window away from Jackson. “Mama Hazel wanted me to tell you she’s thankful for you.”

Jackson interpreted this as evidence of his kindness, healing a troubled soul in recovery. “Tell her think nothing of it. Friendship spell!” Jackson extended his pinky finger inviting Seymour to lock in with his own.\

***

Having a pregnant fiancé at home comes with its own set of problems. As if Tamera wasn’t emotional enough. The hormonal changes turned her into a new beast. A beast that Jackson had no experience in taming. Tame? That’s not the right word. He didn’t want to tame her. He wanted to be there for her. Women are the only reason any of us are here. How selfish of Jackson to go behind her back and cater to a troubled neighbor instead of being there for his family.

Intimacy turned into a unicorn. It didn’t exist. When communication dies so does life and rightfully so. The tension in the air was thick like California smog. Routines started to revolve around Tamera’s physical needs. This farce with Seymour would no longer suffice until the child was born, and even then, how long could Jackson keep this going?

Jackson needed to be there for Tamera and his unborn child. No more sneaking around. One night, after Tamera fell asleep Jackson went over to Seymour’s.

‘Hey man,” Jackson said, “With the baby coming soon, I’m going to need to be at home more, so we won’t be able to go out for a while.”

Seymour smiled and shook his head, “that’s okay Jackson! I completely understand that. You’re gonna be a papa!”

Jackson extended his hand, “I really appreciate you understanding, but just remember the spell is still on. Be patient. I’ll come to you.”

***

Two months passed. Jackson and Tamera were getting along better and preparing at home for the upcoming arrival of their child. It was Friday October 17^th, the night Jackson would have gone out with Seymour. As they were getting ready for bed, Tamera grabbed Jackson’s arm and wrapped it around her round belly. “I love you, thanks for staying home with us tonight.”

Jackson nestled in behind her and felt his eyes close like iron shutters being drawn. He’d been asleep for four hours before he sprang forward drenched and freezing. He had awoken from a terrible dream.

In the dream, he found himself restrained by his wrists and ankles against a worn splintered bookshelf. The books lacked covers, appearing aged and archaic. Several volumes laid open directly before him. The text was indecipherable and not in any known language. Sweat poured from his body and pooled on the ground. The books began absorbing the perspiration like molded sponges. A faintly lit staircase stood across the room, as heavy slow footsteps descended. A hunched figure in a ragged, hooded grey robe, moved forward as Jackson’s heart expanded. The air reeked of evil, sour and decayed. The figure now stood inches from Jackson’s face. A creature with long bony fingers and swamp- green cracked knuckles pulled back its hood, revealing a grisly face. Her skin was dusty and sickly, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, blotched with blisters and warts. A crooked nose sat below two pale sunken eyes, one significantly bigger than the other. Like a deer in headlights after it’s been decimated by a semi-truck. Wiry grey hairs on her upper lip began to twitch, like an insect’s antennas sniffing out prey. Jackson pulled with all his strength as his wrists and ankles poured crimson liquid. The witch’s cracked lips opened, barring jagged yellow teeth as her snake tongue began to wiggle. “Be careful what spells you cast, for I am always watching, Jackson!”

***

At 233 Hallow Drive, Seymour began to unravel after months of solitude and boredom. He sat by the door, waiting like a dog whose master had abandoned him. It had been three full months now since him and Jackson last spoke. All he could do was watch his friend from the window, weary of breaking the spell.

Seymour decided to go into the basement to retrieve the radio. He enjoyed listening to K102.3’s 90s rock hour. The radio sat atop an old bookshelf filled with Mama Hazel’s worn books. Seymour couldn’t read them, but their presence reminded him of her.

He set up the radio on the kitchen counter and tuned in.

“Hey guys and girls, you are listening to K 102.3’s 90’s rock hour. We got a big announcement. Weezer is coming to play a show here at the Downtown Palladium and we’re going to tell you how you can win two V.I.P tickets by calling in. So, stay tuned. Here’s their 1994 hit, Say It Ain’t So.”

Seymour’s ears perked up like a Fennec Fox.

After the song ended the disc jockey’s voice entered the airwaves again.

“All right here’s how you win! All you gotta do is be our 100^th caller, and the cats in the bag daddy!”

Seymour fumbled for the phone like the New York Jets on 3^rd and goal. He dialed in and waited.

“Hello caller! This is DJ Don. I’m sorry to tell you…But you’ve just won tickets to Weezer! You are the 100^th caller! What’s your name!?”

Seymour fell to the ground. “Hello Mr. DJ Don. I’m Seymour. Seymour Carrol. Oh my God, I can’t believe it. I’m going to Weezer!”

The tickets were sent a week later in the mail. Their glossy finish with the K102.3 logo shined like the holo finish of a rare Pokémon card. The concert was in 5 days.

Asking Seymour to contain his excitement was like asking Bundy not to murder. Seymour needed to tell Jackson but didn’t want to break the spell. Was it a real spell anyway? The only spells Seymour deemed as legitimate were the ones Mama Hazel had casted. The coughing spell, the fever spell, the seizure spell. Jackson was just a man, surely one little interaction couldn’t break something as farfetched as the “friendship spell.”

Jackson and Tamera were returning from the obstetrician on a sunny, windless October afternoon. Seymour was standing by the window, watching as Jackson ushered a heavily pregnant Tamera from the car. Impulsion overtook Seymour. He raced down the steps and ran towards Jackson and Tamera with the tickets waving wildly above his head.

Halfway across the lawn, the protruding root that Jackson meant to remove, latched onto Seymour’s ankle. He tumbled forward smashing right into a bewildered Tamera. The force of Seymour’s body collided with hers. She was smashed violently against the car, belly first. She bounced off the car and fell to the ground, flat on her back. Blood gushed from her crotch as Jackson froze in horror. The sirens from the ambulance fell like soft whispers over Tamera’s howls of panic.

***

There was no wedding in the summer. Tamera left Jackson. Their baby did not survive the tragic accident.

A whole year had passed. The picture of the ocean floated atop a sea of empty liquor bottles. Life went on. No wife, no baby, nothing. A result of Jackson’s chosen compassion. Undesired kindness had no place on Hallow Drive.

Seymour knew that day he had broken the spell. He never went near Jackson again. All it takes is a year and some tragedy to transform a man.

***

On the anniversary of his child’s death, Jackson sat in a mound of trash gulping down the last of his Jameson like a formula starved infant. He became Seymour. Constantly watching from the window. Once the light went off in the Carrol’s residence, Jackson gathered his supplies.

The backdoor to the Carrol’s house was unlocked. Jackson made his way to the basement. Something about the bookshelf took him back to the nightmare he had about a year ago, but he shook it off like cobwebs. Gasoline can in hand, he crept up the stairs onto the main floor. He stopped once he found the stairs leading up to the second floor. Hand on the railing he paused. The Jackson from a year ago was gone. His shaggy hair rested on his shoulders; his disheveled beard sat four inches above his belly button.

What does kindness get you in this world? Nothing. Kindness is a synonym for doormat. A fool, a sucker, and a fatherless loser. You can’t have the best of both worlds. You need to be decisive. Well, this was going to be the most significant choice of Jackson’s life.

Jackson slowly turned the knob to the bedroom door. He stood above Seymour, watching his life unraveled through the rhythm of snoring. Jackson unscrewed the plastic red cap and began drenching Seymour in a pungent and instantly recognizable stench.

Seymour had awoken, screaming and begging for mercy. “I’m sorry Jackson! It was an accident. Please forgive me!”

“You took everything from me!” Jackson snarled.

Jackson struck Seymour right between the eyes, dazing him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a match.

Jackson lit him up like the fourth of July. Standing back, he watched as Seymour’s body became incased in flames. The screams sounded sweet like angels in a church choir. The smell of burning flesh was intoxicating. Jackson didn’t care about being caught. He’d purged the hangnail devil from his life.

Jackson emptied the rest of the gasoline can throughout the house. He watched on the lime green lawn as the great blaze obliterated 233 Hallow drive. Seymour’s screams intertwined with the crackling of wood sent a joyful shiver up Jacksons spine.

The occupants of Hallow drive came out to join Jackson. They all watched in awe. None of them inclined to call the fire department. A modern-day Salem witch trial.

***

An investigation was underway, but no one really cared. The cops were tired of the complaints issued by others against the Carrols over the years.

Jackson had an interview with detectives the next day. If life in jail was inevitable at least he didn’t have to look at that god damn picture of the ocean again, that he was never able to throw out.

With a beer bottle pressed between his lips, he stared out the window at the charred wreckage that had been the Carrol’s home. Satisfied, he passed out on the floor. Three hours later he was awoken by the ringing of the landline. Removing the phone off the receiver he listened.

“Hey Jackson, it’s Seymour, Seymour Carroll. You broke the friendship spell!”

Jackson dropped the phone, and its bang on the vinyl floor jolted him awake from his nightmare. Sitting up in his bed of glass bottles, he stared as the faintly lit staircase across the room accompanied, heavy, slow footsteps.

This was no dream now, this was real. He stood up as the bottles crashed around him. “Who’s there? You can’t hurt me. I have nothing left!”

A familiar creature in a hooded robe made its way slowly towards Jackson. The veil of liquid courage draped around him, began to disintegrate, like a match to a tissue. His breath hitched as he edged backwards, shredding the soles of his feet on the broken glass. One trembling hand reached for the wall behind him. The creature moved closer. Jackson’s fingers slipped of the window ledge, slick with sweat as he crashed to the ground. Within seconds the creature was on him. Jackson’s chest tightened. The creature placed its grotesque hand over his mouth to silence his whimpering. With its free hand it pulled back the tattered hood. The same monstrous face from the dream sunk it’s rotted yellow teeth into Jackson’s neck. Jackson screamed as blood spewed from his torn arteries. The creature hissed and clawed at Jackson’s face, like a penny to a scratch off ticket, guaranteed a winner.

Jackson laid in a pool of his own blood. He was taking his last breath as Mama Hazel screamed. “Damn you to hell for killing my boy! You’re mine now Jackson!”

THE END