07 Aug The Halloween Reckoning

November 18, 1980

Across the town of Junction Falls, Missouri, people tuned into the only Sunday newsmagazine show on TV. After the ticking clock faded, Paul J. McSorley, one of the show’s hosts, could be seen sitting on a tall chair. Behind him was a magazine cover graphic donning multiple mug shots of the same man. The man was the rough-hewn type common in rural America. His stare was mean but calculating.

“Every town has a man like David Phillips,” McSorley’s smooth voice said as he introduced his segment of the night’s show. “But David was worse than any other. He intimidated people, and he knew everyone feared him. Even the police, who repeatedly tried, failed to stop the bully’s reign of terror. The story of David Phillips is more than that of just a bully. It’s the story of the right that the worst among us have to walk freely until justice is served versus the right of a community to be safe from the worst among them when justice refuses to step up. Junction Falls, Missouri answered this question on a chilly Halloween night last year.

“Phillips had been arrested numerous times for crimes ranging from petty theft to cattle rustling and even attempted murder. A known womanizer, he was a father of 12 by four different women. Even after 24 indictments, he was never convicted of any crime. So, is it surprising that no one will talk about what happened midday on Halloween in 1979?

“The few old timers who would talk to us speculate that Phillips turned bad after his brother was killed on the beaches of Normandy in 1944 …”

July 10, 1944         

Ernest Hertle’s heart raced as he ran as fast as he could. A large rock whizzed past his ear with a lumbering whoosh and thudded into the dirt.

“Nazi scum!” the cruel voice of David Phillips screamed.

“I’m not a Nazi!” Ernest yelled, turning around as tears ran down his cheeks. “My brother–” His defense was cut short as a jagged rock slammed into his open eye. The pain of the impact dropped the 10-year-old child. He screamed in agony, rolling on the ground.

“You weren’t supposed to hit the Nazi,” one of David’s minions said, his voice quivering.

“Stupid prick shouldn’t have turned around,” David responded, chillingly calm. “C’mon, let’s go.”

As Ernest rolled on the ground, his vision gone in one eye and blurred by blood in the other, he could see the bully turning and calmly walking away, excitedly yammering about what he’d done.

* * * * * *

“I want that hoodlum locked up!” Ernest’s mother pounded the kitchen table as he lay on the sofa in the other room recovering from his injury.

The sheriff tried to calm her. “Mrs. Hertle, the Phillips family lost their eldest at Normandy.”

“I don’t care!” she screamed. “My boy lost a leg at Tarawa, but Ernest didn’t terrorize anyone when we got the telegram!”

The deputy who helped the sheriff bring Ernest home spoke: “There are no Japs ’round here.”

“What did you say?” Her fury caused the words to explode from her lips. She immediately picked up a cast-iron pan and advanced on the armed man.

“Gertrude,” Ernest’s father said, stepping between his wife and the deputy whom the sheriff was pushing out the door. “They were just leaving.”

“The boy’s a monster, Hans!” Gertrude said as she dropped the pan and collapsed into a kitchen chair.

“I know, Gert. I know,” Hans said, leaning down to hug his wife before stepping into the family room. “How’s my boy, Doc?”

Harlan Sanders stood, leaning close. “It’s not good, Hans. Ernest’s eye is badly damaged, and he can’t see out of it. Only time will tell if he gets his sight back. Also, it looks like his orbital socket has been broken. You could try taking him to the hospital in Springfield, but all that jostling may damage it more.”

Ernest lay numb from the morphine the town doc had administered to him. Both eyes were covered so he could only hear his parents talking with the physician in hushed tones. Despite what they believed, he could make out what they were saying. He felt movement on the sofa as if one of their kittens had hopped up. As he drifted to sleep, he thought it strange that the fur felt so coarse brushing against his arm.

July 27, 1944

Ernest awoke. His eyes were still bandaged, and he couldn’t tell if it was morning or night. He didn’t hear his mother moving about the kitchen making breakfast or his father moving about as he got ready to walk down to their general store.

He sighed, hating that it would be another day of lying in bed listening to the radio or of his mother hovering around him as she helped him maintain his hygiene.

Vibrations on his bed stirred him from his melancholy. He figured it was a kitten. Then it spoke.

“Mean boy hurt Ernest,” a high-pitched voice with a German accent whispered. “Ernest good boy. Ernest help Mutter with house, Vater with store. Ernest very good boy. We hates the mean boy. The mean boy bad. We’s help Ernest.”

The curious voice continued before Ernest felt a hand, tinier than an infant’s, on his broken eye socket. He felt a pain that made him wince, but it soon gave way to just a dull yet infuriating itch.

August 3, 1944

Ernest blinked as the doctor removed the bandages from both his eyes. The boy looked forward to these days when, however briefly, the world was no longer a black void. His left eye stung as it adjusted to the dim light. Like the last couple of times, his parents had closed the curtains in his room to make it easier on him, and the doctor worked by a faint light. Still, it was like he was staring into the sun.

“Incredible,” Sanders said, sitting back in surprise. “Your orbital socket looks completely healed.”

Ernest recoiled slightly as the doctor pressed against his bruised flesh. “It still hurts but not as much as it did.”

“Can you see out of that eye?”

Ernest covered his good eye and was plunged into darkness. “No, sir.” He dropped his hand from his eye and blinked open. He could see his mother softly sobbing.

The doctor looked glum. “Well, the good news is I don’t think we have to bandage both eyes anymore,” the doctor spoke to Ernest’s parents while looking at him. “His injured eye is tracking, which is a good sign, but he still can’t see out of it. Maybe when the blood is absorbed and we can see his iris it’ll return. But if it’s cloudy, I doubt he’ll ever see out of it again.”

Ernest’s mother turned and continued to sob into his father’s arms.

August 4, 1944

Ernest could’ve gone outside to play, but the 10-year-old had no interest in the outside world. Instead, he turned to books. He read not only the works of Mark Twain and The Hardy Boys books but also some Edgar Allan Poe and Lovecraft that he’d slipped into his pile of library books when his mother wasn’t looking.

“We’s glad Ernest better,” the strange voice said behind him, pulling him out of “The Mask of the Red Death.”

Ernest turned, and standing in a dark corner of the room was a small green imp.

He stood almost 10 inches tall and donned only a worn tunic made of discarded burlap. His chin was sharp, and he had long ears like the sprites from the German fairy tale books his grandparents had brought from the old country.

Ernest stared, frozen in shock as much as in terror. The strange creature’s voice was familiar to him even if its fearful visage was a revelation.

“You no afraid of Theophilis?” the creature asked. “Theophilis was afraid Ernest be afraid of kobolds.”

“Is Theophilis your name?” Ernest asked.

The creature nodded. “Ja, me Theophilis Zwick the kobold at your service.” The kobold bowed politely. “My family come with Hertle family from Bavaria to America. We live with Hertle family. Hertle family good.” Theophilis took out a tiny pipe, tapped tobacco from a minuscule pouch, and lit it. After a few moments, he began blowing smoking rings, much to the boy’s delight.

“After hiding for so long, why show yourself to me?” Ernest asked.

“Well, me family see what mean boy do. We make it better.”

“Thank you,” Ernest said, his face brightening. “I don’t have many friends.” He frowned and looked at his feet, embarrassed.

“Ernest wrong. Ernest has lots of friends.” The kobold smiled and gestured toward the shadows, from which figures emerged.

Ernest’s jaw dropped in surprise as the kobolds began appearing from every nook and cranny of his room. He tried counting them, but the creatures kept jostling so he stopped after 23. He estimated there were over 30.

May 23, 1952

“Ernest Hertle, Southwest Missouri State College,” Principal William Watts called out.

Ernest stood and crossed the stage, taking his high school diploma as his parents and brother watched with pride.

After recovering, Ernest had focused on school. His grades jumped from a C average to all As, with a B in calculus dropping his standing from tied for the valedictorian to third in a class of 11. Part of him wanted to join the Navy and serve his country in the Korean War like his brother had served in World War II. However, the blind eye he concealed with an eye patch made him ineligible for even the draft.

“David Phillips, United States Army,” Mr. Watts announced.

Ernest’s bully, on the other hand, could not avoid the draft. He was going to wear the uniform whether he liked it or not. Whereas Ernest had proudly strode across the stage for his diploma, David walked in defiant indifference, snatching the offered diploma and ignoring Mr. Watts’s outstretched hand. He walked off the stage and out of the Junction Falls High School gym for the last time.

* * * * * *

The bonfire raged against the waning daylight. Ernest cracked open his third Budweiser of the night. By some miraculous coincidence, two extra cases had been delivered to the store the day before graduation. Another miracle had been that his father wasn’t present for the delivery, which was a rare occurrence. This made Ernest think the cases arriving hadn’t been an accident, but he wasn’t going to ruin a good thing by asking for permission first when he could beg forgiveness later—if the need even arose. He smiled.

It impressed Peggy Reed, a girl he’d had a crush on since the second grade. She blushed as she approached him. “Got one for me?”

“Absolutely,” Ernest said, handing her a beer. “I didn’t know you were going to Drury after graduation.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the bottle as she lifted it to her lips and took a sip of the golden liquid.

“Yes, I’ve always wanted to be a teacher.”

“You know, it’s not too far from where I’ll be. Maybe we could meet up sometime?”

Peggy smiled. “It would be nice knowing someone down there.” She idly pushed an errant strand of hair from her face. “How are you getting to Springfield? Bus or train?”

Ernest grinned. “I bought a car.” He stood straight and proud. “I’ll be driving myself.” He found himself carried away with liquid courage. “Perhaps you’d like to ride with me?”

Her cheeks turned ruddy red. “Maybe. People may talk though.”

“I wouldn’t mind. Perhaps we should give them something to talk about.” He leaned forward, moved by an ancient instinct to couple, and pressed his lips against hers, and she melted into his kiss. He dropped his beer and pulled her close to him as they kissed for the first of many times.

August 5, 1979

David strode into Village Tavern, Junction Falls’s oldest bar, situated across the road from Hertle’s Market. It smelled of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and deceased dreams. “Turn Around Bright Eyes” was playing on the jukebox as a group of three girls, all about 20 years younger than the normal clientele, danced in one corner.

David’s gaze settled on one, her silhouette reminding him of someone he’d admired from afar growing up. He stepped up behind her and started swaying in time with her fluid movements. He brushed against her.

She turned and looked up at him. “Mr. Phillips, sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”

“I don’t mind,” he said, continuing to dance with her. “You’re all grown up now, but are you old enough to be in an establishment like this?”

Eliza Hertle grinned. “Today’s my 21st birthday,” she said proudly.

“Is that so?” he said with a sly grin, noting the smell of beer on her breath. “Can I buy you your next beer?”

She looked at him from ball cap to boots and back. “You’re old enough to be my dad.”

One of her girlfriends giggled behind her.

“Then that means I’m harmless,” he said, flashing his best charming smile—the one that had helped him into many a woman’s pants.

She grinned. “Maybe one beer won’t hurt.”

One of her friends snorted derisively. “There goes Eliza again … like a moth to an elderly flame.”

David snapped his gaze in the friend’s direction with a scowl spread across his face that made her fall silent. In another instant, his focus was on his prey, and the disarming smile returned. He held up two fingers, and the bartender brought two beers in frosted mugs.

“Play nice. That’s Hertle’s girl,” the barkeep reminded him.

Another glance from David and the man fell silent. David took the two beers that appeared from the cowed bartender and handed one to her. His hand freed, he reached around her and pulled her close. “Let’s have some fun, darlin’.”

* * * * * *

The door to David’s bedroom slammed open, and Eliza’s drunken giggle filled the room. David’s arms were wrapped around her waist and hers around his neck as he leaned in and kissed her. He reached for her blouse, pulling it from her jeans.

Her hands moved down and pushed against his. “I don’t know, David …” she slurred.

“What did you think was gonna happen when you got in my truck?” he growled, his tone playful with a hint of menace.

She stopped pushing against him, so he kissed her again. When she parted her lips, letting his tongue slide back into her mouth, she placed her arms back around his neck, and he pushed her toward the bed. He climbed on top of her and began unbuttoning her blouse.

October 31, 1979

“Who’s the father?” Ernest said, his voice calm and measured but in a most unnerving way.

Eliza sobbed on the couch while Peggy held her close.

“It’s okay,” Peggy said, her voice soft and soothing. “Is it the Schneider boy?” Her tone sounded hopeful.

“No,” Eliza said, barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t a boy, Momma.” She blushed and looked at her hands. “It was a man … and I was drunk.”

Ernest watched as Peggy’s grip on their daughter tightened, a soothing counterbalance to the rage he felt as he balled his hands into a fist.

“Who. Was. It?” he asked again, fighting to keep hold of his fragile patience.

“Mr. Phillips,” Eliza said, not looking up from her hands.

Ernest spun in a flash, his fist slamming into the wall. “Motherfucker!” he screamed.

It was the first time even Peggy had heard her gentle husband utter a curse.

He stormed out of the room, disappearing into their bedroom. When he reemerged, he was holding a .38 revolver.

“Where are you going?” Peggy asked, her voice shrill.

“To do something that’s been a long time comin’.” His voice was devoid of emotion. He was on a grim mission.

“We can call the cops!” Peggy pleaded. “He raped our daughter!”

Ernest laughed. “That’s a good one, Peggy.” He shook his head. “Nothing happened to David when he beat the snot outta me when we were kids. When he stole that cow? Nothing. When he got drunk and beat up that off-duty twerp of a deputy? Not a damn thing. I don’t know how he gets away with all these things. Don’t know what he’s got over the prosecutor.”

“But this is different!” Peggy asserted as Eliza held her face in her hands and quietly sobbed.

“No, it’s not!” Ernest shouted. “He burned down his neighbor’s house and shot their dog! Ain’t nobody gonna care!” He went to the door and slammed it shut behind him as he stepped into the late morning sun.

David’s truck was parked across the street, taunting him, as Ernest made his way down the stairs from their apartment above the store. He gripped the pistol in his hand.

“Morning, Ernest.” Father Donovan stood outside the entrance to the market. “Late start?”

Ernest mumbled something incoherent as he started across the street, feeling the priest’s eyes on the gun.

“Ernest, don’t do something stupid.”

“Forgive me for what I’m about to do, Father,” Ernest said with grim sincerity as he stepped into the street.

Father Donovan mustered all the compassion he could, knowing he wouldn’t be able to talk Ernest out of what had to be done: “I’ll be right here, son.”

The door to the tavern slammed open as Ernest stepped inside. “David Phillips!” he shouted, quivering with rage.

The few daytime patrons moved away from the bright sunlight framing Ernest’s silhouette.

“Your reign of terror ends today!”

The only person not to move was David, who sat up straight and took a long sip from his beer and drag from his cigarette—and that was all before turning to even look at the man calling him out. “If it isn’t Ernest Hertle, town pussy.”

Ernest watched as David’s eyes moved toward the gun he held in his hand and then back to his eyes.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” David said, swiveling back to his beer.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that!” Ernest raised the handgun and pulled the hammer back.

David just laughed. “You would’ve shot me by now.”

Hot tears burned Ernest’s cheeks as his rage bubbled over. He tried to pull the trigger but couldn’t. He crossed the distance between him and his target, even pressing the barrel into David’s sternum when the town bully swiveled on his barstool.

“You’re even crying like a pussy,” David said as he snatched the gun away and pushed Hertle to the ground, “and pussies get pounded!” With a yell, he gripped the revolver by the small barrel and delivered a blow to Ernest’s skull. “I run this town!” Phillips screamed as he swung the pistol in a wide arc, resulting in the sound of bone crunching as the grip made contact. “No one points a gun at me!”

After another strike from the pistol, Ernest stopped moving.

David stood and dropped the gun to the floor, kicking his victim in the side, savoring the satisfying give as he broke one of the other man’s ribs. He looked around the bar with a cold bloodthirsty stare. “Y’all saw it,” he spoke softly. “Bastard pointed a gun at me. This was self-defense.”

“Yes, David,” three voices said in cowed unison.

“Good, just wanted to make sure we’re all clear. If the pigs wanna talk to me, tell them they can do it at my place,” he said as he pushed the tavern door open.

Across the street, he saw the expectant faces of the Hertle women turn from hopeful to frightened. He couldn’t help but laugh as he started crossing the street. “I’m guessing your daddy pullin’ his little gun on me means I should make an honest woman outta ya, Eliza.” A lecherous grin spread across his face as he turned his attention to Father Donovan.

“Father,” he addressed the priest, “I don’t mind a Catholic weddin’ if that’s what my little fiancée wants. It may be a little while though. I want the father of the bride to be back on his feet to walk his lil’ girl down the aisle and give her away!”

The way the Hertle women recoiled in disgust amused him.

“Enoughs is enoughs!” a tiny voice squeaked behind David. He turned, half expecting his victim to somehow have recovered enough to press the issue.

“You a bad boy! Grown to be bad man!” the tiny voice shrieked from down around his feet. “You harm good man and good girl for last time!”

David’s eyes grew wide as he stared at the tiny creature standing before him. He had to rub them. “What was in the beer?” he muttered to himself, a disbelieving look in his eyes.

The creature issued a loud shriek that echoed down the street. Soon, more of the strange creatures started streaming out of every home and shop within earshot.

David paused in the middle of the street as the grim horde descended upon him, righteous fury written across each face. As he made eye contact with the leader, Theophilis screeched as they began to charge. He saw Brian and Dottie Newcomb from the hardware store next to the tavern. “Call the cops! Help me!” he screamed, but the couple just watched as the first of several kobolds reached him, leaping on him as they clawed and bit him.

The bartender and two of the three barflies emerged from the tavern.

“Help me!” he shouted as they just stood there. “Ow! Fuck!” he screamed as he felt several more of the creatures clamp onto his leg, their teeth sinking into his flesh. “Father! You’re a man of God!”

The priest responded by taking a seat on the bench outside the Hertle store.

Finally, he looked at Peggy and Eliza. “Are you going to let this happen to the father of your grandchild? Your child?”

More of the creatures leaped at him, gripping and taking gouging bites of his flash.

David dropped to his knees as a mass of kobolds descended upon him, their combined weight pushing him to all fours. “Please!” he sobbed as more of the tiny creatures swarmed him, taking chunks out of him with their teeth and claw-like fingernails.

“You a bad boy!” the one that had started this shouted.

“You a bad boy!” the rest of the horde cried in unison.

The only voice heard in response was his own, crying “Help me!” for the last time.

November 18, 1980

“On a sunny, slightly chilly morning in a small Missouri town, the peace was shattered when the town bully was brutally attacked and killed in the middle of the street after pistol-whipping a shopkeeper whose daughter he had impregnated. And despite being in the middle of a beautiful fall day around lunchtime, no one saw a thing.”

“Turn it off.” Ernest’s voice was as deflated as his form as he sank deeper into his chair, not wanting to think about the father of his beautiful granddaughter. She was perfect, like her mother and grandmother. He did not want to think about the rotten man who gave her life.

There was a rustling noise behind the TV, and before Peggy could get to it, Theophilis appeared, a tiny hat in hand, looking every bit as distraught as his human friend.

The two had not spoken since that day, having only shared hard glances of confusion and shame. A war had raged within Hertle since the death of his bully. He had, surprisingly, felt pity for the flawed human being who died so savagely. And yet, a long-suppressed darkness in his soul had savored the man’s screams. The war still raged within him as he stared at his kobold friend.

“Theophilis only wanted do good. Sorry if Theophilis do bad.” The creature looked at the floor, hat in hand.

“Don’t be sorry,” Ernest sighed, “Theophilis do good.”