Screams were always a common sound to be heard on Halloween night. Whether they were happy squeals from silly children in cheap costumes or terrified screeches from teenagers roaming through staged haunted houses, screams were never uncommon. While some neighborhoods with more elderly people or young children tended to be quieter all year round, Red Fallows Neighborhood was always filled with loud screams and hollers throughout October, especially on the scariest night of the year. Usually, no one would bat an eye at the sound of pure fear spewing from people’s mouths; it’s what would be expected at this time of year. The neighborhood was by no means crowded, and the people had screamed so much that most people could identify the screamer, although it took some practice to master this skill. After an ear-piercing screech, one may hear, “Was that Spencer?” or “That must’ve been Ray’s kid.” A relatively tranquil neighborhood, which would seem ironic because of the amount of screaming that took place there, Red Fallows had never been the home of any dangers. Screams were considered expressions of terror, but they never implied that someone was in jeopardy. It wasn’t a very safe way to live, but it was how the community had understood screaming for decades. Most considered the neighborhood scary, fun, and exhilarating; screaming people must’ve been having a great time!
However, these screams were different.
These screams had no excitement buried anywhere within them. There was no thrill, no joy, and no playfulness. These were screams of desperation, broken wails that had enough genuine fear to send a sloth running. The man from which they came scampered around the neighborhood like a puppy set free in a park, making a scene in front of anyone he saw. His eyes were also those of a puppy, but one that had been deprived of any sustenance, desperately begging for just a lick of food to get him through the night. The words that escaped is lips were more frightening that anything, as they spewed out without thought. His words made no sense; they asked for something that did not exist. Every few minutes, he would stop in front of a different passerby, usually the parent of a trick-or-treater, to scream nonsensically through burning tears and a splitting headache. The passerby would usually recognize the young man and at the very least know his name, if not his entire life story, but it would be as if they were staring at a completely new person, one who had seen unspeakable sights and could not express it in any calm manner. Of course, the neighbors would initially gasp in horror at the sight of this well put together man going berserk. After some thought, however, they’d feel more concerned than anything, as some understanding would’ve seeped into their hearts and reminded them that people can spiral and act rather strangely after losing a loved one.
“Please, you’ve got to help me!” the man would beg through sharp gasps. “I can’t find him! I can’t find Angelo!”
A neighbor, in this case an older and childless man named Spencer, would try to be blunt, but not harsh. “Beckham, my friend, you must understand that Angelo passed away a week ago,” he would insist. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to find him; he’s gone.” Spencer, along with the majority of the neighborhood, had accepted that this poor man had gone mad after losing someone he cared so much about. The two had a bond stronger than that of even the closest brothers.
“No, no, you don’t understand!” Beckham yelled, “I saw him! I saw him this week! He only disappeared yesterday, I swear!”
To this, neither Spencer nor the other neighbors had a response. In their eyes, Beckham had started hallucinating from his insanity. However, his words had such a passion to them that there was no chance that they’d be able to convince him of this. Beckham knew what he saw. He knew what he’d heard. He’d had long, genuine conversations with Angelo all week. He’d even hugged him. And sure, Angelo had been acting a bit strangely, but it was most definitely him, no doubt about it.
“I can’t find Angelo! He disappeared yesterday!” Beckham sobbed to a young woman holding a sleeping toddler.
The woman, Lindsey, was a bit harsher than the others. “Beckham, he’s dead,” she stated sternly, “he died in that fire, and you’ve got to accept it.”
“You don’t understand, that’s what they all say!” Beckham screeched, “I saw him! I talked to him! He only disappeared yesterday; you have to believe me!” By that point, the young man had asked for help from at least six different people, so he broke down sobbing, curled up into a ball on the sidewalk. Trick-or-treaters were guided around him by their parents. Maybe, if the man hadn’t been so lost in thought, he would’ve noticed the refreshing aroma of fall leaves, or maybe heard the crunching of the drier ones as the children hopped on them. Maybe, if he wasn’t so distraught and stressed, he would’ve smelled the freshly cut grass on the nearby front lawn. Maybe, under any other circumstance, this calm environment would’ve filled him with nostalgia for the Halloween nights he had spent with his mother as a child. Maybe, if his closest friend wasn’t missing, Beckham would’ve been relaxed, just like any other night.
Somehow, it was only by this point that Beckham began to question his own sanity. Surely the entire neighborhood wouldn’t gaslight him, right? They’re better than that, he believed. He felt any drop of hope that could’ve been in his heart drain away. He couldn’t imagine a world without Angelo. He thought he would never have to experience one. He definitely didn’t now. Angelo was still there, long after his supposed death. The neighbors must’ve been lying. He only disappeared recently, so surely he was still around here somewhere. Maybe he accidentally locked himself in his bedroom?
Wait a minute, he thought, of course! Where else would he be other than his own home?
As if he had been given a sugar high from nothing but his own thoughts, Beckham jumped up from the ground and sprinted down the road. He knew the address, as he had been to this man’s house almost as much as he’d been to his own. When he reached the house, he gaped at the horrendous sight. The beige walls were charred a deep black, only leaving a few disappointing patches of color. The roof was reduced to almost nothing, only a few broken boards holding onto the sides of the house for dear life, along with everything that must’ve fallen into the attic. The door, which was once painted a brilliant red, had become an unrecognizable dark brown, splattered with a multitude of dark speckles of ash. It was the same house; there was no doubt about it. However, in the one week that Beckham hadn’t seen it, what was once the warm home of his favorite person had become his ashen grave.
Beckham’s brain was at war with itself. If this fire was last week, wouldn’t he have seen it? No, he had been staying at home for his mental health almost all month. Angelo was there with him most days! He only disappeared yesterday. During the rest of the week, he had been right at Beckham’s side, making him that peppermint tea that burned his tongue but managed to make him stop crying. He had been there, watching movies with him and reading books to him. He had been there. He was there the day after his supposed “death”, begging Beckham to let him sleep over. Yes, Angelo couldn’t have died. If he had, Beckham would’ve been the first to know.
After staring at the disaster of a house for well over a minute, Beckham banged on the door three times. The ash from the door crumbled on his knuckles, painting them a dirty black color.
A quiet scream whispered into Beckham’s ears.
The scream was that of a frightened child, high and shrill. However, it had the tone of an adult man. It was faint, as if it had come from someone far away. Beckham didn’t need the ears of a bat to recognize Angelo’s scream, no matter how soft. He knocked again, this time until his knuckles hurt too much to continue. The only reply was a quick and pained sob coming from inside. Beckham listened. The tone, the speed, everything was Angelo. No one could imitate that sound that he knew so well. Desperate to see Angelo again, Beckham charged the door at full speed and kicked it down.
The door, already crumbling from the fire, flew right off of its hinges. Beckham, exhausted from the night, collapsed onto the door headfirst, leaving his face with a slash covered in ash right across his forehead. Not wanting to attract any more unwanted attention than he was certainly getting already, Beckham bit his lip to prevent his painful holler from escaping. The pain from the impact ran through his entire body, but was interrupted by yet another scream. It was the same scream as Beckham had heard earlier, only much closer now. It was followed by a trembling voice, much higher than it should’ve been for a 26-year-old, coming from a young man who was trying to assist his best friend while processing what had just happened.
“Are you okay?” Angelo asked, his voice a quiet earthquake rumbling into Beckham’s ears. The sound of quick approaching footsteps followed.
Beckham, upon hearing this sweet voice he’d known since 2nd grade, shot up from the ground and scanned the room. His eyes met those of a man his age wearing a thrifted red vest and holding back tears. In that moment, Beckham only knew Angelo. He did not know the way in which he had embarrassed himself in front of his neighbors, nor the insanity he questioned having. He leapt into Angelo’s already open arms.
For a moment, Beckham felt as though he was hugging a block of ice. Angelo’s body felt solid, but colder than a January breeze. Beckham felt this unusual sensation, but paid no attention to it. His only focus was Angelo, not Angelo’s body. He blocked any discomfort from his body while in his closest companion’s arms.
This moment could only last for a second.
Almost immediately after the initial embrace, Beckham fell forward. He felt as though he was falling through one patch of air that happened to be colder than the rest of the house. His arms moved right through Angelo’s torso until he was hugging himself. Beckham’s head hit the dusty floor, and he found himself on the floor behind Angelo.
“Beckham!” Angelo gasped in horror.
The injured man, now even more hurt than before, slowly lifted himself off the ground and brushed the dirt and ash from his clothing. He quickly spun around, as if he needed to confirm that Angelo was still there. Beckham let out a quiet sigh of relief when he saw his dearest friend standing in from of him. As if on cue, both men allowed waterfalls of tears to rush from their eyes. Beckham hesitantly lifted his hand to Angelo’s cheek. He attempted to rest his fingers on Angelo’s face, and although his fingertips felt a smooth and wet sheet of cold skin for a moment, they suddenly felt nothing but cold and lifeless air. Defeated, Beckham dropped his hand back to his side and his gaze to Angelo’s dirt-covered tennis shoes.
“So, you did die in that fire?” Beckham whispered, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from Angelo himself.
Angelo sighed. “Yeah, I think so. I didn’t even know it had happened until yesterday. I was so confused…” He suddenly grabbed Beckham’s forearms. Beckham felt two freezing hands grip his arms, which were now speckled with goosebumps. The hands were quickly replaced with nothing but cold air, but Beckham could still see his friend’s hands tightly grasping his chilly arms.
“Beckham, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I left you alone. I swear, I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know what to do! I was scared. I mean, I had to process I had just died! I’m so sorry, Beckham. I’m so, so, so sorry.” Angelo buried his face into Beckham’s shoulder. Even after Beckham could no longer feel it, his best friend’s head was still there, as if it was just as real as it was the previous week.
“Oh, Angelo,” Beckham choked back tears, “it’s okay. I promise, it’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here.” Feeling it appropriate to lighten the mood, Beckham chuckled, “I’m also just glad I’m not crazy!”
Angelo laughed. He lifted his weightless head off of Beckham’s shoulder and smiled at him. He then wrapped his arms around his best friend. Beckham, not wanting to fall again, placed his arms around Angelo and held them there, even after he could no longer feel his companion’s torso. Nothing else mattered other than for these best friends to be in each other’s arms. “Best friends” is what they had called each other for 16 years. Yes, these boys loved each other, much more than most friends did. Since childhood, the two never worried about much of anything when they were together. Even now, when death had seemingly taken one away, the two found a way to be together. Neither man noticed the group of concerned neighbors who had gathered in front of the burned house, gazing into the open doorway and observing an insane man with his arms carefully placed around the air in front of him, hugging nothing and speaking to no one but himself. Beckham didn’t notice Spencer whispering to Lindsey about how their neighbor had, “…gone completely mad!” Angelo didn’t notice Linsdey’s daughter staring straight through him to gaze at a ruined portrait on the wall. Not even when the crowd finally dispersed did the men notice anything other than each other. No, all that they knew was that they were together, but all that the neighbors knew was that Beckham the madman believed he was embracing a dead man. Hardly any more screams were heard that night; everyone had become paralyzed with shock and confusion. However, the neighborhood could still hear the shrieks of joy coming from a dead man’s destroyed house as Beckham found himself face to face with a ghost.
