Dark Candy

Gabe hadn’t wanted to go Trick or Treating in the first place. It was stupid, they were way too old for it to be cool, and he didn’t even like candy. When they’d knocked on the old guy’s door and he’d invited them in, asking “What’s all this trick or treating idea anyway?” in a voice thick as tar, his eyes hidden behind those dark glasses, Gabe had known it was a bad idea.

They’d sat around as the old man pulled a pouch from his pocket and rolled a joint, leisurely, his fingers working on their own while his eyes behind those glasses saw who knows what in the three of them. Lem had grinned, slapping Gabe on the shoulder, mouthing “What did I tell you?” all smug about the free smoke they were about to get. And it was good stuff. Mellow and instant, and smooth as syrup. Gabe had drifted away on his thoughts so far he barely noticed Lem’s hand too high on Cass’s thigh, the way he whispered in her ear so he could lean in close to her.

Time melted in a haze. Gabe had no idea how long they spent in the old guy’s house, but when they left all the little kids had long gone home, the Hallowe’en streets were empty and icy cold.

“Wait,” the guy said as they lingered on his doorstep, “I need to give you your – trick, did you say?”

“Nah man, you’ve got it backwards,” Lem’s words were still slow and lazy.  “We trick you, if you don’t give us a treat. But we’re good, bro, you’re solid.” He punched the old guy on the arm, almost making him drop the little white packages he’d fumbled from a cardigan pocket.

“Well, anyway, here. Something to take home with you.”

Back in his parents’ basement, Lem made a show of unwrapping the candy, admiring the thick, resinous sheen of it. It really did look like a high quality Afghan Black. Anxiety flickered through Gabe – eating that much, if it really was –? But Lem was already popping it into his mouth, making exaggerated “mm-mmm” noises.  Cassie watched him for a second, then did the same, nodding to Gabe in encouragement.

Gabe’s fingers hesitated on the waxy paper, some uneasy instinct dragging on him. It wasn’t that he was frightened, just, something about that old guy had seemed off. Not the dark glasses, or the little hipster beard, more the sort of burnt sugar scent that lingered around him like a feeling, or a warning. Lem’d rip him for it if he tried to explain, call him crazy or chicken or something, but the little voice telling him ‘no’ was louder than the fear of Lem’s mocking.

“Nah, I’m good.” He shoved the candy deep down in his pocket, stared Lem defiantly in the eye. Say it, he thought, just get it over with.

Lem was trying to speak alright, but all that was coming out was air – long, rattling gasps like tearing cloth. Cass tugged at his arm, squealing “What’s wrong?” over and over, but her own voice was wavering, cracking. That’s when Lem started to spit up blood, his eyes stretched huge in fear, his hands clawing at his throat. More blood came up, thick gouts of it in big, fat clots like jam, and then Cass was coughing too, red trickles running down her chin, staining her shirt.

Wasn’t anything Gabe could do but watch in horror while they both spewed more and more blood, the red getting thicker and darker until it was almost black, eating away at the skin it touched like some kind of acid. By the time their throats started bubbling up in blisters, the stuff, whatever it was, eating through from the inside, they’d stopped breathing. They were dead on the floor a long time before the ambulance arrived. Gabe didn’t even remember calling it.

It’s been a month, and he hasn’t slept since, not really. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees them, screaming silent screams through dissolving throats. Cass staring at him, pleading, like he could have done something to help.

Sometimes his fingers linger on the last sweet, the one he didn’t tell the police about. They never did find the old man. Gabe knows what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to stop seeing what he saw. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him the candy would do the same to his eyes that it did to their throats.

It’s not fear of the pain that stops him. It’s remembering the old guy’s dark glasses.